Fed up by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page A

stance. I sat the frightened Inga on a towel in my lap and tried to work on getting the knots out of her fur. After only a few minutes with a metal grooming comb, I gave up. Her body was covered in matted snarls that almost seemed to grow like tumors from her skin. I imagined that she must be terribly uncomfortable; I knew how I’d feel if some mean person were yanking my hair twenty-four hours a day. “You will have to go to a groomer tomorrow, my little friend.” Unready to get up and explore her new home, Inga remained motionless in my lap.
    I ran my hand across the top of her head and scratched under her chin, the only places without tangled clumps. “I couldn’t help Francie, but I can help you.“ The little cat rewarded me with a small purr. In spite of a disapproving glare from Gato, I offered Inga a small dish of his dry cat food. When she had eaten hungrily, I carried her to the living room, flicked on the television, and held her until it was time to get ready to go out for dinner.
    Newbury Street, where Simmer was located, isn’t just any old ordinary Boston street. Especially around Simmer, near the Boston Public Garden—home of the Swan Boats and the setting of Make Way for Ducklings —it’s lined with art galleries, high-end clothing stores, fancy cafes, and trendy restaurants. On my graduate-student budget, I couldn’t afford the outfits that would’ve let me be mistaken for one of the beautiful people who spent money on Newbury Street, but I did change into something more worthy of Simmer’s fancy location than the hanging-around-and-grooming-a-cat clothes that I had on. In other words, I wore black. Because I was hesitant to leave Inga alone with my cranky Gato, I’d put her in my bedroom with food, water, and a litter box, and shut the door. I wouldn’t be gone all that long, and I hoped that she’d eat and take a good nap while adjusting to her new, safe home.
    Then I drove downtown and scanned the street for a space. Parking in this congested area of Boston was always a challenge, but it was a bit easier on a Tuesday night than it would’ve been on a Saturday night. It had been a while since I’d eaten at Simmer, but with Josh’s work schedule what it was, visiting him at the restaurant was sometimes the only way to catch a glimpse of my overworked chef. I had Inga to thank for the rare chance to see him twice in one day. Since the parking garages and lots in the area were breathtakingly expensive, I’d gotten good at spotting legal spaces on the street, at finding spots on side streets, and at squeezing my car into miniature spaces. Tonight I snagged a place around the corner from the restaurant. I had to pin myself between two BMWs, but getting an actual metered space at all was a good sign.
    The patio outside Simmer was packed, but inside there were only a handful of customers. Although Josh said Mondays and Tuesdays were typically slow nights at most eateries, I found it disheartening to see the large room so empty. The tiled floors and the warm colors of the walls softened the angularity of the modern light fixtures, the square tables, and the high-backed chairs. The room’s earth colors were welcoming, and I was pleased to see candles lit on each table and in sconces on the walls. Keeping candles in stock and replacing the ones that burned down was a challenge. Simmer used dozens every day, and no one who worked there wanted to add candle duties to the already long list of tasks to be done daily.
    I waved to the hostess and helped myself to a seat at the bar. I wished that Ade had come with me. Eating out alone was lonely, but if I’d stayed home, I’d have moped in front of the television by myself watching Bret Michaels in reruns of Rock of Love.
    The general manager, Wade, strolled behind the bar and checked for empty bottles. Because Wade was salaried, he often ended up working the bar so that the owner, Gavin, didn’t have to pay another employee. “Hey, Chloe. I