Buch lesen: «The Lost Cats and Lonely Hearts Club: A heartwarming, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy - not just for cat lovers!»

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. “Madison, 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.”

Twenty minutes later I’m done.

Twenty minutes after that, the Silkwood shower I’m taking runs out of hot water.

12:02 am: Second Feeding/Nature’s Call

I had just drifted off to sleep when the loud one started crying again.

Jeff was right. They’re on schedule.

At least I don’t need another shower for this part.

Oh, wait. I have to clean them after feeding them. Curses, foiled again.

I prepare four bottles with the formula and line them up on the kitchen table. As I sit I grab the colorful kitten from the box. He already knows the routine as the moment I put the bottle to his mouth he latches on and drains it. “Awww, you were hungry again, huh?” I put the little guy on my shoulder, burp it, and repeat the process with the other kittens.

I feel a twinge of maternal instinct as I look at the adorable tiger kitten sucking on the bottle, but the memory from two hours ago blows it out of the water.

Because I have to do the Hazmat routine again.

The hot water in the shower runs out after eight minutes, apparently not having had enough time to re-load.

I have got to get a bigger water heater.

3:14 am: Third Feeding/Nature’s Call.

I must look like an extra from The Walking Dead as I shuffle into the kitchen to prepare the bottles. Bleary-eyed I get the kittens fed. The colorful one gives me a soulful look when he’s done with his bottle and for a minute I feel guilty about complaining. The poor little thing has lost its mother and I’ve only lost sleep.

Hazmat suit. Alcohol. Shower.

4:20 am: Bad Dream

Not me, one of the kittens. The colorful one started screaming and shaking. I held him close so he could hear my heartbeat. He calmed down after five minutes. Not sure if kittens have nightmares or if he woke up, couldn’t find his mother and freaked out.

That feeling is so familiar to me …

5:44 am: Fourth Feeding/Nature’s Call

I’m too tired to stand up in the shower so I take a bath. I glance in the box and see them all looking at me.

“Guys, don’t do that. You’re too damn cute.”

They keep looking at me.

“Stop it.”

They don’t.

They’re just too cute.

And something tells me they know it.

8:01 am: Fifth? Sixth? Who the hell knows. I’ve lost count and can’t focus on the log.

The sun woke me up this time before the kittens started crying so I’m actually semi-awake while on my third cup of coffee. I can’t help but smile as I look at the kittens huddled together in a ball, fast asleep.

“Well, guys, we made it. Through the first night, anyway.”

I can’t believe it, but I actually feel some pride in what I’ve accomplished.

The fact that I’ve saved four lives gives me a warm feeling.

Which is good, because the water heater gave up the ghost.

8:29 am

I trudge toward the front door to answer the bell. I open it and see my boyfriend’s face immediately drop. “Geez, Madison, you look like hell. You can’t go to the beach party this afternoon looking like that. I thought you were going to get your hair done yesterday? I mean, there are going to be supermodels there.”

It should be noted that my significant other of the past eight months often has no filter and says things that embarrass me in public. According to my best friends this is a major problem, but one I deem fixable even though he has on occasion made my face match my hair. He also tends to gawk at pretty women when we’re together, even commenting on them, but I’m working on that one as well. Actually, there’s a pretty long to-do list. But as you know, some guys take longer to mature. So let’s go with that. “Thank you, Jeremy. And good morning to you too.” I shake my head as he comes inside.

My tall, lean boyfriend takes my shoulders, studies my face with his pale blue eyes. “You sick?”

“Nope. Been up all night.”

“Well, you can sleep in the car. We’ll find a salon when we get there.” He reaches for the suitcase that I packed days ago and stops. “What’s that noise?”

I point toward the cardboard box with the kittens. “The reason I was up all night.”

He walks over to it and takes a look, then runs one hand through his thick, dark hair. “Okay … why do you have a bunch of kittens?”

“Long story.” I give him the quick recap. “Anyway, they can’t take care of themselves so we’ve gotta take ‘em with us. And stop at a pet store along the way for their groceries.”

He puts up his hands. “Whoa, hold on a minute. You want to take four orphaned kittens to the Hamptons? And we’ve got to bottle feed them every few hours? Which means getting up in the middle of the night?”

“No choice. Can’t find anyone else to take them and the vet next door is out of town on his own vacation.”

He shakes his head. “Madison, I rented a great place and have reservations at some incredible restaurants. The whole week is planned out. We’ve got an invite to the best beach party of the summer in the Hamptons. We can’t take a bunch of cats.”

I put my hands on my hips. “So, what, we’re gonna just leave ‘em here?”

He shrugs. “They’re just a bunch of strays that no one would want.”

Okay, the lack of a filter just crossed the line with the one thing that sets me off. “You do know that I was basically a stray.”

“What, because you were an abandoned baby and grew up in foster homes? We’re talking about cats, Madison, not people. They would have died anyway if you hadn’t found them.”

“Are you serious? Leave them here and let them starve to death?”

“Let nature take its course.”

A large red flag starts heading up the pole. “I cannot believe you. Are you that cold?”

“Madison, be serious … we’ve been looking forward to this vacation for months. This is the Hamptons we’re talking about. Think of the celebrities we’ll meet and the accounts I can pick up. C’mon, let’s go. You’ll forget the whole thing once you see the beach.”

