“Damn…” Sam muttered.
Jessica looked up from her licking and froze, her wrist halfway to her mouth. His eyes gleamed too bright, light from the window lending them the sheen of liquid silver. His dark lashes batted furiously, then he swiped his own wrist across his eyes. “Hell. Hell and twelve kinds of damnation. Why did she have to—” He slammed back his chair and stood, grabbed the plate, stalked toward the sink, stepping over Jessica as he went.
“Why did I have to what, Sam?” Or was she even the “she” he was thinking of?
He thumped the mug into the sink, held the plate wavering over it, then turned to scowl at her. “And what do you want, good-for-nothing?”
“I just wanted to know—”
He swore, one single, vicious word, then headed for her, the plate held on high. “Okay, okay, but don’t think this is the thin end of the wedge, cat. We’re not setting precedents here by any means. Got that? This is strictly a onetime aberration, that’s all.”
“What are you babbling about?” She dodged to one side as he sank to his heels, then dumped the last of his eggs on top of her chili.
“There. Chili con huevos, fur-ball. They’d pay good money for that out in L.A. in those uptown, sissy bistros. Nouvelle Hispanic Lite. All it needs is a touch of cilantro and tarragon, and you won’t be eating, you’ll be having a culinary experience.”
“Sam, why were you—”
But he stood, dumped the plate in the sink and strode out the door.
Jessica sat, listening to the sound of running water from the bathroom, a door slamming down the hall on what must be his bedroom. Then he stormed past the kitchen, a battered leather valise slung by its strap from one shoulder, one hand jangling his keys in his jacket pocket.
Don’t I get a kiss goodbye? she asked wistfully. That was something she’d missed for years. He’d had at least twelve kinds of farewells, from tango dip to eyebrow kiss, depending on his mood when he went out the door. The kisses on his return had been even better.
She heard him halt. He took two long steps backward to aim a finger at her from the hallway. “You plan to behave yourself, cat, or should I shut you in the bathroom?”
“I swear I’ll behave!” Oh, please, not the bathroom!
“Cross your heart and hope to choke?”
“Promise!”
“I hold you to it.” He vanished, and a second later she heard the lift rising. Its doors opened, then closed, then it sank again, groaning.
Jessica sighed. No kiss goodbye. Still, she glanced down at her bowl, and her spirits rose. Lukewarm eggs had never looked so good. And off Sam’s plate, they tasted like heaven. The patrons of those sissy bistros in L.A. could never have dined half so well.
JESSICA SPENT THE DAY following the sun around the loft. The two ten-foot windows in the living room faced south. Seated on one of the deep, granite sills, warmed by the morning sun, she had a spectacular view of the upper bay to the southeast. Once she glanced southwest toward the elevated highway, with the top of RI Gen rearing beyond its embankment, then she was careful not to look that way again.
That way lay all her hopes, all her worries. But today was to be Cattoo’s day of rest and recuperation, she’d resolved, free from all demands. Cattoo had more than earned it.
But if Cattoo deserved it, Jessica still felt vaguely guilty. Goof-off days weren’t something she’d ever indulged in, saving her brief time with Sam, master of the all-day goof-off. She remembered her father coming into a room once; when she was perhaps six. She’d found some markers that Winston used to color-code his lecture notes, was creating what she thought was a marvelous drawing—a fairy-tale garden for a fairy princess, who, in her mind’s eye, looked quite a lot like herself, only taller. “Haven’t you better things to do with your time?” her father had teased, then had brought her a Reader for Young Scientists and suggested she read it to him.
Never did finish that drawing, she mused drowsily, her eyes half-closed against the sun. If it wasn’t for Cattoo, she’d be finding something better to do with her time right now, maybe figuring out a way to make Sam understand her…
But not just yet. She collapsed, beaten down by the sun’s butter gold rays, then rolled over to let it warm her belly. Arching her back, stretching her arms and legs out to their limit, she groaned luxuriously, then held that stretch. So this is what it’s like to be a well-fed cat. No guilt, not one care in the world.
