The Secret Life of Mac

by Melinda Metz

  “Chilled cherry soup,” Hope answered. “With fresh tart cherries.”

  “Also known as Hungarian meggyleves!” LeeAnne called from behind one of the kitchen islands.

  The servers started taking the bowls out and LeeAnne was speaking to him, so Nate figured it was safe to start the compliments, completely sincere compliments, but ones that he couldn’t forget to give if he wanted to keep the kitchen running smoothly. “How did you find fresh tart cherries?” He remembered from a cherry pie crisis that it was almost impossible to get them in SoCal.

  “You have to get to the farmers’ market before dawn. You have to be fast. You have to be wily. The before-dawn part was a challenge. The rest comes naturally.” LeeAnne grinned. “Hope reminded me that it’s Gertie’s birthday, and I wanted to do it for her. She loves her Hungarian food.”

  Nate made a mental note to look into giving Hope a pay bump. She deserved it. She was a hard worker with a good attitude and somehow managed to carry almost a full load at UCLA while working almost full-time.

  “Hope, would you mind sticking my dinner in a bag? I need to get to my office.”

  LeeAnne jerked her head toward him, her dark eyes narrowing. “No bag, Hope. If he’s planning to eat my food, he’s going to give it the attention it deserves.”

  Rookie mistake, Nate thought. He ran the place, and he didn’t have to take orders from LeeAnne or anyone else, but failing to give her food attention was bad management. Who knew how long he’d have to spend getting LeeAnne calmed down if he refused to give her food due appreciation. “Sorry. Just a lot to do. But you’re right. I need to take time to savor.”

  “You bet your sweet butt you do,” LeeAnne told him.

  Nate wondered if he should discuss the sexual harassment policy with her again. But he’d never heard her say anything like that to anyone else, so he let it slide. He could feel her watching him as he took his first bite of the peach slaw. “Nice little kick,” he commented.

  “People get older, their taste buds get less sensitive. That’s why I do it.” He could tell LeeAnne was trying not to smile. Ego stroked. Mission accomplished. He hid a smile of his own. He knew he was the person who had given LeeAnne the info about taste bud sensitivity.

  “Hope’s going to oversee cleanup. I’m outta here.” LeeAnne stripped off her white chef’s coat. The lime-green tank top she had on underneath showed off the tattoo of a tree with cooking utensils instead of leaves.

  “Have fun. She and Amber are going to Black Rabbit Rose, that magic place,” Hope added to Nate.

  “I’ve been meaning to check it out,” Nate said.

  LeeAnne snorted as she began putting on the silver rings she wore on each finger when she wasn’t cooking. “Sure you have. Dude, it’s been open for almost two years.”

  “That long? My problem is when I get off work all I want to do is crawl into bed,” Nate admitted. “How do you do it?”

  “Because I don’t work all day and half the night,” LeeAnne told him. She pulled off her bandana and shook out her hair, which started out dark purple up top and gradually lightened to lavender. “I have a life, unlike you. You’re twenty-eight and you act like you’re one of the residents. Oh, except the residents have much more of a social life than you do.” She started toward the door, then whipped back around and pinned Nate with a severe look. “When is the last time you even spoke to a woman?”

  “I thought I was speaking—”

  LeeAnne pointed at him. “No. You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Does our newest resident’s granddaughter count?” Nate asked. Eliza was around his age, he figured. Pretty. Devoted to her grandfather, and obviously responsible. She was putting in the time to make sure he was in a good place.

  “Would you date the granddaughter of a resident?”

  She had him. “No.”

  “Then no.”

  Nate tried to calculate the last time he’d gone out with anyone. “This place takes a lot of time.” It sounded pathetic even to his own ears.

  LeeAnne just shook her head and left, letting the door slam behind her. Hope adjusted the tie holding her ponytail in place. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m twenty, and after I finish my homework tonight all I’m doing is going to sleep.”

  “Are you getting too many hours? We can make adjustments in your schedule.”

  “No!” she cried. “No,” she repeated more softly. “I need the cash. I have that scholarship, but—” She waved her hands helplessly.

  “You can have all the hours you want. Everything runs smoother when you’re here,” Nate reassured her.

