Honey (9 page)

Marc couldn't resist. He reached over and tucked a thick caramel-colored lock behind the shell of her ear, his hand lingering on her jaw.

“Thanks,” she said, looking down—looking shy. “I should go back to wearing hats.”

Marc dropped his hand. Drinking in the sweet silhouette of her downturned face, he felt a pang of real regret. Had he been too quick to jump to “just friends” as their only solution? Once Winterthur was out of the picture, and Marc hoped to God that wouldn't be much longer, might it be time to revisit what he'd already come to think of as their relationship?

“You look great in hats, only maybe not the really big ones. They hide too much of your face.”

“Maybe sometimes I like hiding.”

Marc swallowed hard, his throat knotting. “You shouldn't have to.”

She looked up at him, smile fleeting, eyes not so much sad as … wistful. “What next?” she asked, changing the subject. “Or do you have to get back?”

“I have some time.” Actually he had a thousand things on his plate—errands to run, cleaning chores to do (his apartment might as yet be no showplace but that didn't mean it had to be filthy), groceries to buy—but none of them seemed anywhere near as important as spending this precious one-on-one time with Honey. “I know it's supposedly spring but how would you feel about heading across the street to Max Brenner's for a real, non-Starbucks hot chocolate?”

Brightening, Honey smiled, this time without reservation. “‘Chocolate by the bald man'—how can I possibly resist? So long as you don't mind making a fast stop first, that would be divine.”

*

Leaving the park with Marc, Honey crossed 14
th
Street and headed for the vendors lining the sidewalk from Designer Shoe Warehouse to Juicy Couture. Only it wasn't knockoff handbags or sunglasses or any of the sundry New York-themed tchotchkes sold with tourists in mind that drew her. It was the rescue cats and kittens displayed for adoption.

Six days a week, rain or shine, the weathered African woman with the brightly colored head scarves and weary eyes set up her folding table, pet cages, and supplies in the same spot of sidewalk across from the park. Since discovering her by chance almost a year ago, Honey had made it a point to stop by at least once a month, more if she could manage it. Regardless of the season, the rescuer always had a new supply of cats and kittens in desperate need of homes, always a new heartbreaking true story of cats that had been abandoned or otherwise abused, not just in Manhattan but throughout the five boroughs. Honey had a hard time hearing those stories, but because she felt it was important, deeply important, neither to turn her back or close off her ears to animal suffering, she made a point of listening for as long as she could. Welling tears were her signal to herself that she was approaching the limit of what she could bear. Then and only then did she make her excuses and move on. Hearing the hard-luck stories was the difficult part; cuddling one of the kittens was a delight to which she looked forward all month.

The visits always ended the same way, with the woman holding out a sweet-faced kitten and imploring, “Please, won't you give this baby a home?” And each time Honey would shake her head and explain that she didn't have time to take care of a pet, her building didn't allow them, her roommate was allergic et cetera. Whatever her fib du jour was, seeing the woman's look of disappointment slashed at her heart. Feeling the telltale prick of tears, she'd hurry to hand over whatever spare money she'd mustered and make her getaway before she might weaken.

Drew might not be allergic, but he detested cats. He wasn't particularly fond of dogs either. He was always complaining that the Yorkie for whom Katharine had paid top dollar to a breeder upstate was a farter. But cats he truly hated. He barely tolerated the stuffed animal, Mr. Pinky, Honey kept on her nightstand.

She glanced to Marc. “I won't be but a minute.”

He shrugged. “Take as long as you like.”

The way he'd let her lead him over without question or complaint warmed her. Despite his crazy busy schedule, he never acted as though he was in a rush, let alone more important than anyone else. His humility was yet another thing she loved—
liked
—about him. Before meeting Marc, she hadn't acknowledged the extent to which six plus years of stroking and otherwise supporting an epic ego such as Drew's had drained her. And Marc was
soooooo
patient. With all those winning qualities stacking up, it was becoming harder and harder to think of him as “just a friend”—or to want to. Even his helping her with her hair back in the park had sent her senses seesawing, the practical if not precisely impersonal touch tempting her to lean in and claim what she craved—more of those heart-melting, breath-stealing, altogether amazing kisses he was so good at giving.

