Hemingway's Cats

by Lindsey Hooper

Genres: Animals; Romantic Comedy; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

“One cat just leads to another.” ERNEST HEMINGWAY
Inspired by the true story of the world-famous six-toed felines of the Ernest Hemingway House in Key West, Florida--and the fur-raising hurricane that nearly blew them away--Hemingway's Cats is a delightful novel packed with colorful characters, adorable cats, a little romance, and a lot of humor.
Laura Lange didn't come to Key West to fall in love. As a recent college grad--with a useless degree in English--she came to work at the historic Hemingway home as a tour guide. Why not? She wrote her thesis on the iconic author. She has no other job offers. And she's desperate. Now Laura is falling desperately in love--with the fifty-four frisky felines who freely roam the estate. These descendants of Hemingway's original cat have not only stolen her heart--they're changing her life in ways she never imagined . . .
First there's Nessie, the bushy-tailed house mother of the cats who seems to have adopted Laura, too. Then there's grumpy old Pawpa Hemingway; the cat thieves Chew-Chew and Whiskey; the big-pawed Boxer and Bullfighter; and dozens of darling kittens. The locals are lovable, too. Laura's having a great time with her boy-crazy bungalow roomies, the Crabb sisters, and especially the young, handsome cat keeper, Jake. But Laura's summer of fun is about to take an unexpected turn--a Category 5 hurricane is about to make landfall directly on their doorstep . . .
They can't possibly evacuate fifty-four cats. So Laura, Nessie, and all of their friends decide to hunker down in the Hemingway House to weather this storm--together.

Release date: May 25, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

Every morning, just before dawn, a funny thing happens on the southernmost island of the Florida Keys.

The sun refuses to get up.

Like a sleeping tourist who drank too many margaritas the night before, the sun buries its face under a blanket of clouds and tries to block out the sounds of the island’s crack-of-dawn risers.

First up is the long-haired lighthouse keeper. He whistles a classic rock song while tossing handfuls of birdseed onto the road. Come and get it! Then there’s the frenzied clucking of wild gypsy chickens, frantically eating their first-come, first-serve breakfast. It’s the Early Bird Special! Finally, there’s the fine-feathered, red-crowned king of them all. The Father of All Key West Roosters. Who needs an alarm clock? This old bird will tell you—ready or not—it’s time to get up.

When this cock crows, everyone listens.

Even the sun.

Some folks call the rooster Old Faithful. Others are more creative, coming up with names like That Damned Bird or something more colorful. The rooster doesn’t care. He lifts his head skyward, blinking once, then twice, to assess the morning light. It’s time. Extending his crimson-puffed neck, he opens his beak and lets out a piercing, full-throated ca-ca-ca-ca-caw! The sound has a crazy syncopation that’s somewhat off-kilter but somehow just right—sort of like the island of Key West itself.

It’s a sound that cannot, will not, be ignored.

In the air-conditioned rooms of the Lighthouse Hotel, startled vacationers stir in their beds, lift up their heads, and murmur, “Cock-a-doodle-what? Seriously?” This is not the wake-up call they were expecting. In the low-fenced yards of candy-colored bungalows, tiny green lizards scramble for the nearest shrub, trying to hide from a possible predator. And off on the horizon, the sun shifts and rolls, ever so slightly, as if reaching for the snooze button to get more shut-eye but finally realizing it’s time to get up.

Slowly, lazily—reluctantly—the sun rises over Key West.

It takes its sweet time at first. No need to rush things. Then suddenly, without further ado, it rises above the palm trees, spilling yellow-gold light over the entire island. Its warm rays shine across the shuttered shops and bars on Duval Street, the tour boats and sailboats bobbing against the docks, and the charmingly grand, two-storied Hemingway House with its iron-railed balconies and vintage green shutters. Everything under the sun gets the message:

Wake up, Key West. Time to rise and shine.

A cat also rises.

Sprawled out like a queen on the front porch of the Hemingway House—her favorite spot on the island—this magnificent golden-striped tabby twitches her ears and opens her sea-green eyes in the sun’s first rays. She yawns. Extending her front legs and wiggling her toes—six of them on each paw—she stretches her entire body until it reaches full length. She is large but not too large, about six years old, and wise beyond her years.

