Читать книгу Norah's Ark - Judy Baer - Страница 7

“Do you, Samantha Renée, promise to love and to care for this new member of your family? Do you promise to change his litter box, give him fresh water every day, be kind to him and protect him from harm? If so, answer, ‘I do.’”

“I do,” came a breathy little whisper.

I tried to stifle a smile as I looked at the pair across from me—a little girl with blond curls, pink overalls, a ruffled blouse and a white Persian kitten. Samantha held the kitten’s paw in the air with her hand and they both seemed to nod solemnly. I make sure everyone takes the Solemn Oath of Adoption seriously. Samantha’s parents stood behind her grinning widely.

“I now pronounce this adoption proceeding complete.” I whipped an embellished computer-generated adoption certificate off the counter and handed it to the little girl. Her blue eyes grew as wide as saucers at the official-looking paper to which I’d attached a gold seal, a few stars and a photo of the kitten. I always feel like the Wizard of Oz when I do my adoption spiel, like I’m handing out bravery, a heart, a brain or, in this case, a friend for life.

Then I began taking pictures with the Polaroid camera I have for just such auspicious occasions and doled them out to all the proud participants.

Samantha and the kitten, which she’d already named Squish because of the shape of his face, followed her father to the car to stow the litter box, litter, food, scratching post, toys and various and sundry necessities mandatory for a fourteen-ounce ball of fur to take over an entire household. Samantha’s mother hung behind.

“I can’t thank you enough.” She grabbed my hand and pumped it. “I’ve never seen our Sammie so excited…or so eager. I believe she is really committed to caring for that kitten. I may have to remind her of her responsibilities sometimes, but now she knows that kitten is hers. That ‘adoption’ ceremony makes it so real for her. What a brilliant concept!”

“That’s the idea,” I said modestly, although I, too, believed I’d thought of it in one of my more inspired moments. I did everything in my power to make sure the pets I sold were well cared for. The little adoption proceeding has been a clever and effective tool. Now parents drive across town to buy a pet from “the lady who makes my kid take it seriously.”

I can’t help it—taking animals seriously, I mean. It’s a direct command from the Big Book itself—right up front. “And God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over all the wild animals of the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.’” We are all His creations, and as those created in His image, we as humans have responsibility for His other creatures and handiwork. It’s way cool, of course, but also a big task and sometimes I don’t think we’re doing a very good job of it. If we were, every creature would be fat and happy and we wouldn’t have a need for rescue shelters. Until that happens, I’m just going to hang out here at Norah’s Ark and do what I can.

That thought reminded me that I’d promised Auntie Lou to help her find a kitten. She doesn’t care about pedigrees—“Pedigree, smedigree” she’d said once. “You love a pet ’cause it’s yours, not because you’ve got a list of its ancestors.” That means she needs to adopt the cat and buy only the trimmings from me rather than the other way around.

Auntie Lou is a bit of an anomaly on Pond Street. She lives above her store in a cozy little apartment. She doesn’t drive a car and I doubt she ever has. She’s been here as long as anyone can remember. Joe speculates that when she began selling things in her store, they weren’t actually antiques yet. Pond Street is home to Auntie Lou and we shopkeepers are her family. She never talks about having any other relatives and it’s assumed she has no one else. She’s a real throwback in this material world and that’s why I’m so fascinated by her.

The bell at the door stopped my musings as a tall blond man with rigid military bearing strode into the shop and glanced around with something akin to disapproval, as if the colorful parrot, a black-capped lory named Winky, who was loose in the shop, might do something dastardly to his lovely yellow polo shirt. Winky is a handsome fellow. He is primarily red but accessorized with bands of blue, green wings and a dash of yellow.

Not that my new customer didn’t have reason to be alarmed, of course. Winky is no gentleman. But instead of making mayhem, Winky decided to greet him. “Hello, Big Boy…awk…” Then Winky let out a wolf whistle that would put a construction worker to shame and the bird winked at the startled man.

That’s how he got his name, from a lady who had grown rescued him from some bad owners. She had grown too ill to care for him and had made me promise I’d find Winky another good home. I’ve been trying, but Winky has a smart mouth and ribald sense of humor, so he’s been a challenge to place. The trouble with parrots is that their life span may be longer than that of their human. I’ve suggested to more than one customer that when they write their will that they include custody instructions for their birds. That’s a great way to separate the serious customer from the casual looker.

