Norah's Ark Read online

  “My hand isn’t much good to him without the rest of me.”

  “You could do worse,” she advised me. She fingered the chunk of jewelry at her neck. It was a hodgepodge of beads, colored cubes, macramé lumps and various ribbons. That, too, looked fabulous on her. On me—or 99.9 percent of the world’s population—it would have looked like a terrible blunder from the craft factory. No doubt she’d sell at least two or three today to people who admired it on her.

  “Don’t wait too long,” she warned. “That little waitress at Tea on Tap has been eyeing him lately.”

  “What’s the tea lady doing in the coffee shop? Scoping out the competitor?”

  Lilly gave me one of those pitying looks she saves for when she thinks I’m being particularly obtuse. Usually I get them when we’re talking fashion.

  “What else is happening on Pond Street? I seem to be out of touch.”

  “It’s all those animals you surround yourself with. It doesn’t give you enough time for people.” She studied me with a surgical glare. “You need a date that doesn’t have four legs and a tail.”

  “Shh. Don’t say that too loud. Bentley might hear. You know how sensitive he is.”

  I was only half kidding. I rescued Bentley from a shelter. He’d been abused in his former home and, in my professional opinion—such as it is—Bentley has serious self-esteem and confidence issues. These may also stem from the fact that, due to his indiscriminate parents’ genetics, he’s not the most intimidating presence on the block. Or in the pet store. Or anywhere. He may be stocky but his heart is pure powder puff. I’m sure I saved Bentley from extinction. Nobody else would have been crazy enough to adopt a dog like him. He knows that and has committed the rest of his life to loving me—what a great swap.

  Happily, Lilly ignored me and began to fill me in on the latest from the rumor mill on Pond Street.

  “Belles & Beaus is adding another masseuse.”

  Belles & Beaus is a day spa located in a huge restored Victorian up the street. It started out as a hair salon with two stations and a lot of out-of-date magazines, but has rapidly become a very chic and stylish spot. Then again, everything along Pond Street is becoming that way. The Bookworm now has author signings and poetry readings, the Drugstore’s old soda fountain is the place for kids to hang out and you can—much to Joe’s dismay—buy a latte at Barney’s Gas Station right along with your unleaded premium.

  Someday I’m hoping that Barney will realize that his sign, Barney’s Gas, isn’t quite specific enough. I’ve had more than one person come into my shop laughing and ask what kind of gas Barney has anyway. I usually leave that question alone. It’s an explosive issue.

  “The store beyond Belles & Beaus has been sold to someone who’s planning to open a toy shop.”

  “Cool.” A toy store—my kind of people.

  “And guess who said hello to me when I was at the Corner Market today!”

  “Sorry, I left my mind-reading kit at home today.”

  “Connor Trevain, Commander Connor Trevain.” She said it in the tone of an awestruck groupie.

  “Back for a visit, huh?” Commander Connor owns the fleet of cruise boats that sail Lake Zachary, although he’s never spent much time in Shoreside. He actually was a commander in the Navy, a graduate of the Naval Academy and served as a ship’s captain. It was well-known that he “came from money” as Auntie Lou would say. The fleet has some fabulous boats, the largest, the Zachary Zephyr is regularly rented for weddings, anniversaries and class reunions. The food and service are amazing and the surroundings romantic. It’s a très chic place to be married. The smaller boats take tourists sightseeing around Lake Zachary, sometimes stopping at Ziga’s, a supper club the Trevain family owns on the far side of the lake.

  “No. That’s the best part!”

  “I thought you said you saw him.”

  “Not that. The best part is that he’s not here for a visit. He’s here to stay!”

  That made about as much sense as wearing Bermuda shorts to shovel snow. Last I’d heard he was suffering away his time with some boating venture in Hawaii. “Why?”

  “He’s decided to be ‘hands on’ with the business. Isn’t that exciting? He plans to captain the Zachary Zephyr.”

  “Well, shiver me timbers, think of that.” I put my hands on my hips and stared at my friend. “So what?”

  “So, he is rich and handsome and single, that’s what!”

  The sun came out and the fog in my brain cleared. “And you have your eye on him?”

  “Both eyes. He’s going to make the scenery around the lake more spectacular than ever.”

  “Are you interested in dating him?” I asked, never quite sure what direction Lilly is going in with her rambling conversations. She’s a smart girl but fixated on clothes and, occasionally, men.

  “Are you kidding? Of course, but he won’t look at the likes of me.” She grabbed my hands. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he asked me out?”

  Her eyes got wide as two saucers. “I have to check to see what’s on order for the store. I’ll need new clothes. Who knows when I might run into him!” She eyed me up and down like a disapproving school marm. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get something new, either.” With a swirl of red, she shot back into her shop, where, I knew, she’d spend the rest of the day poring over fashion magazines and doodling with her own clothing designs.

  I love Lilly. She’s funny, beautiful and my polar opposite. For every fashionista outfit she has, I have a pair of denim jeans and a sweatshirt. Of course, she doesn’t haul fifty-pound bags of dog food, change litter boxes or deal with untrained puppies in her business, either.

  “And…”

  I spun around to see Lilly poking her head out the door again.

  “…the new cop is on duty. We can all sleep well tonight.” Then she disappeared again around the doorjamb and didn’t return.

  Whew. Feeling as though I’d just been through a windstorm of trivia, I shook myself off and went back to tending to the only business I should be minding anyway.

  Chapter Two

  “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.”