Her official name is Ernestine Hemingway.

Everyone calls her Nessie.

Nessie is just one of the fifty-four cats who roam the historic home, museum, and palm-shaded gardens of the famous Ernest Hemingway House. Being a cat, Nessie has never read any of the Nobel Prize winner’s acclaimed novels or stories. Also, being a cat, she has never actually counted the number of felines prowling the Hemingway estate—because cats can’t count. Nessie does, however, know each and every one of the cats personally. She knows them like the back of her six-toed paw—or however many toes she has.

Remember, cats can’t count.

The sun rises higher in the sky. From Nessie’s point of view, it looks like a giant firefly climbing one of the palm trees to the tippy top. She squints her eyes as slashes of sunbeams glare through the leaves. Dragging herself up, she moves to a shadier spot on the porch. Much better. She stretches again, yawns again, and considers going back to sleep. But then a loud thump—followed by a frantic scrambling of paws—makes it clear that sleeping is not an option.

The kittens are awake.

And ready to rumble.

First up are the twins, Chew-Chew and Whiskey. They’re a little older than the other kittens—and twice as rambunctious, like a pair of teenagers who just got their driver’s licenses. They zoom across the Hemingway House porch like cat-shaped race cars, streaking past Nessie in a blur of gray and white fur.

Double trouble, as always.

Then comes Spinderella. She’s a gangly prepubescent with gray and black stripes, gold-flecked eyes, and four comically large six-toed paws that are much too big for her body. She hasn’t learned yet how to control her oversized feet, and sometimes it seems as if they’re controlling her. She charges around the corner of the porch and tries to make a sharp turn—but her paws keep going straight. With a kittenish yowl, she slides and spins across the floorboards like a furry gray top, her tail whirling in the air until she slows to a stop.

Hence the name Spinderella.

Nessie watches the little cat as she tries to regain her footing. Dazed and confused, Spinderella shakes her little head, straightens out her paws, and scrambles off after the twins. As she scampers past Nessie, she trips over her own feet and almost slides off the edge of the porch. If Nessie could laugh out loud—like a human—she wouldn’t be able to contain herself. Instead, she swishes her fluffy tail back and forth.

It’s Nessie’s version of “LOL.”

Next up are the babies: Larry, Curly, and Moe. Three frisky bundles of whiskers and fur, the kittens hop, skip, and stumble across the porch in a free-falling jumble—like three balls of yarn tumbling out of a knitting basket. They’re even younger than Spinderella and still learning the fundamentals of walking and running and navigating the world on six-toed paws.

Just watching their antics makes Nessie feel tired.

Is it too early for a cat nap?

The trio of kittens zigzag their way past her. Eventually they manage to reach the far end of the veranda. But then Moe collides into Larry, who smashes into Curly, who falls and rolls and ends up at the bottom of a squirming kitten pile.

Nessie swishes her tail. LOL.

Poor little Curly tries to push her brothers off, but she can’t—so she starts mewling and crying for help.

Nessie to the rescue!

Jumping up from her shady spot, Nessie dashes across the porch and pushes the kittens off Curly with her nose. Free at last, the little tabby climbs to her feet and shakes herself off. Nessie gives her a nudge. Curly takes the hint and chases after her brothers as they make their way down the porch steps. Nessie meows after them. Then she returns to her spot in the shade—still sleepy but wide awake.

Who needs a cat nap anyway?

As the unofficial “House Mother” of the Hemingway cats, Nessie certainly has her paws full. Picking up clumsy kittens when they fall, breaking up unruly cat fights, chasing away the fence-climbing felines who terrorize the dogs across the street—Nessie is ready for anything. It’s not like she has to take care of every cat in the house. It’s just her nature. And being a cat, she has to follow her nature.

It’s what cats do.

Nessie gazes at the kittens playing in the grass. They’re fine. Satisfied, she tucks her legs beneath her gold-furred body and closes her eyes.

It’s her last chance to enjoy the peace and quiet of the morning.

Before the tourists show up.

And the chaos begins.

Meoooooooooow!

A loud screech echoes across the lawn, followed by a chorus of more screeches and meowing. The sounds escalate quickly, reaching a fierce and frenzied peak. Nessie lets out a sigh and opens her eyes.

