“It’s quiet

too quiet,” Hannah recited the line she’d heard in dozens of grade B cowboy movies. The line always occurred right before the Indians attacked, and even though Hannah knew exactly what was going to happen, those four words still put her on the edge of her seat. She felt like that now, just waiting for Moishe to kick up a fuss. Finally, unable to stand the tension any longer, Hannah got up and headed to the coffee shop to see how her furry friend was doing.

As she pushed open the door, Hannah heard someone speaking in the artificially high voice people tend to use when they’re talking to infants. The source of the sound was Sophie, the wardrobe mistress, but there was no baby in sight. The handsome sweetums Sophie was addressing was none other than Hannah’s cat!

Moishe was holding court at the big round table by the window. He was sitting in the middle of the table, a rumbling, purring centerpiece surrounded by doting admirers. It was no wonder her cat was content. Hannah counted no less than five hands petting him. As she stood there watching, she heard other terms of endearment, sweety love, magnificent fellow, and cuddlewuddles among them. Everyone at the table seemed to be worshipping at the throne of Moishe, and Moishe took it as his due. He was squinting in pleasure and wearing the biggest kitty smile Hannah had ever seen.

“Pushover,” Hannah murmured as she passed by the table, but she wasn’t at all upset. Moishe was a glutton for affection and it was clear that he was having a wonderful time. As long as the kitty fans kept coming in and the fawning continued unabated, bring-your-pet-to-work week might not be the nightmare she’d envisioned this morning.

Lisa was just passing out the box lunches that Sally had sent for the crew and cast when the bell on the front door tinkled and Hannah looked up to see Dean Lawrence. Lynne was with him, holding his arm, and her college friend looked fabulous in a fifties-style sweater dress. Her hair was fashioned in a pageboy style and Hannah came close to hearing the strains of “Love Me Tender,” or “Hound Dog” from a long-dead Elvis as she looked at the sort of girl he would have admired.

“Smell,” Lynne said, holding out her wrist, inside up, the way they used to do when they’d gone shopping and sampled everything at the perfume counter. “Bet you ten bucks you don’t know this one.”

Hannah sniffed and then she laughed. “You lose. It’s Evening in Paris and my grandmother used to wear it.”