His only answer was laughter. Then she heard the front door close, and she was left alone with too many questions and not enough answers.
* * *
Mason turned at the marina and began his slow run back to Shoreline Park. He’d found several options for his morning run, but so far, this was his favorite.
He’d never spent much time on the West Coast and hadn’t known what to expect. The topography was beautiful, with the mountains to the east and the ocean to the west. Most mornings were cool—in the fifties—with some days never warming up as the marine layer settled in for a good long stay. But on other days, it was sunny by nine. He was beginning to think there was nothing more beautiful than the Pacific Ocean on a perfect, sunny day.
He was still having trouble wrapping his head around the changes in his life. He was living in the most unusual house he’d ever seen, getting to know an old woman, while battling fifteen cats who draped themselves on his bed, or rubbed against his leg, meowing, shedding on everything he owned. The cats came and went, despite his closed bedroom door, which meant there were secret passages in the house.
He hadn’t explored much, wasn’t sure he should. Yes, technically he would inherit the house when Lillian passed away, but knowing that and believing it were two very different concepts.
He ran at a steady pace. He wasn’t the fastest runner around, but he could go far longer than the six miles he clocked most days. Ten years ago, he could have gone faster, but he was older now, and time was a mean old bitch. He kept up with his PT—the physical training routine he’d developed in the Army—to hold her off as long as he could.
A half mile from the car, he slowed to a walk, giving his body time to cool down. He glanced to his left, still surprised there was actual ocean there. The street-level view was different from the one from his bedroom, but still impressive. Sometimes he had trouble believing any of this was real.
Two days ago he’d met with Gregory, Lillian’s lawyer, at her suggestion. Mason had found out that yes, he really was going to inherit the house, along with his uncle’s papers and personal effects. The contents of the house, along with the cats, would go to Lillian’s great-niece.
The lawyer had explained that all the expenses—taxes and utilities—would be covered by the estate for a year. There was also a stipend to cover emergency repairs. That gave Mason time to figure out what to do with the house. Keeping it wasn’t an option. Yes, he was a published author, but his books weren’t exactly bestsellers, so his main source of income was his military pension.
He had no idea what the market was for a house like that, nor was he going to ask Lillian. That seemed tacky at best and moneygrubbing at worst. She seemed healthy enough, so he would continue to wish her a long life. Once she passed, he would deal with selling the house.
He reached his car and pulled out the bottle of water he’d brought with him. After gulping it down, he drove back to the house, his stomach growling in anticipation of breakfast.
Salvia cooked breakfast and lunch every day. The morning meals were delicious and hearty affairs, with omelets, pancakes, fruit and homemade bread. After twenty-five years of army food, Mason was ready to build a shrine in Salvia’s honor.
Inside he was immediately assaulted by the smell of coffee and cinnamon. Salvia, a small, dark-haired woman in her forties, smiled at him.
“Good morning, Mr. Mason. How was your run?”
“Morning. It was excellent.” He inhaled. “What’s cooking?”
She smiled at him. “Cinnamon rolls. I’m also going to make you an egg and sausage scramble. Miss Lillian said to meet her in the breakfast room after your shower.”
Interesting. While he and Lillian had talked a few times since his arrival, they’d yet to share a meal.
“Twenty minutes,” he told her.
Eighteen minutes later, he returned to the main floor.
Lillian sat at one end of the wooden table, a calico cat on her lap. Several others roamed the room. He ignored them as he walked to the other place setting near her.
“Good morning,” he said, pulling out a chair.
“Mason! It’s good to see you.” Lillian set the cat in the chair next to her and smiled at him. “Thank you for joining me.”
“Of course. I appreciate the invitation.”
Lillian laughed. “I wanted to give you time to settle in before suggesting we dine together. I assumed the situation would be a little overwhelming.”
“It is.”
The table was set with ornate flatware, cloth napkins and blue-and-white dishes. He reached for a fancy coffee server. “May I?”
“Please.”
He poured them each a cup of coffee. Lillian added cream. One of the cats started to walk across the table, but she shooed it away.
“Not when we’re eating,” she said firmly, shaking her finger at the cat. “Remember, we’re civilized.”
“But the rest of the time they’re allowed up here?” he asked with a grin.
“Of course. This is their home, too.”
Each cat wore a collar with a small tag with a phone number and its name. After a couple of days, he’d realized the cats were all named for English kings and queens. So far he’d met Elizabeth, Mary, Charles I and Charles II, Victoria, Edward and Henry.
“Who takes care of the cats?” he asked.
“Salvia feeds them. My vet sends a technician every four weeks to make sure they’re all well.” Her smile faded. “With so many, it’s easy to miss when someone’s not feeling right. She also takes care of vaccinations and routine exams. If there’s a problem between visits, Salvia takes whoever to the vet.”
“You have a system.”
“I do.” Her smile returned. “You should respect that.”
“Absolutely.” He looked at a black-and-white cat by the door. “I’ve never had a pet.”
“How is that possible?”
“I was in the army and I moved around a lot. Plus I was gone all day. It never seemed feasible.”
She laughed. “You’re getting a trial by fire now, Mason.”
“I am.” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but so far the cats weren’t awful.
Salvia walked into the breakfast room and set down a plate of sliced, fresh fruit and a basket of hot, gooey cinnamon rolls.
“I’m going to start on the scramble,” she said before returning to the kitchen.
“You must try one,” Lillian said, motioning to the cinnamon rolls. “Hers are extraordinary.”