by Sofie Kelly
“Thank you,” I said. I gave her a one-armed hug.
She caught sight of Owen and Hercules then, and moved across the floor to bend over and talk to the cats. For the moment at least, I was spared from having to explain for what felt like the umpteenth time that I was fine. The cats were listening intently as Rebecca spoke softly to them and I could hear the low rumble of both of them purring like twin diesel engines.
The boys really liked Rebecca. Everyone did. Everett was as smitten with her as he’d been when they’d fallen in love as teenagers. Maggie, whom she was teaching about herbal medicine, hung on her every word. Harry Taylor, Senior, shamelessly flirted with her even though he was twenty years her senior.
There was something about Rebecca, maybe it was her innate kindness, that made people care about her, that made them—me included—just a little protective, at which for the most part Rebecca just smiled. On the other hand, underneath that gray hair and angelic smile there was a steel-hard stubborn streak.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked as she came over to the table.
“Thank you, I think I would,” she said, hanging her bag on the back of the chair.
I poured a cup for both of us and then took the chair opposite her, so the box was on the seat between us.
Rebecca picked up her mug and smiled at me. “Did you make a doctor’s appointment?” she asked. “Just to get checked over.”
“I’m going to,” I said, feeling my face flush.
“Why don’t you go ahead and do it right now?” she said. She smiled down at her two furry cohorts sitting beside her chair. “Hercules and Owen will keep me company.”
I hesitated.
“I’ve found it’s best not to put things off.” She still had the sweet smile on her face.
I knew when I was beaten. And I felt a kind of grudging respect for Marcus, who had come up with a pretty good way to do an end run around my dislike of doctors and hospitals.
“Excuse me,” I said.
The doctor’s office had a cancellation for Monday morning. I took it. When I went back into the kitchen, Rebecca was sneaking some of her date square to Hercules. Owen was already sniffing his bite on the floor.
I sat down, giving Rebecca’s box a quick, curious glance.
“Go ahead and take a look inside,” she urged.
I wiped my hands on a napkin and pulled off the lid. Inside were books and papers that had belonged to Rebecca’s mother, Ellen Montgomery. She’d acted as unofficial nurse and midwife in Mayville Heights in her day, using herbal remedies to treat kids, adults, and from what I’d heard the occasional horse, cow and house cat.
I lifted out a thick, handmade book bound with neat, Coptic stitches.
“That’s her plant book,” Rebecca said.
I opened the cover and for a moment I was speechless. The first page was a beautiful watercolor of a dandelion plant. There were notes in black ink and fine block printing along the bottom and up both sides of the page.
I turned the page to an equally beautiful image of a chamomile plant. I looked up at Rebecca. “These are gorgeous,” I said.
She nodded. “My mother was very artistic. There are paintings and sketches of every plant she used in that book.”
I had no idea how I was going to make the book part of a display in the library, but I definitely wanted to use it. I went through the rest of the things in the box—more drawings, a book of herbal remedies with meticulously detailed instructions for making various salves, infusions and poultices, a stack of black-and-white photos tied with a faded blue ribbon and several composition books that I realized had been Ellen’s journals.
“Are you sure about these?” I asked Rebecca, holding up one of the black-covered, narrow ruled notebooks.
She nodded. “Yes, assuming you find anything that’s useful in them.” She took one of the small volumes from me and slowly flipped through the pages. “My mother kept a journal all her life. They were always ‘open books’ so to speak and so was her life.” She looked up, a devilish twinkle in her eye. “I don’t think you’ll find any secrets in these books, sad to say.”
“You sound disappointed,” I said with a smile, as I put everything back in the box.
“Well, Kathleen, there was a time when I entertained the fantasy that I’d been left by pirates and that my real parents would someday come back for me.”
“Pirates?”
“Oh yes.” She picked up her cup again and leaned back in her chair. “In a huge pirate ship like the Jolly Roger, with a monkey in the rigging and flying the skull and crossbones of course.”
“Of course.” I picked up my own cup. “How exactly were they going to come for you?” I asked. “Minnesota isn’t really an ocean front state.”
“By sailing up through the Great Lakes system into Lake Superior,” she said.
I couldn’t keep a straight face. “And when the Good Ship Rebecca made it to Lake Superior, how exactly was it supposed to get to Mayville Heights?”
“Magic, of course,” Rebecca said, laughing. She picked up her fork and took a bite of a date square. “Ummm, these are good.”
“Thank you,” I said, grinning back at her across the table.
Owen and Hercules were still beside her chair, watching her with their mournful no-one-ever-feeds-us look. It was so fake. And it always worked.
Roma was constantly reminding us that Owen and Hercules were cats and should be fed as such—they just didn’t seem to understand that. A couple of weeks ago she’d caught Maggie feeding them grilled tomatoes and mozzarella and had ranted that in a few years the cats were going to be two overweight fur balls with bypass surgery scars. Maggie had simply nodded solemnly and gotten more careful about sneaking them food.
I had stopped feeding the cats pizza, but that was mostly because it gave Owen unholy bad breath and made Hercules burp like a Pepto-Bismol tester. The cats had some decidedly uncatlike abilities and I was beginning to suspect their digestive systems were not exactly those of typical cats, either.
