Catch as Cat Can (3 page)

“Now stay there,” she told him as he sat on the passenger-side seat. “We don't need any more excitement from you today.” Sunny got behind the wheel, started the SUV, and off they went.

Kittery Harbor wasn't a big town, but enough people worked there that there was a rush hour, at least on the main roads. Sunny took a more roundabout route, but still managed to pull onto Wild Goose Drive more quickly than if she'd fought traffic. As she approached her house, she noticed Helena Martinson's Buick parked in the driveway.

“Let's get you inside and fed,” Sunny said to Shadow. “Looks as though Mrs. M. wants to get her show on the road as soon as possible.”

Shadow led the way, tail high, obviously feeling more confident in familiar surroundings.
At least he has the good sense to choose a nice, warm house over fooling around out in the dark and cold,
Sunny thought as she unlocked the door. As soon as they stepped into the front hall, Sunny heard her father call, “We're in here.”

Sunny turned to the arched entrance way that led to the living room. Shadow, nosy as ever, scampered ahead. Helena and Mike sat companionably on the couch, the picture of a nice older couple. Sunny's father was on the tall side, with an unruly mass of white curls growing out of his Christmas haircut, his startling blue eyes staring fondly at the lady next to him. Helena Martinson was petite and lovely, dressed in a pants suit that contrasted with Mike's flannel shirt and jeans.

In the old days, people wore suits when they went flying,
Sunny thought with a smile.
Mrs. M. wears one to visit the airport.

“I hope I'm not imposing,” Mrs. Martinson began, then broke off. “What's the matter, Shadow?”

The cat stopped his advance, peering suspiciously around the furniture.

“I think he's looking for Toby,” Sunny said diplomatically. Since their neighbor had adopted the blond lab pup, he often accompanied her on visits. Toby seemed to grow exponentially, developing into a high-spirited, galumphing presence, convinced that Shadow was his best friend.
Shadow, however, made a habit of disappearing whenever he found Toby in the house.

“Toby is home.” Mrs. M. leaned down to pet Shadow. “Saving up his energy for when he meets Abby.”

“Well, he hasn't grown enough that he could knock her down,” Mike said.

Sunny decided to ignore that remark, even if it was true. “Let me get this guy fed, and then we can go.” She opened a can of the better cat food, figuring Shadow had been through enough today, and refilled the water bowl. “Okay, little buddy?”

Shadow kept his attention on the food, daintily lapping it up.

Sunny returned to the living room, where Helena Martinson already stood, holding out a set of car keys. Mike helped her into her coat, then she bent to retrieve a shopping bag. “I brought something along for Abby to wear,” she said. “She hasn't been up in these parts in a while.”

“You saw her in Boston—right? It was the end of this past summer,” Mike said.

“During summer,” Helena emphasized. “And it was just a couple of days while she interviewed around for jobs. We scarcely had any time together.” She allowed herself a hopeful smile. “Maybe one of them panned out, and she'll be working closer to home.”

Sunny didn't know how to answer that, so she stepped ahead to open the door. Mrs. Martinson didn't often talk about her daughter on the other side of the country. Sunny had still been in high school when Abby quit college and headed for California, determined to conquer the movie scene. From what Sunny had managed to glean, Abby had given up on acting and had been working for a law firm.

“We'll find out soon enough.” Helena gave Mike a peck on the cheek and stepped through the doorway. Sunny took the package from her and offered an arm.

“I'm not feeble, you know,” Mrs. M. told her as they stepped down to the drive.

Sunny couldn't see that discussion going anyplace pleasant, so she stepped around to open the passenger door on the Buick, stowing the bag on the back seat. By the time she got around her side of the car, Helena was already buckled in.

“Off we go,” Sunny said, inserting the key in the ignition. Beside her, Mrs. M. twisted around, waving. Sunny turned to see her father outlined against the light in the doorway, his arm raised.

And down at his feet, drawn by the action, was a four-legged figure.

Hope he doesn't make a dash for it when Dad closes the door,
Sunny thought.

Conversation went in fits and starts as Sunny merged onto the interstate, heading for downtown Kittery Harbor. “Abby and I talk every week,” Mrs. M. said, as if she were afraid Sunny might get the impression that physical distance meant a distant relationship. “Still, I was surprised when she told me she was coming.”

