The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club

by Nic Tatano

  The walk is short and Bumper is now curled up in the carrier taking a nap. The non-stop howling must have exhausted him. Jamison greets me at the door with a soft smile. “Hi, Madison. Good to see you.”

  “You too.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah. Again, sorry about the other day.”

  “Not a problem. My mistake.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It was a nice gesture.” I note his face is sunburned and point at it. “Let me guess … you haven’t been in an editing booth all week.”

  “Yeah, took the day off and went sailing yesterday. Didn’t have my first mate to remind me about the sunblock.”

  Geez, more guilt? I need to put a stop to this. Today.

  He gestures toward the studio. “Anyway, we’re all set up and ready for you.”

  An hour later we’re done. Bumper was terrific, doing his little paw-in-the-air thing and providing us with lots of cute video. Of course the minute I tried to get him back into the carrier he turned into a Tazmanian devil cat, stretching out all four paws sideways like a damn flying squirrel and latching onto the sides of the carrier to prevent me from putting him inside. From now on, any commercials featuring my cat will be shot at my house.

  Jamison walks me to the door, his hand lightly on my back. He’s been looking at me with sad eyes the whole time, and I can tell I’ve hurt him. Not sure it was a good idea to keep doing commercials with the guy, but what choice did I have with this being charity work? I’m not sure this will work. Actually, I’m sure it won’t.

  He stops at the door and looks at his watch. “Hey, you gotta get back to the station?”

  “No, I’m off all day.”

  “Care to join me for lunch? No strings.”

  One look in his eyes tells me there are definitely strings. “Well, if I didn’t have Bumper with me—”

  “You can leave him here. The staff loves him.”

  “Eh, not a good idea. It’s a strange place with people he doesn’t know. And he’s pretty attached to me.” Thank you, kitty, for providing me an escape route.

  “Well, okay. Maybe next time when we shoot the adoption spot and you don’t have a cat with you.”

  “Sure.” Not a good idea either. Not happening.

  “So, you still on the wild goose chase?”

  “Huh?”

  “Senator Collier.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a hunch I’m following. Nothing concrete.”

  “You know, I had lunch the other day with a friend at an ad agency that handles his campaign. Said everything was on the up and up. And he’s one of those religious, straight-laced guys who wouldn’t work for a client who broke the law.”

  “Interesting. Well, gotta go.”

  “Nice seeing you Madison.” The sad eyes return.

  “Yeah. You too.” I turn to head out the door when he takes my arm.

  “Hey, almost forgot.” He reaches in his pocket, pulls out a check and hands it to me. “Little donation to your favorite charity.”

  My eyes widen as I see it’s for ten thousand dollars made out to the animal shelter. “Wow. Jamison, that’s really nice of you.”

  “Hey, you know what they say. Do well, then do good.”

  “You already do the commercials for free.”

  “That’s just donating my time. This is a little extra.”

  “Thank you, it’s very kind. Well, see you next time.”

  “Bye, Madison.”

  I head out the door and the guilt slaps me in the face. I hurt a really good guy. And I know the only way I can feel better about this.

  Find him someone else.

  I’ve got just the person in mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Tish shakes her head as the bar waiter hands her a glass of wine. “Not just no, but hell no.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Tish, you already met Jamison and you liked him.”

  “It doesn’t seem right, Madison.”

  “What, you think he’s one of my leftovers?”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “So what’s the problem? You talked with him a lot at the party, you had good things to say about him and you thought he was awfully cute.”

  “He is awfully cute.”

  “Who else is on your dance card right now?”

  “I’ve got two trials coming up.”

  “Not trials. Men.”

  She shakes her head. “I have been using my peremptory strikes of late.”

  “So you just excuse them like jurors you don’t want?”

  “Basically.”

  “Your standards are too high. They can’t even get out of the starting gate. C’mon, you saw how he treated me, what a gentleman he is.”

  She shakes her head. “Fine. I know you’re not gonna drop this.”

  “Great. He might be your soul mate.”

  “I know what you’re up to. This is just using me to get the guilt monster off your back.”

  Dammit, she figured it out. “How—”

  “Madison, when you prefaced this whole idea with the fact you feel guilty about hurting the guy and that he’s still carrying a torch, you basically tipped it off. But whatever. I guess I could use a night out with a decent guy. Did you already talk to him about me?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “So how does this work?”

  “Haven’t figured that part out yet.”

  “Wonderful. I guess I’ll have to come up with some reason to invite him to lunch.” She looks at her watch. “Where are A.J. and Rory?”

  “They’ll be here soon.”

  “I guess girls night out is easier now that you have a permanent cat sitter at your house.”

  “Don’t really need one for Bumper anymore. He’s pretty self-sufficient. Although very demanding of attention.”

  “So is Socks. And who’s keeping an eye on Nick?”

  “His cop buddies. Poker game at my house.”

  “Ah. So how’s it going? I mean, you guys are basically living together now.”

