The Mccaffertys: Slade. Lisa Jackson
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Jamie had thought it all very dull at the time and now as she wiped at a network of cobwebs behind the living room blinds, she felt incredible guilt. Could she really sell this place, the only real home she’d had growing up? And what about Caesar? Could she offer up the roan to some stranger for a few hundred dollars? Biting her lip, she looked at the rocker where Nita had knitted and watched television, the coffee table that was cluttered with crossword puzzle books and gardening magazines and the bookshelf that held her grandfather’s pipes, the family Bible and the photo albums. In the corner was Nana’s old upright piano, and the bench, smooth from years of sitting with students.
Nostalgic, Jamie glanced out the window.
A shadow moved on the panes.
Her heart nearly stopped. The shadow passed by again and then, behind the frosted glass a tiny face emerged—gold head, whiskers, wide green eyes.
“Lazarus!” Jamie cried, recognizing her grandmother’s precious pet as he jumped onto the window-sill. He cried loudly, showing fewer of the needle-sharp teeth than he had in the past.
Grinning, Jamie sprinted to the front door, pulled it open and flipped on the porch light. Cold air followed the cat inside. “What are you doing here, old guy?” she asked as Lazarus slunk into the living room and rubbed against her legs. She gathered him into her arms and felt tears burn the backs of her eyelids. When Nana had died, the neighbors, Jack and Betty Pederson, had offered to take in the aging cat, Jamie had never expected him to show up.
“You escaped, did you?” she said, petting his silky head. “You’re a bad boy.”
His purr was as loud as it had been when he was a kitten. “Like a damned outboard motor,” her grandfather, when he’d been alive, had complained.
Now, the sound was heavenly. “Come on, I’ve got something for you,” she whispered, kicking the door open and starting down the hall. Lazarus trotted after her. In the kitchen she poured a little milk into a tiny bowl, took the chill off of it on the stove and set the dish on the floor. “There ya go.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard footsteps on the front porch. The doorbell chimed. “Uh-oh,” she said to the cat. “Busted.”
She expected to find a frantic Betty or Jack on the front porch. Instead, as she peered through one of the three small windows notched into the door, she recognized the laser-blue eyes of Slade McCafferty.
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