“I'm sure it will be good to see her.” Sunny followed the traffic toward the bridge over the Piscataqua River. Kittery Harbor, on this side, was Maine. Across the water was Portsmouth, and New Hampshire. She wondered why Abby had scheduled this visit for the dead of winter, rather than, say, the holidays.

When Sunny was a kid, Christmas had always been an anxious time. Not because of worry over presents, but
because it was her father's busy season. Mike Coolidge delivered road salt all over the Northeast, and a snowy December could mean that he'd be on the road. Then Sunny's mom had died in a holiday ice storm right at the end of Sunny's college term. It added up to a season a bit thin on Christmas cheer.

But this past December had been a surprisingly warm celebration, a sort of adopted family dinner. Sunny splurged on a ham, with roasted potatoes, green beans, and her mother's secret recipe for onions and raisins. Will cooked the appetizers at his place, scallops basted with maple syrup and teriyaki sauce, wrapped in bacon. The food police had definitely been off for Christmas. Mrs. M. had, of course, provided her famous coffee cake for dessert. Ben Semple, a police colleague of Will's, had surprised everyone by creating mulled wine in the kitchen, and his girlfriend, Robin Lory, supplemented dessert with cupcakes from the bakery where she worked.

It had been a special day with presents and laughter, not to mention good food. Sunny thought that they might have the beginning of a wonderful tradition. Now she found herself wondering if everything was about to change.

Mrs. Martinson checked her watch as they rolled across the bridge.

“How are we doing?” Sunny asked. “The traffic hasn't been too bad.”

“No, it hasn't,” Helena agreed, but she still looked anxious.

“Why don't you use your phone and check the arrival time,” Sunny suggested.

The plane was on time, and so were they.

Sunny continued on the interstate until she reached the airport exit, turned, and made her way along gradually smaller streets to the terminal. Her irrepressible side couldn't help remembering that just beyond the runways stretched a golf course.
It's not everywhere you can fit in a few holes before taking off,
she thought.

She dropped Mrs. M. at the terminal entrance and parked at the short-term lot nearby. Picking up the shopping bag, she set off across the street, still making good time.

The whole area—airport, country club, and a lot of other structures—had formerly been Pease Air Force Base, and still served as an exit and entry point for military flights. As a veteran, Mike Coolidge sometimes came here to greet the troops as they returned home.

“It didn't happen for me when I came back from 'Nam,” he explained. “But I want every guy and gal to know that we appreciate their service.” He'd talked Sunny into accompanying him a few times, so she knew her way around the terminal.

Sunny quickly spotted Helena Martinson over by the arrivals section and joined her. “They're taxiing up to the Jetway,” Mrs. M. reported. “We just made it. Did you—” She spotted the bag dangling from Sunny's hand. “Oh, good.”

Of course, there was a wait, but at last passengers began to file past the barrier toward them.

Helena suddenly straightened up, raising a hand. “Abby!”

Sunny stared at the woman approaching. With her winter tan and honey-blond hair, Abby Martinson was hard
to miss. Her years in California hadn't left her unrecognizable. Quite the opposite, in fact. Abby had grown into the spitting image of her mother as Sunny remembered her while growing up, when Helena Martinson was the hottest mom in the neighborhood.

Only when Abby got closer did Sunny see beyond the knockout looks and notice the effects of two days of cross-country travel, the puffy skin around bloodshot eyes, the tension in her shoulders even as she hugged her mother.

“Do you need to go to the luggage carousel?” Helena asked.

Abby shook her head. “Nope. Everything's here.” She hefted the wheeled carry-on bag she'd been trailing behind her.

“What about your coat?” Mrs. M. looked at the waist-length quilted jacket her daughter was wearing. Sunny remembered having one like it when she was working in New York. It had turned out woefully inadequate when she returned for a Kittery Harbor winter.

“It's lucky we brought something,” Helena said, reaching for the bag Sunny held. Catching Abby's glance, she said, “Oh, I'm sorry. I suppose I should introduce you—reintroduce you, I mean. Abby, this is Sunny Coolidge. She drove down with me.”

