Chapter 28 #2
And as we continue to eat, I wonder if I should be talking to him about things like ... the future. Should I be asking if ... he would ever want to come to Cincinnati to see me? Should I be wondering out loud what happens when I go?
But the very notion just feels like too much right now, too heavy—it’s already been a rough day. And now I’m somehow stuck with this cat to care for, because for some insane reason I insisted upon that.
After dishes, we lie on the couch in a loose, cozy embrace while Ophelia perches in a windowsill across the room, looking calm enough—yet I sense she’s out of sorts.
She’s somewhere strange. I sympathize with her, knowing how that feels, and I share that with Matt as she lets out a quieter-than-usual meow.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “cats are resilient. She’ll adjust to wherever she is.” And I find myself thinking maybe my spirit animal is a cat— I’m pretty resilient, and I seem to adjust to wherever I am, even if I’m not always happy about it.
I lift my head from his shoulder to ask, “How do you know so much about cats anyway?”
“Are you kiddin’? I grew up with cats. And dogs. And a variety of other animals. That’s life in the country.” A moment later, he eases out from under me. “I’m gonna head home, let you get some rest. And get to know your foster cat. I’ll see ya tomorrow night, okay?”
As I nod and he leans down to kiss me, I’m liking how coolly he handled that.
Without ever alluding to the fact that we’re both too sad about Grace to want to fool around tonight, he made an utterly graceful exit and gave us both the space we might be needing right now.
To think that not long ago I worried about things being awkward with him.
When he’s gone, I get up and pet the cat.
She seems stiff about it, though, so I grab the ball of yarn tucked in with the rest of her things and lure her into playing for a few minutes, which comes complete with some mrows and mews.
After that, she acts much more comfortable when I lift her into my lap and stroke her fur.
“I realize we don’t know each other very well,” I say, “but you’re safe here. ”
So much has been going on since I got home that I’ve nearly forgotten Grace’s lovely gift to me, so when I spot it on the mantel across the room, where I propped it earlier, I walk over and take it down, studying it closer. I can’t believe she didn’t want it. I love that she wanted me to have it.
I flip it over to see what kind of hanger it has—and then I gasp. Grace has written me a note on the back. Even as rushed and busy and emotional as she must have been this morning, suddenly getting ready to leave her home of so many years, she took the time to write this to me.
Dear Jessica,
Someday when you’re gone, somebody will find this and think it’s lost, not knowing that it just outlasted both the giver and the receiver. Maybe not everything we find was lost. Maybe some of it was just loved and left behind as a testament to that love.
Grace
I press my palm to my chest, overcome with emotion.
It’s true—someday no one will know what this photo represents, who Grace was, why it mattered.
And maybe the vast majority of the things in the lost and found will never .
.. be found. Because things just outlast their meaning, outlast the people who cared for them.
That idea’s a lot less sad than the alternative one I’ve been working with all this time, so I turn the picture back over and smile at the only piece of Grace I have left—well, other than the cat.
But if it’s not all lost, what do we do with it?
I think back to the young couple I met at the Last Chance, people who came here hoping to see the lost and found.
It seemed a preposterous notion to me at the time, but .
.. I wonder if some of the more interesting items could be put on display somehow.
Main Street has more than its fair share of empty storefronts.
So maybe someone should do that. Maybe I’ll tell Matt about the idea before I go home for good. Or Junior Barnett.
As I place the picture back on the mantel, I find myself thinking about change. Change, change, change—the only constant is change. Even in Lost and Found, a place that once seemed to me like it probably never changed, Jo is gone, Grace is gone, and I have a foster cat. All since yesterday.
When I’m awakened the next morning by a strange sensation, I open my eyes to find a cat walking across my stomach, and the sight makes me smile. “Good morning,” I say, childishly pleased that she likes me enough to walk around on me.
“Meow,” she replies.
After getting up, I make breakfast—eggs and toast for me, dry cat food with a splash of milk for her—and I think about my day as I eat.
