Heading up Ocean to Highway One and turning south, Clyde's old Packard received interested glances. Both villagers and tourists turned to look at the bright red antique touring car.
They drove down Highway One five miles, looking out at the sea, then headed inland a short distance. Turned right again onto a narrow dirt road that led off through a little woods, a deeply shaded stand of close-set saplings.
Parking in the woods where the road ended, they set off walking, carrying the picnic hamper and blankets. The cats surprised Charlie again by trotting along beside them as obedient as a couple of dogs. On the narrow, leafy path alone in the dim woods, the five of them made a strange little procession. They couldn't see the ocean, but they pressed ahead eagerly toward its thunder.
The woods ended at a flat green pasture spreading away like a green tabletop. And that velvet field ended abruptly a quarter mile ahead. Nothing beyond but sky and sea. And a gigantic rock thrusting up out of the sea. They could hear the waves crashing against it, wild and rhythmic.
The pasture grass was damp, soaking Charlie's tennis shoes. The cats raced away, chasing each other, stopping to sniff at rabbit holes. Neither Clyde nor Wilma seemed concerned that they would run away. Charlie had never seen cats who behaved like this. The three of them walked in companionable silence to the edge of the cliff.
Ten feet below, churning breakers foamed against the chimney rock. Directly below them at the foot of the cliff lay a white sand beach tilting down, falling away to a strip of dark, wet sand. Between that strip of sand and the chimney rock seethed a narrow neck of sea, foaming up, sucking back clear as green glass. They descended the cliff and spread the blankets on the warm sand, and the cats immediately settled down on the smaller blanket, expectantly watching the picnic basket.
Tucked into one side of the basket was a good Pinot Blanc and a tray of goose liver canapes. Wilma poured the wine into plastic cups, laid out the canapes. They toasted the sea and each other as the breakers sucked out, lifted, crashed in again wild and foaming.
No one had hinted to Charlie that this picnic was a celebration, but she got the idea that it was. Some secret celebration, not so much a secret from her, perhaps, as simply a very private matter.
But what a strange thought.
Yet there was some odd little mystery here, clinging around Wilma and Clyde and the two cats.
Maybe when she had lived in Molena Point longer she'd learn to understand what it was that they sheltered so carefully. She felt certain it was nothing that would dismay her, she had more a sense of lightness, almost of whimsy. Something that, if she knew, should delight her. Meantime, their silent celebration was nice. She liked knowing people who had secrets.
But the strange thing was, the cats seemed to share in the secret, their eyes were filled with some keen feline satisfaction. Both cats had an after-the-kill look. The kind of look a cat had when he dragged a dead rabbit into the parlor and left it on the rug, the look of the triumphant hunter bestowing a priceless gift.
Puzzled and amused, she helped Wilma unwrap the feast that George Jolly had prepared. In insulated containers, the French bread was still warm from the oven, the large portion of Jolly's best Puget Sound salmon was admirably chilled. The assorted fruits and the big wedge of Brie were room temperature; and there was a pint of thick fresh cream, with two small plastic bowls.
Wilma fixed the cats' plates first, with a little bit of everything but the fruit, and Charlie poured cream into the bowls. And the cats feasted, each with that smug smile. And what cat could be more charming than these two? Even when they were smug, Dulcie's green eyes were laughing, Joe's yellow eyes gleaming with challenge. What cat could be more mysterious and charming?
SHIRLEY ROUSSEAU MURPHY has received seven national Cat Writers’ Association Awards for best novel of the year, two Cat Writers’ President’s Awards, the “World’s Best Cat Litter-ary Award” in 2006 for the Joe Grey Books, and five Council of Authors and Journalists Awards for previous books. She and her husband live in Carmel, California, where they serve as full-time household help for two demanding feline ladies.
www.joegrey.com
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