"I didn't. He got me."

"I'll say," said Jamie, handing Emma her drink and sitting down at the table. "Didn't you see the scratch on her hand the other night?"

"He was just scared," Emma explained.

"Or demon-possessed," suggested Jamie.

"No, he's a good boy. He's moved in." She pulled her cheapie digital camera from her purse and brought up an image of the new baby on its screen. "Look at that. Isn't he cute?"

Jamie gawked at her. "You let that animal in your house?" They really did have to find someone for Emma. She was getting desperate.

"He let himself in. Anyway, deep down he's really a sweet little guy. I'm going to name him Pyewacket, after the kitty in Bell, Book, and Candle."

"Good choice, since he's probably some witch's lost familiar," Jamie scoffed. "You don't know anything about this cat. In fact, do you know for sure he's a boy?"

"Well, no," Emma admitted. "But he's so big I figured he must be a boy."

"You don't know where it came from," Jamie continued. "It could be feral."

"He had a flea collar."

"Maybe it's lost," said Sarah.

"I put a notice in the paper," Emma told her. "Hopefully, if he is lost his owner will claim him. If not, he can have a home with me."

"That way he'll always have someone to torture," Jamie teased.

Emma frowned at her. "Don't be making fun of my good deed. I want to always believe the best about people, even when they're cats."

"A good way to live," agreed Sarah.

Easy for you two, thought Jamie, you've never had your bubble burst. Or your jaw broken.

Emma didn't stay much longer. "I have to get home."

Jamie was tempted to tease her about running home to her new man, but judging from Emma's frost-tipped voice, she decided it would be wise to resist temptation. "I didn't mean to rain on her parade," she said to Sarah after Emma left.

"She'll get over it," said Sarah. "But let's not tease her. I know she's worried about the shop. This cat could be just what she needs to distract her."

"Mommy's home," Emma called as she came through the door. "Time for dinner. Where are you?" She threw her coat on a kitchen chair and got a can of cat food out of the cupboard. "Seafood delight, Pye. Come and get it." She popped open the lid.

A second later the new man . . . or woman . . . or it . . . in her life came trotting in. "There you are. Did you miss me? Did you use your cat box?" She set Pye's dinner down and the cat raced to the bowl and began to chow down. "With those manners, you are definitely a boy," she decided.

She checked the bathroom where she'd set up his litter box to see if he'd been a good boy. Sure enough, he had. All right. She hung up her coat, and then made herself some pasta for dinner.

She had just started eating when Pyewacket jumped up on the kitchen table to investigate, nearly knocking over her vintage Fiesta pitcher. "You can't be up here," she told him. She reached to pick him up and remove him from the no-kitty zone, but before she could touch him he hissed at her and jumped down. "Whoa," she said. "Excuse me. Someone has some trust issues here." But they'd work through them.

Alone again, she ate her dinner and looked through her latest issue of Quilter Magazine. By the time she'd finished, she was inspired to work on the quilt she'd promised Kerrie for the wildlife shelter. But first she needed to water her plants.

She was almost to the living room with her little ceramic watering can when she noticed the drapes. The shredded drapes.

TEN.

Oh, no," wailed Emma. "What have you done?"

She went to the drapes and examined them more closely. Fringe. He had turned the drapes Mom had given her to fringe.

Pyewacket was nowhere to be seen now, probably looking for something new to wreck. She hurried to the bedroom to check on her pink sheers. Thank G.o.d he hadn't gotten to those yet. She decided that, for the time being, she'd go with a minimalist decor and use only the shade. She took the curtains down, storing them on the top shelf in her closet. The ones in her workroom came down, too.

She turned to find Pyewacket sitting on the pile of fabric on her worktable, watching her. Great. She'd taken in an animal with a fabric fetish.

"That is not a bed for you." She moved to shoo him off and he hissed again and stood his ground. Or, rather, sat it. "Okay, fine. You win for now. But if you wreck my quilt strips I'll hang you from the ceiling fan."

That scared him. He began to clean one of his front paws.

She squatted in front of where he sat enthroned on her quilt material. "Okay, what we have here is a failure to communicate. You've been in the wild for a while and it looks like you've forgotten how to be civilized. So, let me just bring you up to speed. You can't go around wrecking things. It doesn't make you a very nice house guest."

The cat looked at her.

"Does that make sense? Am I getting through?"

He blinked once.

Blink once for yes. "So, why did you do that? Were you bored? Lonely? Did you think your claws need sharpening? Trust me. They don't."

The discussion was interrupted by a call from her mother. "How's the new baby?" she asked.

"He scratched up my drapes."

"This is not a good beginning," observed Mom.

"That's an understatement."

"You'd better run out and get him a scratching post or he'll start on the furniture next," Mom advised.

Emma looked at the vintage floral couch that had been Grandma Nordby's and felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm going out right now," she decided.

