appearances, Melody knew the animals hadn’t formed a welcoming committee—this was a protest.
She laughed, still shaken from her most recent encounter with Spence but recovering fast, now that he’d gone and her shoeless feet were free to swell as they liked. “Spare me the drama,” she chided her pets, padding over to the counter, taking a favorite mug from the wooden rack on the wall next to the sink. “I know I’m late serving your supper, but I don’t feel guilty about it, okay? One of my best friends tied the knot today.” Melody paused to smile, happy because Hadleigh was happy, and wasn’t that proof things worked out, at least some of the time?
Melody filled the mug with water, dropped in an herbal tea bag—electric raspberry—and fired up the microwave.
The furry trio didn’t break rank, merely turning their heads her way instead, watching accusingly as Melody opened a can of cat food, took three small plates from the appropriate stack in the cupboard and divided the grub evenly.
In the meantime, the microwave whirred companionably.
The cats remained in formation while Melody, carrying their feast with the deftness of a veteran truck-stop waitress, delivered their evening meal.
They were an odd bunch, her regal and totally opinionated fuzz balls. Hadleigh and Bex said so often, and Melody had to agree. Littermates adopted from the local shelter a few years ago, they looked so much alike, right down to the last splotch of calico, that even she couldn’t tell them apart.
Interchangeable as they were, she reasoned, she might as well have named them all Bob. It would’ve been simpler.
Leaving the felines to their banquet, Melody walked out of the kitchen, down the nearby hallway and into her bedroom.
There, full of sleepy relief, she took off the dress, the snagged pantyhose and the scratchy slip, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. Then, in her bra and panties, she got a clean and well-worn nightshirt from a dresser drawer and headed for the shower.
She turned on the spigots, adjusted them until the water temperature was exactly right and stepped under the spray. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face back, standing still, savoring the bliss, as the last vestiges of her makeup washed away.
She reveled in the ordinary pleasure of being under her own roof again, alone, unobserved, free to be Melody rather than some public version of herself.
Her hair proved to be a problem—she had to shiver outside the shower long enough to remove the last few pins and brush out the snarls teased in that morning by a local hairdresser—but Melody managed the task and stepped back under the steamy, pelting flow. After a thorough shampoo and a lot of soaping and rinsing, she sighed, shut off the water and got out, wrapping herself in a large bath towel, sari-style.
When the mirror had defogged, she combed out her wet tresses—she didn’t have the energy to use the blow dryer, which meant she’d have to soak her head again in the morning to tame the beast, but that was fine with her. Tomorrow seemed years away.
On automatic pilot now, Melody brushed her teeth and wiped a few lingering smudges of mascara from beneath her eyes. Finally, she pulled on the nightshirt.
She left the bathroom to make her nightly rounds—all windows shut, every door locked, stove burners turned off—and congratulated herself silently for not thinking about Spence Hogan even once. It was a winning streak, a personal best; for almost half an hour, Melody reflected, her busy brain had remained Spence-free.
She gave a small sigh, deflated. He’d slipped right back into her thoughts, though.
So much for the winning streak.
When she reached the kitchen again, Melody noticed that the cat brigade had finished eating and wandered off to some other part of the house, probably her studio. They liked to sit unblinking on the fireplace mantel, so completely motionless that visitors sometimes mistook them for oversize knickknacks.
She smiled as she scooped up the empty plates, rinsed each one thoroughly and stashed them in the dishwasher. Then she dried her hands, crossed to the back door and peered at the dead bolt. She knew she’d locked it that morning, before leaving the house, but she’d been known to forget things, like everybody else.
Dutifully, Melody moved on to the next item on her mental agenda—making sure the front door was secured. She’d been pretty flustered after the encounter with Spence.
Then she examined each and every window.
Since she worked at home, and she’d never gotten around to having an air-conditioning system installed, she often kept three or four of them open during the day, hoping to catch any stray breeze that might have swept down from the snow-crowned peaks of the Grand Tetons.
The tour ended in Melody’s studio, her favorite part of the house.
The space, originally the living room, wasn’t huge, but it was a great place to work, with its strategically placed skylights, built-in bookshelves and the custom-made cabinets where she stored art supplies.
The tension seeped from her shoulders as she looked around. Some nights, unwilling to be parted from whatever project happened to be consuming her at the time, she actually slept in here, curled up on the long sofa, burrowed under the soft weight of a faded cotton coverlet, spinning straw into gold as she dreamed.
The cats, as she’d predicted, sat side by side on the wide mantel above the fireplace, impersonating statues. Thanks to the permanent claim they’d staked to the entire surface, Melody couldn’t keep framed photographs or a nice clock or any other decorative items there, as a normal person might. She shook her head, smiling, and turned to look at the design board that took up most of the opposite wall. Every inch bristled with sketches, appointment cards, snapshots, sticky notes scribbled with reminders and ideas for new pieces of jewelry, and glossy images of watches and pendants, rings and bracelets, torn from various magazines.
Melody would never have copied another artist’s work, but she liked to admire the really good stuff. Now and then, some aspect of a design sparked her own imagination and hurled her into a creative—okay, manic—frenzy that might last for hours or even days. She invariably emerged from these episodes with some new and totally original creation.
When she worked, she focused almost entirely on process rather than objectives. For Melody, the magic lay in the what-ifs, the little experiments, the sheer alchemy of transforming raw materials into something beautiful, timeless and utterly unique, a piece she hoped would be treasured and eventually passed down, generation after generation.
Tired though she felt, Melody was tempted to perch on the cushioned stool in front of her drafting table, open her sketchbook to a fresh page, pick up a pencil and see what emerged.
Get some sleep first, counseled her practical side.
Melody decided to take her own advice. Although she’d pulled many an all-nighter over the course of her artistic career, she did her best work after a good night’s rest.
It was time to hit the sheets.
Ralph, Waldo and Emerson, still sitting on the mantel, watched inscrutably as she passed, unmoving except for their eyeballs.
Pausing to flip the light switch before leaving the room, Melody smiled again. “Hadleigh and Bex are right,” she told them. “You’re not ordinary earth cats, you’re aliens.”
