Page 32 of The Magic We Made

It was there, once she was finished thoroughly sniffing everything, that Daisy leaped onto the bed as familiarly as if she’d slept on it every night of her life, and began to eat the popcorn.

This was miraculous. All the websites warned it could be days before a feral cat did anything but hiss at their rescuer. Cats don’t understand that when you bring them inside, you’re only trying to protect them.

But Daisy seemed to understand, and a part of me couldn’t help wondering if Ash Merit had something to do with it.

Naturally there’s no such thing as a cat whisperer, let alone anyone who attracts “lost things.” No one is born with an innate “superpower,” as Ash likes to call it. Sure, we may have genetic propensities to be better at some things than others, but a lot of that is due to exposure.

So there’s a completely rational explanation for how Ash managed to capture this cat: he’s simply had more experience at it than I have. But I’m determined to catch up.

“Hi, Daisy,” I’d said to her as I slowly lowered myself onto the bed beside her. “Good girl, Daisy.” I was careful to use her name frequently to get her used to hearing it, because all of the rescue sites suggested doing that, too. “Yes, that’s popcorn, Daisy. You’re going to see a lot of it if you decide to stay here with me. But popcorn isn’t for cats. It’s people food. You have your own food in the laundry room—hey!”

Theheywas because Daisy had stuffed her entire head into the bowl and begun chowing down as if popcorn was her favorite food. And this wasafterhaving eaten two entire cans of tuna-and-shrimp cat food and about half a bowl of kibble (I’d checked the bowls back in the laundry room).

That’s when I realized Ash was right: this cat wasn’t feral. She was probably lost, lost from a home in which she’d evidently shared snacks with an owner who, like myself, loved cats and didn’t mind sharing her popcorn with one of them.

“Aw,” I said to Daisy. “Did you get lost? I’ll try to find your real owner for you, I promise.”

Though I’m not sure it’s a promise I’ll be able to keep. If her former owner was so great, why didn’t she spay Daisy so she wouldn’t get knocked up? And why isn’t she responding to any of my posts about having found her?

This was the point at which the cat lifted her head from the popcorn bowl, looked at me, and said, “Meep,” in a satisfied tone.

Then she curled up beside me and began to clean herself as contentedly as if it were part of her nightly routine. This is how we’d fallen asleep together. And that’s how I woke after dreaming all night of Ash Merit, with her body draped across mine.

This isn’t a bad way to wake up. Daisy has rolled over onto her back, revealing the belly Ash suspected might be full of babies. I’m not that familiar with how a pregnant cat’s belly is supposed to look, but Daisy’s is quite large considering how tiny the rest of her is, and her nipples are very visible through her white tummy fur. I’ll have to take her to the vet later to be sure—also to check her for a microchip—but it seems likely to me that Ash Merit is right.

Damn him.

I succeed in gathering most of the spilled popcorn without waking the cat, then pad out into the kitchen to have breakfast before heading out onto the back deck to grab my swimsuit and go for my swim.

After yesterday’s unexpected storm, my suit—which I usedaily and then drape over the back railing to dry in the sun—is still a little damp. The rain seems to have ushered in fall weather. There’s a distinct chill in the air that wasn’t there yesterday, and the leaves in the trees seem finally to be turning. Nothing too dramatic, but I can definitely see a few spots of gold in the leafy green canopy overhead.

Something else is different, too. Ash’s pickup truck is still in his driveway. There’s no sign of the man himself—it’s only seven in the morning, after all.

But I can see that the shades in what I’m pretty certain is his bedroom—or his boss’s bedroom, I guess—are down.

Yep. He’s still there. Great.

As I head down the steep wooden steps from my back deck to the lake, my flip-flops clacking, my bathing suit clinging damply to my skin, and my towel and water bottle in my hands, I see yet another change.

The surface of Walker Lake is covered in an eerie white fog.

I’ve seen this phenomenon a few times before. Occasionally the difference in temperature between the water in the lake and the air around creates a kind of marine layer. Steam is rising off the water like the lake is a giant cup of hot tea, the water is so much warmer than the air above it. It doesn’t rise more than a foot or two off the surface of the water, and generally disappears before noon.

But this time, the marine layer is so thick, I can’t even see the shore of Center Island, and it’s less than half a mile away. I know because I swim from my dock to its shore and back again every single morning, and my fitness tracker tells me the exact distance I’ve gone.

Still, just because it’s a little foggy doesn’t mean I’m going toforego my swim. Nothing clears my head faster than hitting the water. It’s always depressing when the cold weather settles in and I have to switch to running. I love a good run, but there’s something about the motion of my arms slicing through the water that makes me feel powerful and as if all is right with the world. The lake water seems to be welcoming me, cradling my body and gently guiding me exactly where I want to go, even on those rare mornings when the lake is crowded early with Summer People, and Jet Skis and boaters cross my path, often nearly running me over.

That’s why most days, like today, I’m in the water before eight, too early to encounter any of them. The lake is quiet and still, with the exception of the curly tendrils of steam rising from it.

So I dive in, concentrating on how lusciously warm the water feels compared with the cool air above it. I know I won’t be able to swim in the lake for much longer. Winter will soon be here.

For now, though, I intend to enjoy it. This is my best thinking time when no one can text or call me. Today I intend to think about Daisy as I swim, and what I’m going to say to the vet’s office when I call them after they open at nine that will get them to schedule the emergency appointment I need. Shouldn’t a pregnant cat be a priority, even though she’s a stray?

But for some reason, Daisy keeps drifting from my mind, and all I can think about is Ash Merit.

Thoughts of Ash Merit have certainly fueled my workouts before, only then it was because I was so angry with him for installing outdoor speakers, or driving such a loud truck, or refusing to give refunds to old ladies who got robbed while staying in his place. I hadn’t actually met him.

Now that I have, I can’t stop thinking abouthim. . . everythingfrom his stupidly handsome face to his belief in ghosts, which somehow isn’t the turnoff I would expect it to be, possibly because he’s also just so attractive and...nice.