Page 25 of The Magic We Made

And this little tuxedo cat, whom I’ve spotted playfully chasing butterflies through my yard many times, seems like a Daisy, fresh and full of sunshine.

Kittens, though? I never imagined kittens.

“I’d love her to come live with me.” I’m trying to keep my mind on the cat and not the man. This is theonlyreason I go to kneel in the dirt beside Ash. I don’t care about him. It’s all about Daisy. Up close, I can see she is mostly black but has a white throat and a round little belly that could—or could not—be filled with kittens.

I also can’t help noticing Ash needs a shave. I have no explanation for why this discovery causes a surge of desire to shoot through me, except that Mark is right: it’s been a long time since I got laid.

“But I have to take her to the vet to make sure she’s not microchipped,” I go on in my most professional voice. “She isn’t feral.”

Not only is she not feral, she’s still energetically butting Ash’s hands with her head, while steadfastly ignoring me, the person who has been feeding her for weeks.

I know I should turn around, go inside, and forget all aboutmy new neighborandthis stupid, ungrateful cat. I always tell my patients to be wary of codependent relationships where they find themselves giving and giving while getting nothing emotionally in return (obviously this doesn’t include pets or children, who have no choice but to be dependent on others, as they are not capable or old enough to drive, earn their own income, or even operate a stove to feed themselves).

But just as I’m about to attempt a second dramatic exit from the scene, the sun disappears behind the mountain of clouds looming overhead, and the air in my yard turns ten degrees cooler. I can hear Mrs. DeLong down on her dock by the lake, shouting to her kayaking grandchildren to “paddle in” since it’s about to rain.

I hesitate.

All of the storms we’ve been getting lately have turned out to be a lot of noise with no substance... nothing but heat lightning. That’s why, the meteorologists insist, the leaves on the trees haven’t even begun to change, even though the first day of autumn has come and gone. It’s been too hot and dry for trees to get the message winter is on its way.

These clouds seem serious, however: a fat plop of rain lands on my cheek. What kind of person would I be if I went inside now and let Daisy get soaked, especially in her (alleged) condition?

“Shecouldbe lost,” I say finally. “She could belong to someone who’s looking for her.”

“Oh, she’s definitely not lost.” Ash looks—and sounds—as cheerfully confident as one of my nieces right before a gymnastics meet. “And shedoesbelong to someone.”

When I look at him questioningly, he says, “You.”

No sooner has the wordyouleft his lips than lightning flashes.

Then a roar of thunder shakes the earth below us. A second later, the heavens split open, and heavy, cooling rain pours down on West Harbor for the first time in months.

Ash

I’m standing on Francesca Giovanni’s front porch.

I don’t know how it happened, exactly. She definitely didn’t invite me... unless you count the fact that she yelled, “Run!” when the first fat drops of rain began to hit us.

I don’t know what caveman instinct made me think to grab the cat as I staggered through a million stinging needles of rain toward Francesca’s front door. But I’m glad I did, because when we reach shelter and Francesca turns to look at me, I see her gaze—which seemed annoyed at first to find me there—go to the cat in my arms.

That’s when both her gaze and her voice soften, and I see that Francesca Giovanni, for all her attempts to seem stern and professional, is nothing but a big softie.

“Oh,” she coos. “You poor thing.”

But she doesn’t mean me, even though I’m standing there, basically soaking wet. It’s really coming down. No. She means the cat.

To me, she says in a completely different voice, “Oh, good, you got her. Thanks.”

“Yeah, I got her, all right.”

I’m not sure for how long, though. The cat isn’t struggling to get away—yet. Instead, she only looks mildly confused. And why shouldn’t she be? One minute she was rolling around in the dirt of Francesca Giovanni’s yard, and the next she’s in my arms on the porch, watching the rain stream down around us. The cat blinks a few times and looks around.

Then I feel her muscles stiffen.

Uh-oh. This cat is going to make a break for it. She doesn’t care about rain. She just wants to get away from me, even though I didn’t lie when I told Francesca I’m a cat whisperer. Cats come to me when I call them (usually).

But that doesn’t mean I can make them do anything. They’re cats.No onecan make them do anything.

“Let’s take her inside,” Francesca says. I don’t know if she’d noticed my grip on the cat tightening or what.