"I said nothing of the sort." He kept his eyes fixed on his plate.

"You might not-a said the words." She sat back down. "But I can tell that's what you mean." She reached over and put her hand over his. "You can trust me, Garrison."

He looked up and grinned. "Well, you probably know that Gram was always a generous woman."

She nodded as she picked up her fork. "Especially when it came to the cats." She chuckled as she dug into her second helping. "Generous to a fault."

After stuffing himself on the delicious pot pie, Garrison went back home and barricaded himself against the cats. Stowed away up in his boyhood room, sitting at the desk that was a couple inches too short for him, he opened up his laptop and proceeded to write out an ad for the local cla.s.sifieds. He also planned to place it on Craigslist and some other local sites. No stone unturned. The sooner he found homes for these cats, the better for all.

Five very special cats have lost their owner and are looking for new homes. Take your pick: a Siamese named Muzzy, a short-haired black-and-white named Oreo, an orange tiger named Rusty, a calico named Spooky, or a Maine c.o.o.n cat named Harry. All are well mannered and between five and twelve years old. All cats are fixed and in good health. Vet records available. "Adoptive" parents must meet certain qualifications and live in northeast Vancouver. Call for more information.

He reread the ad, then typed in the phone numbers and his email address. Satisfied with it, he went ahead and posted it on the internet and emailed it to the newspaper. He also planned to make some signs to post in the neighborhood. Hopefully he would start getting inquiries by tomorrow.

Morning came and neither his cell phone nor Gram's landline was ringing. And so, after feeding the hungry horde of cats, Garrison set about creating what he felt would be an attractive and compelling poster. Protected by his allergy medicine and a fresh particle mask, he spent about an hour taking various photos of the cats. Then, safely back in his room, he selected a photo of Oreo and Rusty and, with the help of his laptop, put together a poster. He was just putting on the finis.h.i.+ng touches when his phone rang. Hoping it was someone calling to adopt a cat, he eagerly answered. But it was Gram's pastor, calling to express his sympathy and finalize some details regarding the memorial service.

"We could have held it Sat.u.r.day," Pastor Barton told him. "But the women are having their harvest fair tomorrow. They always have it the weekend before Thanksgiving."

"Monday is fine," Garrison a.s.sured him.

"Your grandmother was very specific about the kind of service she wished to have," he said. "And, as you know, she chose cremation. Her plan was to keep everything sweet and simple. She even wrote her own very humble eulogy. She didn't want anyone to make her sound overly grand. So, anyway, it's all rather cut-and-dried. Well, I don't mean to sound like that. She actually planned a very nice service. And she hoped that you would want to speak, Garrison. In fact, I'm sure the congregation would enjoy that too."

"Of course," he promised. "I'm glad to."

They discussed it a bit more before Garrison told the pastor he'd see him on Monday and hung up. He wasn't surprised that Gram had handled everything so efficiently. She had always been a practical, no-nonsense sort of woman-in life . . . and in death. Well, except for the cats. It seemed like she'd thrown practicality out the window when she'd started taking them in.

Her whole house, he'd discovered, seemed dedicated to her fine, furry friends. There were cat basket beds in every room. Not that the cats seemed to use them. Most of the furnis.h.i.+ngs were covered in hair. There were cat toys scattered about, sometimes making the house seem like a minefield-especially when he wasn't paying close attention. And some rather inventive scratching posts were stuck here and there. One reached clear to the ceiling with several platforms as well as a crow's nest on top. However, the upholstered furniture must've been preferable to the cats because everything was scratched and threadbare. Apparently the cats didn't understand the rationale of "scratching posts." Except for Harry. Garrison caught Harry working over the giant post with great vigor as he headed out to get his cat posters printed.

"Good kitty," he said as he pa.s.sed through the living room. Harry turned and peered at Garrison with intelligent green eyes, almost as if he understood. "Take care of things while I'm gone," he told the cat.

After getting a bite to eat and some posters printed, Garrison returned to Gram's neighborhood and began putting them up here and there.

"What's this?" a young woman on a bicycle asked him.

He smiled at her. "Free cats," he said cheerfully. "You interested?"

She got off the bicycle and studied the poster. "As a matter of fact, I've wanted a cat for years. And I've been promising myself to get one ever since I got settled in a real house."

"Are you settled in a real' house now?" he asked in a teasing tone.

She nodded. "I am."

"Well, I have a nice selection of cats to choose from." He explained about his grandmother and how the felines had been her beloved family.

"Was your grandma the Cat Lady?" Her brows rose.

"I suppose some people called her that." He gave the nail head one last whack then turned back to the girl. With her dark brown ponytail and expressive brown eyes, she was strikingly pretty. "Did you know my grandmother-the, uh, Cat Lady?"

"No, but I heard she had a lot of cats. Like twenty?"

"As far as I know, she only had seven-at the most. Although I'll admit that's more than enough."

"Oh, well . . . you know how rumors go," she said apologetically. "This is a pretty tight-knit neighborhood. People talk."

"Yeah. Anyway, my grandmother pa.s.sed on last week. It's up to me to find good homes for her cats."

