A History of Cats
Richard S. Freeland
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012
Cover by Macy Wong
Discover Other Titles by Richard S. Freeland at Smashwords.com
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A History of Cats
Jeanne Wetherford finished typing the last sentence with a flourish, read over what she had written, and saved the document. She leaned back in her chair, and let out a breath. There! She was done, the latest installment of Mingo’s Feline Escapades under wrap.
This made number twenty-seven in her series of best-selling cat mysteries.
She sighed, stood, and walked into the kitchen for a cup of lukewarm coffee.
The house was quiet, with only the soft strains of a Lorena McKennitt song holding back the silence. Jeanne stood there a moment, listening, then abruptly stepped to the CD player and pushed “Stop”.
The house settled. The clock ticked. Mr. Sims, her white Persian, twined a path around her ankles, demanding food. Silence filled the room, becoming more uncomfortable by the minute. She couldn’t stand it, and turned the CD player back on. The notes of a Celtic ballad drifted from the speakers and held the silence at bay.
Jeanne leaned back against the kitchen sink and sipped her coffee.
Another Mingo down. Another flush of royalties into her bank account. By now, she’d amassed a tidy sum. Whatever for, she no longer knew. It’s not as if she ever bought anything. Or went anywhere.
Movement out the window caught her attention. She ignored Mr. Sim’s manipulations and glanced outside. Next door, Nate Calhoun was pulling his lawnmower from his garage.
She perked up a bit. She only knew Nate well enough to say hello to now and then, but he was good to look at. Well, interesting, anyway. He had dark, wavy hair and a sort of blocky face, not handsome in the traditional sense, but far from unpleasant. He was a stocky man, and shorter than her lean five-eleven. Nice shoulders with a trim waist. Dressed for yard work in grass-stained jeans and a tee-shirt that had seen far better days, he looked - capable. Not GQ material, but worth a second look, for sure.
Nate pulled at the starter cord, and the lawnmower coughed blue smoke and stalled. He yanked the cord a dozen times, and Jeanne could hear his faint curses through the closed window. Her lips curled in a slight smile when Nate finally ceased jerking on the stubborn cord. He unscrewed the gas cap, glanced inside the tank, then smacked himself on the forehead and stormed back into the garage. Jeanne’s smile widened.
Her iPhone rang and vibrated, dancing along the counter where she’d left it.
She sighed again, stepped to the counter and picked up the phone.
“Jeanne, my girl, how’s it hanging, babe?” She grimaced.
“Hi, Sean. And yes, the new book’s finished. Just a minute ago, in fact.”
“Great news! Email it on over, we’ll take a quick look, don’t expect to need any revisions, though, the last dozen Mingo’s were perfect, have it out to press in no time. How’d you like the latest version of the new cover we sent you? Mingo on the Eiffel Tower?”
“It was fine, Sean,” Jeanne said, although it didn’t ring a bell. After so many, the covers tended to run together. “Go with it, I guess.”
“That’s great, we already had it set up so it won’t take long, we’ll start the ball rolling, get the ebook up at Amazon, and…”
Jeanne tuned him out. Sean was a good editor, enthusiastic and eager, but it was all rote by now. She stepped to the fridge, took out some cream, poured it in a saucer. Immediately she was surrounded by four felines – Mr. Sims, Darcy, Tiny Tom and Furdelance - purring like chain saws. She smiled, knelt, and absently rubbed their backs as they lapped up the cream and Sean blathered on in her ear.
And here came Mingo, her grey and white domestic longhair, strutting into the kitchen like he owned the place. Which, she thought, he probably did, since he was the inspiration for all of Mingo’s Feline Escapades. He shoved his considerable weight through the feline crowd gathered around the bowl, parting them like Moses did the Red Sea.
The King has arrived, Jeanne thought, and grinned. Mingo - King of the Known Universe.
Sean brought her back to the moment. “Is that all right with you, kid?”
“What was that, Sean? I missed that last part.”
“The next book. This is the end of May. Can you have it by, say, first of August?”
“I don’t know, Sean. I don’t even have a plot in mind.”
“I’m not worried, kiddo. You knock these things out like trailer-trash Mama’s birthing babies. It’s not like they’re high literature or anything. Just plug into the muse, babe. Now, gotta go…”
“Sean, wait. Did you get a chance to read the synopsis of the History?”
“Haven’t looked at it yet. I know it’ll be good, though, just don’t let it interfere with your cash cow, Mingo pays the bills for us all, he’s a fat cat in more ways than one. Ride it for all it’s worth, kid.”
“But, Sean…” The phone went dead.
“Damn,” she said. That was Sean. All mouth and no ears.
She put the phone down and hugged herself. She should be back in her office, working on the History for the short time she had between Mingos, but she couldn’t muster the energy.
She needed to get out, take a walk, immerse herself in spring, or something, before she went stir crazy.
Jeanne caught up a sweater and threw it across her shoulders as she moved to the door. She opened it – and just managed to block Mingo with her foot as he made a dash for the outside.
“You silly furball,” she laughed, and bent down to pet him. “You wouldn’t last a minute out there in the big, bad world. Get your butterball butt back inside.”
Mingo retreated, nose in the air. Jeanne smiled after him. Of all her fur-babies, he was her favorite.
Outside, the wind had kicked up, whipping through the vibrant green new leaves of the red oak in her front yard. Jeanne pulled her sweater on as she started to walk. She passed Mrs. Whinkle and her evil little Chihuahua, Foofoo, taking their daily stroll. She nodded a greeting, then performed a hasty little dance step as Foofoo charged in, nipping at her ankles. Mrs. Whinkle frowned at Jeanne and yanked at Foofoo’s leash before finally dragging him on down the sidewalk.
Jeanne shook her head. Damn Chihuahua was the bane of the neighborhood.
By then she’d reached Nate’s house, saw him pouring gas in the mower. He looked up, spotted her and grinned.
“First cut of the year,” he said, “and wouldn’t you know it – damn mower wouldn’t start.”
She stopped, the fingers of her right hand straying to her hair. She and Nate had never exchanged more than a few words, and this was the first time she’d seen him smile. It lit up his whole face. She twisted a strand of hair in her fingers, shrugged.
“Ah, I’ve heard they kind of need gas every once in a while.”
He smiled and rubbed his shoulder. “Yeah, my mower sent me that message loud and clear.”
Jeanne laughed, a little uncertain, and felt herself blush. She wriggled her fingers at him and walked quickly away. Her face burned.
She really needed to get out more. Meet new people. Before she forgot how.
Jeanne made it home just as her mother’s car turned into the driveway.
God, not now.
She unlocked her door as Celeste rushed up and gave her a peck on the cheek, then barged into the house ahead of her, hair freshly coifed, resplendent in a blue Coco Chanel pant suit, Gucci bag tucked under her arm, wearing brand new Christian Dior patent-leather pumps.
“Good Lord, Jeanne, this place is a mess!” She picked up yesterday’s newspaper from the coffee table, then let it drop. “And socks on the floor, what are you thinking, dear? You were raised better than that!”
“Mother, please, I know the place isn’t immaculate, but it’s livable – and I don’t have the luxury of a cleaning staff like you do.”