  “It’s nice coming home and having him there. And since there’s no possibility of anything sexual right now, we’re really getting to know each other a lot better. It’s not the typical relationship progression … a few dates and then hop in bed.”

  “Never thought of it that way. Though you’re not the type to hop in bed after a few dates anyway.”

  (I know what you’re thinking. Don’t say it.)

  “Madison, are you still comfortable with your decision?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But you miss Jamison.”

  “No, I feel bad about hurting him. I really need to get him out of my head. I think if I knew he had moved on it would help.”

  I arrive home at eleven, surprised to find the poker game still going on. I note Nick has the most chips in front of him. “Ah, I can see who’s winning.”

  One of the cops gets up. “Gotta run, I’m on overnights this week.”

  A groan from the other players. “I hate playing with four,” says Steve. He points to the empty chair. “Madison, we need a fifth. You play poker?”

  “Sure, why not. I like card games.” I take the empty seat. “How much are we playing for?”

  “Nickle, dime, quarter. Very high stakes.”

  I reach in my purse and pull out a twenty, then give it to Steve. “Okay, I’m in.” He passes me a few stacks of chips.

  Nick starts dealing. “Five card draw. Madison, you know the game?”

  “What, you think girls don’t know how to play poker?”

  “Just asking.”

  I pick up my cards and decide to have a little fun with an old stereotype. “So, are lots of kings good in this game?”

  Big groan again, as three of the cops toss their cards on the table and drop out.

  Nick studies my face. “You are so full of it. She’s bluffing, guys.”

  I put on my innocent little girl face. “Just asking a question about the rules.”

  “Bul
l. How many cards do you want?”

  I toss two in his direction. “Two.”

  He deals two cards and three for himself, then tosses a blue chip into the pot. “Quarter.”

  “So, is it okay if I bet more than a quarter?”

  “Oh, give me a break, Madison.”

  I toss two blue chips into the pot. “I raise you a quarter.”

  He adds another blue chip. “Call. Waddaya got?”

  I lay down my cards. “Full house. Kings over aces.”

  “Sonofabitch.”

  Steve pats Nick on the back. “Yeah, right, she’s bluffing.” He turns to me. “But you are full of it, young lady.”

  I rake in the chips and the cards as it’s my deal. I execute a shuffle with a flourish, fan the cards on the table and flip them like a magician, then begin to deal. “Seven card, low in the hole, roll your own, no choice on last.”

  Steve turns to Nick. “Partner, you’ve got no shot in this house.”

  It’s nearly one in the morning when the game breaks up. I help Nick get comfortable in his bed, then sit on the edge and run my fingers through his hair. “You’re starting to look like your old self. I can tell you’re really starting to feel better.”

  “Yeah. And the poker game really cheered me up. I missed the guys and the camaraderie.”

  “Good to see you smile and laugh.”

  “Though I’m not sure I wanna play poker with you again.”

  “What, you didn’t like getting your ass kicked in front of your friends?”

  “I think you were a con artist in a previous life.”

  “I’m just a girl who likes to have fun.”

  “Yeah, right. Hey, do me a favor before you turn in?”

  “Sure. Waddaya need?”

  “Scratch my right foot. It itches like hell and I can’t reach it.”

  “Sure.” I move to the end of the bed, pull back the covers and start to scratch his foot. “Better?”

  “Yeah, much.”

  He’s wearing a huge grin. “What?”

  “For a network reporter, you sure miss the obvious.”

  “Huh?”

  “I just told you might foot itches. Wait for it …”

  And then it hits me. My eyes widen. “Oh my God! You’ve got feeling in your foot?”

  “A little.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “While we were playing poker. I leaned forward to get the cards and all of a sudden got this tingling in my feet.”

  I’m euphoric.

  I move quickly back to the head of the bed, take his hands and lock eyes with him. “You’re going to walk again. Nick, I’m so happy for you.” My eyes start to well up.

  “Still got a long way to go, but it’s a start.”

  We both sleep late after staying up past midnight. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and with Nick feeling better I’m going to suggest we go outside for a while. Poor guy has been cooped up inside since he got shot and I think the fresh air and sunshine will do him good. He rolls into the kitchen as I’m making coffee. “Sleep okay, Marino?”

  “Yeah. Great. I think knowing there’s light at the end of the tunnel helped.”

  “You still have feeling in your foot?”

  “There’s more this morning. Check it out.” I look at his feet and see him wiggling his toes and flexing his ankles a bit.

  “Wow, that’s great.” I lean over and give him a hug. “I think you’re gonna be walking sooner than we thought.”

  “It really helps to have your support, Madison. You have no idea what it means for me to recover here instead of some hospital.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got all your back rent on account.”

  “What do I owe you so far?”

  “You’ll see when you get your final bill.” I run one finger down his cheek. “Though I might take it out in trade.” I pour two cups of coffee and set one down on the kitchen table in front of him. “Hey, I was thinking it would be nice for you to get some fresh air. It’s gorgeous outside. How about we go down to the park on the corner? We can even take Bumper.”

