The spoiled black and white kitten had circumvented Nem’s rule of no relationships when she’d spied her in the window of a pet store. She resembled Patch and so how could Nem leave her there mewling at passersby?

She’d considered calling her P-Two but decided she didn’t need a reminder of that day two decades ago. Instead, inspired by one of her favorite authors, she named her Emily. As in Wuthering Heights Bronte, Emily.

Fifty pages in, and despite as usual enjoying Austen’s Regency era world, her mind had wandered to mundane activities. Shopping for a new coat. Whether she should eat Chinese or Italian for dinner. And career ideas, because giving up her job bothered her. She’d miss Diane. Hey, that was the point, to distance herself from friendships.

Nem glanced at her empty plate and cup and attempted to convince herself to go make another. She would, after she finished this chapter. She returned to the story and, as she continued, wondered what happened to Austen’s characters, Elizabeth and Darcy, after they married? And what might have become of the intelligent, witty young woman if she hadn’t won his heart? Might she have started a business, or met a warmer man, or remained a spinster but a contented one?

She enjoyed the happy endings, but they weren’t realistic. The prince and princess didn’t always live happily ever after. Now that makes for a far more interesting story. More so, if written well, than conclusions wrapped up in clichés. No matter how many times she reread this book and other favorites, they traveled the same paths to similar destinations. She wanted a different ending.

She ran a hand over Emily’s head and mused on the top-selling authors’ books she’d read in recent months. The spoiled cat purred and rolled over to expose her stomach and Nem obliged her desires, scratching and cooing to her.

A strange thought entered her mind like a swooping bird, surprising her from overhead. In an I’m-talking-to-a-cute-fluffy-creature tone, she addressed Emily.

“Hey, my little friend, what if instead of reading someone else’s novel, you and I write our own story?”

There, the idea was out. Nem sat in silence, staring at the ceiling; she saw herself hunched over a blank sheet of paper. Her curiosity chased after the image for a moment, and she laughed, thinking, that’s ridiculous.

She caught the little dream and turned it over in her mind, seeing herself holding her own book against her chest, proud of accomplishing such a thing. Then she threw away the thought for its complete silliness.

Her an author? Yeah, right.

In an instant, a question flew at her with such force she felt as if struck by a big, fluffy ball.

What’s so ridiculous?

Nem leaned down to the purring Emily and lifted her friend to eye height.

“Crazy, right?” she said meeting the cat’s stare.

Her purrs sounded as if they were a reply, No-thring. No-thring. No-thrrring. No-thing.

“Is that your true opinion or are you smart enough not to bite the hand that feeds you?”