"I'm sorry for your loss." She looked genuinely sympathetic.

"Thanks. I realize my grandmother was old and she was probably ready to go . . . but I still miss her."

"Well, if these cats are as nice as you say, I might be interested in giving one a home," she proclaimed. "But I'd like to meet the cats first."

"No problem." He frowned and pointed to a bullet on the sign. "But you have to live in this neighborhood." He made an uncomfortable smile. "My grandma has a whole list of requirements for potential adoptive homes."

"Well, that's no problem. I live just a few blocks from here."

"Perfect."

She stuck out her hand. "I'm Cara Wilson," she told him.

"Garrison Brown," he said as he clasped her warm hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"So is this a good time to see your cats?" she asked hopefully.

"Absolutely," he said eagerly.

"Great. I'm taking my break. Not that I'm really locked into a schedule. You see, I mostly work from home. Except for once a week when I have to go in for planning meetings."

"Well, there's no time like the present." He grimaced to remember the condition of the house. "Although I should warn you my grandmother's place is, well, a little catty . . . if you know what I mean."

She chuckled as she tucked a long strand of s.h.i.+ny chestnut hair behind one ear. "That's okay. I had a great-aunt who used to keep cats. I totally understand."

After Garrison told her the address, she said she'd drop her bike at home and drive her car over. "Just in case I get to bring the cat back home with me."

As he hurried back to Gram's, he felt greatly encouraged on two levels. First of all, he might've just found a home for another cat. That took the cat population down to four! But secondly, and probably even more significant, this girl had really caught his eye. Not only was Cara very pretty, in a wholesome girl-next-door sort of way, there was something else too. He couldn't quite put his finger on it-maybe it was a mixture of kindness and s.p.u.n.k-but he was certain he wanted to get better acquainted with her.

As soon as he reached Gram's house, he automatically pulled on the particle mask. He'd given up the surgical gloves, except for kitty litter cleaning, which he'd already done this morning. But despite his allergy meds, he knew the mask was a true necessity. Without it he was a mess. However, due to wanting to impress his visitor, he was tempted to shove it back into his pocket. Except the image of him sneezing and wheezing and coughing all over the poor girl was truly alarming. Really, which was less attractive-impersonating a surgeon or having an allergic fit?

As he kicked some cat toys under the sofa, he wished he'd taken the time to straighten up some. Gram's house really could use a thorough cleaning and he fully intended to do that . . . but getting rid of these cats was his first priority. After that, he planned to empty most of the contents of the house-at least the items that were coated in fur or had been shredded by claws. Even the wall-to-wall carpeting needed to be removed.

The doorbell rang and he hurried to open it. "Welcome to the cat house," he told her, grinning from behind his white mask as he waved her inside.

"What's that?" She pointed to his face.

"I have severe cat allergies," he explained.

She frowned. "That must be rough . . . I mean, with all these cats."

"It's definitely a challenge." As she went over to where Rusty and Oreo were playing together on the sofa, he quickly explained about how he'd been out of the country for nine years. "My grandmother helped raise me, but after I left home, she was lonely. So she started to collect cats."

She was stroking Oreo's sleek coat and scratching Rusty's head. "You two are so sweet," she said. "You look just like the picture on the poster."

He told her their names. "They're the friendliest of the cats." Just then Harry strolled into the living room, rubbing himself against Garrison's legs. "Well, I guess Harry is friendly too."

Cara looked over and her eyes lit up. "That's a Maine c.o.o.n cat," she exclaimed.

"Yeah, I know."

"Those are very special cats." She came over and kneeled down, running her fingers through Harry's long silky coat. "Oh, he is really a beauty."

"I've never been fond of cats," Garrison confessed, "but I have to admit he's a nice one. He was Gram's favorite too."

"Oh, he's perfectly lovely." Cara scooped the big cat into her arms, carrying him over to the sofa. "You are a darling," she cooed at him. Harry seemed to be eating up the attention. "And those pale green eyes. I can see real intelligence in them."

"Yes," Garrison agreed. "I think he's very smart."

"How old is he?"

"He's the youngest of the cats. Just five," Garrison explained. "But according to Gram's notes, Maine c.o.o.n cats sort of rule the cat kingdom. And I've noticed it too. It's like he has this regal quality about him."

"I adore him. Honestly, I think I'm in love." Cara looked up with glowing eyes. "Can I really have him?"

Suddenly Garrison remembered the stipulations of Gram's will. "I, uh, I think so. But I have to ask you some questions first." He made a sheepish smile. "It was my grandmother's dying wish that these cats get placed in the right homes."

"Sure. I can understand that."

"Well, I already know that you live in the neighborhood. And you work from home."

"Yes. I write for a relatively new online travel magazine. The pay's not so fabulous . . . not yet anyway. But the magazine has huge potential. And I've been with them for almost five years now. The longest I've been at any job."

"That's great." He tried to remember the list. "Are you married?"

She frowned. "I have to be married?"

"No," he said quickly. "But if you're married, Gram wanted to be a.s.sured you're in a solid marriage."

She chuckled. "Well, I am solidly single."

