The Big 5-Oh! (13 page)

She was taken from us too young
, the reverend would surely say at her underpopulated funeral.
After miraculously surviving the ravages of cancer, she was taken just a few days before her 50th birthday by a lightning bolt with the perfect, improved aim of a God intent on catching His prey at last.

The moment she set foot outside the front door and popped open the flower-trimmed umbrella, a gust of wind assailed her, whipping away just as fast, and turned the umbrella inside out.

“Well, of course,” she groaned, tossing the skeleton toward the door. Still, she persisted in her search for the dog in the pelting rain that stung as it pinged against the bare skin of her face.

“Boofer!” she screamed into the wind as she made her way down the driveway. And then in a low rumble, she added, “You annoying little ball of matted fur. Get your gaseous little fanny back here!”

Just about the time that she realized how fruitless it would be to continue searching the inclement neighborhood, Liv heard two quick telltale bark-growls from behind her, and she took off running toward the house.

“Boofer!” she called again, and Liv caught a glimpse of Boofer's hind quarters as the dog disappeared through the flapping screen door.

Liv followed Boofer and then latched the door behind them. But as she jogged across the patio, she noticed that the dog was dragging something along with her.

“Boofer, what is that?” she asked, approaching with caution.

At first, it looked like a stuffed toy that had been dragged through the mud. But as Liv caught sight of a patch of bright orange fur, her heart dropped with a grievous thud.

“What have you done?” she cried, slipping open the slider and shooing the dog inside.

She slammed the glass door behind Boofer, and crouched over the muddy heap on the tiled patio floor. Emotion crept over her, and tears sprung to life as the realization inched its way from her heart to her head.

Morey.

Clayton Clydesdale's beloved, ancient cat lolled before her in a mound of mud and fur, lifeless.

Boofer sat in silence on the other side of the glass, watching.

“What did you do? Why did you kill Morey?” Liv cried, and the dog slinked away. “Oh, Lord, what do I do now?”

She recalled Jared's account of Clayton's love for the cat, and she cringed, dropping her drenched face into her hands, sobbing. A conglomerate of fragmented thoughts and ideas skipped across her mind. She should go across the street and knock on Clayton's door, repentant and sorrowful, and confess to him that Boofer had taken the life of his best friend.

Oh, God, no. Please. I can’t do that. I can’t bear to do that.

Perhaps she could just wrap the cat in something soft and bury it in Josie's yard and never speak of it again. But then she pictured Clayton, for months on end, walking the neighborhood and calling the cat's name. He’d never find closure.

And then an idea tiptoed across her mind: part compassion, part cluck-cluck-chicken.

She would sneak across the street and lay the furry little thing on Clayton's screened porch where he could find it, but without a total confession of the horrible dog across the street and the overzealous capture of Clayton's longtime friend. But as she looked at the muddy thing at her feet, Liv knew there was more that needed to be done. With all the care and caution she could muster, Liv picked up the limp cat corpse and set it to rest across her arm, and then carried it into the house.

In the kitchen sink, she used warm water and gentle blue dishwashing liquid to cleanse the mud from the cat's fur. Then she cradled its massive body, wrapped in a terrycloth towel, and transported it to the bathroom counter, where she used her own comb and blow dryer to finish off the deed.

Knowing full well how ridiculous the whole scene was, Liv chose to choke back the objections, offenses, and off-color zingers that raced across her mind in deference to the higher road. It would be so much easier for Clayton to find Morey in
this condition than to find the muddy heap of dead cat that Boofer had brought home.

The rain hadn’t stopped, but it had at least let up. The sky was murky gray and green, and Liv hoped that the dark gloom of the morning would camouflage her movements. Clutching the clumped-up towel, she set out down the driveway.

Please don’t look out the window. Don’t look out the window. Please don’t look out the window.

Her frantic wishes pounded against her brain in perfect rhythm with her steps as she tromped across the street, over the sloshing lawn, and up the three front steps. She took a deep, shaky breath and creaked open the porch door, and then unfolded the towel and carefully rolled Morey's corpse to the floor in front of a wooden rocker with a Tampa Bay Buccaneers pillow angled into the seat.

She used both hands to mold the cat into a circle, and she rubbed one finger along the length of his nose.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered and then folded the towel over her arm and took the first step toward her hasty retreat.

But before her escape could materialize, the thing Liv feared most happened. The front door flew open, and Clayton whooshed through the doorway toward her and whacked her hard on the arm with the back of his hand.

“What’d ya do?” he shouted, and his narrowed eyes burned a hole right into her. “First, you tell Doc Hunt you don’t want me swimmin’ in Josie's pool, and now this? What’d ya do, ya dern fool?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Clayton, I’m so sorry.”

The old man pushed past her and seized Morey's lifeless body from the floor and cupped the cat with both hands.

“Get outta here ’fore I call the cops and have you arrested!”

“Clayton, I’m—”

“Out!”

Liv rushed through the door, barely clearing it before Clayton yanked it shut with a bang.

“Don’t you ever come back here again!” he yelled.

Liv just stood there on the lawn, looking back at the house, her pulse thudding in her veins, tears standing in her eyes, and rain pouring down over her. A clap of thunder punctuated the slam of Clayton's front door, and she turned around and started across the street.