Except that her coat…wouldn’t quite…do. Jessica half sat up. Propping herself on one elbow, she took a swipe at her belly fur, then stopped, staring down at her own pink tongue. Gack, look at me! Licking fur.
Cattoo saw nothing wrong with that—saw quite a bit wrong with not doing that.
It’s only what any self-respecting cat would do, Jessica ruefully agreed. It seemed hardly fair to Cattoo to stop. She sighed and touched her tongue to fur. If I’m going to be a cat for a while, I suppose I might as well be a well-groomed cat. That was how she’d been brought up, after all, to always be the best she could be, whatever the enterprise.
Cattoo had an even better reason. Let’s do it because it feels so good.
Which it did. The stroke of rough tongue across her pelt was almost hypnotic. Jessica found herself drifting, sinking gradually down into sun-tipped, shining black fur, imagining finally that the tongue that stroked her was not her own, but Sam’s, hot and warm on her body. She sighed, smiled and slept, while Cattoo groomed on.
She awoke later to find the sun had moved. Leaping down off the sill, Jessica padded down the hall to the kitchen. No sun here. The window on this side faced north, overlooking the alley. Still, she hopped to the table, then the sill to inspect the view.
Beyond the glass, the black iron bars of the fire escape split the opposite wing of the mill into narrow rectangles. Tucked in at the side railing, a hibachi sat on the grid-work floor of the platform, along with a couple of flowerpots, containing the remains of two frost-seared geraniums. Nothing much here. Jessica peered down through the escape’s gridded floor. An iron ladder led to the level below. Beyond that, she saw a corner of the courtyard and shivered. So good to be in here and not out there!
Thoughts of the past few days sent her in search of the sun again. Jessica padded on past the bathroom, down the hall. On her left were two closed doors. Bedrooms, she supposed, each facing south toward the bay. From the placement of the second door, it must open into a large corner room. Master bedroom, she guessed. That would be Sam’s room.
The corner room at the end of the hall to her right was a small bedroom. From its north window, she could look down on the mouth of the alley. Its west window caught the afternoon light and gave her a straight shot at RI Gen. She shivered again. Are you there right now, Sam? With my parents?
With me? She shuddered. How am I doing?
And where’s Raye Talbot? The thought intruded in spite of her last-second attempt to shut it out. Raye would be there, at RI Gen, of course, prowling the corridors, a smiling, two-legged predator. What had she called herself? A wolf, that was it. Jessica’s fur bristled along her spine, then she shook herself. Not that she cared all that much about Raye really. She supposed she should feel anger—rage, even—and perhaps she would, once she let herself think about it. Right now she felt only a wondering incredulity—that a person’s life and happiness could mean so little to another…She shuddered again. Just stay away from me, Raye, that’s all I ask!
Not that Raye could possibly see her as any kind of a threat now. A woman in a coma? She must figure I’m as good as dead.
Well, I’m not! Jessica turned around and jumped down from the sill. I may be temporarily…displaced, but I am not out. Not by a long shot, as Sam would say.
SHE WAS SLEEPING, curled up on Sam’s sweater, which he’d left on the couch, when he returned. Her ears twitched as the elevator grumbled into life far below. When the doors slid open on the loft, she lifted her head and blinked lazily. She stretched out a forearm, flexed her toes, yawned til
l her jaw cracked. “Hiya, handsome.”
“Don’t talk to me if you value your life, cat.” Sam dropped his valise on the coffee table, shrugged out of his leather jacket, then threw it as far as he could. He followed it down the room, kicked it, then swung on his heel to scowl at her. “They caught the four o’clock back to Chicago.”
“So?” She was surprised they’d been able to stay that long.
“My mama would be pitching a tent in my room, if it were me up there.” He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in soft spikes, then shook himself like a dog stepping out of water.” Brrr. She had eighteen years of that bullshit. No wonder she…”
He sank down beside Jessica, his forearms dangling between his legs. He glanced at her sideways. “Bet your mama took better care of you than that, huh? Worthless as cats are, I s’pose that’s one thing you can say for them. They tend to their young.” He flopped backward, stretched his legs out, crossed his arms, slumped slowly down till his narrow hips were almost slipping off the cushion. “Whoof.”