What now?

“Children! Children!” a woman’s deep, rich voice rings out.

Nessie gazes across the lawn to see a middle-aged brunette standing in the center of a cat-fueled free-for-all.

“Break it up! Break it up!”

The woman—Margarita Bouffet—is the general manager of the Hemingway House. She’s very good at her job. But she’s not very good at managing kittens.

“Break it up, I said!”

Nessie thinks of Margarita as “First Lady” because she’s the first human to arrive every morning. On this particular morning, Margarita is wearing bright red cha-cha heels, Jackie O sunglasses, and a flowery yellow sundress that swirls around her legs as the kittens circle her ankles.

“Oh! That tickles!”

The twins, Chew-Chew and Whiskey, chase each other round and round Margarita’s legs—while Larry, Curly, and Moe try to join in. The baby kittens trip and tumble and bump into the twins, who play peekaboo behind Margarita’s dress before circling around again. Of course, Spinderella has to join the party, too. She puts her own unique spin on the circular cat chase—by getting in everyone’s way.

“Stop it, kitties! You’re getting fur all over my new shoes!”

Margarita bends over to separate the twins and push them away from the smaller cats. Chew-Chew takes off across the lawn, with Whiskey right behind her. Spinderella scampers off after them. The three young cats disappear around the corner of the house, leaving the baby kittens alone, wide-eyed and confused.

Hey! Where did they go?

Margarita chuckles at their expressions. She gives Larry and Curly a few gentle rubs behind their ears. Then she reaches out for Moe, but it’s too late. He’s off and running after the older kittens. His sisters jump up and follow him. Margarita chuckles again, shaking her head softly as she brushes the cat fur off her shoes. She straightens up with a groan, then turns to face the house.

Nessie is staring at her. With those big green eyes.

“Why, look at you! Her Majesty Ernestine!”

Nessie doesn’t react. Simply stares.

“You’re just going to sit there on your throne and let me do all the work, huh, Nessie?”

Nessie yawns.

Margarita steps off the grass and onto the walkway. “Oh, I’m just teasing, sweetie. I know you’ve got your eye on the kids. What would I do without you? Nessie’s my bestie!”

Nessie seems pleased.

Her tail—which resembles a fluffy feather duster—swishes from side to side, startling a tiny gecko behind a nearby flowerpot. Nessie yawns again. Then she lifts her hind haunches and stretches out her body full length. Butt in the air, chin down, front paws forward—it looks like she’s doing a yoga routine.

But Margarita knows better. She knows exactly what Nessie is up to.

She’s practically begging to be stroked.

Of course, being a cat, Nessie is much too proud to beg. She would never plead and paw for affection—like the shameless dogs across the street. No. She simply presents her golden-furred back and luxurious tail to a susceptible human and pretends to be pleasantly surprised when the stroking begins.

Margarita isn’t fooled.

“I know what you want, sweetie,” she coos, climbing the stairs of the porch. Her cha-cha heels click and clack on the steps like little firecrackers.

Clack! Clack! Clack!!!

Nessie jumps.

Margarita stops and laughs. “Don’t you like my new shoes, Nessie?”

Nessie eyes the red pumps suspiciously.

“I need to break them in before I go dancing,” Margarita explains.

Putting one red shoe forward, then the other, Margarita launches into a one-two cha-cha-cha. She hums a Cuban dance song under her breath, swaying her curvy hips to the beat. After a few twirls and taps, she smiles and winks at Nessie—who stares at the clacking heels nervously—then finishes the dance with a lively one-two-stomp.

Nessie pretends to be unimpressed. She yawns and arches her back.

Margarita laughs. “Okay, I can take a hint.” Bending down, she runs her fingers through Nessie’s golden fur.

Nessie purrs contentedly but keeps an eye on Margarita’s shoes—just in case they start clacking again.

“That’s a good girl,” Margarita coos. She crouches down and continues stroking, from ears to tail, until Nessie melts into a helpless puddle of fur.

“I have a surprise for you, Nessie. We’re getting a new tour guide today! Isn’t that exciting?”

Nessie is too blissed out to react. She closes her eyes while Margarita rubs her ears.

