Free Cat Shout for Joy by Shirley Rousseau Murphy Page B

the lowering sun flashed across her upstairs studio windows. She and Joe sat a moment enjoying the sight of their comfortably remodeled house, Ryan scratching Joe Grey’s ears as she shook off the last of her anger. “Guess we have it pretty good, don’t we, tomcat?”
    Joe gave her a nudging purr. “Guess we do, now that you’ve added a little pizzazz to the old cottage. And to the family,” he said, grinning. “Now that you’ve civilized Clyde,” and that did make her laugh.
    The Damen house had started out some fifty years earlier as a one-­story weekend bungalow. It was now a spacious two stories with more air and light, and a touch of Spanish flavor. It still amused Joe that the renovation was what had pushed the romance into high gear as Ryan and her crew worked on the remodel and Clyde often worked with them. What better way to get to know a person than working side by side, exhibiting your worst temper when you hit your thumb with a hammer, as Clyde was inclined to do, or when the wrong materials were delivered, nudging Ryan’s temper. What better way to know someone than when a project turned out exactly right and they could share that glow of pleasure. As the ­couple learned each other’s moods, as they began to see the truth of what each one was about, the romance bloomed.
    Now, gathering Joe up in her arms and swinging out of the truck, Ryan hurried inside. Setting him down in the hall, she didn’t go into the kitchen to kiss Clyde as she usually would, but headed upstairs to wash away the last of her tears. Joe heard the bathroom door slam as he followed the smell of spaghetti into the kitchen; then soon he heard the shower pounding.
    â€œIn a temper again,” Clyde said, moving around the big table laying out napkins and silverware. “What does Tekla want now? Gold-­plated doorstops?”
    â€œWants to rip out the new floors,” Joe said, leaping up to the kitchen counter. “Said that floor wasn’t the one she ordered. ”
    Clyde snorted. “What did Ryan say?”
    â€œRyan showed her a floor scrap with the name and color number on it, showed her a copy of the order Tekla had signed. Why does Sam Bleak stay with that woman? Even in a wheelchair he’d be better off alone. You’re setting four places.”
    â€œJust Scotty and Ben.” Ryan’s uncle Scott was a bachelor and was often there for dinner. Young Ben Stonewell was single, too. The thin, twenty-­something carpenter, who was new to the village, was so quiet, so withdrawn and shy, that Ryan was inclined to mother him.
    Clyde said, “It would be pretty hard for Sam to get along alone in a wheelchair. He needs someone.”
    â€œHe has Arnold.”
    â€œArnold’s what? Maybe fourteen? And the kid’s . . . he’s kind enough to Sam, but there’s something about him. The kid makes me uneasy.”
    Joe twitched a whisker. “With Tekla for a mother, no wonder. I don’t get too friendly with him, I doubt he likes cats very much. He makes my fur twitch.”
    They heard Ryan descending the stairs. She came into the kitchen, her temper washed away, looking softer in a pink velvet jumpsuit and smelling of lavender soap—­no longer smelling of anger. Her short, dark hair curled around her face, from the steamy shower. “Sam and Tekla have no one but Arnold,” she said. “No other family that I know of. Both Sam and the kid need Tekla, and they sure need to have this house finished. If she’d just stop bugging us and let us get on with it.”
    Clyde moved away from the stove and took her in his arms. She melted against him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “Tekla’s a lot less caustic,” she said, “when Arnold’s around. Is she ashamed to pitch such a fit in front of their son?”
    â€œI’d be ashamed,” Clyde said. He stroked her hair, then turned back to the