“Here you go, sweetie. Say hi to Auntie Peggy.”
Peggy’s lips stayed in a thin line, arms crossed. “Angie. Be a dear and unhand that animal. I’m not, nor will I ever be, his ‘Auntie,’ and waving him in my face won’t change that.”
Pouting, Angie brought the ginger kitten to her own chest, cuddling him. “Okay, so Auntie Peggy’s a sourpuss. Don’t let her get to you, buddy.”
Peggy’s eyebrows arched toward her hairline. “Sourpuss, really? Is that your attempt at irony?”
Nuzzling the kitten’s fur one last time, Angie set him on his feet, watching him pad off into the next room. “It’s my attempt to get you to grow a soul, English.”
“Oh, I see. Not wanting a cat makes me a heartless shrew, does it?”
“But he’s not our cat, Peggy, he’s Tony’s.”
“His litterbox is in our home. I know, because I’m forced to see and smell it every day. That makes him our cat.”
Angie heaved a terribly dramatic sigh. “You rolled around in the trenches of Europe and everywhere else for years, but you can’t handle a little kitty litter. Unbelievable. Anyway, don’t you remember how excited Tony was when we gave him his first pet?”
“When you did, you mean.”
“I saved you having to shop for a birthday present, didn’t I? But think how happy he is now, with the pet he’s always wanted. He’s a little boy, Peg, he gets lonely. Lonely boys need pets.”
“Yes. A pet he gets to stop in and muck around with for a few days, then leave us to care for its basic needs. I’m certain that he’s quite pleased with the arrangement.”
“You can’t leave a cat at Howard’s place, Peg, that’s just inhumane. The little guy would get into one of those crazy experiments Howard keeps lying around everywhere, and he’d end up with three heads. Or Howard would run out of broke college kids to test stuff on, so he’d experiment on the poor guy himself. Either way, it just ain’t right.”
“Indeed. Remind me again why Mr. Jarvis couldn’t house this pet that Tony needed so desperately.”
“He’s allergic, English, come on. You want him around all that cat hair, lungs closing up, practically keeling over. What kind of friend does that?”
“The kind who doesn’t like cats. Or their fur. But since I can’t be rid of the thing without breaking Tony’s heart, thank you for that, by the way, will you at least acknowledge what’s really going on here?”
“What are you talking about, English?”
“I told you I didn’t want a cat, and you used my six-year-old godson to get one anyway. He’s your cat, Angie.”
Angie put on her scandalized face, hands on hips. “He is not my cat, Peg, and I wish you’d stop sayin that.”
The doorbell rang before Peggy could retort. Not that any response she gave would’ve mattered. Shaking her head, she crossed to the door, pulling it open. Jarvis stood before her, smiling in greeting.
“Miss Carter.”
“Mr. Jarvis.”
“Young Mr. Stark is quite looking forward to seeing you. And Miss Martinelli, of course.”
“Call me Angie already, Fancypants!”
Ignoring her lover’s outburst, Angie had made the same request for at least ten years now, Peggy looked past Jarvis. Tony was out of the car parked in her driveway, rooting around in the backseat. “Mr. Jarvis, are you sure it’s us he wishes to see, and not the ginger furball who seems to have taken over my home?”
“I…I’m certain it’s a combination of both, Miss Carter.”
Jarvis’s poker face was still rubbish. “Of course, what was I thinking?”
Tony came dashing up then, a rucksack over his shoulder and a ball of yarn in one hand. He hugged her with his free arm, briefly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hey, Aunt Peggy. How’s Puck?”
Fighting the muscles in her lips that wanted to curve upward, Peggy stepped aside, expansively gesturing toward the interior. “Why not find out for yourself?”
Tony grinned, bolting over the threshold. Instantly, he was chattering away with Angie, their voices mingling with soft meows. Saying her goodbyes to Jarvis, whom she was quite sure had no allergies to speak of, Peggy closed the door, and set aside Tony’s rucksack, tossed hurriedly to the floor. Taking a seat on the couch, she waited a good fifteen minutes as Tony and Angie fussed over the cat. By the time Tony remembered to take his things to the guestroom, Puck trailing along at his heels, Angie was flushed and grinning, and their floor was covered in a massive trail of string.
“See?” she asked, throwing herself down next to Peggy on the sofa. “Look how happy Puck gets whenever Tony shows up. You still think he’s my cat?”
“Do I still think Puck is your cat? Puck, named after Shakespeare’s character? Unless Tony forgot to mention a recent fascination with the Bard, then yes, yes I do.”
“He asked for suggestions! Better that than Einstein. Or Graham Bell. Or Tesla.”
“Yes well, you have a point about Tesla.”
“See, you love him, I knew it.”
“You know no such thing.”
“Hey, you love that Tony has an excuse to come here every weekend now.”
Another fair point. Resigned, Peggy pulled Angie close, pressing a sound kiss to her lips. “Fine. But when that creature starts gifting us with dead mice, you’ll be the one to deal with it.”
Angie bounced on the cushions, much the same way her honorary godson had back at the door. “You’re the best, English. Now come on, let’s go see how Tony’s doing with his cat.”