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A search engine listing caught her eye. It was a post on a website designed for local group gatherings. Alanna hit the link with her thumb.
Group Name:The Crazy Cat Lady Club of Yucca Hills
Group Description:Calling all the crazy cat ladies of Yucca Hills. My name is Tess and I have an SOS cat emergency. My cat HATES me!!! I think she might be planning to murder me in my sleep. If you can help, please come to my place at the date and time listed below. I have wine.
“Yes,” Alanna whispered to herself. It was perfect. If this Tess lady was going to host a gathering of crazy cat people at her house for some sort of cat intervention, that’s exactly where Alanna needed to be. One of the people at the meeting would surely know how to get Petunia in line.
And wine!
Tess’s potentially murderous cat was Alanna’s saving grace.
She scanned the details of the meeting and smiled to herself. Sure, she’d have to deal with a few weirdos for an hour or so, but if that meant figuring out how to exorcize the demon currently possessing her cat, it would be time well spent.
Alanna felt a little better, a little more like herself, even though her arm still burned with pain. She walked to the hallway and called down. “Mom, did you make enough tea for another cup?”
Her mother’s cheerful response was as welcomed as it was predictable. “Come on down, my Queen of Sheba. I always have enough for you.”
Ch. 11 Sully
Thesmallranchhouseat the end of the cul-de-sac in the town of Santee possessed a stubborn pride. Flowers bloomed from boxes in the windows and several cheery gnomes positioned along the walkway grinned at Sully as he made his way gingerly to the porch.
“Sullivan!” The door swung open, and his mother, Nora Brooks, stood in the entrance, her hands already reaching for her only son. Sully leaned into his mother’s embrace.
Bad idea.
His battered muscles cried as she squeezed him tightly into her round, busty frame. Cam’s version of “showing him the ropes of weightlifting” two days ago had been more akin to sending his body through a compactor. The blond gym owner had obviously been a torturer for the Spanish Inquisition in another life.
“Oooooh, are these for me?” his mother asked, mercifully releasing him from her grasp and eyeing the bouquet of daisies, now slightly squished, in his hand.
“Of course.”
“You shouldn’t have,” his mother gushed, seeming to forget that flowers were the only thing she allowed him to bring to these monthly family dinners. He’d made the mistake of showing up with a salad years ago, and his mother had spent the whole night wondering why her food “wasn’t good enough” for him.
Now, she ushered him into the house. “You’re so skinny. Have you been eating? None of that microwave box stuff, I hope. All those preservatives.” His mother shook her head. “You don’t want to get high cholesterol like your Uncle Patrick. Did you know his doctor is talking about putting in a stint? I couldn’t believe it. The man is only 62 years old, but he’s always eaten terribly. I’ve told him that for 20 years, but does anyone listen to me?”
Home sweet home.
Sully couldn’t help smiling. The house, filled with the scent of cooking meatloaf and his mother’s endless chatter, hadn’t changed a bit. It was comforting in a way Sully appreciated now that he’d been on his own for over a decade. Everything was exactly as it should be, from the well-tread beige carpet in the hallway to his father firmly entrenched in the brown leather recliner in the living room. The only thing that ever seemed to change in the Brooks household was the sport on television. Today it was a college basketball game.
“Make yourself at home,” his mother told him. “It’s been ages since we saw you. As soon as I check the meatloaf, I want to hear all about your life.”
Sully rolled his eyes. He’d been coming over for monthly Sunday dinners since college, but his mother always acted like he was returning from some multi-year voyage across the sea.
Sully flopped down onto the sofa and tried to look casual. “Hey, Dad,” he said.
John Brooks scratched at his beard and nodded to his son, not taking his eyes off the television.
“What’s the score?” Sully couldn’t care less about the game.
“It’s on the TV.” His dad beckoned to the large flatscreen taking up half the wall.
Another great father-son convo in the books. Sully sat back and pretended to watch the game. How many afternoons of his early childhood had featured his dad chucking a football at his head in the back yard? His dad had even signed him up for Pop Warner, probably with the desperate hope that hand-eye coordination could be learned through getting slammed repeatedly into the ground.
John had made other attempts after that abject failure. A basketball hoop appeared in the driveway during one summer break. A baseball glove was left by “Santa” under the Christmas tree. Finally, around the time Sully started middle school, his father had apparently given up, simmering in silence as Sully spent hours in his room playing video games with friends and teaching himself coding. Even when Sully had joined the Marines, his father had grumbled that it was “only the Reserves.”
The screen switched to a commercial.
“How’s work?” Sully asked.
