© 2014 by Melody Carlson
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-4639-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to Harry,
a very fine Maine Coon cat who found us in the middle of a snowy winter and won a place in all our hearts
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
About the Author
Other Books by Melody Carlson
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
Garrison Brown had been known to cross the street in order to avoid contact with a common house cat. As he hurried through the chilly Seattle air, he grimaced to see a black cat cut in front of him. With head down, the scrawny creature ducked into the alley behind a popular restaurant and disappeared into the mist. Garrison hated cats. Okay, hate was too strong a word. He simply wanted nothing to do with the furry little beasts.
During his missionary stint in Africa, his grandmother had lovingly teased him via email. “Did you travel halfway across the globe just to escape my furry felines?” For sure, domesticated cats were rare in Uganda, but it was not his cat allergies that had compelled him to leave the country—and Gram knew it.
As he went inside the apartment building where he’d secured temporary lodging with an old friend, Garrison reminded himself that cats could actually be rather amusing—from a safe distance anyway. He’d even enjoyed some of the hilarious YouTube videos that Gram had forwarded him over recent years. The one with the cat dressed as a shark riding a robot vacuum cleaner and pursuing a bird stood out in his mind.
It was impressive that his elderly grandmother had gotten so handy at technology, he thought as he scaled the first flight of creaky stairs. Equally amazing that the old girl had managed to accumulate so many cats during his nine years in Uganda. For some reason Gram had turned into a magnet for abandoned and abused cats. She called it her “St. Francis ministry,” but he cringed to think of all those furry critters crawling about her home.
Garrison was well aware that Gram wasn’t the only cat-loving person in this country. Unless it was his imagination, the country’s cat population had hugely multiplied during his absence. He had no logical explanation for this phenomenon, but it seemed that everywhere he turned, including the ads on TV, there were cats, cats, cats. And he didn’t mean the ones of the Broadway musical variety either!
He paused in the stairwell to dig his jangling phone from the depths of his coat pocket. Hoping it might be the director from the nonprofit agency he’d just interviewed with, he eagerly answered, “Hey, this is Garrison,” with cheerful enthusiasm. His roommate had been encouraging him to sound younger and hipper—although Garrison was only thirty-four and not really ready to be put out to pasture. But according to Randall, Seattle was a youth-oriented town, and it seemed Garrison had some catching up to do—that is, if he wanted to fit in.
“Garrison Brown?” a deep voice asked.
“Yes, this is Garrison.”
“I’m glad I could reach you, Garrison. Although I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Garrison’s heart sank. The director had probably decided, like so many other personnel people, to politely decline him a job. Why was he even surprised? They didn’t usually call back like this though.
“I’m Edward Miller,” the man said. “I’m Lillian Brown’s attorney and—”
“My grandmother’s attorney?” Garrison interrupted. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to inform you that Mrs. Brown has passed away.”
“Oh . . .” Garrison stopped climbing the stairs as a hard lump filled his throat. “Gram is dead?”
“Yes. She passed away this morning or maybe last night. A neighbor discovered her a few hours ago. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
A heavy load of guilt pressed onto him. Garrison had truly meant to spend more time with his grandmother after returning from Uganda. He had wanted to. But with medical appointments to remedy his malaria . . . followed by job interviews to remedy his bank account . . . several months had passed and he’d only managed one visit down there so far and that was just one quick stop on a day trip with his roommate. He had planned to surprise her on Thanksgiving and spend the whole week with her. But now it was too late.
“What happened?” he asked weakly. “I mean, I realize she was in her late eighties, but she seemed in good health. I just talked with her a few days ago.”
“I suspect it was her heart. Were you aware that she’d had some cardio problems?”
“No. She never mentioned it.” He continued trudging up the last flight of stairs.
“Yes, well, she mentioned it to me late last summer. That’s when she came in to make some changes regarding her estate. I suspect she knew that she wasn’t long for this world.”
“I had no idea. She always seemed so cheerful and energetic.” Garrison felt tears filling his eyes as he pictured the old woman working in her garden . . . surrounded by her motley crew of castoff cats. He punched his fist against the door. Malaria or no malaria, why hadn’t he spent more time with her right after he’d gotten home from Uganda?
“I’m sorry for your loss, Garrison. As I’m sure you must know, Mrs. Brown has designated you as her only heir.”
Garrison sighed at the word heir. Poor Gram, like him, pretty much had nothing . . . besides her cats, that is. “Yes, well, Gram and I don’t have many other relatives.”
“So I’m hoping that you can come to Vancouver and help sort things—”
“Of course,” Garrison agreed as he slid his key into the deadbolt of Randall’s door. “I’ll get down there as soon as possible. Maybe by tonight, if I can catch a bus in time.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough.” Mr. Miller gave some details regarding Gram’s wishes for her funeral and interment. “I’ve already contacted her pastor. The service can be held next Monday at eleven, if you agree. But I’m sure there are some other details you’ll want to attend to.”