So, back out into the cold she went with her trusty charge card. She had to drive all the way to the mall where the pet superstore was to get her scratching post, but it was worth every drop of gas. She not only got a scratching post embedded with catnip that would make her new roommate very happy, she also found something to spray on furniture which would keep Pyewacket and his busy claws away. Purrfect.

Back home, she treated the couch and set out his scratching post while her new baby watched from a distance. "You'll like this," she told him. She wiggled it. "Want to come try?"

He remained where he was and blinked. Blink once for no.

"Okay, fine. Your loss," she told him. That scratching post was supposed to be irresistible to cats. If she had Pyewacket's willpower she'd be a size eight. She jiggled it one more time. "Just remember, this is for you. Let's try to stop scratching other things." She thought of her hand. "Especially living things."

All weekend Sarah found herself thinking of George Armstrong and his son. Two single men raising little girls. Those poor girls. She wished she'd found out where they lived so she could take them a ca.s.serole or a potpie.

They couldn't be that hard to find. How many Armstrongs were there in the Heart Lake phone book anyway? On Sunday, while Sam was busy at the fire station, she decided to look. Sure enough. There was a George Armstrong and a J. Armstrong, both with the same phone number. She picked up the phone and called.

A male voice answered, younger sounding than the man she'd met in the Chocolate Bar, and frazzled. She could hear little girls squealing in the background. "Girls, stop. I can't hear."

"Is this Josh Armstrong?" Sarah asked.

"That's me. Mandy, I said stop. Now."

"I'm sorry to get you at a crazy time," Sarah began.

"Every time is crazy," he said.

"Well, you don't know me. My name is Sarah Goodwin and I met your father the other day at the Chocolate Bar."

"Oh, you want to talk to Dad."

Sarah started to say no, but Josh was already calling, "Dad, it's for you."

A moment later George Armstrong was on the phone.

Sarah started again. "Hi. I'm Sarah Goodwin. We met the other day at the Chocolate Bar."

"I remember," he said, sounding pleased. "What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I'm calling because I'd like to do something for you. And your son," she added quickly, not wanting to pick up a second Leo Steele. "I think you boys could use a little help in the cooking department."

"Well, now, that's really nice of you," said George.

"If you like, I could swing by later with a chicken potpie."

"Chicken potpie? I haven't had that in years," he said.

Sarah could almost hear the drool in his voice. She smiled. "Well, then, give me directions to your house and I'll be happy to deliver one."

"It's a deal," said George.

"And how about some cookies?"

"We'll eat them, just to be polite," he said.

"All right," said Sarah. "I'll throw in some of my famous ginger cookies." And that would be her good deed for the day.

"You got a date?" Josh asked as his dad hung up the phone.

"Naw, she's married."

"What's a married woman doing calling you?"

"I think she's saving the girls from my cooking," Dad said, and told Josh about meeting the women in the chocolate shop.

"Well, that was nice and all," said Josh, giving his chili a stir. "But I'm home on the weekends. I can cook."

"Yeah, but you're not around on the weekdays and I can't," said Dad. "Anyway, that chili can wait till tomorrow. Even you can't make potpie."

Like they couldn't fend for themselves? Josh shook his head. "Geez, Dad, you're a mooch."

"I'm not a mooch. The woman wants to do a good deed. I'll let her."

"Just so she doesn't make a habit of it," Josh warned. "We don't need charity."

Now Dad was the one shaking his head. "There's nothing wrong with letting people help you, son."

"I know," said Josh. "But next thing you know she'll be wanting to match me up with some woman."

"Yeah? And what's wrong with that? You stopped liking women or something?"

"No. I just don't like people trying to match me up. Have you forgotten some of the women those church ladies tried to sic on me after Crystal died?"

Dad let out a bark of laughter. "You had some real winners there."

"Yeah, one with more five o'clock shadow than me, another who weighed just as much."

"I kind of liked the babe who sang opera," said Dad.

Josh frowned. "Thanks to her I've only got five winegla.s.ses. And don't forget the green card hunter and the woman who wanted to get married and pregnant all in the next year."

"There were a couple of nice ones, too," Dad said, sobering.

"I wasn't ready," Josh said with a shrug. He still wasn't sure he was. Oh, he was ready in body. More than ready, especially when he thought of a certain pretty girl who specialized in chocolates and rescuing lost kids. But in spirit? The jury was still out on that. One thing he did know for sure, he didn't want other people running his love life for him. "Anyway, I can pick my own chick."

"Like the one who owns the chocolate shop?"

"Maybe."

"She's friends with this Sarah, you know."

"I still don't want to be matched up. I can get my own woman."

A high-pitched squeal followed by tears stopped the conversation. A moment later Lissa was in the kitchen holding half a necklace. "Mandy broke my Hannah Montana necklace."

"You wouldn't let me wear it," protested Mandy. "I just wanted to try it on."

"It was my favorite necklace in the whole world," Lissa continued, in tears. "You didn't even ask."