“May I help you?” I asked, realizing someone other than Winky should be working the store.

“I…ah…no…well…yes, I suppose you can.” He didn’t really look comfortable in the pet store in those sure-to-pick-up-fur navy trousers of his. “I just wanted to greet the owner of this establishment. Is he in?”

Ohhhh. No points for that one.

“I’m Norah Kent, owner of Norah’s Ark. May I help you?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Excuse me. I thought it was Noah’s…I assumed…”

Assume nothing, I thought to myself. Especially not on Pond Street.

He shook himself free of that and extended a hand. “I’m Connor Trevain. I own the Zachary Zephyr and the other cruise boats on the lake. My current administrator is retiring and I’ve decided to be ‘hands on’ for a while. I wanted to meet the merchants up and down Pond Street and introduce myself.” He flushed a little. “I already blew it with you, didn’t I?”

I do not have the crusty shell of M&M’s. I melt everywhere. “Of course not. Welcome to Shoreside.”

He relaxed and smiled. It changed his entire demeanor. At once it made him less intimidating and more approachable. It also made him more handsome than the stern, businesslike expression he’d worn earlier. Oh, boy, was Lilly going to be excited about this.

“Have you been to all the other shops?”

“I met Joe at the coffee shop. And Barney at the station.”

“Isn’t he a gas?” I asked, testing his sense of humor.

That seemed to fly right over his head.

“I’ve also been to the Corner Market to meet Chuck and Betty.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Chuck’s name is really Olaf and that he’d been dubbed Chuck because of all the ways he could tell you to cook a pot roast. If the Barney joke went by him, he’d never get that one.

“And I’ve been at Auntie Lou’s Antiques.” A frown flitted across his features. “It’s very…crowded…in there. And she’s very…quaint.”

I could tell he was trying to be polite. Auntie Lou’s is sensory overload for the uninitiated.

“So you do have a few places left to visit.” I wondered if I could get to the phone and call Lilly before he got there so she could put on fresh lipstick.

“Yes.” He sounded so put-upon that I stared at him.

“You don’t sound very happy about it.”

“It’s not that. This is just quite a change from my former life. It will take some getting used to.”

“We’re worth the effort,” I assured him. “Pond Street and its merchants will grow on you.”

“Yes, some of them already have. It was nice meeting you, Norah,” he said in parting.

So that was Connor Trevain. Lilly was right about one thing. He was definitely going to improve the scenery down at the dock.

“Are you sure this is the right one for me?” Auntie Lou asked as she held a fat calico cat with a purr like a 747 rumbling in her ear.

“Are you sure? That’s the question.”

“He’s pretty cute.”

“A perfect calico.”

“And he seems to like me.”

“No kidding.” The cat blissfully kneaded Auntie Lou’s shoulder with his declawed paws. “He adores you.” I crossed my arms and looked intently at her. “Then what’s the problem?”

She flushed under the bright patches of blusher—or rouge, as she called it—on her cheeks. “I haven’t lived with anyone or anything for thirty years. I don’t want to make another mistake.”

I blinked. “A mistake?”

“That’s what my husband was,” Auntie Lou admitted cheerfully. “A rascal, that fellow. It’s a wonder that he didn’t put me in the grave with him.”

This was all news to me.

“He couldn’t keep a job or didn’t care to. Lazy as the day is long.” Her expression softened. “But so charming. He treated me like a queen, you know. Made me forget that I had to support us most of the time. Then he got sick and I nearly lost my mind tending to him and trying to keep food on the table….” Her voice drifted with her memories, into the past. “I didn’t regret a moment I spent caring for him but after he was gone, I realized that sometimes it can be just too hard to love someone who hasn’t the same ability to love back.” She eyeballed the cat. “Do you think this guy is up to it?”

My heart ached for Auntie Lou. She’d loved and lost and, even with a pet cat, was afraid to love again.

“I’m sure of it. And he’ll earn his keep. The lady at the desk said his former owner told her he was ‘an affectionate animal and a great mouser.’”

“Then why did they give him up?” Auntie Lou asked suspiciously.

I checked the card from the front of the cage that held the cat’s history. “Looks like she went into a hospice program, Auntie Lou.”

The old woman’s expression softened. “So you got left behind, too, did you?” she whispered into the cat’s soft fur. The roaring purr intensified. “I suppose we belong together then, two old rejects.”

