Page 36 of Always Meant for You
“It’s like they seek you out. How many cats have you got now?” Abe asks, scratching the kitten’s ears.
I don’t answer.
What’s wrong with giving an abandoned animal a home?
And I like cats. A lot.
“Look at those sky-blue eyes,” Abe coos to the tiny creature.
The kitten lifts her head. She stares at us with full-bodied annoyance, then shuts her eyes again, unimpressed.
Oh, I know someone with sky-blue eyes who does the exact same thing.
I scratch the kitten’s neck, and when she opens her eyes, I get a better look.
Yep, they are sky-blue.
“I should call her Mabel with those eyes,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
I know they heard me, but neither of the Garver brothers says a word.
Nobody mentions Mabel, at least not to me.
I scoop up the kitten in my flannel. “I’ll figure out something to do with this gal.”
“Big, old Cal Horner. Who would’ve thought you’d be the cat whisperer?” Kenny teases.
“I am no damn cat whisperer.” I need to shut this conversation down. I already slipped once with the Mabel comment. No need to keep poking the bruise.
I scan what’s left of the market. Everyone is about done tearing down their stalls.
I nod to the Garver twins. “You two mind packing up the rest and heading back to the farm?”
Abe loads a crate of berries into the back of his dusty pickup, then runs his hand across his brow. “No problem, boss.”
I take a few steps, then stop. “And check the fences around the goat and chicken pens. I shot a coyote yesterday trying to dig under. You spot one, there are at least two more keeping quiet.”
“Sure thing. We’ll keep an eye out,” Kenny replies.
“And Cal,” Abe says, brushing off his hands, “Mr. Muldowney called while you were talking to your grandma. He said he needs you to pick something up from the diner and his prescription at the pharmacy.”
I rub my sore neck. “I know the drill. Two stops. I got it, Abe. Thanks.”
With the kitten tucked in the crook of my arm, I head to my truck, the weight of everything pressing down on me.
I set the kitten inside a milk crate on the passenger seat. The cracked leather creaks beneath my weight as I get in. I turn the key, and the faded white pickup sputters and groans, then drops into its usual low grumble, worn-out but still loyal. I ease down Main Street, steering loose, neck tight, every joint begging for relief.
The summer sun hangs low. It washes the old brick buildings in a warm, burnished red. Elverna’s downtown is small—just a few blocks of storefronts and weathered signs—but it’s got a soul. The barbershop’s striped pole spins slowly in the breeze. The Five and Dime still sells ice cream by the scoop out a side window. This town isn’t perfect, but it’s in my blood, my bones, and it’s shaped who I am.
When I was a kid, and this town had twice as many people, a ride into town in the back of my granddad’s truck was a real treat. The farm had its own rhythm, but downtown used to hum, alive with energy. They’d turn on the fountain across from the library, and kids would run through it, screaming and laughing.
Back when the factory near the quarry was still open, workers crowded the sidewalks after their shifts, their uniforms dusted in grit, their boots heavy on the pavement. They lived in the houses that circled the square—small places with tidy lawns and porches strung with wind chimes. Bikes would lay tipped over in sun-baked driveways. You could see whole families gathered at the diner, windows fogged from the warmth inside, the scent of coffee and easy conversation spilling out into the fresh air.
Now the factory is empty. Jobs outsourced. Agriculture is the only thing left. And even that’s hanging by a thread—God help us.
I glance at the kitten. She’s staring up at me, calm as you please.
“What do you think we’re picking up for Mr. Muldowney, Mabel the Cat? I bet it’s a casserole,” I say, tapping the wheel. “Could be Betty Young’s summer vegetable special. Or Margaret Young’s broccoli and chicken. Sally Young could have made another lasagna. Our heirloom tomatoes give it a tangy kick. But you’ve got to be careful with Sally’s cooking. If she’s not paying attention, she could substitute sugar for salt.”
