The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club Read online

  The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club

  Book One

  NIC TATANO

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  HarperImpulse an imprint of

  HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

  Copyright © Nic Tatano 2016

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

  Cover design by Holly Macdonald

  Nic Tatano asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book

  is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International

  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

  the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

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  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

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  whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

  hereinafter invented, without the express

  written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © August 2016 ISBN: 9780008200657

  Version: 2016-09-07

  PRAISE FOR NIC TATANO’S DEBUT WING GIRL

  ‘One of the top 20 books of 2013’

  I Heart … Chick Lit

  ‘E-book novel of the year’

  Chick Lit Chloe

  ‘I truly adored this novel … One of my favourite books this year, for sure’

  Chick Lit Reviews

  ‘The heroine is sassy, the dialogue is razor-sharp and the romance is sweet. Well worth a read’

  Chick Lit Club

  ‘Fast and funny’

  Wondrous Reads

  Dedication

  For Gypsy, Pandora, Bella, Buttons, Snoopy, and J.R., my furry companions through life …

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Praise for Nic Tatano’s Debut Wing Girl

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Nic Tatano

  About the Author

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  The tortoiseshell kitten with one good eye and a limp awoke first, emerging from the ball of fur comprised of his three siblings. Light from the setting sun filtered into the abandoned room as he moved toward his mother, eagerly awaiting the quick bath she gave him every day. She was still asleep so he nuzzled her chin.

  She didn’t move.

  He bumped her with his head. Still nothing.

  Her mouth hung open. She wasn’t breathing.

  And she was cold.

  His heart rate spiked as he went back to wake his siblings.

  The three kittens stirred from their slumber and moved toward their mother.

  The tabby knew it was in trouble.

  The black and white tuxedo kitten felt pangs of hunger.

  The Russian blue kitten’s eyes filled with fear.

  Suddenly a nearby noise grabbed the tortoiseshell’s attention. His ears perked up. He couldn’t see very well or jump, but he was blessed with a very loud voice.

  He began to cry.

  My face tightens as the construction crew chief hands me and my photographer a hard hat each. “Do I really have to wear this?”

  The construction foreman nods. “Sorry, Miss Shaw. Unless you want a block of concrete falling on your head. The stadium is about to come down without the help of our demolition crew.”

  I roll my green eyes as I put on the plastic yellow hat, mashing my salon-perfect copper curls. “My two hundred dollar hair appointment this morning, shot to hell.”

  My burly, middle-aged photographer shakes his head. “Awww, poor Madison and her six-figure salary. Careful you don’t break a nail, Network.”

  Yeah, that’s my nickname, which I hate. Even though I’m a network television reporter.

  The foreman laughs as he puts his hard hat atop his thick gray hair. “High maintenance, huh?”

  The photographer nods. “She’s raised it to an art form. Who else wears four inch heels to a demolition story?”

  My jaw clenches. “I wouldn’t even be covering this if Joe wasn’t out sick. I am a national political reporter in case you forgot.”

  “How could I forget when you remind the newsroom every single day?”

  I shoot him my patented death stare as he moves in front of me and aims his camera. He turns on his light, walking backwards as I follow the foreman into the condemned structure, navigating my way through oily puddles. (Hey, don’t give me that look. Fine, so he was right about the heels. But they take me up to six-foot-two and since I’m one hundred forty-five pounds of solid muscle I like being the Amazon of the newsroom.) “Okay, we’re rolling. So, Mister Richards, tell me why demolishing a building with explosives is such an art?”

  “Well, you’ve gotta place the dynamite just right—”

  He stops walking so I do the same. “What?”

  He puts up his hand and points at a door. “Hang on. You hear that?”

  I lean toward it and listen. “Yeah. I think it’s coming from that room. You think someone’s in there?”

  “Not someone.” He pulls out a flashlight, turns it on and opens the door to a dark office. The high-pitched noise gets louder. “Well, well, we still have a few residents, I see.”

  “What, rats?”

  “Nope.” I follow the beam of light and see an old cardboard box filled with a bunch of crying kittens.

  And a mother cat that is obviously dead.

  The photographer aims his light at the box, brightening the room so we can see better.

  I move forward and crouch down to take a closer look. “Poor little guys. The mother cat died.” I look around, find a clean box and start to place the kittens inside. “You’re a lucky bunch of kittens. You almost got blown up.”