Deal closed.

Then she looked up, her eyes twinkling. “Now don’t you go lecturing me about calling myself a reject. I couldn’t be one or you wouldn’t spend time with me, you sweet girl. Now go get me some papers to sign or swear us in or whatever it is you do in your shop. I want to get this guy home before I change my mind.”

Leaving the pair looking lovingly into each other’s eyes, I went to the shelter’s desk to tell them a pet had found its home.

“Did you see him yesterday?” Lilly accosted me in front of the Java Jockey on Tuesday morning looking wild-eyed and beautiful in a lavender chiffon top and shocking purple leggings. Her hair was piled in high curls on her head and she wore shoes that looked like instruments of torture, toes so pointy that she could have had them declared dangerous weapons. She had mini chandeliers hanging from her luscious lobes and silver chains draped around her neck. Improbable, impossible and outlandish, on Lilly it was a look to-die-for.

She plopped into one of the outside chairs and put her double espresso latte with sugar-free vanilla flavoring and a chocolate-dipped coffee bean onto a table. I joined her with my decaf with soy milk.

“Whatever happened to preppy clothing? You know, wool skirts, penny loafers….”

“Another day, Norah. Wait until you see what I’ve ordered for fall.” Then she realized that I’d distracted her from her original thought. “Well, did you?”

“Connor Trevain, I presume.”

“Isn’t he gorgeous? I can just see him at the helm, driving the boat or whatever sea captains do, squinting into the mist, not knowing what dangers may face him out on the open water….” Lilly threw her head back and gazed dreamily toward Lake Zachary.

“He’ll be on tour boats, Lilly. Unless Gilligan’s Island is somewhere in the middle of Lake Zachary, I don’t think he’ll have a problem.”

“Oh, you’re no fun!” She stamped her foot and I remembered that she could probably disembowel me with that shoe.

“I’m plenty of fun. I’m just not fantasizing over Connor Trevain.”

“Don’t you like him?”

“Lilly, I don’t even know him.”

“He’s rich and good-looking.”

“But is he a Christian?”

“He can always become that. It’s harder to become rich and good-looking.”

My shoulders sagged. “Lilly, don’t you know me at all?”

She looked contrite. “Sorry, Norah. I know how important that is to you, but does it hurt for him to be cute, too?”

“Of course not. But he’ll be much cuter to me if he’s a Christian.”

Lilly and I discuss this often. She’s right on the edge of accepting Christ but pulls back every time she thinks of something she might have to give up if she accepts Him fully. So far she’s asked me if she’d have to give up wearing pretty clothes and lipstick, dancing, playing cards, drinking wine and having fun. I keep telling her that that is between her and God. Once she accepts Him and invites the Holy Spirit into action in her life, she’ll know what pleases Him and what doesn’t. Plus, it will be so much fun to please Him that if she sees something she does need to give up, she won’t mind. She can’t get her mind around that concept yet. I understand. It’s hard to comprehend how God can fill you up so that you never feel like you’re missing a thing.

“What kinds of men do you like, Norah? I blabber about this one and that and you just take it all in, never saying a thing.”

“I’m not shopping right now, Lilly. It’s hard to conjure up a list for you.”

“You like Joe. He’s charming, great-looking, nice and tall. Those things could go on your list.”

“I’m not making a list!”

“Well, you should.”

“Why?”

“What if someone comes along and he’s perfect and you aren’t prepared? He might get away!”

Lilly’s logic defies reason. Or if it defies reason, can it be logic? Lilly’s way of thinking always dumbfounds me. It’s also part of why we’re friends. I’m never bored around Lilly.

As we sat there talking, I noticed Lilly’s antennae go up. I can see it in her eyes when there’s either an interesting fashion statement or a cute guy nearby. Her posture straightens, her eyes light up and her nose twitches just the tiniest bit. She says it doesn’t, but I know. I’m an eyewitness.

Unfortunately the object of her interest was behind me and although I could hear the clink and jangle of metal on metal, I didn’t see him until he stopped at our table.

“Good morning, ladies” he said to us. I turned around and came eye to buckle with a uniform-clad police officer. He stood with legs straddled and hands linked behind his back, just like on television. He did have the impenetrable black sunglasses but was missing the crisp blue hat which would conceal all expression on his face. And…could I believe my eyes? Was that a horse standing behind him?