  She smiled, a beautiful smile. She was great, responsible, reliable. If Hope were a few years older . . . He wouldn’t do anything. Because she was an employee. He grabbed his plate and stood up. “Don’t tell LeeAnne,” he loudly whispered as he started for the door, making Hope laugh.

  Ten minutes later, he was deep into the monthly accounts.

  Three hours later, he stretched, trying to loosen up his shoulders. Maybe now he could go back to the dining room and at least make a plan for the fiddle-leaf. Except he hadn’t gone through the mail in days. He picked up the first envelope and ripped it open. Somebody trying to sell him a line of senior living fitness equipment. Recycle. He’d upgraded the gym a little more than two years ago. Next. Another letter from that real estate guy who wanted to buy the place, probably to put up some luxury loft apartments. He’d been e-mailing, calling, and sending letters for months. Nate wasn’t going to bother answering. He’d already said no. Recycle. And next.

  About a half an hour later, he was done with the mail. But if he didn’t at least get a start on the monthly letters he sent to each resident’s family, he’d never get them all out on schedule. His cell started playing the violin screeches from Psycho, his sister’s ringtone. He loved her and everything, but she could make him, well, psycho, and the ringtone helped him keep things in perspective.

  Nate hesitated. If he answered, it could take hours, hours he needed. But one of the kids could be sick, or—He grabbed the phone. “What’s up, Nathalie?” he asked his twin.

  “I was talking to Christian, and I asked if he wanted kids,” she began.

  “Hold up. You’ve gone out twice with this guy, right?” It was sometimes hard for Nate to keep up.

  “Three times. Anyway, I think it’s important to talk these things through. And he said no. He didn’t want kids. Which I’m okay with. The two kids I have are great. But I wanted to know if he would want his own biological child. So, we keep talking, and it turns out he doesn’t want kids. At. All. And yet, even though I put that I have kids on my dating profile, he wanted to meet. When was he going to tell me this no-kids policy of his? What exactly does he think I should do with my kids?”

  Nate rolled his eyes. Wasn’t his sister supposed to have a girlfriend she talked over things like this with? Or their mother! That would solve two problems at once. Their mother needed attention. She lived right on The Gardens grounds in the house that had been in their family for generations. Nate stopped by almost every day, but she needed a lot of attention. She’d love it if Nathalie wanted to talk relationship issues with her.

  “Maybe Mom would be a good person to discuss—” he began.

  “Mom?” Nathalie repeated. “Mom? I bring up anything about a guy and she starts crying. It’s been years since Dad left. You’d think she’d be somewhat over it, but obviously not. Anyway, she thinks now that I have kids I don’t need a man for anything.”

  Nate opened up a Word document. He decided to write to Gertie’s son first. He could tell him about the—what had LeeAnne called the cherry soup? Muh-something.

  “What do you think I should do about Christian? Should I confront him? Or should I do some kind of desensitization, where I have him spend little bits of time with the kids that gradually get longer and longer?”

  No. Meh-something. Meh—Meh—“Meggyleves!”

  “You’re not working while I’m tal
king, are you, Nate? This is a crisis. I need your full attention.”

  He considered pointing out a crisis was a tornado, or a ruptured appendix, or a lost job. But that would add probably forty minutes to the call, with Nathalie getting all teary because no one understood her and her life as a single mom.

  Nate shut his laptop, let his head drop back, and closed his eyes. “You now have my complete attention. Continue.” He began mentally composing the first letter in his head as his sister rambled. Dealing with Nathalie often meant letting her vent.

  And vent.

  And vent.

  A soft rustling sound made him open his eyes and straighten up. A cat was on his desk. The gold-and-tan tabby looked him in the eye, then batted a pile of invoices onto the floor. He looked at Nate again, then sent his calendar flying.

  “Nathalie, I have to go. We can talk more tomorrow. A cat got into my office and he’s causing havoc.” He hung up before she could protest. When the shrieking violins started up a few seconds later, he ignored the call. He knew he wasn’t needed to drive one of the kids to the emergency room or call the fire department or anything like that.

