Cat on the Scent

            May, usually the best month in central Virginia, along with colorful Octobers, remained unusually cool this year, the temperature staying in the fifties and low sixties. One week earlier, the last of April, a snowstorm had roared down the Blue Ridge Mountains, covering the swelling buds and freezing the daffodils and tulips. All that was forgotten as redbuds bloomed and dogwoods began to open, lush white or pink. The grass turned green.

            This afternoon the animals couldn’t keep their eyes open. Sometimes an abrupt change of season could do that, wreaking havoc with everyone’s rhythm. Even Harry, that engine of productivity, dozed in the tack room. She had every intention of stripping and dipping her tack, a monotonous task reserved for the change of seasons. Harry had gotten up that morning in an organizing mood but she had fallen asleep before she had even broken down the bridle.

            Alone—if one counts being divorced but having your ex much in evidence as “alone”—Harry ran the small farm bequeathed to her by her deceased parents. Farming, difficult these days because of government regulation, made enough money to cover the taxes on the place. She relied on her job at the Crozet Post Office to feed and clothe herself.

            In her thirties, Harry was oblivious to her charms. Her one concession to the rigors of feminine display was a good haircut. She lived in jeans, T-shirts, and cowboy boots. She even wore her cowboy boots to work. Since the Crozet Post Office was such a small, out-of-the-way place, she need not dress for success.

            In fact, Harry measured success by laughter, not by money. She was extremely successful. If she wasn’t laughing with other humans she was laughing with Mrs. Murphy, wit personified, Tucker, or Pewter, the cat who came to dinner.

            Pewter, curled in Harry’s lap, dreamed of crème brûlée. Other cats dreamed of mice, moles, birds, the occasional spider. Pewter conjured up images of beef Wellington, mashed potatoes, fresh buttered bread, and her favorite food on earth, crème brûlée. She liked the crust thin and crunchy.

            In the distance a low purr caused Mrs. Murphy to flick her ear in that direction. The marvelous sound came nearer. She opened one eye, casting her gaze down the long dirt road dotted with puddles of water from last night’s rain. She stretched but didn’t rise.

            The throaty roar sounded like a big cat staking out territory. She heard the distinctive crushing sound of tires on Number 5 gravel. Curious, she half raised her head, then pushed herself up, stretching fore and aft, blinking in the sunlight.

            Pewter lifted her head as well.

            Tucker remained dead to the world.

            Mrs. Murphy squinted to catch sight of a gleaming black car rounding the far turn.

            “Company’s coming.”

            No one below paid attention. She leaned forward, sticking her head out the second-story space as Harry’s nearest neighbor, Blair Bainbridge, cruised into the driveway behind the wheel of a black wide-body Porsche 911 Turbo.

            Tucker barked. Mrs. Murphy laughed to herself—“Dogs!”—as she sauntered over to the ladder. She excelled at climbing ladders and at descending them. The latter took longer to learn. The trick was not to look down.

            She scampered across the dusty center aisle and out to Blair. Harry woke up with Pewter licking her face. Tucker, sniffling about interrupted sleep, emerged into the sunlight.

            “Hello, Mrs. Murphy.” Blair grinned.

            “Hello.” She rubbed against his leg.

            “Anybody home?” Blair called out.

            “Be there in a minute,” a foggy Harry replied.

            The tiger cat walked around the low-bodied, sleek machine. “A cat designed this.”

            “Why?” Tucker viewed the car without much enthusiasm, but Tucker never had much enthusiasm when awakened.

            “Because it’s beautiful and powerful.”

            “You don’t like yourself much, do you?”

            Harry walked out, then stopped abruptly. “Beautiful!”

            “Just delivered.” Blair leaned against the sloping front fender. “Makes all the crap I do worthwhile.”

            “Modeling can’t be that bad.”

            “Can’t be that good. It’s not…”—he paused—“connected. It’s superficial.” He waved his hand dismissively. “And sooner or later I’ll be considered over-the-hill. It’s ruthless that way.”

            “I don’t know. You’re too hard on yourself. Anyway, it got you this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful. Not even the Aston Martin Volante.”

            “You like Aston Martins?” His dark eyebrows rose.

            “Love ‘em. Not as much as horses, but I love them. The Volante is a sleek car, but you need the mechanic to go with it. This is more reliable.”

            “German.”

            “There is that.” She smiled.

            “Would you like a ride?”

            “I thought you’d never ask.” She spoke to the two cats and dog. “Hold down the fort.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Mrs. Murphy grumbled. “I think we should all go for a ride.”

            “No room,” Tucker sensibly noted.

            “I don’t take up much room—unlike you.”