Bono

Large museums overwhelm me, and libraries can be intimidating, but the Morgan Library & Museum on Madison Avenue at 36th Street is the perfect size. A pleasant stroll from our apartment, it had become one of my favorite haunts.

As I wandered through its exquisite rooms graced with original manuscripts by Mark Twain, Tolkien, and Beethoven, I would lose all sense of time. The Morgan is the cultural universe in miniature.

Like so much else of value in New York, the library stems back to a wealthy individual. Pierpont Morgan was a financier fixated on collecting early manuscripts and old master drawings. After his death in 1913, his glorious collection, along with its purpose-built palazzo, was donated to the public. The museum has continued to collect and expand without losing its intimacy—and the excellent café was never crowded.

After a dose of Morgan bliss one day, I ended up in a wonderful shoe shop where the smiling assistant didn’t blink when I confessed to size eleven feet. He spread an array of summer mules in dazzling colors at my feet. All were my size. I felt like Dorothy in the Emerald City. I bought a silver pair that was so comfortable, I had to go back for a second pair in cobalt blue.

“What do you think?” I asked, swiveling the laptop so Philip could see my new blue shoes.

“They look stunning,” he said, but I could tell he was being polite. Men never understand the thrill of new shoes.

“How are Annie and Stella liking their Frozen cards?” I asked.

“I haven’t heard,” he said. “But Lydia can’t stop talking about Bono and the wonderful time she had over there.”

We lapsed into silence. Overcome with a compulsion to fill it, I blurted out option three.

“I can’t leave Bono.”

Silence.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’m not leaving here until I find him a home.”

The words sounded more powerful than they had when they’d been inside my head. But I wasn’t about to take them back. Philip straightened his shoulders.

“I see,” he said after another long pause. “And what’s going to happen if you can’t find him one?”

I grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and blew my nose. There was no way to wrap option three in pretty paper with a ribbon on it.

“I’ll just have to stay here,” I said.

“How’s your neighbor?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Who?”

“The Irish writer.”

“What?! He’s not a writer. He’s just a—”

“Oh, I’m sorry. There’s another call on the line,” Philip said. “We’re making an important acquisition.”

I knew better than to compete with that priority. We blew air kisses and said good-bye. There was no chance for me to tell him I hadn’t seen my neighbor lately. The copy of my book had disappeared from Patrick’s doorstep, so he’d obviously read the thing and hated it. I hadn’t had a whiff of him since the demise of Maggie Thatcher. Surely Philip realized option three had nothing to do with Patrick.

Chapter Twenty-eight

CALL OF THE WILD

A cat sometimes needs a savior.

I was nervous about sharing my plans with Michaela. She’d think I’d gone bonkers. But I needed to tell her how much Bono meant to me now, and that he was the reason I was going to stay in New York. When she invited me to meet her at the Central Park Zoo, I thought it would be the perfect setting to tell her my news.

The zoo started back in the 1860s when it was a depository for creatures too unpredictable to squeeze inside a parlor, such as a bear and some swans. Before long, celebrities decided to enhance their reputations by adding to the collection. General Custer donated a rattlesnake.

As the cab pulled up outside the zoo, the first thing I saw was Michaela’s red jacket glowing like a beacon. She greeted me warmly and we bustled through the gates like a pair of excited schoolgirls. Central Park Zoo was smaller than I’d expected. At six-and-a-half acres, there’s something quaint and endearing about the place. Even though it was upgraded with naturalistic exhibits in the 1980s, it retains the aura of a Victorian menagerie

After pausing to admire the sea lions cavorting in their pool, we bounced through an indoor rain forest. Michaela’s plan was clear, however. Cat woman to the core, she wanted to show me the snow leopards.

“There he is!” Michaela whispered, pointing out a magnificent snow leopard crouched on a rocky outcrop. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

If God exists, She must have been on a creative high when She invented the combination of black and white fur and sapphire eyes. The disdain in his steady blue gaze reminded me of Jonah in one of his snooty moods.

“Has there been any more interest in Bono?” Michaela asked.

“Plenty,” I replied. “But no takers.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said, raising her phone to take a snapshot of the leopard. He straightened his spine like a fashion model and arranged his head at an elegant angle for her.

“It’s a disaster,” I said, confident my hearing had failed me again. “He’s such a great little guy, but I think I’ve found a way around it. I’ve decided to—”