  The cat whacked the temperamental miniature rose Nate had been babying to the ground. Soil from the pot spilled over the carpet. Damn it. He’d just gotten the pH right in the zone. “Hey. Knock it off!” The cat looked at him, blinked slowly, sent his stapler flying, then escaped through a tear in the bottom of the window screen. A tear that hadn’t been there when he was in the office before dinner. He knew he’d have noticed it. That’s what a lot of this job was, noticing the small things.

  He got up and dealt with the aftermath of the catnado. He was about to sit back down, but what the hell. It was almost ten. He’d go home. Maybe even have a beer. He’d been at the office until after midnight for three days running. He’d catch up tomorrow.

  Yeah, he deserved this.

  CHAPTER 3

  Briony’s father tapped her on the nose. “What do we do when we cross the street?” Tap. “What do we do when we cross the street?” Tap. “What do we do when we cross the street?”

  The taps got a little harder. The lines on her father’s face deepened as his expression grew angry. “And what do we do when we accept a proposal?” Tap. “We.” Tap. “Get.” Tap. “Married.”

  This didn’t happen, Briony told herself. I’m dreaming. I need to wake up.

  “We get married!” her father yelled, and her father never yelled. His face had turned a deep red, almost purple. He looked like he was about to have a stroke. Tap, tap, tap.

  Wake up, wake up, wake up, Briony thought. She managed to open her eyes and found herself staring up at a striped cat. He was sitting on her chest, tapping her nose with one soft paw. It took her a moment to orient herself. She was in her cousin Jamie’s house. That was MacGyver, her cousin Jamie’s cat. He gave her nose another tap.

  “What?” she muttered. “It can’t be time to eat again.”

  But when she said the word eat, Mac meowed.

  Jamie slowly sat up and grabbed her cell phone off the coffee table. Seven thirty-two. She’d been asleep for almost eleven hours. She’d curled up on the couch again that morning, right after she fed Mac and Diogee breakfast and let Diogee out for a pee break. She put the phone back down. She didn’t want to see how many texts and voice mails she had. She knew she had to get in touch with, well, basically everyone, but not now. Not yet. She’d texted her parents that she’d arrived safely as soon as the plane landed. Everything else could wait.

  She pushed herself to her feet with a groan. Diogee began to prance in place, starting up a barrage of barks that made her eardrums vibrate. Mac gave a louder meow. “I’m up. I am your pet sitter, and I am going to take care of you.” She swooped the cat up in her arms, then let the dog out. She made sure the door was firmly shut, then set Mac back down. He trotted toward the kitchen, tail straight up. That tail felt like a command—follow me. She followed him.

  “How about turkey and sweet potato?” she asked when she’d opened the cupboard jammed with pet food and treats. Her mouth had a nasty taste. She hadn’t brushed her teeth since she arrived, and she never missed brushing. She took a step toward the fridge to get the water pitcher, and Mac let out a yowl of outrage.

  “Right. You first. What was I thinking?” She served up his dinner, let Diogee back in, fed him, gave both animals fresh water, got a drink of water herself, then allowed herself to return to the sofa. She couldn’t deal with moving to the guest room yet. It felt too far away.

  As she stretched out, the emotions from the dream came back to her. Her father yelling at her made her feel sick inside. It hadn’t really happened, she reminded herself. Her father and mother had arranged everything after the Incident, neither one giving even a word of criticism. But the emotion from the dream stuck with her. They should have both yelled. All that money wasted. And what she did to Caleb.

  She looked over at her cell. She should call them. She should call Caleb. She should call Vi and the rest of her bridesmaids. She should call the wedding planner. She should call—She squeezed her eyes shut. Not now. Not yet.

  * * *

  Once Mac was sure Briony was asleep again, he made a Diogee-assisted escape out the window; then he loped over to the cedar tree and gave it a good scratching to obliterate the dog’s stench. He peed everywhere the second he got outside. He hadn’t been able to wrap his bonehead around the fact that the yard was Mac’s. The yard, the house, the people in the house, the neighborhood, all Mac’s. Even Diogee was Mac’s, not that Mac wanted him.