“They love me.” Jessica stood and arched her back. “Really.”
“They call that love? I call that emotional neglect. Criminal, selfish, cold Yankee negligence. Love isn’t a good-conduct prize you hand out for straight A’s. For high performance.” He shook his head. “I’d like to sue ’em!”
“For what? Neglecting me?” But they weren’t. This was just their way. They must have moved heaven and earth to win one day free to visit her.
“Poor Jess,” he muttered, eyes focused somewhere beyond the darkened windowpanes. “Spends all her life half killing herself trying to please a couple of pinch-faced icebergs who couldn’t be pleased. Every time she jumped, they just raised the stick higher. And then when she needs them…”
“It wasn’t—isn’t—like that! Really it isn’t. Just because we weren’t all over each other like your family doesn’t mean…” She felt an uncertain laugh bubbling in her throat, but cats couldn’t laugh. “This is how WASPs love, Sam. At arm’s length. No dramatics. Stiff upper lips all the way and oh, so brave and understated.” Sam’s family might show love by touching and hugging, by indulging in all kinds of emotional and sentimental histrionics. But her family loved by respecting one another’s privacy. By sharing thoughts, not feelings. By sharing interests and hardwon goals. “Okay, I admit it’s sort of cool and cerebral, but it’s love all the same.”
She searched for corroborating proof, an instance of her parents’ saying they loved her, but her memory drew a blank at the moment. It’s because they don’t use the word much, she realized. They say, “I’m proud of you,” when Sam’s family would say, “I love you.” But it was the same thing. Really.
Of course, she had to admit they had less occasion to say, “I’m proud of you,” to her than they did to Winston, since he was far and away the high achiever—family and teachers had been comparing her to Winston ever since she could remember. And she’d been coming up short ever since she could remember. But still…“They love me.”
“Now she can’t perform for them, so one quickie visit, check the ol’ vital signs, chat with her doc, and they’re out of here.” Sam hissed a breath out between his teeth, a silent, savage whistle.
“Well, what do you want them to do?” Jessica jumped to the coffee table and paced slowly around its rim. “Other people need them, too—my father’s patients, my mother’s clients. They can’t just dump everything and camp by my bed. Besides, that would be about as interesting as…as watching grass grow. A person in a coma…” She shivered, fluffing her coat out, as she realized she was talking about herself, and remembered her mother speaking…
They’d been driving somewhere—oh, to summer camp. So Jessica would have been younger than ten, because after that, she attended computer camp, summers. Her mother had been saying how relieved she was once Jessica started talking. “I was rather…bored with you before that, I have to admit,” she’d confessed, glancing aside from the road with her cool, close-lipped smile. “You were so much more interesting, darling, once you started to make sense.”
And now I’m not making sense again, Jessica realized with a jolt. How can you possibly be proud of a daughter in a coma? I’m a…a nothing. Something worse than a nothing—a costly, embarrassing nuisance.
That thought was too horrid to dwell on. It sent her rebounding fiercely in the opposite direction. “Besides, you can accuse them of being too demanding, too hard to please. But didn’t I have the same problem with you?” She swung to glare at him.
“You turned into a…a damned rocket scientist on me, once you published that dissertation. How was I supposed to measure up to that? Be your equal? Make you proud of me? Why do you think I changed my mind and went to med school, after all—after I’d told you I wouldn’t? It wasn’t to please my father, believe me. I did it in the end for you, so I’d be worthy of you.” So you’d keep loving me.
“Don’t look at me like that, cat,” Sam growled. “Makes my brains itch.” He stood abruptly and headed for the kitchen.
“So scratch them, why don’t you? You could ask yourself why!” Jessica jumped down and trotted after him.