  And then one of them claws my brand new Prada jacket, pulling out a thread.

  “Sonofabitch! My brand new jacket!” I put the kitten in the
clean box and shake my head. “Can this day get any worse?”

  “Uh-oh,” says the photographer as he turns to the foreman. “You might not need the explosives. Mount Madison is about to erupt.”

  “Bite me, Ed.” I lift the box and stand up, then hold it out toward the foreman.

  He furrows his brow. “What do you want me to do with these?”

  “Find homes for ‘em. Your construction site, your kittens.”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry, young lady, but I can’t stop this project to take care of a bunch of orphaned cats. I love animals as much as the next person and I’ve got two cats at home, but I’m stuck here all night. And it’s obvious they need to be taken care of right away. I’ll bury the mother cat but as far as those kittens go, you’re it.”

  My face tightens. “What am I gonna do with four kittens?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno. Take ‘em to a shelter.”

  “On Friday night of a holiday weekend?”

  “What can I say?” He starts to laugh.

  “What?”

  He points at my hand. “I just noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring.”

  “That’s because I’m single.”

  “You live by yourself?”

  “Yeah. Why? You want my phone number?”

  “Nah, it just hit me. Thirtysomething unmarried woman who lives alone.” He points at the box. “You’ve got yourself a cat lady starter kit.”

  Stuck in traffic with four crying kittens is not my idea of a fun Friday night. I keep staring at the pull on my jacket, wondering if it can be fixed. And even if it can I would still know it’s there.

  Meanwhile, I have more pressing problems to deal with. I need someone to take said problems off my hands.

  I hit the hands-free button on the steering column to access my cell phone, then ask the robot with the clipped female voice a question. “Find all animal shelters on Staten Island.”

  Beep. “There are three animal shelters on Staten Island.”

  I pump my fist. “Yes!” Back to the robot. “Find an animal shelter on Staten Island that is currently open.”

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as the traffic begins to move. Beep. “There are no animal shelters currently open on Staten Island. The next shelter opening is at eight a.m. on Monday morning. Would you like directions?”

  “Sonofabitch!”

  Beep. “I do not appreciate your language. Please rephrase in a more dignified manner.”

  Just what I need, a snooty cell phone. “Why is this happening to me?”

  Beep. “Your question needs to be more specific. Please re-phrase it—”

  “Oh, shut the hell up!”

  Beep. “I do not appreciate your language. Please—”

  I pound the steering wheel, turning off the phone.

  There’s only one option left as I head for home.

  “Please, God, let him be home.”

  I bound up the steps of the house belonging to the veterinarian who lives next door. The kittens are still crying as I jam my finger into the doorbell several times.

  “Coming! Keep your shirt on!”

  “Thank you, God.” I hear footsteps and see a figure moving toward me through the beveled glass. The door opens and I exhale as I see my neighbor. “Jeff, so glad you’re home.”

  The fortyish vet with short salt-and-pepper hair looks at the box of kittens. “Madison, you shouldn’t have. What’s going on?”

  “I was doing a story on the demolition of the stadium and we found them in one of the offices. The mother cat was dead and they won’t stop crying and I know they’re hungry and I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow and could you take them—”

  “Whoa, hold on. I’ve got a plane to catch in a couple hours for my own vacation.”

  “Is there a shelter open?”

  “Not at this hour and kittens this young need to be bottle fed.” He takes the box from me. “C’mon inside, I’ve got some formula and bottles.”

  I follow him and shut the door. “Wait a minute … bottle fed?”

  The short, slightly built vet nods. “It’s pretty common for orphaned kittens. Same as feeding a baby. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

  “Me?”

  “Like I said, I’ve gotta go but don’t worry, it’s simple. From the looks of them, they need to be fed right now or they won’t survive.”

  He leads me into the kitchen, then pulls a cardboard box from a cabinet. He opens it, revealing half a dozen cans. My eyes widen as he pulls one out and I read the label. “There’s such a thing as formula for kittens? Can’t you just heat up some milk?”

  “They need special nutrients. This stuff is close to cat’s milk as far as what it will do for kittens.” He grabs a couple of tiny plastic bottles from a drawer. He opens the can, fills both bottles, then hands one to me. He gently takes the kitten that looks like a tiger and holds the bottle to its mouth. It latches on with tiny paws and begins to eat immediately. “Poor little guy is hungry. Go ahead, Madison, grab a kitten and feed it.”

