Bono

I couldn’t wait to get started. All I needed was skates and a $350 season ticket giving me unlimited time at the rink and a locker.

I’d only been there a few hours, but the vibrancy of the place was making me feel like a kid again.

Mingling with amiable strangers in the warmth of the bar, I watched crimson wine tumble into my glass. It was as if these people had been expecting me, and I was finally home. Lydia seemed happy, too. A striking blonde woman introduced herself as Karen Auerbach, the publicity director. She took Lydia aside to fill her in on the intricacies of the New York publishing scene.

It was an author’s dream to have Vida, Michaela, Karen and their team going to so much trouble arranging a raft of interviews and a special cat store event. Though grateful for their efforts, I was nervous how Cats & Daughters was going to be received in the United States. No doubt they were hoping to replicate the success of Cleo.

Anyone who thinks a writer is solely responsible for a publishing hit is clawing at the wrong scratching post. As far as I know, nobody sits at a window with a view over rolling hills and channels a best seller into the stores (most professional writers I’ve met have desks facing blank walls, anyway).

Some kind of magic has to happen to inspire a chain of talented people to invest their skill and enthusiasm in the project. From agents and editors to publicists, bookstore owners, and reviewers, a book passes through countless hands before it reaches the most important person of all—the reader. In all honesty, Cleo had been a glorious combination of luck and timing. A fluke. I was just a scribbler from the other side of the planet with a tendency to bump into furniture.

My phone vibrated against my hip inside my pocket.

Gr8 u have arrived safely. I’ve given Jonah his pill. On my way to work xxx.

It was such a measured message, so trusting and straightforward, I felt momentarily guilty. Still, if I was home right now, I’d be bent in front of the washing machine sorting whites from coloreds.

Though I raised the glass there was no need for alcohol. I was already intoxicated, drunk on New York. A slender woman with long hair moved toward us with the grace of a tiger. Her bright smile and dark eyes seemed familiar.

“Here’s to your foster cat!” Vida said, clinking her glass against mine.

Oh. The cat. I’d hoped they’d given up on that harebrained scheme. But no, Vida said she’d been in touch with the shelter and they were expecting us on Monday. When I explained we’d barely have time to settle into our apartment by then, Vida and Michaela looked crestfallen, as if a homeless cat was enduring hours of suffering because of my delay tactics.

I took a swig of wine and said Monday would be fine. Michaela’s face lit up like Times Square. She said she’d visit as soon as the cat had settled in.

Back in our hotel room two hours later, I was so tired I brushed my teeth with face cream.

When I was finally tucked into bed, I thought of Vida toasting our future foster cat. The only way I could survive the insane plan would be with a low maintenance animal.

Greg was always telling me about the power of visualization. Closing my eyes, I conjured up an image of a hefty tortoiseshell. A sedate female with a name like Mavis, my foster cat would have been recently orphaned after 18 years with her widowed librarian owner. Mavis’s interest in human contact would be limited to watching me spoon fish flakes onto a saucer. She would pass her days dozing on a window ledge while Lydia and I went on shopping safari in Saks Fifth Avenue. Unlike Jonah, Mavis would hardly notice when we arrived home, on account of deafness. She’d acknowledge our presence with an offhand flick of her tail. Mavis wouldn’t be unfriendly or destructive, just healthy, quiet, clean, and sane. I slipped into a milky bowl of Mavis dreams.

Chapter Six

SEX, DRUGS, AND JUNK FOOD

Palace or drain—a cat can live anywhere.

Aroar of industrial strength drilling jolted me awake. I sprang out of bed and pulled the curtains open. Lydia was quickly at my side. It was dark outside, but across the street an insomniac demolition crew was already at work. With our walls and windows vibrating, trying to get back to sleep was pointless. Besides, I wanted to introduce Lydia to her first diner.

“You want what?!” the world-weary waitress shouted.

“Two lattes, please.”

She shoved her pencil in her pocket and slouched back to the kitchen. A pasty-face waiter trudged toward us and asked us to repeat our order.

“We don’t do no lattes,” he said.

“How about cappuccinos?”

Exasperated, he threw up his hands.

“No fancy espresso machine here, lady!”

The waitress returned to fill our cups with fluid that could have been diverted from a nearby drain.

“Don’t worry,” I said to Lydia. “This stuff will taste like nectar after we’ve been here a few days.”