“Right.” Garrison stepped into his friend’s apartment, pausing to jot down some notes along with some phone numbers. “I’ll call you when I get into town—probably tomorrow,” he told the lawyer. They wrapped up the dismal conversation, then Garrison closed his phone and slumped into the well-worn leather recliner. Leaning forward with head in hands, he allowed his tears to flow. An old part of him felt ashamed—crying like this seemed unmanly. But then he remembered something a Ugandan friend once told him. “A real man is not afraid to shed tears.” Besides, he reminded himself as he loudly blew his nose, this was Gram he was grieving.
Gram had been his rock after his p
arents were killed in a car wreck twenty-two years ago. She’d been recently widowed, but the older woman had shown real backbone by insisting on taking her bitter adolescent grandson into her home. She’d barely known Garrison at the time, and yet she had persistently loved him—through thick and thin. And there had been a lot of thin. But despite his deep-rooted rebelliousness and sassy back-talking habits, she refused to give up on him. She even forgave him when he nearly torched the nearby grade school. Her grace and diligence had eventually won him over—both to her and her faith. Without Gram he knew he would’ve gone down, or up, in flames.
And now she was gone and he couldn’t even say goodbye.
“Hey, man.” Garrison’s roommate called out a greeting as he came into the apartment with a pair of grocery bags in his arms. “How’d the interview—” Randall’s brow creased as he set a bag on the counter. “What’s wrong?”
“My grandmother.” Garrison sniffed and stood, squaring his shoulders, trying to act strong—manly. “Her lawyer just called. Gram passed away this morning.”
“Oh, man, I’m so sorry.” Randall sadly shook his head as he set down the other bag. “Your grandmother was one of the greats, you know. I’ve always had nothing but respect for that sweet woman. Too bad. But she had a good life. You know that, right?”
“Right.” Garrison filled a glass with water, taking a big drink. “Gram was a real lady. I’m gonna miss her . . . a lot.” He explained his plans to get a bus to Vancouver tomorrow morning.
“Or borrow my car,” Randall said as he began unloading produce.
“Thanks. But I don’t know how long I’ll be down there. As far as I know, Gram never got rid of her old Pontiac. I’ll just use that while I’m there.”
“You’re kidding. That car must be ancient by now.”
“Yeah,” Garrison agreed. “It was more than fifteen years old when the missions committee gave it to her after she came home from Kenya.”
“Even so, it could really go. That was one big honking engine. Remember driving that car around when we were in high school?”
“Don’t remind me.” Garrison tried not to recall the times he’d driven too fast. “Anyway I’ll just use it while I’m there—figuring stuff out.” Garrison nodded to the array of foods that Randall was lining up along the counter. “What’s up with all that?”
“I promised Rebecca I’d fix dinner tonight,” Randall explained.
“Special occasion?”
Randall shrugged. “Nah. I just lost a bet.”
“Well, I can make myself scarce if you two need to—”
“No way. You better stick around.” His eyes lit up. “Besides, I’m making pad Thai. I know how much you like it.”
Despite his gloom, Garrison’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten since early this morning, and he remembered how Randall had worked his way through college cooking at a Vietnamese restaurant. His pad Thai was killer. “Need some help?” he offered.
“Sure.” Randall handed him a bunch of green onions.
As they worked together, peeling and chopping, Garrison reminisced about Gram. “I remember when she took me in,” he said. “She tried to hide it, but I could see that she was still grieving for my grandpa. He’d died just a few months earlier. That was a lot of sadness—losing her husband and her only son so close together like that. But she always seemed so strong. So faithful and optimistic.”
“And hadn’t she just come home from the mission field herself? My parents were on our church’s mission committee at the time. I still remember them talking about this missionary widow and how everyone needed to help her feel at home in Vancouver.”
“Yeah, she’d barely been moved back to the States. She’d wanted to stay in Kenya, to continue the work, but the mission board wouldn’t allow it. Fortunately, for her and me too, my grandpa’s parents had left that house to her.”
“That was a good thing—for you and me both.” Randall grinned as he poured some fish sauce into a measuring cup. “I remember when you guys moved into the neighborhood. I knew right away we were going to be best friends.”
“Yeah. That was pretty cool.” Garrison nodded as he scraped the chopped green onions into a metal bowl, then he sighed. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“At least you know she’s in a better place.”
Garrison sighed. “Yeah . . . but I wish I’d gone down to see her . . . I mean, before it was too late.”
“Well, if anyone would understand, it would be your grandma. You gotta know she was really proud of you, man. Working in Uganda like you did. Helping to put all those wells into those villages.” He grinned as he opened a jar of pepper paste. “She’s probably up there in heaven, bragging on you right now.”
Garrison made a weak half-smile as the doorbell rang and Randall hurried to answer it. Rebecca burst into the apartment, greeting Randall with her usual boisterous energy, exclaiming over the storm system that was pressing into the Sound. “Can you believe it was sixty degrees yesterday, but I heard a weather report saying we might have snow by Thanksgiving?” She waved at Garrison as she peeled off her parka.
