The woman in the doorway was about Andie’s age. She was short and wide, her auburn hair fell to her shoulders, and her emerald-green eyes brimmed with suspicion.
Andie stuck her hand out. “I’m Andie Miller. My mom, Addie, is a resident here. She used to be friends with Sadie.”
The woman glanced at Andie’s hand as if it were poison. “So you know my mother?”
Andie let her hand drop. “Well, not technically, but...”
“Then why are you here talking about our house? Are you one of those opportunists trying to buy the place for cheap? I’ve had enough of that.” The woman brushed past Andie to her mother’s side. “Are you okay, Mom?”
“Of course, Emily. I was just chatting with Addie. You remember Addie.”
Emily glared over at Andie. “I thinkAddiewas just going.”
“Right.” Andie smiled at Sadie. “Nice talking to you.”
She turned and left Emily to cluck over her mother. Apparently she wouldn’t be making friends with Sadie’s daughter anytime soon.
Chapter Six
James was miserable without Maxi. He’d picked up the phone at least a dozen times to call her, but he didn’t want to push her away more. Hopefully she just needed a little break and would come back soon.
He was starting to realize how much she did around the house. It had only been two days, but the sink was already full of dirty dishes, and his clothes needed to be laundered. First he’d have to figure out how to run the washing machine. And who knew how often a litter box needed to be emptied? Yech!
Coming home from work to an empty house was the pits, he thought as he slid his key into the lock. He opened the door with none of his usual enthusiasm as he clawed at his tie and stepped inside.
What in the world—
The house hadn’t been in its usual neat array now with Maxi gone, but this took the cake. Something—toilet paper, he thought—had been spooled around the living room, over the chair and around the couch, and sitting at the end of it was Picasso.
“What have you done?”
Mew!
Picasso ran off to the kitchen and lurked around his food bowl while James followed the toilet-paper path to the bathroom, where almost a whole roll of it had been spooled off with Picasso’s needle-like claws.
He was starting to regret adopting Picasso, especially since the main reason for it—Maxi—didn’t even know about him.
Not wanting to get his suit dirty, he went upstairs to change. Picasso followed, batting at the leg of his pants as he walked up the stairs. Great, now he’d have little holes in the hemline.
He put his suit away and spent another five minutes trying to shoo Picasso out of the closet. The cat finally got the message and retreated to the bed, which he climbed up on by using his claws on the silk bed skirt. He then proceeded to glare at James as he rummaged through the bureau for jeans and a T-shirt.
James didn’t dare open the sweater drawer. Picasso had developed a crush on his cashmere sweater vest, and anytime he opened that drawer, the cat would jump in and start kneading it. That sweater was expensive!
“Now I know why they make kittens so cute. You’d want to strangle them otherwise.”
Picasso followed him downstairs and perched atop a bookcase, glaring down in superiority as James cleaned up the mess.
“I guess I should have appreciated Maxi more.” James glanced up at the cat. Did he just nod in agreement? “I will when she gets back.”
Mew.
“Good question. Where is she? Probably with Claire or Jane.” James glanced at the phone he’d tossed on the table. “At least she answers my texts so I know she’s safe.”
He’d thought Maxi would have been back by now. She must be really mad about something, but James had sensed more than anger in her when she’d left that night. She’d seemed hurt and maybe a bit disappointed. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of what he had done to make her feel that way.
With the toilet paper all gathered in a pile and stuffed in a trash bag, he glanced into the bathroom, wondering if he should take the toilet paper roll out of the holder and put it out of reach. “Maxi would know exactly what to do. She knows what to do about everything.”
Picasso glared down at him in reproachful silence.
