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.
I picked him up. “You look like a million bucks,” I assured him, smoothing the fur on the top of his head. “You look like a cat version of Brad Pitt.”
Maggie smiled when I opened the door but I saw at once that she was tired. There were dark circles under her eyes and tiny frown lines on her forehead. “Hey Fuzz Face,” she said to Owen. He immediately started to purr. Maggie let out a long sigh and leaned in toward the cat. “Owen, you are the only male in any species that I like right now,” she said. That just made him purr louder.
She kicked off her boots, I took her jacket and she padded behind me into the kitchen. I set Owen down and hung up her jacket. Maggie dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and Owen took up his position of adoration at her feet.
“Long afternoon?” I asked, leaning against the counter.
“Very,” she said. “Ruby told me about Jaeger Merrill really being Christian Ellis. How bizarre is that?”
“Ruby kept saying she remembered him, but I thought they’d just been in a class together or maybe they’d met at an exhibition.”
Maggie leaned an elbow on the table and propped her head on her hand. “I don’t see why he felt he needed to lie,” she said.
I shrugged. “Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he didn’t want people to know what he’d done. Would you want to tell other artists that you’d been a forger?”
She made a face. “Good point. On the other hand, did Jaeger—I’m sorry, in my mind he’s Jaeger Merrill—strike you as the kind of person who cared what people thought?”
“No,” I said slowly. “Ruby asked me the same thing, but I didn’t really know him.”
“I guess none of us did,” Maggie said. She looked around the kitchen, frowning. “Hey, Kath, I don’t mean to be rude, but you do remember that you invited me for dinner, don’t you?”
Owen gave a loud, enthusiastic “meow” before I could answer. “Yes, we know you remember,” I said. I smiled at Maggie. “Rebecca is making dinner for us. You do like cabbage, don’t you? I said you did.”
Maggie looked at Owen. “What do you think?” she asked. “Coleslaw maybe?”
He seemed to make a face.
“You’re right,” Maggie said. “Coleslaw is more of a July/August kind of thing. It could be egg rolls? Or sausage and cabbage soup?”
Owen looked up at her, his head cocked to one side as though he was trying to decide which choice sounded the best. There was a knock on the door then.
“That’ll be Rebecca,” I said, heading for the porch.
Maggie leaned down toward Owen. “Maybe it’s corned beef and cabbage,” I heard her say to him.
It wasn’t Rebecca at the back door; it was Everett, in jeans and a black windbreaker, carrying a large, insulated cooler bag and a smaller canvas tote. “Hello, Kathleen,” he said. Even in casual clothes, he reminded me of actor Sean Connery, without the Scottish accent.
I smiled. “Hi, Everett.” I moved aside and he stepped into the porch, setting the cooler on the bench by the door and handing me the canvas bag.
He leaned in for a closer look at my face, frowning at my scraped forehead. His dark eyes met mine and his expression was serious. “Kathleen, are you sure you weren’t hurt?” he asked.
I nodded. “I appreciate your concern, Everett,” I said. “But I really am okay. The paramedics checked me over very carefully. It looks much worse than it feels.”