In Your Dreams (Blue Heron #4)(69)

When Jack first moved back to Manningsport, he’d been struck with a surprisingly strong yearning for his mother. He’d gone up to the family cemetery and sat there in the misting rain, a hard lump in his throat.

And then, from behind the gravestone of the first Holland who’d farmed this land, came a very small animal. It was battered and bleeding and matted to the point where Jack wasn’t even sure what it was, but then it mewed.

Jack’s mom had had a thing for cats. They’d always had a few, out in the barns, in the house. Kind of seemed like a sign from Mom, him finding a cat out here right when he’d been missing her. He wrapped it in his jacket and took it to the vet, who said he didn’t think the kitten would make it. When he pulled through, Jack named him Lazarus.

Hadley hated Lazarus. Why, Jack had no idea, because Laz gave her a wide berth.

Hadley had a cat, too. Princess Anastasia was a fat, fluffy white Persian with startling green eyes and a fondness for shredding curtains, upholstery and human flesh. Princess jumped on the table, walked on the counters, crapped wherever she happened to be at the moment and shed large clots of white hair all over the house. In Savannah, she’d been ill-tempered and unaffectionate. But in New York, she became downright destructive...especially and ironically toward Hadley, ripping her clothes, vomiting in her shoes and scratching and biting her. Not just little scratches, either, but long bloody tears and actual puncture wounds that would make Hadley’s hand or foot throb.

One night after such an attack, Jack grabbed the cat by the scruff and tossed her into the basement. “Jack!” Hadley yelped, clutching her bleeding hand. “She’s just an innocent animal!”

However, Hadley had no such sympathy for Lazarus.

“Can’t Prudence take him?” she asked one night. Her own cat was draped across her lap like roadkill, peaceful (until she decided to turn homicidal).

“He’s not the problem cat here, babe,” he said.

“I just think Princess Anastasia would be happier if that thing wasn’t around, spooking her. Wouldn’t you, Princess? You want that ugly ole thing to go live with Prudence?”

“Hadley. He’s not going anywhere.”

She stared at Lazarus, who was crouched under the coffee table, making his weird gacking sound. “He’s disgusting, Jack.”

“Hey,” Jack said, grinning as he poured more wine for his bride. “I love that disgusting cat. He’s got character. And, yes, he’s ugly. But so am I, and you love me.”

“Jack,” she said. “You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

She kissed him then. But she didn’t warm up to Lazarus.

One night about a month after they’d returned from their honeymoon, Hadley invited the whole clan for “a genuine Southern dinner.” Honor, Pru, Carl, Ned and Abby, Dad, Mrs. Johnson, Goggy and Pops all arrived at once. Even Faith was home from San Francisco, and Jack was pouring the Half-Moon pinot gris they’d bottled four months ago.

“The house looks gorgeous,” Faith said, and Hadley beamed.

She’d spent the whole day getting ready, setting the table with their wedding china, making place cards with her calligraphy pen, arranging flowers. Hadley had sworn she didn’t want him to do anything for the dinner, and he’d been busy with some early harvesting, so he didn’t know what she’d cooked. She fluttered around like a tiny bird, seeming even smaller standing by Jack’s sturdy sisters.

They drank wine and chatted and all was fine and good until they sat down to eat. Hadley set down a crock and took off the lid.

“Southern chicken and dumplings!” she announced with pride.

Mrs. Johnson and Goggy both recoiled in unison. What was in the pot looked like lumpy glue.

“I’m starving, dear,” Pops said. “Let’s get eating! It’s already six o’clock. I have to go to bed soon.”

Hadley ladled out the dinner, which seemed to be a gelatinous goo with the occasional chunk of white meat thrown in. The dumplings were slimy, dense and slippery, and the chicken was chewy and tough, a far cry from what Jack remembered from when Mrs. Boudreau had made the same dish.

The Hollands didn’t complain. They were Yankees; food was meant to nourish, not to enjoy, though their standards had risen during the Mrs. Johnson era (Mrs. J. was Jamaican and therefore believed in flavor).

“It’s delicious, dear,” Pops said. “Thank you for having us.”

“You’re always welcome here, Mr. Holland,” she said, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes.

“Did you just bat your eyelashes?” Pru asked. “I’ve always wondered if that actually happened. I mean, you come across the phrase from time to time, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen it live and in person. Carl, stop staring at her.”

“You, too, old man,” Goggy said, smacking Pops on the back of the head.

“Why can’t I stare? She’s beautiful. You’re beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Mr. Holland, you’re the sweetest thing,” she said. This got a snort from everyone related to Pops. Hadley did have a way with men, and Jack had a soft spot for his grandfather. After all, the Holland men had to stick together, as Pops was fond of saying.

“So I’m thinking about redoing the house,” she said sweetly, “and I’d love y’all’s opinion.”