Angel Lane (12 page)

“That's a deal.” She took his money, then gave him change and another apple.

He took a bite and smiled. “Oh, man, that's damn . . . er, darned good.” She grinned, and he lowered his voice and added, “Got to watch my language now that I'm the lady of the house. I'm up here helping my son. Name's George Armstrong.”

Jamie took the offered hand and shook it. “I'm Jamie Moore. How long have you been in Heart Lake?”

“Just a few months. My son Josh got a job here, but they put him on swing shift and he needed help. He's a single dad, trying to raise these girls on his own.” George's expression turned just the slightest bit sneaky. “So, you run this place with your husband?”

“No. All on my own. I mean I run it all on my own.” She caught him checking out her left hand and whipped it behind her back.

He nodded and took a thoughtful bite of his apple.

“So, where is your wife?” Jamie asked, giving him a taste of his own nosy medicine.

His smile went taut and the laugh lines around his eyes flat-lined. “Lost her six years ago.”

Jamie immediately regretted her question. “I'm so sorry. But
you've come to the right place to start over. This really is a great town.”

He nodded. “I can see that. Lots of friendly people; just what I need. Just what my son needs.”

The shop door opened and in blew Emma and Sarah, ready to make up for their missed Wednesday chocolate binge and debrief on the big kickoff meeting. George looked at them speculatively. Then he smiled and nodded, saying a polite hello.

Jamie made the introductions and it didn't take long for George to let it be known he was in the market for a wife. For his son, he added, after seeing the wedding ring on Sarah's hand.

“If your son is as nice as you I'm sure you'll have no problem,” said Sarah. “We've got some great single women here in Heart Lake,” she added, her gaze drifting back and forth from Jamie to Emma.

Emma's cheeks got pink, and she turned suddenly tongue-tied.

Next thing they knew Sarah would be running a dating service right here in the Chocolate Bar. “Yeah,” Jamie added, “that's what Ginger says.”

Sarah glared at her.

“Ginger?” George was looking hopeful.

“Not your son's type,” said Sarah quickly.

“Would you mind flipping the sign?” Jamie asked her sweetly.

Sarah turned the sign on the door to
CLOSED
and George got the message. “Well, you ladies have a good afternoon. Come on, kids. We'd better shove off. Time to go home and make dinner.”

“I don't want chicken nuggets again,” Mandy whined.

“Okay. We'll stop at the store and get hot dogs,” he said, ushering them out. “Nice to meet you.”

“I swear,” Sarah said after the door shut, “if you haul out your imaginary girlfriend one more time any man shows an interest . . .”

“He's too old for me,” Jamie said.

“His son's not.”

“I'm not in the market. That leaves you,” Jamie said to Emma.

“Well, Emma didn't even have a chance to put her best foot forward with your subtle ‘put the closed sign up' comment,” Sarah said in disgust.

“If I hadn't he'd have stayed here all night. And fed the kids truffles for dinner.”

That put Sarah's thoughts on a new track. “I never thought I'd hear a child complain about having chicken nuggets for dinner.” She shook her head. “Chicken nuggets and hot dogs—those poor girls. No wonder he wants to find his son a wife. They obviously need someone who can cook in that household. And how do you know you're not in the market?” she added. “You haven't even seen his son.”

“Yes I have.”

“Wait a minute,” said Emma. “Those kids—they belong to the policeman I saw here Halloween night, don't they?” She didn't wait for Jamie to confirm it. “Oh, my gosh. He is . . .” She let out a breath and started fanning herself.

“I don't care how hot he is,” Jamie said. “He could set my thong on fire and I still wouldn't be in the market.”

Emma threw herself into a chair. “I'm in the market all the time. All I ever get is broccoli.”

“Maybe you need to find a new market,” Sarah told her.

Emma shrugged. “Oh, well. I have a new love in my life so I don't need no stinkin' policeman.”

“Who?” demanded Jamie.

“Yeah,” said Sarah. “Spill.”

