She rummaged through the cupboards until she found a saucer, then poured a liberal dollop of milk into it from a bottle in the fridge.
‘Here,’ she said, and sat the saucer down on the step. ‘But don’t think this is going to happen again. I’ve no time for relationships, not even with half-starved cats.’
The cat looked up at her with wide grey eyes.
‘Do you have a name?’
Its eyes blinked, and her thoughts drifted to the other name she’d heard that day—Josh, at the wake, who’d introduced himself again just before Marigold dropped her bombshell—as though she’d needed to be reminded who he was.
Her head knew she’d sworn off men for eternity, but her hormones were clearly still adjusting. Maybe she should have a cold saucer of milk herself.
The sniffling started up again, but the cat had hunkered down on the step, helping itself to a drink. If not the cat, what …
While all she could see were the skip bins that lined the dark recess of the alley—one for each of the storefronts that faced Paterson Street—since the sun had disappeared behind the mountain range to the west, the back alley was just a little creepy.
Another noise. Definitely crying.
‘Who’s there?’ she said, staying within the doorway so she could leap back inside the kitchen and bolt the door shut if she had to.
‘Nobody. Go away.’
Hmm. Young, female, stroppy. Sounded like a teenager having a crisis. She should leave her to it; god knows, she was no good at fixing a crisis. She’d learned that lesson.
Her eyes fell to the cat who was staring up at her from lopsided eyes.Well, do something,its expression seemed to say.
She rolled her eyes. Cats, crying teenagers, and craft groups for lonely widowers all in the one day. She was turning into a one-woman charity shop. ‘Would “nobody” like a meringue and some milk?’
There was a long pause. So long that Vera wondered if the crying girl had scampered away in the shadows, then a voice sounded from nearby.
‘You got a Coke?’
The girl stood just outside the pool of kitchen light spilling into the alley.
Vera’s vision of herself reclining in her bath with Mozart in her ears and a glass of deep velvety shiraz in her hand evaporated. ‘Sure, I’ve got Coke inside. Come and sit in the kitchen with me while I box up my batch of meringues.’
The girl stepped closer, and Vera tried not to raise her eyebrows at the outfit. The boots alone must have weighed as much as bricks, and her skinny legs didn’t look strong enough to lug them around. Plaid skirt the colour of a school bus, eyeliner stripes making her look like a sad fairy penguin … so this was the modern-day version of teen angst. How well she remembered her own.
‘Just step over the cat,’ she said. ‘It’s easier than trying to encourage him to scram.’
The girl dropped to her knees. ‘Your cat’s a she.’
‘Oh. He … I’m sorry,sheisn’t mine.’
‘British shorthair. Expensive cat to be a stray.’
Vera followed the girl inside. ‘You know your cats.’
The girl stiffened as though Vera had just said something horribly offensive. She replayed her words in her head. What was so bad about suggesting someone knew something about cats?
‘There’s Coke in the big fridge. Bottom left, hiding behind the organic stuff. Help yourself,’ she said, and started rummaging in a drawer for storage boxes. ‘You any good with scissors?’
‘With scissors?’
‘Yep. I need to layer these meringues into these boxes, and if I don’t put a square of waxed paper between each layer, the tops get ruined.’ She handed over the roll of paper and a set of kitchen scissors. ‘Actually, might want to wash your hands first. That back lane isn’t the cleanest place in Hanrahan.’
She paused, hoping the prompt would push the girl into saying why she’d been lurking there. Nothing came, so she tried another tactic.
‘I’m Vera.’