“Coolidge?” Abby said.

“Yes, she's my friend Mike Coolidge's daughter. Sunny, I'm sure you remember Abby.”

“Sure,” Sunny said, extending a hand. “Welcome back to Kittery Harbor, Abby.”

“Of course. Sunny,” Abby said, taking a moment to
place her. “You've got to forgive me, Sunny. It's been—well, more years than I like to think.” She shook hands. “Good to meet you again.”

Once again, Sunny's reportorial instincts gave a little twinge, detecting something not quite right.

Somehow, I don't think Abby is as glad as she sounds,
Sunny thought.
Either that, or my antenna needs serious
adjusting.

Maybe I can't
get a read on Abby because she's an actress,
Sunny told herself. Certainly she felt at a disadvantage. Standing beside the two Martinson women, petite, slim, and shapely, Sunny felt hulking and over-upholstered.

Helena drew a parka out of the shopping bag. “I thought you might need this. Looks like it should still fit.”

The coat was a deep, almost indigo blue. And however many years old it might be, it was still beautiful.

Why can't I get coats like that?
Sunny thought with a rueful look at the mustard-colored parka she was wearing. An unfortunate incident with a nail sticking out of a fence had killed her winter coat, forcing her to look for a replacement when the outlet stores had mainly cleared out their winter stuff. Mustard was the color beggars had to take when they couldn't be choosers. It was warm at least.

“Mom, I'm not a kid anymore,” Abigail said, as Helena held out the coat to her.

“You'll thank me when you get outside.”

“We're just walking to the car, and then to the house.” Abby shrugged out of her jacket and pulled on the parka. It looked great on her, of course.

They pushed their way through the terminal doors to get outside. When Abby shuddered, she wasn't acting. “You think you remember how the weather was, until it hits you in the face.”

Sunny smiled, remembering her own rude reintroduction to wintertime in Maine.

“So you think, maybe, I was right to bring the coat?” Helena said as they crossed the airport road to the parking lot.

“Actually,” Abby replied, “I was wondering if you were sure you didn't want to move to some place like California.”

“Abby, this is where I've lived my life—and you've lived half of yours.” From Helena's tone of voice, this wasn't her first go-round on this particular conversation.

Sunny led the way to Mrs. M.'s Buick. She unlocked the doors and opened the trunk to deposit Abby's carry-on bag.

Helena and Abby took the rear seat. That didn't surprise Sunny. When Mrs. M. rode with Mike, they often sat in the back together when Sunny drove. She kept her eyes on the road, giving her dad and his lady friend some privacy. But she couldn't keep her ears turned off as they moved to join the traffic out of the airport.

“When did you stop driving your own car, Mom?” Abby asked.

“I didn't stop driving.” A little more testiness crept into
Helena's voice. “But I think it's safer to let Sunny do the driving when it gets dark out.”

“I could have—”

“Which would be safer, the old woman driving, or the young woman who's spent most of the last two days getting here from California?” Mrs. Martinson cut in. “I can see you look dead on your feet.”

Abby sucked so much air in, Sunny braced herself for an explosion. Instead, the younger Martinson released it all on a long sigh. “I don't think that's fair, considering I had to go by way of Hoppenskip Airlines to find a route that ended up at this airport. I left home for a one
A.M.
red-eye flight to Texas, transferred to another plane to Florida, and then had to catch a ride between airports to hook up with the flight up here. It should have been a day in the air, but thanks to that storm I spent the night with a choice between a chair or the floor in the Texas airport lounge. I'm sorry I got here late, after dark, and in such a crabby mood.”

“At least you're here now,” Helena said. “We'll get you home, into a shower, and then to bed.”

They engaged in small talk as Sunny headed for the interstate.

“I took my national paralegal certification exam,” Abby reported. “Managed to pull a ninety—now I have a credential I can use all over the country.”

“Would that help with the people who interviewed you in August?” Helena asked.

“Well, it makes me a better candidate if I try again,” Abby said.

Conversation petered out as they headed north. In fact,
Sunny suspected that Abby had dozed off before they had gotten to the bridge.

She drove carefully—it would be a heck of a thing to put a ding in the Buick after Mrs. M. had made such a point of how much safer it was having Sunny behind the wheel.