“He's black. And he has four legs.”

“The cat,” Jamie said in disgust, and Emma nodded.

“When did you get a cat?” asked Sarah.

“I didn't. He got me.”

“I'll say,” said Jamie, handing Emma her drink and sitting down at the table. “Didn't you see the scratch on her hand the other night?”

“He was just scared,” Emma explained.

“Or demon-possessed,” suggested Jamie.

“No, he's a good boy. He's moved in.” She pulled her cheapie digital camera from her purse and brought up an image of the new baby on its screen. “Look at that. Isn't he cute?”

Jamie gawked at her. “You let that animal in your house?” They really did have to find someone for Emma. She was getting desperate.

“He let himself in. Anyway, deep down he's really a sweet little guy. I'm going to name him Pyewacket, after the kitty in
Bell, Book, and Candle
.”

“Good choice, since he's probably some witch's lost familiar,” Jamie scoffed. “You don't know anything about this cat. In fact, do you know for sure he's a boy?”

“Well, no,” Emma admitted. “But he's so big I figured he must be a boy.”

“You don't know where it came from,” Jamie continued. “It could be feral.”

“He had a flea collar.”

“Maybe it's lost,” said Sarah.

“I put a notice in the paper,” Emma told her. “Hopefully, if he is lost his owner will claim him. If not, he can have a home with me.”

“That way he'll always have someone to torture,” Jamie teased.

Emma frowned at her. “Don't be making fun of my good deed. I want to always believe the best about people, even when they're cats.”

“A good way to live,” agreed Sarah.

Easy for you two, thought Jamie, you've never had your bubble burst.
Or your jaw broken.

Emma didn't stay much longer. “I have to get home.”

Jamie was tempted to tease her about running home to her new man, but judging from Emma's frost-tipped voice, she decided it would be wise to resist temptation. “I didn't mean to rain on her parade,” she said to Sarah after Emma left.

“She'll get over it,” said Sarah. “But let's not tease her. I know she's worried about the shop. This cat could be just what she needs to distract her.”

 

“Mommy's home,” Emma called as she came through the door. “Time for dinner. Where are you?” She threw her coat on a
kitchen chair and got a can of cat food out of the cupboard. “Seafood delight, Pye. Come and get it.” She popped open the lid.

A second later the new man . . . or woman . . . or it . . . in her life came trotting in. “There you are. Did you miss me? Did you use your cat box?” She set Pye's dinner down and the cat raced to the bowl and began to chow down. “With those manners, you are definitely a boy,” she decided.

She checked the bathroom where she'd set up his litter box to see if he'd been a good boy. Sure enough, he had. All right. She hung up her coat, and then made herself some pasta for dinner.

She had just started eating when Pyewacket jumped up on the kitchen table to investigate, nearly knocking over her vintage Fiesta pitcher. “You can't be up here,” she told him. She reached to pick him up and remove him from the no-kitty zone, but before she could touch him he hissed at her and jumped down. “Whoa,” she said. “Excuse me. Someone has some trust issues here.” But they'd work through them.

Alone again, she ate her dinner and looked through her latest issue of
Quilter Magazine
. By the time she'd finished, she was inspired to work on the quilt she'd promised Kerrie for the wildlife shelter. But first she needed to water her plants.

She was almost to the living room with her little ceramic watering can when she noticed the drapes. The shredded drapes.

 

 

 

 

O
h, no,” wailed Emma. “What have you done?”

She went to the drapes and examined them more closely. Fringe. He had turned the drapes Mom had given her to fringe.

Pyewacket was nowhere to be seen now, probably looking for something new to wreck. She hurried to the bedroom to check on her pink sheers. Thank God he hadn't gotten to those yet. She decided that, for the time being, she'd go with a minimalist décor and use only the shade. She took the curtains down, storing them on the top shelf in her closet. The ones in her workroom came down, too.

