Chapter 13
Julian sat on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair. Patch gave a half-purr, half-meow of triumph and trotted out of the bedroom. Julian got up, went to the living room, opened the front door, and took a deep breath of the cool morning air that flowed through the screen. Then he followed Patch into the kitchen.
Evidently, at some point during the night, hunger had won out over her pride. Patch had cleaned up last night’s dinner.
“So you finally decided what I gave you was good enough, eh?” Julian asked.
Patch answered by meowing, and turning her back on him, facing her empty bowl as if to say, “Right. So I’m ready for the next course.”
Julian fed her, then decided to take a shower while she ate. Knowing if he started his own breakfast, she’d likely abandon hers once the smell of Canadian bacon filled the room.
When he came back to the kitchen, barefoot and dressed only in a pair of sweatpants, her bowl was empty. She’d disappeared to some remote spot to finish her night’s sleep. Julian picked up the bowl and added it to the small pile of dishes he would attend to later.
He made himself a breakfast of scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, orange juice, and an English muffin. He started a pot of coffee and then set up a TV tray. He sat down to eat in front of the television. After switching it on, a young, handsome televangelist, pastor of a mega church from Texas, with slicked back, black hair and toothy smile had come into view. He was telling viewers that if they dug deeply and supported his ministry, God would surely bless them beyond their wildest dreams, insuring them a place in heaven. Julian could just imagine some cash strapped, little old lady on welfare and social security, heading to the phone to call in her pledge, which would line the preacher’s already overflowing coffers with more wealth.
Shaking his head in disgust, he immediately changed channels. Julian found a channel which was broadcasting a program about a cat trainer who could change the behavior of any cat from hell into a paragon of sweetness. He chuckled at the irony of the two programs being broadcast at the same time.
After he finished his meal, and was carrying dishes to the kitchen, a movement outside the screen door caught his eye. He turned. It was Tate coming toward the carriage house on his crutches.
Julian hastily took the dishes to the kitchen then ducked into the bedroom for a shirt, and returned to the living room. Looking through the screen, he saw Tate had turned around and was headed back to the main house.
Julian opened the door and stepped outside. “Tate!”
Tate stopped as if he’d been hit by a paralyzing ray and slowly turned around. “I was coming to see you, but then I thought maybe it was too early. You might still be asleep.”
Julian knew better. The front door was open and the television had been on. Surely these were enough to let Tate know Julian was up. No, Tate had gotten cold feet and had changed his mind about his mission to see Julian, whatever it was.
“No, I’m up! Coffee’s almost ready. Come in and have a cup.”
Tate hesitated briefly. Julian could see he was thinking, maybe screwing up the courage to take Julian up on the offer. Finally he said, “Okay. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Julian said amiably. “I hate to drink alone.”
The quip brought a small smile to Tate’s lips. He hobbled forward on his crutches. Julian held the door for him and he went inside. A feeling of happy excitement passed through Julian’s body as Tate brushed past him and entered the room.
Tate stood just inside the door. He looked around slowly. “I haven’t been in here in a long time. It holds a lot of memories for me.” He said it in such a way that Julian got the impression he was recalling some distinct recollections rather than just commenting on general visitations to the cottage.
“Have a seat. I’ll get us that coffee. How do you like it? Cream? Sugar?”
“Cream and a ton of sugar,” Tate said, still gazing around the room.
When Julian returned from the kitchen with two mugs of steaming coffee, he was pleasantly surprised to see Patch curled up on Tate’s lap, purring loudly.
Julian approached the couch, handed Tate his coffee, and sat down.
“Wow, Patch usually doesn’t take to strangers very quickly. You must be a cat person.”
“More an animal lover. But I do like cats. I guess now I’d be better off with a cat. They don’t need to be taken for walks,” Tate said with a glance at the stump of his missing leg. “She’s pretty. I can see why you call her Patch with these big spots all over her.”
Happy to have a point of conversation other than Tate’s physical condition, Julian told him the story of how Virgil had brought the two kittens home, how the two were named Punkin and Patch because of their coloring; and how Punkin had remained behind with Virge when Julian had moved back from New York.