Lending a Paw(48)

I made a quick move forward. The one time I’d done that to him, I’d ended up with howls in my ear and a hint of back-claw marks on my stomach. If he did that to Brynn, I’d never forgive myself. I’d never—

Eddie closed his eyes and purred.

I stopped and stared. That rotten, horrible, completely wonderful cat. How had he known to be kind to her? And why wasn’t he ever that nice to me?

Thessie was asking surfer girl if she was looking for anything in particular.

“No, not really. Just . . . something to read. It’s okay if I look around?” After being assured that, yes, she was free to browse, she started her routine from last week all over again, running a finger over every book with a quiet thup-thup-thup, reading each title, but not pulling out a single volume.

Thessie looked at me with raised eyebrows. I shrugged. Brynn tugged at the hem of my crop pants. “Miss Minnie? Will Eddie be on the bookmobile again?”

I crouched down. “As soon as he can. He’ll miss you.”

“I know.” She patted his head. He flattened his ears, but let her whack away. “He’s my best friend. He told me so.”

“That’s great.” I put on a smile. So much for my hopes of a single dose of Eddie lasting a lifetime. Thanks to his atypical tolerance, we now had an Eddie addiction on our hands. Outstanding.

“When is he coming back?”

I pictured the bookmobile schedule in my head. “I’ll call your mom tomorrow and we’ll figure it out.” Unless Michelle was willing to drive halfway across the county, Brynn wouldn’t see Eddie again until we were back in the area in two weeks.

“So I’ll see Eddie tomorrow?”

“No, honey.” Michelle scooped up her daughter. “Soon, though.” She looked at me with happiness on her face, hope in her eyes, and sorrow everywhere else.

“Soon,” I agreed.

The pair went down the steps, Brynn waving to Eddie over her mother’s shoulder and chattering about the dress she wanted to bring for Eddie to wear next time.

“Pretty cat,” Surfer Girl said.

“Pretty much a pain in the butt,” I muttered.

“Sorry?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, turning, “he is a good-looking cat. My name’s Minnie, by the way.” I held out my hand. She shook it briefly, but didn’t give her name, and didn’t stop looking at the Edster.

“Where did you get him?” she asked.

A sudden and paralyzing fear struck at me. What if Surfette here was Eddie’s real owner? What if he’d done the running thing on her, run for miles and miles, and ended up in the cemetery? What if she’d been looking high and low for months? No wonder she was acting so weird.

“I, um.” I couldn’t lie, not on the bookmobile. “I got him from a friend.” Alonzo Tillotson, if I remembered the name from the headstone correctly, born 1847, died 1926.

“Oh,” Surfette said, still staring at Eddie, who had settled himself on the carpeted step that ran underneath the shelves.

The fear continued to pick at my stomach. “We only have a few more minutes at this stop,” I said. “If you’ve found a book you’d like to check out, please take it to the front checkout. If you’d like to order a book for us to bring next time, we can do that. All we need is your name and—”

“Oh, no, I’m good. Thanks.”

She fled.

Thessie looked from the door to me and back. “What was that all about?”

I put on a puzzled expression. “No idea.”

• • •

Happily, the rest of the bookmobile run went without a hitch. Eddie and Thessie engaged in a mutual admiration society. He purred, she cooed, and I tried not to make gagging noises. Back at the library, Thessie helped me get Eddie into the picnic basket and spotted for me during the transfer from bookmobile to car.

“Same crew next time?” she asked, winking.

“We’ll see,” I said.

• • •

The next day I got to the library early. With the numbers from the bookmobile continuing to exceed expectations, I wanted some time to think about how to get more runs into the schedule.

I was in the act of carrying my first cup of coffee into my office when I heard the unmistakable sound of Stephen’s footsteps.

“Morning,” I said, toasting him with my Association of Bookmobile and Outreach Services mug. “Can I get you . . .” But once I got a good look at him, I could see that coffee wasn’t going to do him much good. In addition to the previous danger signs of rumpled hair and clothing issues, now Stephen also had the ashen skin that spoke of exhaustion. What the man needed was sleep.