“Her name is Laura, and she’s a big Hemingway fan. She even wrote her college thesis on one of his books. What was the title again? Oh, yeah. ‘The Sun Also Rises and the Fall of the Male Ego.’ Whatever that means.”

Nessie yawns and stretches.

“Well, I’d better get her employment forms ready. She should be here pretty soon. She’s flying in all the way from Syracuse, New York. Imagine that!”

Nessie opens one eye.

“It’s very cold there, Nessie. Snows all the time. Not like here. I’m already sweating and the sun’s barely up.” Margarita fans her face with her hand. “I sure hope Laura can handle the humidity. It’s terrible this year.”

With a sigh, Margarita climbs to her feet and smooths out her sundress.

Nessie looks up, confused and annoyed that the stroking has stopped.

“Well, Nessie. If you see Laura, give her a big, warm Hemingway welcome and send her my way. I’ll be in the gift shop.”

Nessie waves her tail, as if she understands.

Margarita steps off the porch and heads toward the shop. After a few steps, she stops and looks back at Nessie. “It will be nice to have someone new here, don’t you think? I have a feeling that something big is going to happen. Do you feel it, too?”

Nessie stares back, as if she’s thinking about it.

“There’s change in the air,” Margarita continues. “It’s like . . . something’s coming. I feel it in my bones. Something . . . I don’t know.” She shrugs it off with a little laugh. “Whatever it is, I’m ready to rumba!”

With that, Margarita clicks her cha-cha heels and dances off to the gift shop.

Nessie watches her walk away. Then she repositions herself on her favorite perch and settles in, her legs tucked neatly beneath her golden-furred body. A warm breeze rustles the leaves of the palm trees overhead. It feels good on Nessie’s face.

More of the cats are awake now. Some of them are slowly prowling the yard as if they’re stalking something no one else can see. Others are frolicking and playing—taking advantage of the early-morning temperature before it’s too hot to move. Chew-Chew and Whiskey are back. So are the kittens. Curly and Larry are rolling in the grass, swatting at flies. Moe is sitting perfectly still on the main path, staring intently at a tiny pebble. He thinks it’s a bug. Or it might be a bug.

Just because it doesn’t move doesn’t mean it’s not a bug.

Moe isn’t taking any chances. He continues staring. Other cats walk around him, paying him no mind. But one of them—a slinky female named Eartha Katt—stops to see what Moe is staring at. Before long a few others join them, a small circle of very interested cats looking down at a pebble.

Nessie swishes her tail. LOL.

She starts to close her eyes when a sudden gust of wind blows across the island. It rips through the palm trees with surprising force, blasting the leaves and bending the trunks until they sway back and forth like hula dancers who’ve had too much caffeine. The sun disappears behind a large gray cloud, plunging the whole island into darkness. Nessie gazes across the yard. Most of the cats have stopped in their tracks, frozen in place. Some of them are running for cover. Nessie moves closer to the house—and braces herself.

The wind picks up momentum, tearing palm fronds from the trees. One of them crashes down on the roof of the gift shop with a loud bang.

From inside the shop, a voice rings out, “What the heck . . . ?”

The door swings open. Margarita steps out, takes one look at the wildly swaying trees, the angry billowing clouds, and the first fat drops of a heavy rain, and steps back inside.

There’s change in the air.

Margarita sticks her head out again and looks toward the house. She can barely make out Nessie through the sudden downpour: a golden fluffy cat shape nestled against the front door.

The wind delivers another punishing gust. The palm trees bend in unison. The rain intensifies.

Something’s coming.

Margarita looks down at her new red cha-cha shoes and wonders if she should risk ruining them to make a mad dash to the house. Maybe she could do it barefoot? While she’s thinking through her options, a funny thing happens.

The rain stops.

The wind dies down to a gentle breeze, and the sun reappears from behind the clouds. Almost immediately, the warm rays of light begin drying up the wet puddles on the ground. The palm trees stand up straight again, as if nothing ever happened. A minute later, the cats come out from their hiding places.

Well, that was weird, Margarita thinks. She’d seen plenty of summer storms before but never so quick, so short, and so intense.

“Are you okay, Nessie?” she shouts across the yard.

Nessie meows back.

