Stitches In Time by KATHY

replaced the top, and hurried back inside.
    She made two more trips upstairs, carrying down her laptop and an armful of books, which she arranged on the table. There had been no sign of life from Adam, and as the cats began to make unsubtle suggestions about food she wondered what to do about her own dinner and Adam's. Surely he didn't expect her to cook for him? A recluse like Adam would probably prefer to gnaw a cold bone in private. He could forage for his own bones, if that was his preference. There were enough leftovers from the party to feed both of them for days.
    After feeding the cats she turned on the TV and inspected the refrigerator. She was tired, and in no mood to work. Why not take the evening off, relax—maybe get a little drunk? She deserved it. There was half a bottle of white wine in the fridge. She took it out, filled a plate with hors d'oeuvres, and settled down on the lumpy old couch to watch the news.
    She had to fight Figgin for the smoked oysters and Patches for the deviled eggs. After he had licked the empty plate thoroughly, Figgin settled down on her stomach and went to sleep. The other cats lined the top of the couch like a furry frieze, and the dogs settled down on the hearth rug. Snores and purrs and the weight of Figgin, warm as a hot-water bottle, had a soporific effect that was augmented by two glasses of wine. Sleep came over her so gently she wasn't aware of dropping off until she woke, stiff and disoriented, some hours later.
    Rachel blinked sleepily at the clock over the sink. It couldn't be that late. Almost one a.m. Had she slept, solidly and without moving, for five hours?
    She must have moved or shifted position at some point. And reached, half-conscious, for the afghan that had been folded across the arm of the couch. It was spread over her now. Yawning, she sat up and stretched, and then realized she was the focus of several pairs of staring eyes. Two of the cats still slept, curled in a huddle on the chair, but Figgin sat bolt upright on the arm of the couch, his glowing orange-yellow eyes fixed on her. The dogs were awake too, and they were also watching her. Worth, the black labrador, looked like a sleek statue of The Noble Dog, ears pricked and alert. The little mixed-breed, part hound and part spaniel, whom Cheryl had named Poiret after another famous designer, stared back at Rachel with big mournful eyes.
    Their final visit to the comfort station in the back yard must be overdue. "Sorry, guys," she said, heading for the back door. There were a lot of doors in the house—too many doors, if one were inclined to be nervous about burglars. The family room had two, the "side door" the family normally used and another opening onto the porch and the fenced yard. The dogs were so anxious to get out they shoved past her when she opened the porch door.
    It was bitter cold. She could hear twigs and branches cracking. The moon looked like a globe of solid ice, and under its cold rays the frozen grass was colorless as snow.
    By the time the dogs consented to come back in, Rachel's teeth were chattering furiously. After locking and bolting both doors and distributing the final treat of cat and dog crunchies, she turned out all except one of the lights, selected a book with which to read herself to sleep, and left the room.
    The long nap had been a mistake. It hadn't refreshed her; every muscle ached with weariness, but mentally she was keyed-up and edgy. She might as well be alone in the big, sprawling house for all the aid and comfort she had received from Adam. A lot of help he was, squatting in his quarters like a Neanderthal in his cave. Was he going to behave like this for the rest of the week? Gentlemanly reticence was all very well, but he didn't have to treat her like a leper.
    Filled with righteous indignation and increasing uneasiness, she made the rounds of the downstairs, checking the doors. Had she locked the door of the shop securely, put up the chain? She had better make