And he'd been so sweet about the whole photo thing, posing for her even though he admitted to hating having his picture taken. His modesty was yet another endearing trait, especially since he came with chiseled features and a hot body that many a professional model might covet. If she happened to find out he liked cats, too, it might well push her over the edge of reason. As it stood, keeping her hands to herself, meaning “off him,” wasn't getting any easier. Her new “gig” as his unofficial interior decorator would likely stretch her self-control to the limit; still, the opportunity to spend more time with him in private was too golden to pass up.

Sitting on an overturned milk crate nursing a tiny kitten with a bottle, the rescue lady looked up. Gaze alighting on Honey, her lined faced lit. “You haven't been around in a while. I've been wondering where you took yourself to.”

“Nowhere, just keeping busy,” Honey replied, grateful for once to have something to report that was real.

Studying for her GED was challenging her in more ways than one, especially since she was hiding it from Drew for obvious reasons. Her reasons for not telling Marc were subtler but no less real. Admitting you were a high-school dropout was hard enough under the best of circumstances. Making that admission to your highly educated “friend,” who also happened to be a doctor, would be a serious hit to what was left of her pride.

Aware of Marc watching her, she took out the five dollars she'd folded into her Prada bag's inner pocket, all the cash she'd managed to squirrel away from what Drew doled out as her “allowance,” and discreetly slipped it through the slot of the plexiglass donations container.

The woman's smile broadened. She reached out to Honey with her free hand, the palm cracked and callused, the fingernails clipped short and peeling, no doubt from the bleach she constantly used in cleaning the carriers and cages. “God bless you, God bless you. You're an angel.”

Fallen angel
, Honey mentally added.

The praise, so undeserved, shamed her. If this God-fearing, animal-rescuing woman knew who, or rather what, she really was, she might well throw Honey's five dollars back in her face.

And Marc? He was so good-hearted, so principled. The severity with which he berated himself over their movie theater make-out, which had been as much her “fault” as his, had made her determined to do nothing more that might drag him down to her “level.” It was bad enough he knew she was a kept woman. If he were ever to find out about her escort days, he wouldn't want to be friends with her—or anything else.

Going to work at the agency had been a monumental mistake; leaving it for Drew an even stupider move. Though he lavished her with expensive clothes and jewelry when he was feeling generous or, more often than not, guilty, he gave her very little cash. The apartment rent he paid directly as a debit from one of his many accounts. Groceries and incidentals such as cab fare, mani-pedis, and the occasional tea or lunch out were paid with the credit card he'd set up for her. The bill, however, went to him. At the end of every month, he pored over her statement line-by-line, questioning anything that suggested she might have a life outside their relationship.

“I wish it could be more,” she said sincerely. Avoiding looking at Marc, who seemed to be watching her intently, she bent down to peer inside the cage. “Who do we have here today?” she asked, knowing the question would be the lead-in to the most recent heartstring-pulling rescue story.

Only today the cage was empty.

The rescuer held out the kitten she was feeding. “Here, hold him.” The towel slipped away, revealing the top of a tiny marmalade-colored head. The kitten yawned—and Honey's heart squeezed in on itself.

“All right, but only for a minute.” Honey reached out and took the kitten, whose eyes still had a faintly bluish cast. Poor little mite must not be quite six weeks old. “Where's his mother?” she asked, though she suspected she wouldn't like the answer.

“Taxi,” the woman answered with a grim shake of her turbaned head. “Damned fools drive too fast and then they hit something—
someone
—and don't have the decency to stop.”

Honey nodded. Homeless
and
motherless; that was a tough path to tread, and well she knew it. She went to hand the kitten back when it let out a loud mew. “Oh my, that's quite an impressive pair of lungs for such a little kitten,” she said, cuddling him back against her. He might weigh under a pound, but clearly he had a big personality to grow into along with his paws.