  “Well, okay.” I reach into the box and gently pick up the kitten with all the colorful markings, then follow the lead of the vet. I can’t help but smile as the tiny kitten doesn’t take long to start draining the bottle. If only a photographer was here because this image is beyond cute. “Wow, he picked that up pretty quick.”

  “See how easy it is? You’re a natural.”

  “I’ve never done this with a baby. I’m an only child and didn’t work as a babysitter. I wouldn’t even know how to change a diaper.”

  “Well, now you’re a cat foster parent.” His kitten finishes the bottle. “And you can’t forget to burp your kitten.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Watch. Very gently.” He places the kitten on his shoulder and softly taps it on the back with two fingers until it lets out a tiny burp.

  I follow his lead with my kitten. It responds with a burp, then begins to purr, gives me a lick on my neck, then rests its head on my shoulder as it looks up at me. My anxiety seems to drain in an instant. “Awww.”

  Jeff cocks his head at the kitten. “He just thanked you.”

  I turn to look at the kitten. “You’re very welcome, little guy.”

  We feed the other two kittens and put them back in the box where they quickly move together into a ball and fall asleep. “Okay, Madison, there’s enough formula here to hold you for a couple of days. You need to feed them every few hours.”

  “Huh? Two a.m. feedings for cats?”

  “They need constant care. Right now they’re helpless. And keep them in a warm place. If you have a stuffed animal put it in the box and it will make them feel more secure. A ticking clock helps to take the place of the mother’s heartbeat.” He reaches into another drawer and pulls out a bag of cotton balls. “You also have to encourage them to answer nature’s call after you feed them.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The mother cat stimulates the area where they pee and poop with her tongue. You’ll have to do it with your finger.”

  Okay, that makes my face tighten. “Huh? I have to touch …”

  “You also need warm water and some cotton balls. I’ll show you how it works, and how to clean them when they’re done.”

  It tightens some more. “I’ve gotta bathe them too?”

  “No, but you have to keep them clean. It’s simple, Madison. Anyway, you can adopt them out in a few weeks.”

  My face has now reached the point where I look like a woman who’s overdosed on Botox. “Weeks? Did you say weeks?”

  “Yeah. Once they learn to take care of themselves.”

  “Jeff, don’t you know anyone who can take them? I’m supposed to be leaving for a vacation in the Hamptons. My boyfriend is picking me up first thing in the morning.”

  “Sorry, no foster homes for four orphaned kittens on a Friday night of a holiday weekend. Take ‘em with you. You’ll do fine.” He studies my face for a moment, then takes my hands. “M
adison, they’ll die if someone doesn’t take care of them. Honestly, I’d do it but—”

  I look at the ball of fur in the box and the guilt I feel reminds me where I came from. “That’s okay. Listen, thanks for your help.”

  “That’s the spirit. C’mon, you carry the kittens back to your house and I’ll get the supplies. Then I’ll write down all the stuff you need from the pet store and what else you need to do.”

  10:13 pm: First Feeding/Nature’s Call

  Jeff told me it helps to keep a log of feedings, so here we go.

  I have decided that my storm coverage gear is perfect for what I’m about to do next, so I don my rubber yellow slicker and matching hat. I add a pair of safety goggles as I have no idea how far a kitten can shoot.

  I’ve lined up the cotton balls and warm water.

  Four hours ago I was in a Prada suit ready for a vacation in the Hamptons. Now I look like a member of a Hazmat team about to rub my finger on a kitten’s … hell, I don’t even wanna think about what I’m going to do.

  I take a cotton ball and dip it into the warm water and grab the colorful kitten from the box. I take a deep breath, hold the kitten at arm’s length and turn my head as I have no desire to actually see what I can feel. Ugh. The grimace I see in the mirror is off the charts as I start rubbing the area in question with my finger and within a few seconds I feel something warm which smells really bad.

  “Ugh. Oh my God, this is so disgusting. I am never having kids.”

  I take a peek and see the kitten is done while my finger is covered with (too much information) so I toss the cotton ball in the trash, grab a fresh one and clean the little furball. Back in the box it goes, then I rush to the sink and pour a decent amount of rubbing alcohol on my hands.

  “One down, three to go.”