Traffic lightened up as they proceeded through downtown Kittery Harbor and headed for the northern suburbs of town. Sunny smoothly pulled the Buick into the driveway of the Martinson place.

Abby blinked awake, glancing around in confusion for a moment until she saw her mother.

“We're home, honey,” Helena said. “Let's get you in for a nice, quiet night.”

Even as she spoke, they could hear Toby's joyous welcoming barks coming through the windows of the house and car.

Mrs. M. sighed. “After we get you introduced to Toby.”

Sunny went to get the bag from the trunk as Helena and Abby exited the car. She brought the carry-on to the front door as Mrs. Martinson opened the lock and ushered Abby inside. Helena paused for a moment as she took the piece of luggage. “I know your father thought we might get together tonight, but I think Abby is a little too tired. Maybe tomorrow? I'll give him a call when we've sorted ourselves out in the morning.”

“Sure. Get some rest yourself.” Sunny called a good night to Abby, getting a sleepy reply, and turned to head home.

As she walked the couple of blocks to Wild Goose Drive, the wind seemed to swerve around, sending a frigid blast right into her face.

Welcome home, Abby,
Sunny thought, ducking her head
and wishing she could find a hat that could cover her mop of curls.

Was this the homecoming Abby expected?
Sunny wondered.
She seemed really surprised that her mom had me driving. But maybe that's a good thing—a wake-up call. I always thought that Dad would go on going on until the heart attack showed me otherwise. Better that Abby gets a line on how her mom is doing while Helena is still well.

Then Sunny remembered Abby asking her mother if she wouldn't be better off getting away from Maine winters and moving someplace like California.

Don't know how Dad would like that,
she thought.

Sunny arrived home to find her father and Shadow both ensconced in the living room, watching TV. At least Mike was watching. Shadow lay flopped in an odd pose on a chair cushion, half asleep. Sunny came in with a sandwich, putting down a glass of seltzer to tickle Shadow's paw. “You and Abby both, pal.”

Shadow twisted around to get his feet under him, eyes wide as he watched Sunny take a bite of turkey and cheese. She ran a hand through his thick fur. “Mrs. M. apologizes, but Abby was pretty much knocked out with her cross-country marathon.”

Mike nodded. “Should have figured that. I had the same thing you're eating, with a little soup. I could reheat some, if you like.”

Sunny shook her head. “Helena says she'll call tomorrow after they get sorted out.”

“So how is Abby doing?” Mike asked.

“Besides being dead on her feet? I don't know. As gorgeous as ever. I have to admit, there was a part of me that
hoped she'd put on thirty pounds and would have a secretarial spread. But I don't know if that applies to paralegals.”

Mike pulled himself a little straighter on the couch cushions. “She was such a beautiful girl. I don't know why she didn't do better in Hollywood.”

“It's hard to throw a rock in Hollywood
without
hitting a beautiful girl,” Sunny told him. “It's a case of talent and luck against a whole lot of competition. Fact is, I had a better chance of making the
New York Times
than she had of becoming a movie star.” She tried to pass it off with a laugh, but there was some truth in what she said. She'd managed to land a job in the cutthroat New York journalism market, even if it was with the
New York Standard
and not the more prestigious
Times
.

Still,
she thought,
if I'd caught a couple of breaks, a few big stories with my byline on them . . .

Shadow ducked his head so she could scratch him between the ears, and Sunny obliged him, silently laughing at herself.
I wonder if Abby has the same sort of daydreams.

She scooped Shadow up in her arms and sat in the chair, giving him a good petting and letting the TV fare just wash over her. The cat seemed no worse for wear after his adventure earlier in the day.

“I'll just have to keep a more careful eye out, so you can't go off mooching fishy handouts,” she told Shadow.

“Don't know why he bothers,” Mike grumbled from the couch. “He gets enough handouts around here.”

Sunny stuck with the television until she saw the weather forecast on the late news—what a great surprise. It was going to be cold and windy tomorrow, too. Then she
deposited Shadow on the floor, said good night to her father, and headed upstairs to her bedroom.

Shadow followed her, taking big leaps up the stairs.

“I thought you'd be tired after wandering around downtown today,” Sunny told him. “But no, you look full of energy.”

