Songbird Cottage

by Barbara Cool Lee

  She prayed that Stockdale's perfectionism held true, and he had built this little folly with the same attention to detail he gave every other part of the house.

  "Almost there," she muttered, leaning out to the pole about three feet below the opening.

  But at that moment the kitten got one look at the ground fifteen feet below and decided it had had enough of this game.

  It crawled its way out of the boa, tearing orange feathers as it went, and took a big gash in Robin's hand in its attempt to get back into the cottage.

  Robin cried out as the claws dug in. She grabbed at the kitten, trying to get it under control, but she had too many things in her hands.

  The purse and diary dropped away as she grabbed at the pole, the kitten, and several handfuls of orange feathers all at once. She heard both purse and diary land at the same time: the purse hit the dirt ground fifteen feet below with a dull thud, and the little diary ping-ponged inside the gap in the wall until it hit what sounded like a metal pipe with a tiny, final clink.

  Then eerie silence reigned, interrupted only by the dull growl of the kitten, and the crackle of the fire consuming the dry grass on the other side of the house.

  But the pole held like it was made of steel, and Robin found herself praising Stockdale's name to the skies as she held onto the kitten for dear life and tried to figure out a way down.

  Then she heard a loud hissing sound over by the fire.

  Wondering what fresh nightmare this was going to be, she craned her neck to see what was up.

  In a minute, the crackling died down, then the hissing finally stopped, and soon she saw Ava coming around the corner, fire extinguisher in hand.

  Robin started laughing uncontrollably.

  Ava looked up at her quizzically. "I just thought I'd drop in and see the cottage," she said dryly. "I'd ask what's up—"

  "—Please, don't."

  "Okay, I won't." She came to stand under the pole.

  "I'm going to drop a kitten to you. Can you catch it?"

  "Sure. I'm game," Ava said. "Not even going to ask why."

  Robin leaned over the pole and dangled the squealing kitten as far down as she could reach. "Be careful. It's got foot-long claws."

  Ava set down the fire extinguisher and reached up with both hands. "Ready."

  Robin dropped the kitten into Ava's waiting arms.

  "Now watch out," Robin said, and maneuvered until she was hanging by her fingertips from the pole.

  "Only about six feet," Ava said. "You can do it."

  Robin dropped down and landed on her feet, only breaking one heel of her Gucci's in the process.

  She took the kitten from Ava, and then saw its little claw was red. "Is that my blood, or yours, baby?" she said.

  The kitten responded with a series of hacking coughs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dylan skidded in the door of the village's little medical clinic. Dr. Nico jumped to his feet. "Are you hurt?" he asked, coming over quickly to take Dylan by the arm and lead him toward the exam room.

  Dylan pulled back. "No! But Robin—"

  Dr. Nico looked out through the plate glass window toward the street. "Is she in your Jeep? What happened? Let's go!"

  Dylan took a deep breath, then tried again. "She's already here. Hurt—she said—she was driving back to town—she said there'd been a fire—she said she was on her way to the clinic."

  "Slow down," Dr. Nico said. "You talked to her on the phone? So where is she now? Do you know what type of injury she has and how we can find her?"

  Dylan shook his head. "You mean she's not here?"

  He collapsed into a waiting room chair and reached for his phone. "She should be here by now." He tried punching in Robin's number, but his hands weren't steady.

  Nico took the phone from him, gently. "Here's the number," he said calmly. "In recent calls." He pressed the call button, then handed the phone back to Dylan.

  The sound of Robin's voice hit Dylan with a jolt. "Where are you?!" he yelled. "Stay there and I'll come for you!"

  "Dylan," Robin said in a far-too-calm voice. "Why are you yelling?"

  "Why am I yelling? You were rushing to the clinic, and you're not here. Did you have to pull over? How badly hurt are you? Where are you? I'll bring the doctor as fast as I can—" He jumped up and headed for the door.

  "I'm at the clinic now, Dylan. Calm down."

  Dylan stopped in his tracks. "At the clinic?"

  He turned around and looked at Nico.