I topped up Rebecca’s cup and her expression grew serious. “Kathleen, what about the cats out at Wisteria Hill? Will they be okay?”
“They’re all right for now,” I said. “Marcus has the carriage house cordoned off, but if the investigation goes on very long”—I shrugged—“it’s possible they’ll have to be relocated.”
“I hope that doesn’t happen,” she said. She smiled down at Owen and Hercules. “Those cats should be able to live out their days where they feel safe.”
She took another sip from her coffee. “What’s the name of the little calico? Lita and I saw her when we were out at the house getting my mother’s journals. She peeked around the side of the carriage house.”
“That’s Lucy,” I said. “She’s kind of the matriarch of the colony.”
“She reminded me a little of Owen,” Rebecca said. He meowed softly at the sound of his name.
“That’s probably because they both walk around like some kind of jungle cat,” I said, smiling down at Owen who was too busy watching Rebecca to spare me even a sideways glance. Hercules, on the other hand, came and leaned against my leg. I reached down to scratch the top of his head.
“You know, you didn’t have to go all the way out to Wisteria Hill just to get those journals for me,” I said to Rebecca as I straightened up.
“Of course I did,” she said. “You’ve worked so hard on the library restoration. I can’t wait for the centennial celebration. And it’s long past time I got my mother’s things from Wisteria Hill. It was good to be out there. I have a lot of wonderful memories.”
I wondered how Rebecca felt about the old estate having been abandoned. Did she know why Everett continued to leave the house empty and neglected? No one else did.
“I hate to see the house looking so lost and forgotten,” Rebecca said then.
How had she known what I was thinking? “Rebecca, you make the best lemon meringue pie I’ve ever had and you’re a whiz wi
th scissors.” I pulled a hand through my hair. “Don’t tell me mind reading is one of your skills, too?”
She tilted her head to one side and gave me a sly smile. “Well, I don’t like to brag.” She picked up her cup and then set it down and her expression grew serious again. “It will probably seem odd to you, but I think it’s nostalgia that keeps Everett from doing anything with the old place.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, you know he grew up there, and since my mother worked for Anna, in many ways my brothers and I grew up at Wisteria Hill as well. I was the youngest. I spent a lot of time out there.”
“It’s where the two of you fell in love.”
Rebecca’s cheeks turned an adorable shade of pink again. She always blushed when the conversation turned to Everett’s feelings for her. He’d loved her steadily for most of his life.
“We had a charmed childhood, Kathleen, as clichéd as that may sound. If Everett sells Wisteria Hill, or develops the land himself, that last link to those times will be gone.”
I ran a finger around the rim of my cup. “I’d never thought of it that way,” I said.
“Everett has a sentimental streak,” Rebecca said.
“That wouldn’t be my first choice of words to describe him,” I said with a laugh.
Everett Henderson was a very successful, self-made businessman. He was generous with both his time and his money. He was also hard-nosed and uncompromising. There was nothing soft about the man.
“He’s really a pussycat.”
I looked down at Owen and Hercules. “Are you trying to tell me he has fish breath and sheds on the furniture?” I said.
Rebecca laughed. “Well, he does like my tuna casserole.”
I laughed and Hercules looked from me to Rebecca, probably trying to figure out what the joke was. Hercules took fish very seriously.
“Do you think you’d like to live out there?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Wisteria Hill was a wonderful place to grow up, but my life is in town now.” She smiled at both cats. “I’d miss these two coming across my backyard. I’d miss visiting you. And how could I not be here to see what contraption the Justason boys were building in their backyard?” She held up both hands. “I’d miss the bright lights of Mayville Heights too much.” There was a devilish twinkle in her blue eyes. “And have you ever been out there in the early summer? The mosquitoes are large enough to carry you away.” She looked at her watch. “Heavens, I should get going,” she said.
“Thanks for this,” I said, gesturing to the box as I got to my feet. “And for the salve.”
“Oh you’re welcome,” Rebecca said. “Use whatever you like from my mother’s things. And rest that ankle.” She leaned over and looked from Owen to Hercules. “Come over for tea some morning once things dry out.” Both cats gave answering meows.
I walked her out to the porch door. “Do you mind if I ask Maggie if she has any ideas on how we can display some of your mother’s notes and drawings?”
“Not at all,” Rebecca said. “That reminds me. I was thinking of asking Maggie if she’d do one of her big collages of Wisteria Hill for me. I have some old photographs that have just been sitting in a box.”
“I’m sure she would,” I said. Maggie had created some wonderful collage panels of old photographs for a display during the Winterfest celebrations a few months ago. They were on permanent display now in the town hall.
“At first I thought maybe a painting or a drawing of the place would be nice. When Lita and I were out there, someone actually was sketching the old house.”
There was nothing to stop anyone from being out at Wisteria Hill, other than technically they were trespassing because the land was private property. I had Owen and Hercules because I’d been wandering around exploring out there.
In fact, one day late last summer Harry Taylor—the younger—had discovered a bilious green Volkswagen camper van in the yard and two middle-aged women—as Harry described them, looking like they were on their way to a reunion at Woodstock—picking mint and bouquets of cow parsnip.
