His mouth opened and closed in what was, from here, a silent “mrr”; then he did what he would have done if we’d been in the same room, which was ignore me.

“Horrible cat.” I started the car and headed to the library, but I was smiling. Seeing his furry face behind the lace curtain had been pretty funny. Why he’d decided to climb up there, when he’d never been interested in that particular climb before, was another unanswerable Eddie question to add to the list.

I mentally added to the list throughout the day and was still adding to it when I walked through the front door of Lakeview Medical Care Facility.

“Why,” I asked Heather, one of the many outstanding certified nursing assistants at the facility, “do his hairs end up in places he’s never been, up to and including the library’s freezer and the couch at my parents’ house in Dearborn?”

“You’re talking about your cat, not your fiancé, right?”

“This time, yes.”

“Do you really want to know?”

I laughed. “Probably not. What’s the book of the month?”

The two of us were in a comfortable living room–type space. Couches and armchairs abounded, with plenty of space for wheelchairs. A couple of years ago, I’d begun stopping at Lakeview to visit a friend of mine in rehab after a stroke. During that time I’d developed a friendship with the fortyish Heather and we’d concocted a Book of the Month read-aloud program. Residents voted on the book they wanted to hear, and volunteers dropped in to do the reading. We now had so many volunteer readers that the books were almost being read quickly enough to change the program’s title to Book of the Week.

“Snow Falling on Cedars.” Heather handed me a bookmarked copy. “They’re up to chapter fifteen, and don’t let him tell you any different.”

“Him who?” Although I had a good idea who she was talking about.

“Me!” said a proud voice. “Maxwell Compton at your service.” Max, skinny, severely arthritic, and at least eighty-five years old, thumped his narrow chest.

“Interesting.” I rubbed my chin. “And here I always figured your name was short for Maximilian. Or maybe Maximus.”

“Wouldn’t that have been fun?” He sounded wistful. “But back to the critical point our Heather just made, I’m quite sure we’re only starting chapter fourteen.”

Heather laughed. “Try telling that to Mrs. Bryant. You know she barely tolerated that chapter the first time, let alone a second.”

“Please?” Max wheedled, clasping his hands. “Her memory is worse than mine. She’ll never know the difference.”