Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,76
distributing the bills. The kitty was growing fast. Tomorrow she’d add solid food to the mix. Before long, he’d be ready for adoption.
And then he’d be gone.
Her mouth flattened.
Hard as she’d tried to keep her distance from the tiny fluff ball, he’d managed to worm his way into her affections with his soft, contented purrs . . . those big blue-gray eyes that watched her every move . . . and his trusting snuggle into the blanket after she settled him on her lap for feedings.
But that didn’t mean she was going adopt him, as Molly had suggested.
Instead, she would cut the ties—and the sooner the better. From now on, she’d approach the kitten’s care as she had in the beginning—as a chore on her to-do list, nothing more.
It took another half hour for the last dawdling group to depart, but as soon as they did she locked the door, did some preliminary cleanup, and headed back to the house to change. Once she fed Button, she’d finish tidying up, reset the tables for tomorrow, and prepare the last-minute menu items that were best served fresh.
Ten minutes later, her elegant tea attire exchanged for jeans and a sweatshirt, she entered the kitchen and set about mixing the kitten’s formula.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Button. It won’t take long to warm this up.”
After she set the bottle in a small pot of hot water, she replayed the messages on her answering machine. One cancellation for tomorrow, party of two, but otherwise a full house.
Business was good.
Today had also been good. The new lavender and goat cheese croustades she’d introduced to her tea menu had gotten rave comments, she was off the hook about offering the Shabos a place to stay now that they were back in their apartment, and the high school students who’d helped her with the lavender harvest last summer had signed on for another season.
Everything was going as well as possible in her life.
She tested the formula on her wrist.
Perfect.
“All ready, Button. I know you’re hungry.”
She set the bottle on the table and crossed to the box in the corner.
The little guy was sleeping.
Odd.
Usually when she bent down to pick him up for a feeding, he was wide awake and raring to go.
“Hey.” She touched his head. “Wake up, buddy.”
Nothing.
A tiny twinge of alarm radiated through her.
“Button?” She jostled him gently.
Nothing.
Pulse accelerating, she pushed aside the folds of the blanket he’d burrowed into.
He didn’t react.
In fact—he didn’t move a muscle.
That’s when she knew.
Button wasn’t sleeping.
He was gone.
Someone was sobbing in Jeannette’s kitchen.
And given her solitary lifestyle—along with the absence of visitors other than her tea customers—it had to be her.
Logan hesitated at the back door. It had seemed like an inspired idea to pick up two Sweet Dreams cinnamon rolls while he’d been in town dropping Molly off for her sleepover with Elisa, then mosey over here and ask Jeannette to share them.
But surprising her in the midst of a meltdown could backfire.
On the other hand . . . if a woman who always maintained firm control over her emotions was shedding tears, there had to be a serious reason for it.
Maybe she’d welcome a shoulder to cry on.
Or not.
As he debated his options, another heart-wrenching sob tore at his gut.
Decision made.
No matter the consequences, he wasn’t walking away.
Psyching himself up for whatever awaited him on the other side of the door, he lifted his hand and knocked.
The sobs continued.
He tried again.
Silence descended in the house.
Thirty seconds ticked by.
Sixty.
Was she going to ignore him?
Just as he was about to give up, the back door cracked open barely wide enough to give him a glimpse of one puffy red eye.
“I heard you crying.” No sense pretending otherwise. She had to know the sound of her weeping had carried through the door.
She hiccupped a sob, and a tear trailed down her cheek. “B-Button died.”
He clenched his teeth, biting back a term he rarely used.
A woman who—according to Molly—had lost people she loved . . . who avoided relationships of all kinds . . . who then took a chance on an abandoned kitten . . . would be devastated by another loss.
“I’m so sorry. May I come in?”
“Why? There’s n-nothing you can do.”
Not for Button—but his neighbor was another story.
“I’d like to see him.” It was as valid an excuse as any.
She waited a few moments but finally swung the door open.
The full view of her face was like a punch in the solar plexus.