  Nico shrugged and shook his head.

  "I'm standing here in front of the doctor as we speak, and you're not here," he said. Despite his best efforts to remain calm, his voice cracked with emotion.

  "Well," she said. "I'm standing in front of Dr. Trujillo as we speak, and I don't see you."

  "Dr. Trujillo?" He knew Dr. Trujillo well. She was doing a wonderful job of keeping Alonzo pain-free in his final years. Which was her job, since she was the local veterinarian.

  He realized Robin was still talking, and he wasn't listening. She was saying something about a stray kitten getting an exam, and he found himself struggling to keep from laughing hysterically with relief. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll be right there."

  He hung up, and turned to explain to Nico, who took it with a smile. "The best kind of mix-up," the doctor said, and went back to his paperwork.

  Dylan decided to walk the couple of blocks to the vet. The walk would help him get his blood pressure under control.

  When he got outside, he spotted the senior partner in Thackery & Thackery coming out a side door of the clinic just ahead of him.

  He ran over to greet him.

  "Hi, Senior," he called out when he got close.

  The white-haired man, an older likeness of his son, paused. His pale blue eyes looked toward him with an unfocused expression. "Dylan?" he said slowly.

  "Yes," Dylan said. He knew that Senior had first been diagnosed with macular degeneration way back when Dylan was in high school with Junior Thackery. Now Senior was almost completely blind, and the latest news through the village grapevine was that Senior's bad luck had been compounded by a recent cancer diagnosis. "Sorry, Senior. I should have identified myself."

  "I knew it was you," Senior said. He was using a cane, and walked slowly toward him. He tilted his head to the side. "Recognize you anywhere," he added with a faint smile. "So what's up?"

  "I haven't been able to reach Junior yet," Dylan told him, "so I wanted to tell you the good news about the property. Do you know where he is?"

  Senior slowly made his way over to his big old Lincoln Continental, which was parked at the curb. "He's probably at the office," he said. "I'll see him at supper tonight. What did you want to talk to him about?"

  Dylan waved to Mrs. Thackery, who was sitting in the driver's seat reading a paperback. She waved back, then returned to her book.

  Senior put a hand on the car door, then turned to face Dylan. "Wait a minute—what did you say about a property?"

  "The Songbird Lane property." Dylan pulled out his phone, intending to show him some pictures of the cottage, but then realized Senior wouldn't be able to see them, so he put his phone back in his pocket. "I wanted to give you the good news to pass on to your clients. When we went to look at it, we discovered the property is worth a lot more than we originally thought."

  Senior Thackery just looked at him with a puzzled expression. "What clients? Did you say Songbird Lane?"

  Dylan wondered if Senior's rumored illness might have affected him mentally. "Yes, Sir. The little barn on four acres outside of town that I'm listing for Junior."

  Senior continued to stare at him with those pale, unseeing eyes. But his face went through a range of expressions, from puzzlement, to surprise, to what Dylan could have sworn was irritation. Finally he said, in a voice that held barely controlled anger, "that's not a barn on Songbird Lane, and who gave you permission to go look at it?"

  "Um, well, your son did." Senior's fury was now
so obvious that Dylan reached for him, worried he was going to collapse or something. "Are you all right?"

  Senior shrugged off his outstretched hand. "I'm fine." He fumbled until he found the handle and wrenched the car door open with a screech.

  His wife rushed around to the passenger side to help him in, but he shrugged off her help, too. "I can do it myself!" he said.

  His wife looked at Dylan. "What—?"

  Dylan shrugged. He had no idea what had set him off.

  She turned to her husband. "Honey, this isn't like you. What's wrong?"

  "Come on!" Senior shouted. "Take me home!"

  She ran back around to the driver's side. She got in, and the Lincoln pulled away, Senior sitting in furious silence in the passenger seat.

  Dylan watched the car all the way until it was out of sight.

  What on earth had that been about?

  Robin saw Dylan coming in the door of the vet clinic.

  All her usual detached calm was completely gone by this point, and she found herself falling into his arms and sobbing. "Oh, she's hurt! What if she doesn't make it?"