She turned to find Pyewacket sitting on the pile of fabric on her worktable, watching her. Great. She'd taken in an animal with a fabric fetish.

“That is not a bed for you.” She moved to shoo him off and he hissed again and stood his ground. Or, rather, sat it. “Okay, fine. You win for now. But if you wreck my quilt strips I'll hang you from the ceiling fan.”

That scared him. He began to clean one of his front paws.

She squatted in front of where he sat enthroned on her quilt material. “Okay, what we have here is a failure to communicate. You've been in the wild for a while and it looks like you've forgotten how to be civilized. So, let me just bring you up to speed. You can't go around wrecking things. It doesn't make you a very nice house guest.”

The cat looked at her.

“Does that make sense? Am I getting through?”

He blinked once.

Blink once for yes
. “So, why did you do that? Were you bored? Lonely? Did you think your claws need sharpening? Trust me. They don't.”

The discussion was interrupted by a call from her mother. “How's the new baby?” she asked.

“He scratched up my drapes.”

“This is not a good beginning,” observed Mom.

“That's an understatement.”

“You'd better run out and get him a scratching post or he'll start on the furniture next,” Mom advised.

Emma looked at the vintage floral couch that had been Grandma Nordby's and felt the blood drain from her face. “I'm going out right now,” she decided.

So, back out into the cold she went with her trusty charge card. She had to drive all the way to the mall where the pet
superstore was to get her scratching post, but it was worth every drop of gas. She not only got a scratching post embedded with catnip that would make her new roommate very happy, she also found something to spray on furniture which would keep Pyewacket and his busy claws away. Purrfect.

Back home, she treated the couch and set out his scratching post while her new baby watched from a distance. “You'll like this,” she told him. She wiggled it. “Want to come try?”

He remained where he was and blinked.
Blink once for no
.

“Okay, fine. Your loss,” she told him. That scratching post was supposed to be irresistible to cats. If she had Pyewacket's willpower she'd be a size eight. She jiggled it one more time. “Just remember, this is for you. Let's try to stop scratching other things.” She thought of her hand. “Especially living things.”

 

All weekend Sarah found herself thinking of George Armstrong and his son. Two single men raising little girls. Those poor girls. She wished she'd found out where they lived so she could take them a casserole or a potpie.

They couldn't be that hard to find. How many Armstrongs were there in the Heart Lake phone book anyway? On Sunday, while Sam was busy at the fire station, she decided to look. Sure enough. There was a George Armstrong and a J. Armstrong, both with the same phone number. She picked up the phone and called.

A male voice answered, younger sounding than the man she'd met in the Chocolate Bar, and frazzled. She could hear little girls squealing in the background. “Girls, stop. I can't hear.”

“Is this Josh Armstrong?” Sarah asked.

“That's me. Mandy, I said stop. Now.”

“I'm sorry to get you at a crazy time,” Sarah began.

“Every time is crazy,” he said.

“Well, you don't know me. My name is Sarah Goodwin and I met your father the other day at the Chocolate Bar.”

“Oh, you want to talk to Dad.”

Sarah started to say no, but Josh was already calling, “Dad, it's for you.”

A moment later George Armstrong was on the phone.

Sarah started again. “Hi. I'm Sarah Goodwin. We met the other day at the Chocolate Bar.”

“I remember,” he said, sounding pleased. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I'm calling because I'd like to do something for you. And your son,” she added quickly, not wanting to pick up a second Leo Steele. “I think you boys could use a little help in the cooking department.”

“Well, now, that's really nice of you,” said George.

“If you like, I could swing by later with a chicken potpie.”

“Chicken potpie? I haven't had that in years,” he said.

Sarah could almost hear the drool in his voice. She smiled. “Well, then, give me directions to your house and I'll be happy to deliver one.”

“It's a deal,” said George.

“And how about some cookies?”

“We'll eat them, just to be polite,” he said.

“All right,” said Sarah. “I'll throw in some of my famous ginger cookies.” And that would be her good deed for the day.