Fiji smiled. “Nah. And usually, when he asks me, I call Bobo and he walks over. But I could see he had a pawnshop customer this morning, so I called you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” Manfred said, surprised to discover that was the truth. He hastened to add, “Some days I might be too busy, though.”

“Gotcha.” She turned to go back to her house. Manfred saw that Mr. Snuggly had bypassed them somehow and was now sitting right on the boundary between Fiji’s lush and lovely yard and the bare weedy ground in front of the chapel. His tail was curled around his paws. He could have been a striped statue for sale in a home decor shop. This was a cat who had mastered the art of stillness.

The sight of the pet sparked a thought. “Do you ever have to go to the pet funerals?” Manfred asked. The discreet sign at the side of the church, along the narrow driveway that led to the back, had fascinated him since he’d first read it.

“Not too often. And I don’t have to do anything, just so you know. Weddings, maybe seven, eight times a year. The pet funerals . . . the Rev will call to see if I’ll come stand with the bereaved owner . . . just to be a shoulder to cry on . . . oh, not more than twice a year.”

“So, does he pay you for this?” The second the words left Manfred’s mouth, he knew he’d made a mistake.

Fiji’s face went stiff. “No,” she said. “I go because we’re friends.” She spun on her heel to walk away.

“Hold on a minute,” Manfred said, making his voice an apology in itself. “I said that without thinking.”

“Right.” He could see he had not mollified Fiji. Manfred had no idea what to do to make it better between them.

She looked back at him, her eyes narrowed and her hands clenched. She huffed out a sound of exasperation. “Listen, Manfred, would it kill you to say the magic words? And sound like you mean them?”

Magic words? Manfred was totally at sea. “Ahhh . . .” he said. “Okay, if I knew what they were . . .”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Those are the magic words. And yet no one with a Y chromosome seems to understand that.” And off Fiji stomped, the drops from the previous evening’s shower blotching her skirt as she passed through the shrubs and flowers.

“Okay,” Manfred said to the cat. “Did you get that, Mr. Snuggly?” He and the impassive cat gave each other level stares. “I bet your real name is Crusher,” Manfred muttered. Shaking his head as he crossed the road, he was relieved to get back to his house and to resume answering queries for Bernardo.

But he stored a new fact in his mental file about women.

They liked it if you told them you were sorry.

6