Norah's Ark. Judy Baer
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she has, I have a pair of denim jeans and a sweatshirt. Of course, she doesn’t haul fifty-pound bags of dog food, change litter boxes or deal with untrained puppies in her business, either.
“And…”
I spun around to see Lilly poking her head out the door again.
“…the new cop is on duty. We can all sleep well tonight.” Then she disappeared again around the doorjamb and didn’t return.
Whew. Feeling as though I’d just been through a windstorm of trivia, I shook myself off and went back to tending to the only business I should be minding anyway.
Chapter Two
“Do you, Samantha Renée, promise to love and to care for this new member of your family? Do you promise to change his litter box, give him fresh water every day, be kind to him and protect him from harm? If so, answer, ‘I do.’”
“I do,” came a breathy little whisper.
I tried to stifle a smile as I looked at the pair across from me—a little girl with blond curls, pink overalls, a ruffled blouse and a white Persian kitten. Samantha held the kitten’s paw in the air with her hand and they both seemed to nod solemnly. I make sure everyone takes the Solemn Oath of Adoption seriously. Samantha’s parents stood behind her grinning widely.
“I now pronounce this adoption proceeding complete.” I whipped an embellished computer-generated adoption certificate off the counter and handed it to the little girl. Her blue eyes grew as wide as saucers at the official-looking paper to which I’d attached a gold seal, a few stars and a photo of the kitten. I always feel like the Wizard of Oz when I do my adoption spiel, like I’m handing out bravery, a heart, a brain or, in this case, a friend for life.
Then I began taking pictures with the Polaroid camera I have for just such auspicious occasions and doled them out to all the proud participants.
Samantha and the kitten, which she’d already named Squish because of the shape of his face, followed her father to the car to stow the litter box, litter, food, scratching post, toys and various and sundry necessities mandatory for a fourteen-ounce ball of fur to take over an entire household. Samantha’s mother hung behind.
“I can’t thank you enough.” She grabbed my hand and pumped it. “I’ve never seen our Sammie so excited…or so eager. I believe she is really committed to caring for that kitten. I may have to remind her of her responsibilities sometimes, but now she knows that kitten is hers. That ‘adoption’ ceremony makes it so real for her. What a brilliant concept!”
“That’s the idea,” I said modestly, although I, too, believed I’d thought of it in one of my more inspired moments. I did everything in my power to make sure the pets I sold were well cared for. The little adoption proceeding has been a clever and effective tool. Now parents drive across town to buy a pet from “the lady who makes my kid take it seriously.”
I can’t help it—taking animals seriously, I mean. It’s a direct command from the Big Book itself—right up front. “And God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over all the wild animals of the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth.’” We are all His creations, and as those created in His image, we as humans have responsibility for His other creatures and handiwork. It’s way cool, of course, but also a big task and sometimes I don’t think we’re doing a very good job of it. If we were, every creature would be fat and happy and we wouldn’t have a need for rescue shelters. Until that happens, I’m just going to hang out here at Norah’s Ark and do what I can.
That thought reminded me that I’d promised Auntie Lou to help her find a kitten. She doesn’t care about pedigrees—“Pedigree, smedigree” she’d said once. “You love a pet ’cause it’s yours, not because you’ve got a list of its ancestors.” That means she needs to adopt the cat and buy only the trimmings from me rather than the other way around.
Auntie Lou is a bit of an anomaly on Pond Street. She lives above her store in a cozy little apartment. She doesn’t drive a car and I doubt she ever has. She’s been here as long as anyone can remember. Joe speculates that when she began selling things in her store, they weren’t actually antiques yet. Pond Street is home to Auntie Lou and we shopkeepers are her family. She never talks about having any other relatives and it’s assumed she has no one else. She’s a real throwback in this material world and that’s why I’m so fascinated by her.
The bell at the door stopped my musings as a tall blond man with rigid military bearing strode into the shop and glanced around with something akin to disapproval, as if the colorful parrot, a black-capped lory named Winky, who was loose in the shop, might do something dastardly to his lovely yellow polo shirt. Winky is a handsome fellow. He is primarily red but accessorized with bands of blue, green wings and a dash of yellow.
Not that my new customer didn’t have reason to be alarmed, of course. Winky is no gentleman. But instead of making mayhem, Winky decided to greet him. “Hello, Big Boy…awk…” Then Winky let out a wolf whistle that would put a construction worker to shame and the bird winked at the startled man.
That’s how he got his name, from a lady who had grown rescued him from some bad owners. She had grown too ill to care for him and had made me promise I’d find Winky another good home. I’ve been trying, but Winky has a smart mouth and ribald sense of humor, so he’s been a challenge to place. The trouble with parrots is that their life span may be longer than that of their human. I’ve suggested to more than one customer that when they write their will that they include custody instructions for their birds. That’s a great way to separate the serious customer from the casual looker.
“May I help you?” I asked, realizing someone other than Winky should be working the store.
“I…ah…no…well…yes, I suppose you can.” He didn’t really look comfortable in the pet store in those sure-to-pick-up-fur navy trousers of his. “I just wanted to greet the owner of this establishment. Is he in?”
Ohhhh. No points for that one.
“I’m Norah Kent, owner of Norah’s Ark. May I help you?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Excuse me. I thought it was Noah’s…I assumed…”
Assume nothing, I thought to myself. Especially not on Pond Street.
He shook himself free of that and extended a hand. “I’m Connor Trevain. I own the Zachary Zephyr and the other cruise boats on the lake. My current administrator is retiring and I’ve decided to be ‘hands on’ for a while. I wanted to meet the merchants up and down Pond Street and introduce myself.” He flushed a little. “I already blew it with you, didn’t I?”
I do not have the crusty shell of M&M’s. I melt everywhere. “Of course not. Welcome to Shoreside.”
He relaxed and smiled. It changed his entire demeanor. At once it made him less intimidating and more approachable. It also made him more handsome than the stern, businesslike expression he’d worn earlier. Oh, boy, was Lilly going to be excited about this.
“Have you been to all the other shops?”
“I met Joe at the coffee shop. And Barney at the station.”
“Isn’t he a gas?” I asked, testing his sense of humor.
That seemed to fly right over his head.
“I’ve also been to the Corner Market to meet Chuck and Betty.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Chuck’s name is really Olaf and that he’d been dubbed Chuck because of all the ways he could tell you to cook a pot roast. If the Barney joke went by him, he’d never get that one.
“And I’ve been at Auntie Lou’s Antiques.” A frown flitted across his features. “It’s very…crowded…in there. And she’s very…quaint.”
I