I can’t believe it. My boyfriend is selfish and actually lacking in compassion. Just as my best friends have told me. How did I not see this for myself until now? Because the incredible sex had your rose-colored glasses firmly in place, dumbass. A loud meow distracts me and I turn to look at the box of kittens. Four desperate sets of eyes, filled with hope, seem to look right into my heart, like no person ever has. The colorful one meows again and locks eyes with me if to say: You’re all we’ve got. Please don’t leave us. How could anyone throw away precious lives like that?

And why would I want to keep dating someone who would?

As a reporter, I often see things in black and white, and this is one of those times.

I turn back to Jeremy, narrow my eyes and point at the door. “Get. Out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out of my house.”

“Madison, c’mon. Calm down—”

“Oh, I’m very calm. You just showed your true colors. And now I owe those kittens for showing me what kind of person you really are.”

“You’re serious? Madison, we’ve made plans.”

“So go find a new girl at the Hamptons and make plans with her. Someone selfish who doesn’t like responsibility or respect life. Considering your bikini radar, it shouldn’t take you long. We’re done, Jeremy. Out. Now.”

He throws up his hands. “Fine. Enjoy your week-long vacation with a bunch of strays.” He spins on his heels and leaves, slamming the door.

I stare at it, my relationship closed like the door. “I’m a stray. We stick together.” I feel my eyes well up but the sharp meow grabs my attention. I quickly move to the box and see the colorful kitten standing in front of the other three. “Oh, the loud one again. I guess you’re the spokesman for the litter.” I pick up the box and bring it in to the kitchen, setting it in a sun square. “C’mon, guys. Time for breakfast. And thank you for showing me what I couldn’t see before.”

I hear the whispers from the next aisle as I wheel my shopping cart through the pet superstore.

“I’m telling you, it’s her.”

“No way.”

“Molly, that’s Madison Shaw.”

“Get real, Joe. You think someone on network TV goes out in public like that? The woman looks like she just rolled out of bed and combed her hair with an eggbeater. Trust me, that is NOT the redhead you drool over on the evening news.”

I can’t help but laugh as I push the cart around to the next aisle. The young couple in front of me studies my face. What the hell. I stick out my hand and flash a big smile. “Hi, I’m Madison.”

The woman’s eyes widen as she turns beet red. “Oh my God, I am so sorry—”

The man’s jaw simply drops and hangs open like a trophy bass. “Uh, I, uh …”

I laugh as I wave my hand like I’m shooing a fly. “Pffft, don’t worry about it. This is the real me. Pretty scary without the hair spray and makeup, huh?” I pat the guy on the shoulder. “Sorry to blow up your fantasy, dude.”

The man looks down at the floor, his face matching his wife’s. “You’re still … naturally beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

The man looks up and shoots me a sheepish grin. “I’m, uh, a fan.”

The woman rolls her eyes. “I think she got that part, Joe.”

“Yeah, thanks to your big mouth.” He turns back to me. “Nice to know you’re a real person.”

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever been referred to in that manner. Though we do have quite a few plastic androids in the business, so I get it.”

He looks in my cart and spots the formula. “Ah, you’re taking care of an orphaned kitten.”

“Four of ‘em. Found them while doing a story yesterday.”

“Wow. And you’re taking care of all four?”

“Yep.”

“Well, your stock just went up. Our cat was an orphan. They make the best pets. It’s like they know you’ve saved them. You gonna keep all of them?”

“Just until I find homes for them in a few weeks.”

The guy starts to laugh. “Yeah, right. Trust me, there’ll be one that you just can’t give away.”

“Whoa, fright night.”

I shrug as my best friend Rory stares at my disheveled hair, formula-covered t-shirt and sweatpants featuring cat hair, her hazel eyes wide in disbelief. “Yeah, I get that a lot lately.”

The slender brunette moves forward and hugs me hard. “Freckles (her nickname for me), why didn’t you call me yesterday when you broke up with Jeremy?” She pulls back and takes my face in her hands. “God, you look devastated. You’re a wreck. Have you even slept?”

I usher her inside. “That’s not why I’m wearing the Raggedy Ann summer collection and have designer bed-head.”

“Wait, hold on. You’re not upset about Jeremy?”

“Nope. Let me show you why.” I lead Rory over to the box of kittens.

“Oh my God, they’re adorable!” She kneels down to get a closer look. “And they’re so little. Whoa, wait a minute. Why do you have all these kittens?”

I tell her the story, how they actually led to the breakup. “So, I sort of owe them for showing me the light about Jeremy.”

“Well, I can’t tell you—”

“Please, don’t give me the I told you so. You warned me enough times about him. You were right.”

“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you the guy you’re dating is a selfish, superficial sonofabitch.”

I nod as she sits on the couch. “I defer to your feminine radar in the future as mine obviously isn’t in working condition.”

Rory has always been spot-on about men since she became my best friend in high school and saved me from some bad decisions. (Though obviously I don’t always listen to her.) She’s a half foot shorter than me, about five-four, and has that girl-next-door thing going, fresh faced with never a spot of makeup. Couldn’t care less about appearances. But she makes up for that with an incredible personality that attracts men like moths to a flame. And she’s quite the wordsmith, working as an advertising copywriter out of her home across the street. It’s like having a sister a hundred feet away.

I may as well tell you the story of how she saved my life.

Life began for me, at least the part I can confirm, in a New York City park restroom, where I was abandoned shortly after being born along with a note.

I am unable to take care of my child. Please find a good home for her.

My name comes from the two police officers who followed the sound of a crying baby and found me. Two cops whose last names were Madison and Shaw brought me to social services, where I began the journey of being shuttled between six foster homes over the next eighteen years.