In the kitchen Sam reached for the teakettle, then moved to the sink. Filling it, he glanced aside. His brows shot together when she leapt to a chair, but he made no comment. Jessica watched him for a moment. “So I went to med school,” she said finally. But I blew that, too, in the end. I couldn’t be a surgeon like my father and Winston. Didn’t have the…the temperament. The guts. I’d have hesitated, and when you hesitate in the OR, it’s your patient who’s lost, not you. “So I’m just an internist.” She would have shrugged and laughed if she could have—a laugh that was meant to be carefree, but would not have been, quite. So maybe Dad was right not to love me as much as Winston. And you were right, Sam, to fall out of love with me. You caught on to me, fast, didn’t you, once you hit the big time?
She was sinking rapidly into self-pity, she realized, with a shudder of distaste. An unpardonable self-indulgence. Simply not done. At least not in public. Leaping down from the chair, she stalked from the room.
CHAPTER TEN
SAM FOUND HER curled up moodily on his jacket. Something about the smell was comforting, she had to admit.
Her ears swiveled backward as he moved to the table, fussed with his valise.
He returned to set something down beside her. “Brought you a present.”
She glanced down at a can of cat food. Lovely Liver. “Whoop-de-do, Sam. I’m ecstatic. Overwhelmed.” Sweeping her tail to one side, she rocked back on her hips and shot her right back leg skyward. She licked her inner thigh, then paused, leg raised, gazing haughtily at the opposite wall.
“Don’t fall all over yourself with gratitude,” he growled, retrieving his gift. “Or is it just that you don’t read?”
“Actually I was planning on sending out for a pizza.”
Behind her Sam headed for the kitchen. “Come on, cat. C’mere, boy.”
And that’s another thing! she thought. She gave herself a vicious lick, then sat up properly. “I’m not a boy, and I’m darned sure not a dog! Don’t you know how to call a cat?”
“Kitty, kitty, kitty?” he tried in a ridiculous, husky falsetto.
Better, she admitted grudgingly. But nothing would have induced her to follow that scent of third-rate liver to its source. “What are you having for dinner?”
“Have it your way,” Sam drawled, coming back down the hall with a mug in one hand. He threw himself down on the couch. “Food’s there when you want it.”
“When hell freezes over, I’ll try it. Thank you.”
He kicked off his shoes, swung his legs up on the cushions.
There’d been a time when she’d have walked over, rubbed his chest. And he’d have pulled her down to half lie on top of him, their legs intertwined, her face nestled in the crook of his shoulder. “Oh, Sam, why did we have to lose it?”
She found herself leaping to the couch
to stand alongside his chest, staring down at him. “Why?” It wasn’t a question—she knew why—it was simply a heartfelt protest. Why did the world have to snatch away the one thing in all life you wanted?
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, looking back at her. “I want to cuddle, it won’t be with a cat.”
“A lot you know.” She sighed and sat, but one paw lifted tentatively.
“Forget it,” he said, noting the movement. “Off the furniture.”
“Make me.” Her tail waved a slow S-curve of defiance.
When he reached for her, she flinched but held her ground. His hand slid behind her arms, his thumb and fingers spanning her rib cage. He lifted, and her front paws left the cushion. “I’m warning you, cat…”
He was too big to fight, and with his hand warm upon her, suddenly she didn’t want to. Instead, she went limp, savoring the sensation of his body fitted to hers, his hardness to her softness, his strength to her boneless compliance. Yes. Nothing had changed.
“Studied with Ghandi, huh? The ol’ passive resistance move? Blasted stubborn cat…”
Everything had changed. Black furry forearms dangled before her. At the edges of her vision, she could make out the dark, blurred sprays of her whiskers. Closing her eyes, she let out a squeak of despair. And it wouldn’t matter even if I was a woman. I must remember that. It didn’t work last time. It wouldn’t work this time. Nothing has changed.
“Mew? Not yowrr, but mew? So now we’re tryin’ pitiful, huh?” Still holding her elevated, Sam rolled halfway onto his side and touched her back. “Got to hand it to you. You’re a soft one, cat.”
Somehow her fur amplified his touch. Tingles spread out from each point of contact, quivered deliciously down the curve of her ribs.
His finger drifted the other way, up her spine, ruffling her hair. “If I had two dozen of you, you’d make quite the fur coat.”
“Thanks.” Despite the insult, this was heaven.
“Maybe a pair of earmuffs?”
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