Garrison had known Rebecca for nearly as long as he’d known Randall. They’d all gone to school together in Vancouver. But it was only recently that Randall and Rebecca had reconnected via social networking. They’d been dating steadily for nearly a month now. As a result, Garrison had begun to feel a bit like a third wheel around this place. Randall tried to play down the relationship, but Garrison felt certain that Rebecca was hearing wedding bells in her head. And seeing Randall greeting her with a kiss and whispering into her ear . . . Garrison knew it wasn’t just Rebecca. Consequently, Garrison had been very focused on finding a job of late. He knew he needed to get out of here and onto his own two feet. The sooner the better for everyone. The problem was that the kind of jobs he was looking for were few and the applicants were many.
He dropped the last peeled carrot into the colander in the sink as he gave Rebecca an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to crash your dinner party to—”
“You’re not crashing,” she declared as she came into the kitchen with sympathetic eyes. “Randall just told me about your grandmother.” She gave him a warm hug. “I’m sorry, Garrison.”
He just nodded. “Yeah. I know she was old and it sounds like she had some health problems, but I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
“What will happen to all her cats?” Rebecca reached for a carrot, breaking it in half and taking a loud bite. “My aunt lives down the street from her house. Some of the neighbors—you know, the ones who don’t know your grandma very well—they started calling her the Cat Lady. Rumor has it that she has like twenty cats now.”
Garrison frowned. “Well, as far as I know, it was only seven at last count. No, make that six. Her oldest cat, Genevieve—that’s the one she adopted right after I went to college—she died a couple months ago. I even sent Gram flowers. Genevieve was twenty-three years old.”
“Seriously?” Randall took his place at the stove. “Cats really live that long?”
“I guess some do.”
“They might call Gram the Cat Lady, but she definitely does not have twenty cats,” Garrison clarified. “Well, unless she took in some other cats that I haven’t heard about. Although we talked weekly. She never mentioned it.”
“Well, six cats isn’t so bad.” Rebecca took another bite of carrot. “I saw this old woman on TV. She lived in Florida and had more than a hundred cats. All in one little house. Thankfully no one has invented smell-o-vision or I would’ve changed the channel. Seriously, it was disgusting.”
Garrison shuddered. “Sounds nasty.”
Rebecca laughed. “Yeah, especially for a cat-hater like you.”
“Garrison doesn’t hate cats,” Randall said defensively. “It’s just his allergies. I’ve seen him. A cat comes within ten feet of him and the poor guy starts sneezing and wheezing.”
“I know, I know.” Rebecca gave Garrison a contr
ite smile. “I just like to tease you.”
The three of them chatted congenially as they worked together. Then they all sat down around a big bowl of pad Thai. After helping them clean up, Garrison excused himself to his room to make travel arrangements and pack some things. More than that, he wanted to be alone. And he was certain the couple wanted to be alone too. It seemed obvious that he didn’t fit in here anymore. Sometimes he wondered if he fit in anywhere anymore. It was probably just a matter of time before those two decided to tie the knot. He really was happy for Randall. And Rebecca too. But he also felt like the odd man out. In so many ways.
Garrison wasn’t really jealous. In fact, he was glad that Randall and Rebecca had found each other after all these years. They were all in their midthirties now. High time to settle down. If things had gone differently in Uganda, Garrison might’ve been married by this time too. But Leah had taken a different path—married someone else. And really, Garrison was over it. As Gram used to say, that was water under the bridge. He zipped up his packed duffle bag. No looking back.
Thinking of Gram again just brought all the sadness back. Why hadn’t he gone home sooner? Were his excuses of job hunting and doctor visits really legitimate? Or had he secretly allowed a few old cats to keep him away? Stupid cats!
2
Rebecca had been right about the weather system pressing into the Seattle area. Ice-cold rain whipped against him as Garrison hurried to the bus station. It wasn’t so much that he was unaccustomed to Washington’s climate. But after the years in Uganda—and after suffering from malaria—he was having difficulty acclimating to the chilly, damp environment in the Northwest. Fortunately he’d had the forethought to layer on lots of clothes this morning. He probably looked like a refugee in his strange-looking ensemble. Not that he cared about fashion. Besides, for all practical purposes, he was homeless. Homeless, jobless, and alone.
He tried not to feel sorry for himself as the bus rumbled down I-5 toward Vancouver, Washington. Instead, he focused his thoughts on the sweet old house that he’d lived in from age twelve to graduation. It had been nothing like his parents’ new home in a brand-new subdivision high on a hill. Gram’s neighborhood, with old homes and tree-lined streets, had real personality. Sure the neighborhood had been a little run-down, but the people had been friendly. Of course, that could’ve changed by now. After all, he hadn’t really spent time in that area during the past nine years. And his last visit, due to the cats, had been very brief. The truth was that Garrison hadn’t really spent much time there since graduating from high school. That was more than sixteen years ago, and about the same time Gram had started taking in cats.
The Christmas Cat Page 1