My doctor’s appointments are tomorrow afternoon, so today I need to pack an overnight bag, confirm plans to see my friends while I’m in town, and remind Matt to come over and feed the cat.
I look down at her, eating at her bowl nearby. “I feel bad leaving you so soon,” I say, “but it can’t be helped.”
She seems much more concerned with her Meow Mix than with me, quiet for once, but I don’t mind. An independent pet who doesn’t need constant attention, yet who’s at least interested enough in companionship to wake me up in the morning, seems like ... me in ways.
But when I recall why I suddenly have a cat, I let out a sad sigh, get up, and walk to the front door.
Stepping out onto the front porch, I peer across the road at Grace’s little house.
Light rain last night left behind a layer of misty mountain fog that floats like a ghost around her yard and makes the place look as lonely as it suddenly is.
“Mornin’.”
I turn to see Matt in his uniform, heading to his truck, and lift my hand in a wave.
“I’ll start tryin’ to find the cat a home today,” he calls as he rounds the fender.
Something in my stomach tightens, and against my better judgment I say, “You don’t have to.”
He stops, looks up at me. “Why not?”
I bite my lip, still hesitant—but at the same time certain. “I think I’ll keep her. I think she needs me.”
He tilts his head, a small smile playing about his mouth. “I thought you didn’t want a cat.”
“I don’t. But that feels secondary right now.”
“And what about when you ... ya know, go back up north? Not just today, but for good.”
“I’ll take her with me,” I answer, simple as that. I’ve given this zero thought, but it doesn’t matter.
“She’ll shed on your swanky furniture,” he warns me.
I narrow my gaze on him. “How do you know I have swanky furniture?”
He just shrugs. “Don’t you?”
I nod. “Of course. But that’s okay. She’s already been abandoned once—I won’t make it twice.”
Several hours later, I make a trip to the Piggly Wiggly so I can reach back out to Benita Kelly, and while I’m there, I text Kevin and Sydney about our plans over the next two days.
I’m looking forward to seeing them—a nice by-product of the doctor visits and .
.. well, the general upheaval of being home and having to start thinking again about practical questions.
Like when I’m coming back and what the status of my job is and whether I’m going to miss being here in the mountains or enjoy getting back to my real life once and for all.
I see that Benita has given me permission to share her story, so while I’ve got a signal, I create a post about finding the rightful place for Mr. Hartfell. I’m still sad thinking of Grace, and how much I wanted to tell her about Benita myself, but I try to push it aside.
The truth is, though, she’s staying on my mind in everything I do today. I still can’t believe she’s gone. Out of my life. And even out of her own life, in a way—out of the life she knows. I just hope she’ll be happy living with Daniel. My heart feels heavy as I get back in the car.
A glance at my lost-and-found binder in the passenger seat reminds me that this project has gotten so big that some days I think converting it all onto my laptop would make more sense—but I still don’t want to.
I like flipping around in the pages, and I love watching the section I created at the back for “closed cases” get thicker.
There’s just something about making notes and circles and check marks with a pen that’s more satisfying than it could ever be on a computer—old-school, tactile organizational delight.
Having already packed for tomorrow, I decide to have a late lunch at the Last Chance, and I even have enough time to take my binder in with me, spread out in a booth, and do a little work. Maybe updating the binder will be a distraction from mourning Grace’s departure.
Easing my car into one of the marked spots lining Main Street, I grab up my purse and logbook, then step out into another hot day. Sun has long since burned away this morning’s fog.
As I walk past the narrow alley between the Last Chance and the storefront next to it, a dark shadow blocking the sunlight catches my eye and I turn to look.
I spy two people hugging. Which is weird enough given that I’ve never seen anyone in that alley all summer, but . .. is that Matt? Hugging someone?
My heart seizing, I take a step back to shield myself with the building, like I’m the one being caught at something—and then I peek around the corner to try to figure out what I’m seeing.
Oh God—it is Matt.
In a long, full embrace with another woman.
And I don’t know why it takes me a minute to discern who, because it makes perfect sense when I realize that, of course, it’s Joy Lynn.