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“You jeopardized my career! You put in crank calls, sent a bunch of homeless people into the office, promising them free medical care, and now this.” He was clutching at his hair, a clear sign of distress.

“I’m sorry, Tex. But you replaced me with a younger model! How do you think that makes a girl feel?”

He was pinching the bridge of his nose again.“I did not replace you with a younger model. For one thing, you and Scarlett are the same age. And for another, you quit!”

“Because you refused to stand by me. Family always looks out for family, Tex.”

“You quit our family!”

“I told you before. I didn’t quit our family. I just saw an opportunity and I took it. If someone offered you a position onGeneral Hospital wouldn’t you take it, too?”

He was staring at her.“General Hospital is not a hospital. It’s a TV show.”

“Those doctors work hard to save the lives of their patients, Tex. Hard-working, devoted doctor like you would fit right in. And with that full head of hair you look the part, too. You could be the new Dr. Alan Quartermaine. I always like Dr. Quartermaine.”

“Didn’t he die?” asked Tex now. He would never admit it but Vesta knew that he enjoyed the occasional episode ofGeneral Hospital. He’d been taping the show for her for as long as she could remember and often sneaked in an episode when he couldn’t sleep.

“Oh, yes, he did, but they got some great surgeons in General Hospital. They just might be able to bring him back. Or replace him with a fine doctor such as yourself, Tex.”

“Why, thanks, Vesta,” he said, standing a little straighter. “I always dreamt of working in a big hospital, you know. I mean, it’s nice to be a small-town doctor, but it does get lonely sometimes. To be able to confer with a colleague. Tackle some of the more challenging cases. It would sure be a great opportunity.”

She patted him on the shoulder.“General Hospital would be happy if they could add you to the roster. Sure, it would be a big loss for Hampton Cove, but they’d live.”

He stared off for a moment, a slight smile on his lips, and she could see him envisioning a future as a hospital doctor—member of an elite staff of the country’s top physicians. Then he blinked and was himself again. “Look, Vesta. Why don’t you come and work for me again? This whole Scarlett business wasn’t working out for me anyhow, and I need a competent receptionist. So what do you say?”

“You mean kiss and make up?”

He grimaced, the kissing part clearly a bridge too far.

“I’m just messing with you, Tex. I don’t say this often but you’re a good man.”

In fact she never said it. You had to be careful with men. Their egos were such that you had to use compliments sparingly, or else you could end up with a blowhard for a son-in-law. Better keep them on a short leash so they didn’t end up being the boss of you.

She pinched him on the cheek.“Sure I’ll be your receptionist again, Tex.”

Tex brightened.“You will?”

“But first I have to clean up the mess this Scarlett woman made,” she said, staring down at the floor, hands on her hips. “What were you thinking when you hired her?”

Probably he wasn’t. That was another thing about men: they took one look at a set of big knockers and they were gone. She looked up just in time to see Tex walk up to her, arms wide.

Uh-oh.

And then he hugged her.

“Let’s leave the past behind us,” he said warmly.

She grimaced.“Uh-huh. Sure, Tex. Let’s.”

As soon as the hug was over, she returned to her desk and Tex returned to his office. And since she was an old lady and didn’t feel like cleaning up Scarlett’s mess, she called the cleaner and told her they’d had a medical emergency and to come round right away.

And as she settled in her chair and started a new game of Solitaire, she thought with a satisfied grunt that life was finally back to normal again. And not a moment too soon, either.

Chapter 39

As we walked along Main Street, admiring its myriad shops and the felines associated with their owners, I had the distinct impression that all was not well in the cat community. A red cat was hissing at a black cat, which was hissing right back, its tail distended to its furthest limit, a Russian Blue was trying to hit a Siamese across the ear, a Scottish Fold was cowering before a British Shorthair, who stood thrusting out its chest with a sneer on its lips, and a Sphynx cat was running circles around a Turkish Angora.

Gazing out at this battlefield from his perch on his owner’s checkout counter was Kingman, shaking his head at so much feline folly.

“What’s going on, Kingman?” asked Dooley as we joined the store owner’s piebald.

“Madness,” said Hampton Cove’s feline Nestor. “Pure madness.” Then he directed an irritated look at me. “Is it true that you called me a pompous old windbag, Max?”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said, rolling my eyes. “No, I did not!”

“Milo’s been here, hasn’t he?” said Dooley.

“He’s the one who told me,” said Kingman. “I practically couldn’t believe my ears.”

“So don’t,” I advised my friend. “Milo is a mythomaniac, Kingman.”