The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club Read Online Free PDF Page B

and in surprisingly good condition.
    â€œIs OK, $550 then,” Mrs. Paderewski amended hopefully.
    A peninsula with bar stools separated the kitchen from the rest of the open space. The old hardwoods creaked under foot as Lacy moved into the living room. Realtors called a room “cozy” when they meant small. This one qualified as both, but the floor-to-ceiling built-in shelves on one wall would help Lacy make the space work. There was no separate dining room. She’d have to shoehorn her bistro set into a corner.
    She checked out the view of the courthouse. The old Opera House was on the corner to her right, next to the Coldwater Gazette . Across the Square, the Green Apple Grill was also within her line of sight.
    The bedroom was small, but it would handle her sparse furniture, and the closet would do for her newly pared-down wardrobe. She’d sold her Jimmy Choos on Craigslist before she headed west. Where would she wear them in Coldwater Cove? Besides, if a special occasion did present itself, she still had the strappy Manolo Blahniks she couldn’t bear to part with.
    The bathroom had a deep claw-foot tub. Lacy checked the water pressure. The pipes banged a bit, but the faucet flowed just fine. Hot water arrived before she counted to ten.
    Lacy had looked at half a dozen semi-depressing places that afternoon before meeting with Mrs. P. She saw duplexes with linoleum floors that looked as if someone had been flamenco dancing in football cleats on them. Big dogs were invariably chained in the neighbors’ backyards. This apartment was miles better than those and besides, this place spoke to her.
    â€œI’ll take it.”
    â€œGood.” Mrs. Paderewski smiled. A bit of her bloodred lipstick had smeared on her upper incisors, making her look like a middle-aged Polish vampire. “Oh, I almost forget. Is $25 pet rent, too.”
    â€œI don’t have a pet.”
    â€œWell”—Mrs. P waddled back to the kitchen—“now you do.”
    She followed as the piano teacher opened a door next to the refrigerator. Lacy had thought it was probably a pantry, but to her delight, the small space housed a stackable washer and dryer.
    And a litter box.
    A large Siamese glared down at her from the top of the dryer. How the cat had gotten all the way up there, Lacy had no idea. It yowled a greeting, which might be roughly translated as “Get your citified butt out of my apartment. I was here first.” The cry was punctuated by a sharp hiss.
    Lacy stepped back a pace. “I don’t want a cat.”
    â€œYou want apartment?”
    She nodded.
    â€œThen you want cat,” Mrs. P said, folding her arms over her ample bosom. “Is package deal.”
    â€œWhat if I’m allergic?”
    â€œAre you?” Mrs. Paderewski arched a pencil-thin brow at her.
    Lacy’s dad always recommended the truth. “It’s easier,” he’d say. “We forget lies. Tell the truth and you don’t have to remember what you told someone.”
    â€œNo, I’m not allergic,” she admitted.
    â€œWell, there you go. Is settled.”
    â€œBut I can’t have a cat. I’ve never had a cat.”
    It was a bit like being Republican or Democrat. Either you were a dog person or a cat person. Lacy’s family was filled with dog people.
    Dogs were faithful, friendly, and pathetically eager to please. Cats never let you forget the favor they bestowed on you by allowing you to serve them.
    â€œLast tenant left her, poor thing,” Mrs. P said, angling for a little sympathy for the creature. “She have no home.”
    â€œYou could take it to the animal shelter,” Lacy said. The way the cat bared its teeth at that suggestion, she probably ought to have it exorcised first.
    â€œThat I could not do.” Mrs. P. lowered her voice to a whisper. “If no one takes cat after little while . . .” She drew a finger across her throat.
    As if