It was only then that she noticed Jared making his way toward her, a jacket draped over his head.

“What was that all about?” he asked her. “Are you all right?”

She couldn’t answer him. She just let him shelter her beneath the jacket as they hurried up the drive. A clap of thunder crashed, and Liv took off running, leaving Jared far behind her as she ran into the house.

“Olivia?” he asked once they were both inside.

Liv turned toward him and opened her mouth to speak, but she burst into sobs instead.

“What? What is it?” he inquired, letting her fall against his chest before circling her with his arms. “What did Clayton do?”

“Do?” she sniffed. “He didn’t do anything. I did it.”

“What did you do?” he asked with tenderness as he looked down into her eyes.

“It's too horrible. I can’t tell you.”

“Okay,” he said at last. “Why don’t you go and get into some dry clothes? I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

“Boofer killed him, Jared.” The words just detonated out of her, and then Liv covered her mouth with her hand.

“Killed … who?”

“Morey.”

“What?”

“Clayton's cat. Boofer got outside, and she killed the cat and dragged him back here. He was all muddy and dead, and I didn’t know what to do, so I washed him up and I took him over, and I was going to leave him there on the porch so Clayton wouldn’t know it was my fault. It was a horrible thing to do, I know it. I’m a horrible person, Jared.”

His laughter caught her off guard, and Liv scorched him with an angry glare.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he collected the chuckles as they rolled out toward her. “I’m sorry. But Boofer didn’t kill Morey, sweetheart.”

“Yes, she did.”

“No. She didn’t. Morey died last night, and I helped Clayton bury him under the shrubs in the front yard.”

“Wh-what?”

“Liv, Boofer didn’t kill the cat. But I’m guessing she dug him up.”

The power was back on in the neighborhood so, as Liv dried her hair and changed into fresh clothes, Jared took over the kitchen. While a fresh pot of coffee brewed, he lowered English muffins into the toaster and sliced a few mushrooms and an onion into a skillet. Once sautéed, he added half a dozen eggs and pushed it all around into a scramble.

“That smells so good,” Liv said as she hopped up to the stool on the other side of the counter.

Her cheeks were pink, and her red curls framed her face like a halo. Jared felt a flutter overtop his ribs when their eyes met and a smile spread across her porcelain face like warm butter on hot toast.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

He poured her a cup and slid it toward her, then watched as she doctored it precisely with milk and sugar.

“Feeling better?”

“I am,” she told him. “But I’m going to have to go over and talk to Clayton to explain.”

“I’d wait a day or two on that,” he suggested, vowing to make it over before she had the chance and try to pave the way.

“I feel horrible, Jared. The poor old guy buries his beloved cat, and this dog digs the thing up, drags it home, and I wash and fluff its fur.”

Boofer slipped under the counter and laid her chin atop her paws with a whimper.

“Bad dog,” Liv snapped.

“But not as bad as you thought, right?”

“True.”

Jared coaxed the eggs out of the pan onto a couple of plates, and then transferred the English muffins.

“Hey,” he said as he rounded the counter and sat down on the stool beside her. “Which day is your birthday, by the way?”

“Never mind,” Liv replied with a chuckle, and then took a bite of eggs. “Mmmm. Very good.”

“Thanks. Now the birthday question?”

“I think I answered you.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It just wasn’t an answer you liked. But it was an answer.”

“C’mon. When is it?”

Liv slid off the barstool and padded into the kitchen. “I want jam. Do you want some?” And then she shot him a wicked grin that felt like a hot branding iron.

“None for me,” he commented, a forkful of eggs poised in front of him. “It's okay. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll just call Hallie and ask her.”

The comment had the desired effect. Panic rose in her green eyes faster than he could swallow his eggs.

“Friday,” she said. “Happy?”

“Thrilled. How about I host a little party for you?”

“A party!” she exclaimed, and then she laughed at him. “Who would come?”

“Clayton, maybe?” he teased.

She pretended to take a playful stab at him with the butter knife in her hand, and then she shook her head.

“I’d really rather just let my birthday float on by, if you don’t mind.”

“If we whisper, it won’t know we’re here?”

“Something like that.”

“I happen to think your life is worth celebrating,” he told her, and he hoped she didn’t gauge the high level of sincerity behind the words. “We could have a barbecue or maybe a little gathering at a restaurant on the beach.”

“Jared. Let it float,” she said, waving her hand past him like a helium balloon caught on a breeze.

They sat beside one another eating their breakfast in silence, until Liv reached over and squeezed Jared's hand.

“My birthdays are a disaster,” she said, turning toward him and leaning in. “Every year. And I came down here to try and escape it—change the tide a little.”

“A celebration dinner with total strangers isn’t different enough for you?”

Their eyes met, and Liv choked back her coffee before they shared a laugh.

“Fine,” he continued. “No party. How about we cruise over toward the lighthouse and go snorkeling at Edison Reef? Just the two of us. Then I’ll grill up some steaks down in the galley, and we’ll watch your birthday float by.”

“Deal,” she replied.

“Deal.”

The water rippled across the Enchanted Pond, and Prudence kept a watchful eye on its surface.

“Are you looking for something?” the stallion asked her.

“Yes,” she told him without so much as blinking. “Something unexpected.”