An Accidental Woman (22 page)

“Yeah,” Griffin confirmed, “so how could I say no? Apparently, she was born sighted, but then something happened. Whoever had her couldn't deal, so they abandoned her on the side of the road. She was picked up and treated, but it was too late to save her sight. The cat lady's had her for a couple of months and would have kept her if she didn't have so many others.”

“Were the others abusive to this one?”

“No. She said they were totally respectful, protective even. But this one wants a lap, and the cat lady isn't still for long.”

“Are you?” Poppy asked.

“Sure am, when I work.”

Poppy let the cat sniff her hands, then, unable to resist, she lifted her out of his parka and drew her close. “Well, hello,” she cooed. She continued to stroke the cat's head while the cat sniffed her sweatsuit. “You're such a pretty little lady, such a
warm
little lady.” The cat braced a paw on Poppy's shoulder, while she sniffed her neck, her ear, her face. “What do you smell? Hmmm? The cologne is by Ralph Lauren. Do you like that?” The cat butted Poppy's cheek en route to nuzzling a spot under her ear.

“She has good taste,” Griffin said so sweetly, so gently, that Poppy was left without words. He was close, very kind, and handsome, definitely handsome with his wavy auburn hair, his blue eyes, and a shadow on his jaw that said he hadn't shaved since he had been in her shower two days before.

Looking at him now, something caught in her throat. In the space of a breath, she was swept back to the first time they'd met, she in her wheelchair, he on foot at the back of the meeting room in the church at the center of town. Prior to that, she had felt a connection between them on the phone, but in person it was stronger—stronger than anything she had known—stronger than anything even before the accident. Was it chemistry? She hadn't taken the chance of finding out whether it was or not, and, if so, whether her body could sustain it. She had been too frightened of failure.

She still was. But something inside her had mellowed. Or maybe it was the cat. How to be anything but mellow when a beautiful, blind cat was at hand?

The cat leapt to the ground.

“Wait!” Poppy cried, and her eyes flew to Griffin. “Catch her.”

“No, no. She's okay.”

“She doesn't know her way around. She'll hurt herself.”

The cat looked back at them, her body arching gracefully. Seeming to draw her head up with pride, she straightened and sat back on her haunches facing the curved desks that held the phone bank. Her nose twitched ever so slightly, her whiskers aimed forward. Smoothly coming up on all fours, she began to walk toward the desks. With startling precision, she stopped at the nearest leg, explored it with her nose, rubbed it with her cheek, then her neck and back, on down her body. With the
same uncanny exactness, she moved to the next leg and the next. When the desk had been mapped, she moved with regal grace toward the wall.

Poppy held her breath, fearing she would hit it head-on. Instead, she stopped short and turned to walk its length as if she'd done it hundreds of times before. She rubbed against the open archway, then, carrying herself nobly, proceeded on down the hall.

Griffin said a quick, “She's looking for the bathroom,” and before Poppy could tell him that cats were like camels, he had dashed back to the door, pushed his feet into his boots, and raced out.

Following the cat, Poppy started down the hall just as the elegantly held orange tail disappeared into the kitchen, and the scene was the same there. The cat explored. She walked, she sniffed, she rubbed. At one point, she rose on her hind legs with her front paws on the cabinets leading up to the counter. Wheeling close, Poppy picked her up and gently set her on the granite.

There was noise back at the front door—open and shut, boots kicked off—then a padding trot down the hall. “Litter,” Griffin announced, snowflakes still in his hair. He carried a large plastic pan, with a huge bag of litter inside.

“We need food,” Poppy said. She had turned on a trickle of water. The cat had her rear paws on the rim of the sink, her front paws inside, and her mouth perfectly positioned under the trickle.

“Food,” Griffin repeated. Setting his armload on the floor, he went back out.

By the time he returned, the cat had jumped down from the counter and was exploring Poppy's wheels. Not wanting to disturb her by moving, Poppy pointed Griffin in the direction of the dish she had taken from a roll-out drawer. He quickly filled it with pellets of food.

“Mmm-mmm,” he said as if he were coaxing a child, “chicken and liver.” He held the bowl under the cat's nose for the split second it took to get her attention. Looking around, he set it down in a corner out of harm's way.

The cat was there in an instant.

“How does she do that?” Poppy asked in amazement.

“She smells. She hears. She feels. Those whiskers are antennas. They
tell her when she's near something, and her reflexes are so sharp that she can navigate with precision.” He turned around and filled the litter box, then arched his brows at Poppy. “Where?”

She hitched her chin toward the room off the kitchen that held her washer and dryer. It was more a deep alcove than a room, with an ultra-wide opening and the same pocket doors that were in the rest of the house, ones that could be tucked neatly away in the wall to allow for the easy maneuvering of a wheelchair. In this instance, there was plenty of room for a litter box inside the door, around the corner, and out of the line of traffic.

