Escape by Barbara Delinsky Page B

little blank screen, I felt liberated.
    In the same clean-slate spirit, I showered and, for the first time since leaving New York, blew my hair dry so that I could wear it down, and put on enough makeup so that I wouldn’t look sick. I did this for me—not for James or for anyone at work—just for me.
    When I reached the first floor, breakfast was being served in the dining room, where the large table was set and several guests werealready seated. The Red Fox buffet might have been more modest than the one in the Berkshires, but it was no less appealing. I helped myself to a poached egg and bacon, and put a slice of thick cinnamon bread in the toaster, then poured a glass of fresh grapefruit juice and took coffee from the urn. When the toast was done, I joined the group at the table.
    I got smiles from the five people there, the nearest being a woman close to my age, also alone. “Morning,” she said as I settled into a chair. “Are you here for the Refuge?”
    “I am.” In the broadest sense of the word. “You?”
    She nodded. “This is my vacation, third year in a row. I’ve been at the Refuge every day. I can’t have a dog, no room, so I hang with them here. They’re so needy, they just love you to bits, these dogs do. It’s the best feeling.”
    It was. The summer I was here, I had set out to work with dogs, but Kitty City had been two caretakers short. Some things happen for a reason; once I had cat fur on my jeans, I couldn’t leave. Cats are about subtlety and reserve. Since their trust is harder to win, it is that much more precious when it comes.
    In the years since that Bell Valley summer, a simple rub by a cat at the home of a friend had me aching to adopt. Though James wasn’t a pet person, he certainly wasn’t allergic.
    But to bring a cat into a home where it would be alone for endless hours each day was cruel. Cats might be independent and self-sufficient if given a litter box and a bowl of food, but they remain social creatures. Kitty City proves that. It isn’t that you’re mobbed when you open the door, but spend a week in Kitty City, and you’ll be greeted, in one form or another, by every cat in the place.
    Having finished eating, the woman put her dishes on a small tray by the kitchen door, waved at me, and left.
    By the time I finished my protein, my toast had gone cold. Back home, I would have eaten it anyway. But I wasn’t back home, and I had time to eat something else, and, yes, toast was the healthier choice, but the pecan muffin tops on the buffet looked too good.
    Indulging myself, I took one and returned to the table. I was eating slowly, enjoying the act of enjoying the taste of something rich and robust, when I sensed I was being watched. Guilt, I thought, and, sitting straighter, sucked in my stomach. But the sensation remained. I glanced up, found no one, glanced farther up—and caught my breath. Jethro Bell was staring at me. He stood at the center of a large, ornately framed painting, and though he was surrounded by family, the oils gave light to his eyes alone.
    The last time I saw this painting it was hanging in Vicki Bell’s family home. Jude had commented on the power of those piercing gold eyes, which was actually quite funny, since he had the same ones. Jethro had died long before Jude was born, but it was Jude’s eyes I saw now, as fiercely independent as ever.
    That stopped me short. Fiercely independent, but warm? Would I describe Jude as a warm human being? Passionate, yes. Totally, sexually hot. But did he genuinely care for people? Studying that painting, I saw passion in those gold eyes but not warmth. I didn’t see it in any of the family members portrayed here.
    With one last look, I returned to my breakfast. Better Jude watching me than a goon of my dad’s, I thought, but moments later, felt the eyes again. This time they belonged to Vicki, who stood at the kitchen door, clearly pleased to see me in public. She held my gaze for a minute before