  Now that that chore was behind him, it was time for Mac to get to work. He had to check in on the Sardine Man. He started toward the man’s bungalow, enjoying the mix of smells in the night air. Oh, Holy Bast. The Sardine Man was having sardines again. Mac began to run. He could almost feel the little bones crunching between his teeth.

  He turned onto the street where the man lived, then forced himself to stop. His mission wasn’t to obtain sardines. His mission was to help the Sardine Man. Whiskers twitching with impatience, he considered the possibilities. A present. Jamie didn’t always appreciate the gifts Mac brought her. Sometimes she even tried to throw them away. She wasn’t all that smart. Fortunately, she had him to look out for her.

  The Sardine Man had better taste. Jamie gave Mac a sardine now and then as a special treat, but she never ate them herself. Her nose wrinkled up when she touched them. But the man appreciated them, so it was possible he would appreciate a gift.

  Mac turned toward the closest house. He could tell no one was inside. Maybe there’d be something in there the man would like. Mac could have gone down the chimney, but the sardinsies were calling to him, so he used one claw to slice the screen that surrounded the porch. Jamie would call him a bad cat. She didn’t understand that being a bad cat was fun. And useful. Yes, even though he loved her, he had to admit she wasn’t anything close to his intellectual equal.

  Mac wriggled through the slit he’d made in the screen. After checking a few rooms, he found something that might work. He’d given something like it to David once, and David seemed to enjoy it. He hadn’t thrown it away. Mac caught the soft object between his teeth. Then he was off to the sardines.

  No, he was off to the man. The man was his mission.

  Since Mac was acquainted with the man, he went directly to the front door. He rose up on his back legs and batted at the button until he heard a bing-bong.

  “I’m not home,” the man blah-blahed. Then Mac heard the man’s footsteps coming toward him. The door opened a crack. “Oh, it’s you.” The door opened wider. Mac deposited the gift on one of the man’s sneakers. The man picked it up and turned it over in his hands, staring at it.

  Job done, Mac headed for the sardines.

  * * *

  Nate rang Gib’s doorbell. “I’m not home!” he yelled, but Nate could hear him walking toward the door. Good. Gib was a sociable guy—usually—and if he’d really been planning to leave Nate sta
nding on the front step it would mean things had gotten very bad for him.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Gib said. He opened the door. “Want a beer?”

  “Sure.” Nate followed Gib to the kitchen. He handed Nate a Schlitz from the fridge, then poured a saucer of milk. “Did you get a cat?” Nate asked.

  “I don’t know how he got in yesterday. He rang the damn doorbell today. But he hasn’t moved in.”

  “O-kay.” Nate headed into the living room with Gib, and sitting in Gib’s favorite recliner was a tan-and-gold-striped cat, the same cat who had half-destroyed his office the night before.

  “I hope you didn’t want sardines. He ate the last one.” Gib picked the cat up and sat in his chair. The cat settled down in his lap.

  “I don’t like to eat anything that can look at me,” Nate said. He popped open his beer and grabbed a handful of pretzels.

  “He might have licked the salt off some of those,” Gib informed him.

  Nate didn’t know what to do with the pretzels. He ended up shoving them in his pocket as he sat down on the couch across from Gib and that cat. The cat stared at him a long moment, then slowly blinked.

  “If you’re here to tell me I should be eating in the dining room, it’s none of your business.”

  Gib was sharp. Nate decided to be equally direct. “The food’s better. But I get it if you don’t want to see Peggy flirting with Archie.”

  “That’s nothing to me.” He picked up a pretzel with elaborate casualness and popped it in his mouth.

  “You said the cat might have licked those,” Nate reminded him.

  Gib stopped chewing, hesitated, then swallowed. “Why’d you think I’d care if Peggy’s throwing herself at Mr. Bow Tie?”

  “I didn’t say throwing herself at him; I said flirting with him. And I thought you cared, because, let’s see, I have eyes. I see how you look at her. By the way, if you don’t water that peperomia in the next couple days it’s a goner.” Nate made sure all the residents had a plant. He usually would have gone into the kitchen and gotten the water himself, but he wanted to stay with this conversation. Not that Gib was saying anything. He was looking down at the cat, scratching him under the chin until he started to purr.