“Do you like cats?” she asked Marc, angling her arms so he could better see the kitten.

He hesitated and then admitted, “I'm more of a dog person.”

Finally an actual flaw—thank God!
“You have to admit, though, he's adorable, quite the cutie.”

“Most baby animals are.” Reaching out with his forefinger, he used it to gently rub the crown of the animal's downy soft head.

“He's the last of the litter,” the woman broke in, dividing her watchful gaze between them. “It's always that way with the runts.”

“Runt, why I never,” Honey said, holding up the kitten as though he were speaking, not her.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught Marc smiling. He had the most beautiful smile, his teeth white and straight and banded by lips that she knew for a fact were as soft and kissable as they seemed. A few months ago at Tea & Sympathy, it had seemed great fun, good
craic
, to tease him by pretending to the waitress that they were a couple. Now she found herself wishing that were the truth.

“Take him—
please
,” the rescue lady implored. “You seem like you have so much love to give and he needs a home.”

A lump lodged in Honey's throat. They were skipping ahead to phase three—the begging portion—not that Honey blamed her. The poor woman deserved a medal—and a break. What an enormous responsibility it must be to nurse a never-ending stream of creatures so cute and needy.

Honey opened her mouth to trot out the litany of well-worn excuses, only she never got the chance.

“My granddaughter in Atlanta is getting married this weekend, and I promised her I'd be there to see her walk down the aisle.” She gestured to the kitten Honey still held. “I don't have anyone who can keep him while I'm gone, and I can't take him with me on the bus. If I don't place him today, I'm going to have to give him up to the shelter.”

The shelter! “Oh, no! But he's so small.”

The woman nodded. “He needs to be bottle fed every two to three hours. Unless they can find a volunteer to foster him, he'll likely be—”

“I'll take him!”

The words were out before Honey even knew she'd spoken them. Both Marc and the rescuer stared at her; the latter with relief—and triumph. “Oh, thank you! Giving a home to this blessed baby, you won't be sorry.”

Honey wasn't so certain about that. If Drew discovered her new “roommate,” the kitten wasn't the only one of them at risk for being skinned. The saving grace was that he was logging in incredible hours at the office these days, ramping up for a big Investor Day bash he was throwing at the Waldorf for a pool of mostly out-of-state clients. With luck, his work responsibilities would keep him away for at least another few days.

The rescuer was already on her feet and tossing cat care items into a plastic bag. “I'll give you a few of these syringes and his towel to wrap him up in 'til you can pick up a carrier.”

Feeling perspiration breaking out, Honey flung her free hand, palm out. “Wait, just to be clear, I'm
fostering
, not adopting him. I need to know that you'll take him back once you're home from the wedding.”

The woman waved a hand, dismissing the notion. “Trust me, once you have this sweet baby angel for a day, you won't want to give him up ever.”

Honey suspected that was true. Feeling him burrow against her breast, she felt as though she and the kitten belonged to one another already. But she couldn't afford to forget that she was not a normal person with a normal life, not yet anyway. Given Drew's mercurial moods, keeping Cat—she'd already decided on a temporary name, God help her—would only endanger him.

“Do I have your promise or not?” Though it tore at her heart, she was prepared to hand the kitten back and walk away, if need be.

“Yes, yes, all right, you know where to find me if you decide you don't want him—only you won't.”

Silent until now, Marc turned to Honey. Dropping his voice, he asked, “Are you sure about this?”

Honey shook her head, vaguely aware that most of her hair was tumbling down her back and her bangs were in dire need of trimming. Since meeting Marc, she'd definitely become a lot more casual about her grooming. Funny thing was she actually felt prettier.

“No, but a few days I should be able to manage. I have a soft spot for all animals but especially cats. The orange tabbies are my favorite. This little one reminds me of the cat in—”