After a quick detour to the bathroom to wash her face, Sunny arrived in her room to find Shadow sitting at the foot of the bed, waiting for her to turn down the blanket and quilt. “Just wait a second,” she said, changing into a pair of flannel pajamas. It was a little chilly upstairs, but that was the way she liked it. She got under the covers, Shadow wiggling in beside her to bundle in nice and tight. He even gave her hand a little lick as she settled her arms around him.

“Yeah, yeah,” she gave him a drowsy chuckle. “I know you're going to sneak off to patrol the house as soon as you think I've dropped off.”

She didn't feel him leave, though. She was soon fast asleep.

*

The next morning,
Sunny rose, showered and dressed on her own, coming downstairs to find Shadow sitting expectantly beside his feed and water bowls.

“Bottomless pit,” Mike said from his station in front of the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal. Sunny set out some fresh food for the cat and then got herself a cup of coffee. “So what's the specialty of the house today?” she asked.

“I tossed a handful of dried cranberries in the pot before the water boiled,” Mike said, “and sprinkled in some cinnamon when the oats went in. When it's done, I've got some
applesauce and walnut pieces waiting to go on top.” He cocked an eye at her. “If the food police approve.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sunny told him. Holiday feasting had been fun, but she was glad it was in the rear-view mirror. “Nice and healthy.”

She put a little milk in her coffee. “How do you think Mrs. M. would deal with the food police?”

“You thinking of making her life miserable as well as mine?” Mike took the question in good humor. “Helena thinks her coffee cake is one of the major food groups.”

“I wasn't thinking of me,” Sunny said. “But what about Abby?”

“Why would she—?” Mike broke off, groping for words.

I think you're trying to find a polite way of saying “go poking her nose in her mother's business,”
Sunny thought.

“She hasn't been home with her mom in a while,” she said aloud. “Some things could come as a shock—like me driving for Helena when it's too dark out.”

“I don't think—” Mike stopped again. “I guess it's less of a shock than getting called home to find someone in a hospital bed with an oxygen thingy under his nose.”

Idea planted. Good time to change the subject,
Sunny thought. “Are you going for your walk today?” Part of Mike's recuperation involved a daily three-mile hike, not easy to accomplish in the teeth of a polar vortex.

“I'm going to do it indoors, up in outlet-land,” Mike replied as he dished out the oatmeal. “That's why I need a good, solid breakfast, so I won't be tempted by all the junk food giveaways.”

Sunny ate her breakfast, then knelt to say good-bye to Shadow. “You stay around here and try not to get into
trouble,” she said as the cat stared up at her. Glancing at her dad, she added, “Can you make sure he doesn't sneak out?”

“He doesn't sneak out because of
me
,” Mike responded. “But I'll keep an eye out. Promise.”

Sunny kissed him, got her mustard-colored coat, and headed for her Wrangler and the ride into town.

The good news was that she made decent time and even found a spot near the MAX office. The bad news was that the lights in the office were on. Sunny glanced around the block and spotted Oliver Barnstable's Land Rover across the street.
So much for deconstructing the shopping cart software,
she told herself.
I'm not going to try doing that with the boss looking over my shoulder.

She came inside, calling, “Morning, Ollie” as she walked through the door.

He looked up from the papers spread across the desk to the clock on the wall. There were still a couple of minutes until the official start of the business day. “Hi, Sunny.”

Truth be told, the boss had mellowed considerably from the days when Sunny had started out in her job and secretly called him Ollie the Barnacle. He'd been heavier, redder-faced, and often ill-tempered, whether from a hangover or sheer orneriness. The ornery side still showed up every once in a while, but Ollie had gotten a lot better, thanks, strangely enough, to a broken leg. Going through physical therapy in a rehab setting had separated Ollie from a lot of bad habits, and his relationship with an attractive occupational therapist had kept him more or less on the straight and narrow.

Sunny began the usual office chores, starting the coffee machine, booting up the computer, checking emails, and responding to requests for information or reservations.
They worked together in silence until Ollie asked, “Did you notice whether Neil Garret's place was open?”

“The gate was down over the door when I came in,” Sunny replied after a moment's thought.