Love's Nine Lives. Cara/Cassidy Colter/Caron
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care for husbands or for children, and look how quickly she had taken the dieting advice!
But he needn’t have worried. Her voice was now quite loud, shrill even.
“What a totally unprofessional thing to say! I thought you were a man of education and refinement. I can see now I was wrong. You are—”
Conan held his breath, waiting, delighted. You give it to him, Miss Daisy, he thought. He was streetwise enough to have various phrases at hand that he would have loved to hear her use on the evil dog-loving, diet-prescribing Dr. Veggie.
“You are—” her voice quivered with righteous anger “—hopelessly old-fashioned!”
Disappointment washed over Conan. Sheesh. Hopelessly old-fashioned? What about You are a dog-breathed poop eater? What about You are a birdbrained worm slurper? Sometimes Conan wondered if there was any hope at all for Miss Daisy.
She marched into the living room. “Why,” she said, her voice still quivering with indignation, “he’s just another barbarian. Just like all the rest of them in this town.”
Ah, yes, Conan had heard quite a lot about the town’s barbarians. That was how Miss Daisy referred to the male population. Beer-swilling barbarians whose idea of culture was growing in the bottom of their lunch pails. According to Miss Daisy, every single man in Hunter’s Corner, Ohio, loved duck hunting and fishing and playing pool. The name of the place should have given her a clue. Redneck heaven.
Duck hunting usually involved dogs of some sort, so Conan was against that, but he thought she might have been too quick to write off fishing. A nice freshly caught trout, braised in butter and garlic, was nothing to turn up one’s nose at!
He had no opinion on pool, but if it was one of the reasons Miss Daisy had ended up at the animal shelter seeking companionship, he could hardly condemn it.
She never really said she was lonely, but Conan could tell. She’d told him most of her life story his first night in residence, curled up together on the sofa, her popping little soft-centered nondiet cat treats into his mouth as she talked.
She was from Boston and had a master’s degree in library science. When she’d been offered the position of librarian here, in this northeastern corner of Ohio, right after completing university, she had jumped at the opportunity.
“Of course,” she had told Conan that night, “I always thought I’d move on. To a bigger place, a city bursting with art and live theater and music. To a place with corner cafés that serve lattes, quaint little bookstores filled with old treasures and outdoor flower markets.”
She sighed heavily and pulled him more tightly into her bosom. “But, Conan, I have come to love my little brick library across from the town square. I’ve done so much with it in the two years I’ve been here! We have story time and a poetry club. The chess club meets there once a week. Why, the collection is marvelous for a small-town library! How could I leave it?”
Still, he could see her dilemma. How was a woman like her ever going to find companionship in a town where men drove pickup trucks with wheels nearly the size of her house?
At the animal shelter, of course!
Barring the sweater, hat and leash, it had not been an unhappy arrangement, really, until the last three days. Now Conan wasn’t so sure if it was going to work.
“I’ve got it,” she said suddenly, squatting down by the couch and running her hands tenderly through his fur. “I know how to make you happy.”
He sighed with relief. Their first fight over, then. Of course she knew how to make him happy.
She was reaching for the phone book. Oh, goody. That meant takeout. Perhaps she had just realized the calamari was calorie-reduced. With a nice little side of salt-and-pepper squid…He began to purr happily.
She was frowning at the phone book. “How do I find a contractor?” she muttered. “Every single one of them will take one look at me and realize I’m a woman alone. I’ll be overcharged for shoddy workmanship.”
What the heck was she talking about? What did any of that have to do with honey-glazed salmon?
“I’ll ask Fred, the maintenance man at the library,” she decided, closing the telephone book.
Conan willed her to reopen it to the Yellow Pages, Restaurants, but she did not.
Instead she picked him up as if he didn’t weigh anything near twenty-six pounds and waltzed around the room with him tucked next to her heart.
“Conan,” she announced, “you are getting a cat door!”
His disappointment was sharp. A cat door was a long, long way from the little tuna sushi rolls that he favored.
“I’ll have it installed in the back door and I’ll have the fence replaced around the yard and then you can go outside and play while I’m at work. I won’t have to worry about you going over the fence either.”
My God, she thought he was too chubby to drag himself over a fence?
He glared at her, but she was oblivious to his mood, dancing around, blabbering about drawing up specifications.
Her mood was hard to resist, however, and suddenly it struck him what he was being offered.
Freedom. The great outdoors in springtime.
She had bird feeders everywhere in that backyard! It would be like having his very own drive-through window.
I’ll have the McFinch, please.
Conan chuckled to himself. It came out as a deep, rich purr, and his mistress hugged him tighter.
“I knew I could make you happy,” she said blissfully.
Justin West hopped out of his truck and eyed the house. It was in the older part of Hunter’s Corner, a neighborhood called Honeysuckle, where small, postage-stamp-size houses sat on huge lots surrounded by the neighborhood’s namesake. At this time of year the air smelled sweet with the scent of the blossoms that hung heavy in the shrubbery.
This house was extremely well kept, the shingle siding painted sunshine-yellow, the trim, stairs and window boxes white. Cheerful red geraniums were already planted in those boxes. A front window was open and a lace curtain danced on the light spring breeze.
“Thanks, Fred,” Justin muttered.
Justin owned West’s Construction, a construction company specializing in framing new houses. The north side of town was building up phenomenally as more and more people left the cities looking for exactly what Hunter’s Corner, population fifteen thousand, had to offer—a small-town feel and flavor.
There was no Wal-Mart, no Starbucks, no multiplex theaters. The town was tidy, safe and neighborly. For amenities, it boasted a town square with a park that children still played in. There was a library, a swimming pool that was open in the summer, two grocery stores, one ice cream parlor and close proximity to the great outdoors and all its attractions. People here sat on their front porches, grew gardens, threw out a fishing pole in their spare time. Kids rode their bikes down the tree-lined streets and walked unescorted to school.
Justin West had more work than he knew what to do with.
He didn’t need the kind of job a tidy house in Honeysuckle implied—a little old lady who wanted a new washstand for the backyard. He’d be plied with cookies and tea—and get phone calls long after the job was done about imaginary popped nails or squeaks. When he arrived to investigate, there would be more cookies and tea and pictures of the new grandchild.
On the other hand, Fred had asked him to come and at least look at the job. And how could he say no to Fred?
In his seventies, Fred was still the town maintenance man, refusing to reveal his actual age or to consider retirement. He had also been Justin’s father’s best friend since the days when Hunter’s Corner had been little more than an autumn retreat for city boys who wanted to bag a deer or