Merlot pressed against my calf, his warbling meow pleading for me to quit standing around and provide him with food and water. He’s a big boy, a red Maine coon cat with a giant appetite. I opened the pantry and took out three cans of tuna cat food, thinking how I should have followed through—phoned my stepdaughter, Kara, and asked her to see what was up with Tom. Kara worked part time for Tom’s security business when she wasn’t running the Mercy Messenger, our small-town newspaper—or when she wasn’t supervising the construction of her new house on the outskirts of town.

I snapped open each can, and the noise brought the other two cats racing from wherever they’d been. Chablis, my seal point Himalayan, and Syrah, my amber Abyssinian, were as hungry as Merlot. They never ate much when I took them with me on business, but their semifasts ended as soon as we arrived home.

Why not call Kara now? I thought, setting three dishes of food and a stainless-steel pan of water on the floor in the utility room. I always used stainless or glass because plastic dishes are toxic to cats and can give them mouth sores or make them sick.

Kara is my stepdaughter, my late husband’s only child, and though she was an observant young woman and probably knew exactly how I felt about Tom, I never wanted to seem too romantically interested in him. She liked him, worked well with him, but the whole thing between Tom and me seemed awkward when it came to Kara. I felt as if calling her to ask about Tom would be like saying, “Hey, have you seen my boyfriend? The one who is slowly taking your father’s place?” No one could ever take her father’s place in my heart, of course, but it might seem that way to her.

“Oh heck,” I said aloud. “Quit with the mind games and do something.” I had to find out what was going on. Now.

I took my phone from my jeans’ pocket and stared down, gripping it as tightly as Chablis hangs on to her banana catnip toy. Call Kara. Do it.