Crunching sounds came from the food bowl. While Griffin positioned the litter box, Poppy filled a second bowl with water and set it down near the food. The cat took a sip, returned to the food, munched a bit longer. Every few mouthfuls, she turned her head sideways to chew, and the occasional bit of food fell on the floor. She sniffed it, pawed it, abandoned it. Poppy didn't mind the mess one bit.

When the cat was done eating, she sat up and set to cleaning her face, first with her tongue, then by licking a paw and using that to scrub her muzzle. With each pass of the paw the area widened, until it included her eyes, then her ears. One ear folded backward. Just when Poppy was thinking what a silky thing it was, it popped right.

The cat turned her head. Griffin was still hunkered down near the laundry room. He made a clicking sound and tapped his fingertips on the tile floor. The cat approached. Familiar with his scent, she gave his leg a full body rub in passing, and went on to the litter box.

Griffin straightened and brushed his hands together. “There. Now I feel better.”

“You do,” Poppy said with a chuckle. “She probably does, too. So what's her name?”

He looked pensive. “I was thinking about that driving over here. ‘Baby' seemed a good enough name then, but now I'm not sure.”

“You cannot call this cat ‘baby.' That's an insult, given how courageous she is.”

“So what's a courageous name for a girl?”

Poppy thought. “Gillian. That's a strong name.” But the orange cat
didn't look like a Gillian to her. “Whitney.” That didn't sound right, either.

There was a sandy scratching, a tapping, then the emergence of the cat from the box. She paused on the laundry room threshold for an instant's orientation. Then, raising her tail, she walked with surefooted grace straight to Poppy.

“Victoria,” Poppy said. “For majesty.” With exquisite aim, the cat jumped up onto her lap. “Victoria?” Poppy asked the creature.

The cat gave Poppy's chin a rub and began to purr. Then she turned in a slow circle on Poppy's lap and, like silk drifting down, settled in a ball.

“And you can't take her to Little Bear,” Poppy decided. “She's oriented here now. It would be cruel to uproot her again.”

“But she's my cat,” Griffin said.

“She can stay here.”

“Only if I stay with her for part of the time.”

With a hand on Victoria's warm neck, Poppy looked up, suspicious. There was a devious side to Griffin. There had to be. He couldn't be
all
goodness and light. “What does ‘part of the time' mean?”

Griffin bounced a look off the ceiling and said a patient, “It means absolutely nothing except that I have work to do, and you have a huge desk with more than enough space for me to spread out my stuff. You have heat and electricity. You have a
bathroom.
And a fax machine. And cell phone reception. You have extra phone lines, so that I can use one to access the Internet without having to pray that my wireless connection will hold up. You also have a level head, so you know that what I'm saying makes sense. And you have a kind heart. Don't try to deny it. I didn't ask you to take in this cat.”

No. He hadn't. And it struck Poppy that Victoria's arrival would raise a few brows. For years, Maida had urged her to get a pet—most regularly mentioning a Doberman, a rottweiler, or a German shepherd—but Poppy had repeatedly rejected the idea of a watchdog. She refused to think she needed one. Rose often urged her to take one of the litter of golden Lab pups that their own dog mothered. But a golden Lab pup grew into a golden Lab dog, and that could be large. There was no way Poppy, her chair, and something that size could fit into the shower for a
wash, and Poppy didn't see the point of having a pet if she couldn't take care of it herself.

And then there was Charlotte, showing up with a basket of cats to give away at crafts shows, plant sales, and bake sales, Memorial Day parades, Fourth of July fireworks, and Labor Day picnics—and not only in Lake Henry. Charlotte was a regional institution. Children flocked to her baskets; adults steered clear. For Poppy to have taken a cat from Charlotte would have meant she was suckered.

Funny, but she didn't feel suckered now. Granted, she hadn't been suckered by Charlotte. If she'd been suckered by anyone, it was Griffin. But Victoria was warm against those abdominal muscles that did sense warmth, and, curled up in Poppy's lap, she was a perfect fit.

So, fine. Poppy wasn't at the mountain, because she didn't want to dwell on what she couldn't do. But she could do a cat. Thinking that, she felt better. She felt stronger. And then there was Griffin.

“Where's your stuff?” she asked. “Your papers and all?”

“At Little Bear,” he replied.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly noon. “If you were to go back and get what you need, then stop at Charlie's for chili”—she still had a yen for that—“could you be back by one?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Because if you can, and if you're willing to cover the phones while you work, I could go visit Heather. Think the driving's okay?”

* * *

Besides, she was a pro at driving in snow. Give her a broad wheelbase, steel body panels, four-wheel drive, and big tires, and she was fine. By the time she passed through the center of town, the first of the plows had been through. She reached West Eames without so much as the hint of a skid.

By then, the chili was digested, Griffin seemed far away, and she was
alone with her thoughts. To her chagrin, they were the same ones that had disturbed her sleep, and they weren't going away. Nor did she try to make them. This was what she had to discuss with Heather.

She hadn't counted on a large room filled with other inmates and their guests, or on the alarm that hit her seeing those others, who were so unlike Heather. But there was nothing to be done about either. She managed to grab a free chair and an empty space by the wall.