I said. I guess Michael did tell his mother everything. “I had a publisher but they dropped me when the Justice Department got involved in the case.”
”I see,” she said.
She lifted the end of the dough and started rolling it into a loaf. When she was done, she sealed the edges with butter and sprinkled coarse sugar on the top. She lifted the finished loaf onto a pan already prepared with a sheet of parchment paper and placed it into the oven. Setting the temperature and the timer, she filled her coffee cup and came to sit on the stool next to mine.
“Where is Michael, anyway?” I asked. “He’s out very early this morning.”
“Oh, we have lots to do today, and he wanted to pick up your present first thing,” she said. “So, your novel. Why don’t you let me read it? I’m an objective person. I’ll give you an honest opinion, as a person who reads a lot. What have you got to lose?”
“Oh, that would be nice. Are you sure you want to? It’s not easy, reading something and giving feedback to the author… ”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I used to be a teacher. I can do it.”
“You were a teacher? What grade?”
“Grammar school,” she said. “I taught all grades, first through fifth. I left when they got into all this testing nonsense. I had my twenty-five years, so I retired and started doing what I love to do—baking. I don’t make much money, but it keeps me in car fare.”
“Good for you,” I said. I was nervous about her reading my book, but what the hell. As she said, I had nothing to lose. “I’ll send you a copy. Unless you have an eReader, in which case I can just email you a PDF file and you can read it electronically.”
“Oh, I prefer paper,” she said. “I don’t hold with those electronic things. If you don’t mind printing a copy for me, that would be great. And that way, if I see a mistake, I can just make a note for you right on the page. I think it’s more efficient, don’t you?”
I was about to answer when the door opened and Michael shouted to his mother, “I need some help out here, Peg.”
She pointed a finger at me. “You stay here. Don’t spoil the surprise. Eat your cinnamon bun. Isn’t it good?”
“It’s great,” I agreed and took a large bite to affirm the sentiment. What the hell was the big surprise?
It was actually a little thing that came with a lot of equipment, I saw shortly. Michael proudly carried in a box that weighed little when it was placed on my lap, but seemed strangely…alive. The little black and white tuxedo cat who looked up at me when I opened the cover was certainly a surprise.
“Here’s the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Peggy said, snapping a photo as I lifted the mewling little male from his carrier.
“And to the start of your life as a crazy cat lady,” Michael added.
“Oh, thank you,” I said. “What a sweetie. What’s his name?”
“He is unnamed at the moment. We’ll have to come up with a moniker,” Michael said. "How about Blackie?”
“Hmmm…Not very original, but maybe. Let’s wait and see what suits him,” I said. “Thank you so much. He’s a beauty. Look at those gorgeous blue eyes.”
“Come on, let’s get him settled,” Peggy said. “We have a litter box and some bowls and some kitten food to get him started.”
“This is too much,” I said.
“I need coffee—and I smell cinnamon rolls!” Michael said. “Stand aside, woman, I am on a mission.”
I cuddled the kitten in my sweater while Michael and Peggy recounted their trip to pick out my cat and how they knew he was the one for me by his penchant to climb on Michael’s head and claw at his hair.
“It seemed like such a Cassandra thing to do,” Michael said. “I knew he would get along with you.”
“He’s perfect,” I said. “He’s destroying this sweater, but he’s doing it so nicely that I hardly even care.”
Michael laughed. “Oh, this is going to be interesting to watch,” he said. “He’s going to make you loosen up and let down your hair!”
Peggy pulled her apple concoction out of the oven and set it to cool. “Now, are we game to tackle that attic, or were you two just talking trash about my trash last night?” she asked.
“No—let’s do it,” Michael said.
“I’m in,” I agreed.
We headed upstairs, bringing the little cat in a basket with a warm blanket for him to snuggle. “I hope he doesn’t fall down the stairs,” Peg said, looking ominously at the open hatchway.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” I promised. “Now, where do we begin?”
She steered us towards a large roll-top desk tucked under the eaves. Several file cabinets were pushed next to it, and bankers boxes filled with papers were stacked next to those. “I’d like to get all of this paper out of here,” she said. “I don’t want to just throw it out, but I also don’t have the stomach to go through it myself. Do you think you can tackle it?”
“Sure,” I said. “What do you want me to save? I mean, what am I looking for in all of this paper?”
“Well, if you can find any deeds to property that would be helpful. Any legal documents at all, in fact, should be separated from the rest of the papers. All the other stuff can just be tossed. In fact, the bank has a shredding event coming up soon, so if we can get the boxes into the trunk of my car, I’ll bring all of it over there and be done with it next week.”
“This desk is gorgeous, and the file cabinets—they are really terrific. If you don’t want to keep them, I bet you can get a lot of money for them,” I said.
“If she doesn’t want them, I’m taking them,” Michael chimed in. “I want that desk. Hey, look at this stuff,” he said. He was standing in front of a cedar closet, pulling out a fur coat.
“Nice hat,” I said.
“You like? Mom, can I take this?” he asked, pulling the gray wool fedora down over one eye.
“Take anything you want,” she said. “I’m going to bring some bags up to separate things into categories, for Goodwill and for trash.”
“Bring me a box to put stuff that I want to take,” Michael said.
“Okay,” she said. “And I need some boxes for paper to be shredded. I’ll be right back.”
When she was out of earshot I looked at Michael. “So, is she planning to put the house on the market?”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” he said.
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
“I don’t blame her. The place is really too much for one person, and she does need the money,” he said. “I just hope she doesn’t regret it later. But if that’s what she wants, then who am I to object?” He tossed over a short tweed jacket. “Try this on,” he said.
“Nice,” I fingered the fabric. It fit like a glove. “This is quality stuff—she really should bring it to a consignment shop. I bet she can get a lot of money for these clothes.”
“How much will you give me for it?” she asked, coming up the stairs behind me. “It’s a Chanel suit. I’ll sell it to you. Looks like a perfect fit for you, and there’s more where that came from.”
“Mom, where did you get a Chanel suit?” Michael asked.
“None of your beeswax,” she said. “But your friend here is going to find her wardrobe very enhanced this afternoon. Let