“Just the dog,” Carol said.
Paul frowned. “I thought I saw…”
“What?”
“A face. A woman looking back… just for a second, just as she went through the gate.”
“No,” Carol said. “It was Jasper.”
“You saw him?”
“Clearly?”
“Well, no, not clearly. But I could see enough to tell that it was a dog the size of a small pony, and Jasper’s the only pooch around who fits that description.”
“I guess Jasper’s a lot smarter than he used to be.”
Carol blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he had to unlatch the gate to get into the yard. He never used to be able to do that trick.”
“Oh, of course he didn’t. We must have left the gate open.”
Paul shook his head. “I’m sure it was closed when we drove up a while ago.”
“Closed, maybe—but not latched. The wind pushed it open, and Jasper wandered in.”
Paul stared out at the rain-slashed fog, which glowed dully with the last somber rays of the fading twilight. “I guess you’re right,” he said, though he was not entirely convinced. “I better go latch the gate.”
“No, no,” Carol said quickly. “Not while the storm’s on.”
“Now look here, sugarface, I’m not going to jump into bed and pull the blankets over my head every time there’s a little thunder—just because of what happened this afternoon.”
“I don’t expect you to,” she said. “But before you start dancing in the rain like Gene Kelly, you’ve got to let me get over what happened today. It’s still too fresh in my mind for me to stand here watching you while you cavort across the lawn in the lightning.”
“It’ll only take a moment and—”
“Say, are you trying to get out of making that fettuccine?” she asked, cocking her head and looking at him suspiciously.
“Certainly not. I’ll finish making it as soon as I’ve gone and closed the gate.”
“I know what you’re up to, mister,” she said smugly. “You’re hoping you will be struck by lightning because you know your sauce is going to turn out lumpy, and you simply can’t take the humiliation.”
“That’s a base canard,” he said, falling easily into their game again. “I make the silkiest fettuccine Alfredo this side of Rome. Silkier than Sophia Loren’s thighs.”
“All I know is, the last time you made it, the stuff was as lumpy as a bowl of oatmeal.”
“I thought you said it was as lumpy as a mattress in a ten-dollar-a-night motel.”
She lifted her head proudly. “I’m not just a one-simile woman, you know.”
“How well I know.”
“So are you going to make fettuccine—or will you take the coward’s way out and get killed by lightning?”
“I’ll make you eat your words,” he said.
Grinning, she said, “That’s easier than eating your lumpy fettuccine.”
He laughed. “All right, all right. You win. I can latch the gate in the morning.”
He returned to the stove, and she went back to the cutting board where she was mincing parsley and scallions for the salad dressing.
He knew she was probably right about the intruder. Most likely, it had been Jasper, chasing a cat or looking for an Oreo handout. The thing he’d thought he had seen—the slightly twisted, moon-white face of a woman, lightning reflected in her eyes, her mouth curled into a snarl of hatred or rage—had surely been a trick of light and shadow. Still, the incident left him uneasy. He could not entirely regain the warm, cozy feeling he’d had just before he’d looked out the window.
Grace Mitowski filled the yellow plastic bowl with Meow Mix and put it in the corner by the kitchen door.
“Kitty-kitty-kitty.”
Aristophanes didn’t respond.
The kitchen wasn’t Ari’s favorite place in the house, for it was the only room in which he was not permitted to climb wherever he wished. He wasn’t actually much of a climber anyway. He lacked the spirit of adventure that many cats had, and he usually stayed on the floor. However, even though he had no burning desire to scamper up on the kitchen counters, he didn’t want anyone telling him he couldn’t do it.
Like most cats, he resisted discipline and despised all rules. Nevertheless, as little as he liked the kitchen, he never failed to put in an appearance at mealtime. In fact, he was often waiting impatiently by his bowl when Grace came to fill it.