The sun rises a little higher in the sky. The kittens are back in the yard again, lifting their paws high with every step as they cross the dampened ground. Larry and Moe lick raindrops off the grass. Curly joins them. Everything seems fine now, so Margarita goes back to work in the gift shop and Nessie returns to her favorite spot.

Time for that cat nap.

Nessie closes her eyes. A soft breeze wafts across her face and gently ruffles her fur. It feels good. Inside the shop, Margarita hums a folk song she remembers from her childhood in Cuba. On the street beyond the fence, the gypsy chickens cluck softly as they search for crumbs left behind by the lighthouse keeper. And two blocks away, a car makes its way down Whitehead Street—probably the next wave of tourists coming to check into the Lighthouse Hotel.

All is well on the island of Key West.

Nessie can relax now. But she can’t shake the feeling that something is about to happen. Like Margarita, she feels it in her bones. Her whiskers, too. Either way, there’s nothing she can do but wait for it to happen. Until then, she’ll just lie here and enjoy the breeze and take a nap and—

Screeeeech!

A car with squeaky brakes pulls to a stop outside. A door opens and slams. Something—or someone—tumbles onto the road with a thud and a grunt.

Ooof!

The gypsy chickens go crazy, cackling and clucking like it’s the end of the world.

Squawk! Squaaaawk!

A young woman screams.

“Help!”

And so it begins.

Laura Lange knew Florida would be hot.

But not this hot.

She’d barely taken three steps outside the Key West International Airport and her clean white shirt was already soaked with sweat. Of course, flying in a tiny ten-seater plane did nothing to help her stay calm, cool, and collected. Neither did dragging a large rolling suitcase, carry-on, backpack, and shoulder bag out to the sidewalk to catch a cab.

“Need a ride, miss?”

Laura looked up to see a woman with dreadlocks leaning against a pink taxicab. She spoke with a lilting Jamaican accent, wore a Bob Marley concert shirt, and flashed a smile so big you could probably see it on Google Earth. Her taxi had a bright yellow sign on the roof—Marley Car Service: The Best in Key West—and the doors were decorated with musical notes and palm trees.

Laura smiled as she struggled with her luggage. “Yes! Thank you!”

“Let me help you with those,” the woman said, popping open the trunk of her cab. She walked over to Laura and picked up the biggest, heaviest suitcase. “Whoa,” she grunted. “You don’t mess around. Planning to stay a while?”

Laura laughed. “Yeah. For a few months, at least.”

The woman loaded the suitcase into the trunk with a grunt and reached for the carry-on, which was just as heavy.

Laura smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I have a lot of baggage.”

“We all do, honey.” The woman closed the trunk and glanced at Laura’s sweat-soaked shirt. “Enjoying the humidity?”

“Uh, not really. I’m from upstate New York. It snows, like, nine months of the year there. I thought this would be a nice change of pace.”

“Speaking of nice, I like your bra. Very pretty.”

Laura glanced down at her chest and winced. Oh, man, really? Her white shirt was almost completely see-through from the sweat. Laura groaned.

“Welcome to the Conch Republic,” the woman said with a big smile. She gestured toward a large sign above the airport entrance. It said: Welcome to the Conch Republic.

For a second, Laura wondered if she’d boarded the wrong flight.

The woman explained. “Back in the eighties, some of the locals tried to make Key West its own country. The Conch Republic. It didn’t happen, but the name stuck.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Are you a conch?” Laura asked. She had read that people born in Key West were referred to as “conchs” after the island’s famous spiral seashells. Then she remembered the cabdriver’s accent. “Or are you from Jamaica?”

“No. Chicago,” she said, dropping the lilt in her voice. “My grandma came from Jamaica. That’s how I learned the accent. I use it for the tourists. Helps me get better tips. But seeing that you’re staying a while . . .” She shrugged and held out her hand. “The name is Mama Marley, which isn’t real either. I’ll be your driver this morning. Here’s my card.”

Laura smiled and took the bright pink business card. “I’m Laura. Laura Lange, which is my real name. I think. Unless my mom is lying.”

“You never know. My mother told me I was allergic to the sun, to try to keep me from moving to Florida.”

“My mom’s not thrilled about me coming here either.”

Laura made a mental note: Call Mom. Let her know you didn’t die in a ten-passenger plane crash.

She climbed into the back seat of the. . .