  He held her and gently patted her back to comfort her. "I was so afraid," he whispered in her ear. "I thought you were the one injured. I was crazy with worry."

  She pulled away, and he let her go. He took a step back, and looked away, as if embarrassed.

  She noticed how his eyes seemed bloodshot, like her own were from the smoke. "Did you go to the cottage?" she asked.

  He stared back at her. "Of course not—I had to see you first."

  "Why?"

  "Why?! I thought you were hurt!"

  "Oh. Well, I'm fine. Don't worry about it. But the cottage—I don't know how bad the fire was. Oh, Dylan! What if something happened to it?"

  He waved the thought away with one hand. "I'll check it out and see how much damage there is later," he said. "It hardly matters."

  "Hardly matters!"

  "Robin, when you called, I thought—I thought something had happened to you. I just rushed here—that is, I rushed to the medical clinic, because that's where I thought you were going."

  He reached one hand up to her forehead and gently rubbed at it with his thumb. "You have a smudge of soot on you," he said.

  "Oh." She took a step back, and then rubbed at her forehead to clean it off. "What about you, though? Your eyes are all bloodshot—what happened to them?"

  "What do you mean?" he said. "I'm fine."

  "Never mind," she said. Had he really been crying because he thought she was hurt? Taye had never cried, even when she'd broken her leg skiing on their honeymoon. He'd just stood in the exam room of the Tahoe medical clinic while her leg was set, lecturing her on how if she'd properly followed his directions when she'd waxed her skis, she wouldn't have gotten injured.

  She plopped down on the vinyl bench in the waiting room, and put her head in her hands.

  Dylan came and sat next to her. He didn't do anything but sit there. Patiently waiting.

  Finally, she sat up straight, and wiped her eyes. "I'm worried the kitten might die."

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't even know you had a kitten."

  "I didn't. Not until an hour ago. I found it by the old apple tree on the property. Ava—that's the woman who owns the farm at the end of the lane—she told me she'd been trying to catch some stray kittens. And then, I heard this one crying and found it. So I brought it back to the cottage with me when I was checking things out. When the fire started at the cottage, I had to get us out, and…."

  She described it all to him: the exploration of the cottage, the smell of smoke, the fire at the door keeping her inside, and then the escape out the upper window. And then Ava coming up to put out the fire before it could engulf the precious cottage.

  He listened through it all, and again she had that odd feeling, which should have been familiar since she'd known him for years, that he was not judging. He never did. She just hadn't noticed it before.

  When she was done explaining what had happened, he just asked, "so what do you want to do next?"

  "I need chocolate. I'm going over to Camilla's because she always has an emergency supply. She said there were cupcakes."

  That finally got him to laugh. "Sounds like a plan."

  "But—" her voice broke. "I can't leave until I find out if the kitten is all right. What if it dies? Oh, Dylan, that would be horrible! It's such a tiny thing."

  "She's not going to die." Dr. Trujillo stood in front of them, the little kitten in one hand. "She's fine. A bit skinny, and a bit on the feral side, but nothing a few good meals and some affection won't take care of." She went over to the counter, and they both got up to follow.

  Robin took the kitten from her, and it nestled into her arms. Robin kissed the top of its head, noticing there was just a whiff of smokiness. But the kitten responded with a tiny purr, and sank deeper against her shirt. "A girl, huh?" she whispered. "I'm going to have to think of a name for you."

  Dr. Trujillo smiled. "Looks like you've got the taming part of this all taken care of. So here's some kitten milk, and a couple of cans of the starter food. And here are some antibiotic drops to put in the food. And I'll print out some instructions for all this…."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "I can't believe you had to climb out the window with the kitten in your arms," Camilla was saying. "And you don't have a mark on you."

  They stood in the back yard of the Honeymoon Cottage, overlooking the ocean, with the fresh wind in their faces and little Caleb playing in a sandbox nearby.

  "Just a scratch on my hand," Robin said. "And I changed my shirt before coming over."