  “You mean the park that doesn’t allow dogs?”

  “Right. It doesn’t say anything about cats.”

  “Probably because no one ever thought to take a cat to a park. You really want to take Bumper? How are you going to keep him from running away?”

  “I’ve got a harness for him. He won’t get away and the poor thing has been sitting in the window a lot. I know he’s dying to get outside. And since dogs aren’t allowed he’ll be fine.”

  Had I known walking a cat on a harness would attract men in droves, I would have tried it years ago.

  Of course I don’t need anyone since I’ve already got my guy with me, and he’s attracting his share of attention as well. The whole neighborhood knows about Nick from all the publicity, so between him and Bumper we’ve been surrounded since we arrived.

  Kinda funny that I’m the one on TV and the two of them are getting all the attention. But I don’t mind. It’s really nice to not be the center of attention for a change.

  Bumper is having a ball, swatting at the occasional insect, wanting to explore everything within reach while stretching the six foot cord attached to the harness. And he’s lapping up all the attention as several people wanted selfies with America’s most famous kitten.

  An hour later we’re back home. Nick is invigorated and the moment I release Bumper from the harness he moves quickly to his favorite spot in the window and looks outside. Deep down he’s obviously an outdoor cat, but he’ll have to be content with little trips outside.

  Nick wheels over to the kitchen table, still cluttered with research from his cold case and my Collier investigation. “Hey, want to show you something. I cracked a cold case.”

  My eyes widen as I sit next to him. “Really? The six year old murder?”

  “Not that one, something else I’ve been working on. Actually, I started before I got shot and finally got around to following up on some leads.”

  “Okay, let’s see.”

  He pauses a moment, then gives me a serious look. “Madison, I hope I haven’t overstepped here and invaded your privacy.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I told you how much I like having you here.”

  He shakes his head as he hands me a sheet of paper. “Not about that. The cold case. I think I found your birth certificate.”

  My jaw drops as I look at the copy of an official document from the State of New York. I quickly scan it, looking for the names of my parents.

  He takes my arm. “Madison, you okay?”

  I keep staring at the paper. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Of course not.” I find the line on the form listing the parents. Next to “father” the word “unknown” is typed.

  And next to “mother” I read the name.

  Caitlin O’Leary.

  The place for the baby’s name reads “unnamed.”

  I look up at him. “How the hell did you find this?”

  “I pulled the original police report, talked to the two cops who found you along with the witness. Back then police resources were tight and the cops got pulled off the case since you had been placed in a home and were okay. Anyway, the key was that the witness remembered talking to a teenage girl around sixteen with a heavy Irish accent. So I did a search of all the babies born in New York around the time you were found. There was only one with the address of the mother listed as Ireland. The age is right. Madison, that’s gotta be your birth certificate.”

  I look back at the document. “I can’t believe you found it after all these years.”

  “Well, that’s not proof it’s yours, but everything seems to point that way. But there’s one way to find out for sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  He hands me another sheet of paper with an address. “I found the woman listed as your mother. She lives upstate.”

&n
bsp; Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mid-afternoon. Jaw and fists clenched, eyes narrowed, looking through the windshield at nothing as Rory drives me out to a small town north of the city on the Hudson River. I’m too emotional to be behind the wheel and I want her with me for this.

  After all these years, I will finally meet … make that confront … my birth mother.

  Rory reaches over and takes my hand. “Hey.”

  “What?” I keep staring straight ahead.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I have to know.”

  She pulls one of my fists apart and entwines her fingers with mine. “You know what you’re gonna say?”

  “I’ve rehearsed it for years. First question: Why did you throw me away?”

  We get off the Henry Hudson Parkway and the GPS tells us we’re just a few blocks away from the address Nick provided. My heart rate jumps as Rory makes a few turns and pulls to a stop in front of a small house.

  The door is open.

  I turn to her. “Please come with me. I can’t do this alone.”

  “Sure, Freckles. I was planning on it.”

  We get out of the car and head up the front walk. Rory notices I’m shaking a bit and wraps one arm around my waist. I knock on the door. “Hello? Anybody home?” My usually powerful broadcasting voice cracks from the emotion.

  A male voice answers. “I’m in the living room.”

  “Might be her husband,” says Rory.

  We head inside and move down the hallway, past a small dining room. I can see a TV and sofa at the end of the hall.

  But when we get there, I don’t find a husband, but an old priest crouched down around a bunch of boxes. He stands up and smiles. “Hello. Can I help—” He studies my face and his eyes widen.

  “I’m looking for Caitlin O’Leary.”

  He bites his lower lip. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What?”

  “She passed away a few days ago.”

  My heart sinks.

  The priest is still staring at me. “I was about to contact you, Miss Shaw.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re her daughter.”

  His name is Father Anthony, a tall, slender man in his sixties with thick white hair, pale green eyes and a Boston accent. He sits in a reclining chair while Rory and I are on the couch. “How did you find her?” he asks.