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her neatly folded clothes. But through her open windows a cool breeze blew in, smelling pleasantly of the sea, and above the village rooftops the sunrise, this morning, was a wonder of watercolor tints, from pink to pale orange streaked among islands of dark clouds.
    The coastal foothills would be brightening now as the sun rose behind them, casting its light down on the small village, onto the narrow, wandering lanes and dark, leathery oak trees and the maze of slanted, angled rooftops, and reflecting from the windows of the little restaurants and shops—the morning sun sending its light into the windows of the Aronson Gallery onto her own drawings, picking out her work with fingers of light.
    What a strange sensation, to think that shebelonged to a gallery, that her work was to be part of a real exhibit. She still couldn’t believe her luck, not only to be included with six well-known artists but to see her drawings occupying more than half the gallery’s front window—a real vote of confidence for a newcomer. The exhibit had been a bonus out of nowhere, unforeseen and amazing.
    Four years of art school and two years trying to find her way as a commercial artist, a dozen trial-and-error, entry-level advertising jobs that she knew weren’t right for her, nor she for them, had led at last to the realization that she would never make a living in the art world. Her failure had left her feeling totally defeated—a misfit not only in her chosen field but in life. Only now, after she had abandoned all idea of supporting herself in the arts, had anyone been interested in her drawings.
    Reaching to her nightstand, she switched on the travel-sized coffeepot that she had prepared the night before, wondering if her flowered India skirt and sandals and the low-necked blue T-shirt were the right clothes for the opening or if she’d better try the black dress again, with the silver necklace her aunt had loaned her. She imagined the gallery as it would be tonight, lighted and festive, thinking about the crowd of strangers, hoping she could remember people’s names.
    As the scent of coffee filled the room she sat up, pushing her pillow behind her, and poured a steaming mug, blowing on the brew to cool it. Coffee in bed was pure luxury, a little moment to spoil herself before she started the day, pulled on her jeans and boots and a work shirt, and hurried out to be on the job by eight, installing Sheetrock and trying to figure out how to do things she’d never done before. She would not, once she got moving, stop again until dark overtook her, except for a hasty sandwich with her girls, maybe with Clyde,and with whatever subcontractor might be working.
    Leaning back into the pillows, she planned her day and the week ahead, laying out the work for the plumber, the sprinkler man, and the electrician, and watching, through her open windows, the sky brighten to flame, the sunrise staining the room, and laying a wash of pink over her framed drawings. Her studies of the two cats looked back at her, so alert and expectant that she had to smile. Dulcie had such a wicked little grin, such a slant-eyed, knowing look, as if she kept some wonderful secret.
    The portraits of Joe Grey were more reserved. Tomcat dignity, she thought, amused. Drawing Joe was like drawing draped satin or polished pewter—the tomcat was so sleek and beautifully muscled, his charcoal-gray coat gleaming like velvet.
    But his gaze was imperious. So deeply appraising that sometimes he made her uncomfortable. Sometimes she could swear that she saw, in Joe Grey’s eyes, a judgment far too perceptive, a watchfulness too aware and intense for any cat.
    Charlie didn’t understand what it was about those two; both cats had a presence that set them apart from other felines.
    Maybe she just knew them better. Maybe all cats had that quality of awareness, when you knew them. Her thoughts fled to last night when she had stood alone in the