  She set the kitten down on the grass, and brushed the cat hairs off her blue silk blouse.

  The kitten wandered over to the sandbox, where Camilla's big Golden Retriever immediately started sniffing at the tiny animal.

  The kitten spit and hissed back, standing up to the gentle giant who loomed over her.

  "Oh, no, you don't!" Camilla said, grabbing the kitten and lifting her out of the dog's reach. "You're not going to scratch his eyes out. You go back to your mama."

  She tried to hand the kitten back to Robin, but Robin put her palms up. "No. I think you should keep her."

  "Me?" Camilla asked. "Why should I take her?"

  "I've been thinking about it. You already have a dog, and kids, and a house. You can just add her to the menagerie. I'm in a rented apartment."

  "Not for long," Camilla said, forcing the kitten into her arms. "You'll win the bidding war and get the house, and then you'll need a cat."

  Robin took the kitten, and it nestled in with a purr. "She's wrecking my silk shirt," Robin said. "Look—she's already gotten one snag in it with her sharp claws."

  "So?"

  "So, I don't like being messy. I take pride in my appearance."

  "Life is messy, Robin. You don't mind messy; you mind imperfection."

  The kitten climbed up to her shoulder and perched there, purring in her ear. Its breath was like the faint, warm echo of a kiss against the skin on her neck. She held onto it with one hand to keep it from falling. "I know you think I'm a perfectionist, but I'm just—"

  "Cautious? Guarded? Worried about being criticized?"

  "Fine. All of the above. But none of that means I need a kitten in my life. I guess if you won't have her, I'll take her back to the farm, and Ava can put her back with the other strays."

  "No way," she said. "The cat is your responsibility. You saved her little life, and you're stuck with her."

  "I'm not even supposed to have pets in my rental. It's different for you. You own your own home."

  "And soon you will, too," Camilla said. "It's time you settled down with the cat and the chintz curtains and the cottage by the sea. It's your turn to be the one."

  "Dylan said that."

  "He did?" Camilla perked up.

  "Don't get that gleam in your eye."

  "I don't have a gleam. So, what did he say?"

/>   "He said…," she stopped.

  "Don't you remember?" Camilla asked.

  She remembered it word for word. "He said," she whispered, "that I'm entitled to be the heroine of my own story. Like a princess in a fairy tale."

  Camilla's jaw dropped open. "If you don't marry that man, Robin, you're an idiot."

  "I am not an idiot."

  "No, you're definitely not. So what designer are you choosing for your wedding dress? I always pictured you as a classic Vera Wang kind of girl."

  "I always preferred that clean Anne Barge A-line silhouette…," Robin started to say, then pulled herself up. "Stop that! I'm not marrying Dylan just because he said something nice."

  But it was more than nice. It was, combined with everything else he'd done since she'd known him, rather wonderful.

  "Seriously, Robin," Camilla said, "I love my husband, but he's never called me a fairy tale princess."

  "I don't want to be a fairy tale princess. I'm strong on my own."

  "Of course you are. You're strong, and independent, and can take care of yourself. But don't you think you'll be stronger with someone beside you, someone who has your back and wants you to be happy?"

  "Things aren't that simple. I don't want an older man who will—"

  "—Who will what? Who will criticize you? Talk over you? Treat you as second-best? Because I'm pretty sure Dylan isn't any of those things. He likes you, flaws and all."

  The kitten was licking at Robin's neck and drooling. "Now, look!" she said. "Ugh, you're getting spots on my shirt."

  "So what?" Camilla said. "You don't have to be perfect."

  "Yes, I do." How could she explain? Something inside her, dating back to when she was a child alone in the foster care system, abandoned by her family, had instilled in her the belief that she must always be beyond reproach. She must always dress, speak, behave, even think in the most perfect way so no one could criticize her. No one could reject her again.

  She looked out over the yard's stone wall toward the bay, and her eyes stung at the bright reflection coming off the water. She had married a man who reinforced those beliefs, a man who was older and wiser, and lorded that over her, making her always feel she was never quite perfect enough to be accepted.