Leann Sweeney

I’d awoken filled with the hope that someone had done exactly that, since I’d had no response to my beautiful flyers—yeah, after less than a day, I know. Before I made a call to that shelter or any other rescue organization I could find within fifty miles, I went out back to look for him again.

In the morning light, Mercy Lake looked more huge and scary than it ever had before. Maybe the strong breeze and gray clouds made the water seem more like an enemy than like the friend it had been since John’s death. I’d spent hours by the water this past summer, listening to the gentle lap of waves against the dock, appreciating the birds and squirrels so busy with their simple pleasures. This lake and my cats had helped my heart heal.

But now Syrah could be in that water.

No. No. Don’t think that way, Jillian.

I walked straight toward the lake, refusing to believe he could be dead. “Syrah,” I called. “Come home, kitty. We miss you.”

No cat.

Then I checked out all the trees, as I had yesterday. Many were shedding their leaves with each gust and showering me with their inevitable passage into winter. If Syrah were anywhere near, he would have answered my call—he loves to talk back—but I heard only the wind and the angry water.

I wrapped my arms around myself—it was a lot chillier than yesterday—and went back inside. After three cups of French roast coffee, the clock finally ticked its way to nine a.m. and I called Tom Stewart, the security guy. He agreed to come over in late afternoon and see what he could do for me.

Next I called the shelter—the Mercy Animal Sanctuary—but the line was busy. And though I pressed REDIAL over and over for ten minutes, I got the same result. Didn’t everyone have call waiting these days? Well, maybe not in Mercy. I’d simply have to go there. My cell number was on the flyers, so I could be reached if someone found Syrah.

Candace had given me her private mobile number, and I called her for the address and directions. As expected, the place was five minutes away. But it took me longer than that to round up Chablis and Merlot, who after yesterday were not eager to get back in their carriers and the car.

I found the place easily, set back in the woods on the opposite side of the two-lane highway that ran along the lakefront properties. The Mercy Animal Sanctuary was housed in a long log cabin with two hurricane-fenced runs on the side farthest from the entrance. Four dogs barked their greeting when I pulled into the small parking area.

I rolled the windows down an inch or two for Chablis and Merlot’s comfort and climbed out of the van. But before I even made it to the shelter door, a young brunette wearing jeans and an oversized sweater met me outside.

“Hey there,” she said. “Allison Cuddahee. How can I help you?”

“Jillian Hart. I’ve lost—” I took a deep breath. “L-lost my cat.” I wasn’t about to cry again. Stupid tears. You’d think I would have used them all up in the last year.

Allison opened her arms and came to me. “You need a hug, Miss Jillian Hart.”

She was a tiny thing, maybe three inches smaller than my five-foot-six and at least ten pounds lighter, but Allison Cuddahee provided one monster hug. It felt wonderful to have a caring human touch, and all the tension seemed to leave my body. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the calm in my center.

She broke away a second later but kept her hands on my upper arms. “I want you to tell me about your kitty, but let’s go inside. Winter has apparently arrived on this fine Saturday morning.”

That hug seemed to have infused me with determination—the kind I’d been famous for before John’s death. I would find Syrah. I was certain I would. And I had a feeling that Candace, and now this young woman, would help me do just that.

We entered an office area and were met with a loud “Hey there,” by an African grey parrot. There was also a cage full of chirping canaries, a fish tank bubbling away with plenty of colorful swimmers and a glass case with the biggest tarantula I’d ever seen. A chill ran up my arms. I’m not a fan of spiders.

I focused on the bird, with its gorgeous scarlet tail. “Hey there,” I said.

“What can I do ya?” came its response.

I laughed and said, “This is obviously a Southern African parrot.”

“Snug loves his buttermilk biscuits, so I guess you’re right.” Allison took a seat behind a cluttered and rusted metal desk, gesturing for me to take the folding lawn chair opposite her. “Money goes for the animals, not the decor, so sorry about the chair.”

“A chair’s a chair, and I like your philosophy,” I said.

“I’m sorry to say we haven’t had any cats turned in recently, but let me get every bit of your information. We have a strong network in Mercy—we use old-fashioned word of mouth. We’ll help any way we can.”

Allison and I spent the next few minutes talking about Syrah, the break-in, the police coming out, but when I mentioned the flyers, she shook her head sadly. “Those won’t do you any good.”

“But why? I thought—”