He grinned. "Maybe I should get the list, so we can go over it. This is still kind of new turf for me."

"Why don't you do that?" She turned back to Harry, cooing at him as she continued to stroke his coat. "You are a truly lovely creature, Harry. Would you like to go home with me? Be my cat? We could be very happy together."

Garrison hurried to the kitchen where he'd left the large envelope, quickly extracting Gram's long list of requirements. "Here it is," he said as he reappeared in the living room. "Okay . . . you live in the neighborhood." He peered over the page at her, taking in her profile, the upturned nose, firm chin. "Have you been here at least a year?"

She looked up with concern. "At least a year?"

He nodded. "That's a stipulation."

"Well, no . . . I've only been here since August."

He frowned. "What?"

"But it's not like I'm going to leave."

Garrison scanned the list, seeing something else that Gram's attorney hadn't specifically mentioned. "Do you own your home?"

"I have to own my home?" She sounded slightly indignant. "No . . . I'm renting."

"Oh . . ." Garrison stared at the line stating "adoptive owners must be homeowners in the neighborhood." Homeowners, really?

"So are you saying I don't qualify?"

He felt really torn. "According to this . . . you don't."

She gently removed Harry from her lap, setting him next to her on the sofa. "You mean just because I don't own my home-haven't lived here a year-you aren't going to let me have Harry?" She looked close to tears, and Garrison felt like a real jerk.

"I would gladly give you Harry," he said meekly. "But this list-it was given to me by the lawyer-it's my grandmother's dying wish."

Cara slowly stood. "Well, I wish you the best of luck in finding homes for your five cats," she said a bit stiffly.

"I'm really sorry," he said as he followed her to the front door. "If I could do it differently, I would. I mean, I'm as eager as you are-"

"I feel like I've been the victim of a bait and switch." Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Like I've been tricked."

"I didn't mean to trick you. It's just that I have to-"

"Don't worry, Garrison." Her smile looked forced. "I'll get over it." She turned around to give Harry one last glance. "Take care, big boy. I hope you find the right home."

"I'm really sorry, Cara, but I have to respect my-"

"Never mind," she said abruptly. "I get it." And then she left.

Garrison sneezed beneath the mask, causing it to slip off his face. And now his eyes were watering up. He could tell his allergy meds were wearing off. Harry sauntered over and rubbed up against his legs, letting out a friendly meow.

"It's not your fault, old boy." Garrison sneezed again. "Man, I gotta get outta here."

By the morning of the memorial service on Monday, Garrison had not managed to find a home for a single cat. He'd gotten only one phone call and that was from a woman who lived downtown. But at least he'd learned something. Rule number one: go over the basic stipulations before talking about the available cats.

However, cats were the last thing on his mind as he drove to the church. First and foremost, his thoughts were with Gram, and he knew this service had been important to her. Even though she'd written her own eulogy, he knew it was only respectful to say a few words. He also knew that public speaking was not his forte. The truth was, he'd rather get a root ca.n.a.l than address a roomful of people. Although his jacket pocket bulged from the numerous index cards he'd scribbled on last night, he hoped he wouldn't need to pull them out and fumble through them. But whatever it took, he was determined to honor Gram's memory today.

"My grandmother took me in after my parents died," Garrison began when it was his turn to speak. "I didn't want to admit it at the time, since I was nearly twelve years old, but I was a little afraid of her when I first moved into her house. Or maybe I was just in awe of her. I'd grown up hearing my dad speak of his parents with a mixture of pride and almost fearful respect. I knew my grandparents were missionaries in Kenya. I knew that they'd lived through a lot of tough challenges. I'm sorry to say that I probably challenged Gram as much or more than her beloved villagers, the ones she was forced to leave behind when my grandfather died. But Gram never gave up on me. She was the first person in my life to teach me what real unconditional love was like. I will always be grateful to her for that." He sighed as he gazed over the nearly full sanctuary. Gram had more friends than he had realized.

"Gram taught me a lot of valuable things. Like telling the truth and persevering even when a situation looked like it was hopeless. She helped me to see the world as a bigger place than just what's within our borders. She taught me to have compa.s.sion for the less fortunate. Because of her I served in Uganda for nine years. Nine years that have changed my life forever-and have helped mold me into the person I am today. I feel like I owe all that to my grandmother. Without her influence on my life, I cannot imagine where I would be today." Well, aside from being the caretaker for a houseful of cats, he thought a bit grimly, but naturally, he didn't say this.

Instead he finished by telling a story about how Gram had discovered he'd stolen some tokens from a video arcade and how she'd made him go take them back and confess to the owner. "I was so ashamed," he told them. "But when we got home my grandmother simply opened her Bible and read a verse about Jesus forgiving someone. I can't even remember which verse it was. But Gram looked at me and said, It's no different with you. Confess your sins to our Lord and he will forgive you your sins. That's all there is to it.'" He smiled. "I have taken those words with me wherever I've gone. I always will."

After the service, he visited with old friends from the church. They seemed genuinely happy to see him, and Gram's good friend Mrs. Spangle even invited him to come and speak to their missions group. He gave her his phone number and promised to make himself available.

"And is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.