“Don’t tell me those two women in the chartreuse microbus stopped by again on their way back to Manitoba?” I said with a grin.
Rebecca grinned back. “No. Though rumor has it that one of them gave Harry her e-mail address. No. I’m not sure who we saw—one of the co-op artists, most likely—he or she was wearing a big sweatshirt with a hood.” She stepped into her ladybug boots. “Now I really have to get going. I’m meeting that young man who works for Eric at the café.”
I looked at her blankly.
“You know,” she said. “The artist. Jaeger Merrill.”
10
My face clearly gave me away because Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “Did I say something wrong?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “It’s just that Jaeger slipped on the basement stairs at the co-op store. He, uh…he’s dead.”
Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh my word,” she said. “That poor man.”
“Why were you meeting him?” I asked. “If I’m not being too nosy by asking.”
“You’re not,” she said. “I was at the café having lunch with Lita, the day we’d gone out to Wisteria Hill. I was telling her about breaking my old apple peeler just as Jaeger showed up with our food. He asked if I still had it. He said he could take it apart and use some of the pieces in his masks. We started talking and I realized I had some other things—what I thought of as, well, junk really—that he might be able to use. So I told him I’d look around and see what I could find. That was just a couple of days ago.”
She exhaled slowly. Then she looked at me. “How’s Maggie? I know there was water in the building and she had to close the store. Now this.”
Hercules had come out and was leaning against my leg. I bent to pick him up. “She’s okay. A little overwhelmed, but okay.”
“Does she like cabbage?” Rebecca asked.
For a moment I felt like I was talking to Marcus, the way the conversation had veered off in a completely new direction. “I’ve seen her eat coleslaw,” I offered, wondering what Maggie liking coleslaw had to do with the store basement flooding and Jaeger falling on the steps.
“Good,” Rebecca said, zipping up her jacket. “I have a lovely cabbage and pork stir fry recipe. I think I’ll make her a little care package.”
I squeezed her arm with my free hand. “She’ll love that. She’s going to be here for supper.”
“Even better,” Rebecca said. “Don’t cook. I’ll bring dinner for both of you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. Hercules immediately meowed his objection to my objection.
Rebecca patted my hand. “I’m sorry my dear. You’ve been outvoted. Dinner will be here at six o’clock.”
“Will you at least join us?” I asked.
She smiled. “Thank you, but I already have dinner plans.”
I knew by that smile that her plans had to be with Everett. She waggled her fingers at Hercules and left.
I carried Herc back into the kitchen. Owen had disappeared. “Tell your brother Rebecca is making supper,” I told the little black-and-white cat as I put him back down on the floor.
I gathered the plates and cups and started running water in the sink. Maggie liked to tease me because I always did the dishes by hand. I’d told her that was because we hadn’t had a dishwasher when I was growing up so it was habit—which was true. It had also been the only time I could get some time to myself in my crazy family. I did my best thinking while scrubbing crud off the bottom of a pot.
I’d just filled the sink with bubbles and water and was trying to figure out how I was going to wash everything one-handed when I heard something fall behind me. I turned around and Hercules was sitting on the edge of a kitchen chair, his head in the box Rebecca had brought over, the lid on the floor.
“Hercules!” I said sharply. He looked up, all confused innocence. “Get your head out
of that box now and get off that chair.”
He hesitated, looking from whatever it was in the box that intrigued him to me.
“Now!” I repeated.
He lifted a paw as though he were going to climb into the carton. I rang out the dishcloth just a little and held it up. “You really want to do this?” I asked. “From this distance there’s no way I can miss.”
He made a noise that was halfway between a yowl and a grumble—Roma insisted that sound was cat-speak for “Bite me”—and jumped down. “Wise choice,” I called after him as he stalked away muttering under his breath.
I dried my hands and put the lid back on the box. Hercules kind of had a thing for boxes and bags. He liked to climb in the canvas grocery bags. He liked to ride around in the new messenger bag I’d bought to replace the one I’d lost last winter. In fact, the bag actually was a cat carrier bag since I knew that Owen and Hercules were going to end up in it as much as my towel and tai chi shoes did.
I took the box upstairs, setting it on top of my tall chest of drawers where I knew neither cat could get into it. Then I went back downstairs, put Barry Manilow on the CD player and cranked up the volume before I went back to the kitchen.
Halfway through the chorus of “Ready to Take a Chance Again,” Hercules appeared on the edge of my vision, in the doorway to the living room, head bobbing blissfully to the music.
Owen didn’t reappear until a few minutes before Maggie arrived. A gray paw slid around the basement door and nudged it open, and then he poked his head out.
“You’re safe,” I said. “No more Barry Manilow for now.”
Owen squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head vigorously. He didn’t share my and Hercules’s appreciation for the man who wrote the songs that made the whole world sing.
I’d just set the table when Maggie tapped on the porch door. Owen, who had been lolling under the kitchen table, leaped to his feet and to his surprise went skidding across the freshly washed kitchen floor in his haste to say hello to her. He shook himself and then had to stop to give a couple of swipes to his face with his paw.
