by Marie Landry
My lips lift in an involuntary smile. I don’t even question Meredith’s talk of the Universe anymore. Since she believes it, I’m open-minded enough to take to heart the things she says. “Maybe. I’ve never had a pet, so it didn’t occur to me I might be an animal person.” I think of the way Mrs. Gunderson’s cat responded to me. How much I liked her sweet little face and the sound of her purring. How comforting it was to wake up in the night and feel the weight of her body against my leg.
“You could be meant to have that sort of companionship. Especially if…” She trails off, shoving a fry in her mouth. Her wide eyes look guilty as they dart away from mine.
“Especially if Hugh does go back to Scotland?” I ask, and she nods. “Maybe you’re right.”
*****
As soon as Celia and I get home, I strip off my elf costume and put on my pajamas. Grabbing my woefully underused laptop, I settle on the couch and start looking up local pet adoption agencies. There’s a woman at work, Kathleen—Kat for short—who happily embraces being the office’s resident Crazy Cat Lady. She fosters cats, plus has at least a couple of her own. She’s always telling people how they should adopt, not shop, and since it never applied to me, my typical response was to smile and nod. Her lectures have clearly sunk in, though, because here I am seeing what’s required to adopt.
The minute I hear a rattling from outside, I rocket off the couch, nearly dropping my laptop on the floor. It’s like some part of me has been listening for that sound, hoping for it. I practically run to the balcony and wrench the door open. The cat doesn’t zoom inside like she did last time; instead, she sits outside the door, staring up at me with her huge, glowing eyes.
“Well?” I say, stepping back and waving my hand in a sweeping gesture. She lets out a hesitant meow. When I returned her to Mrs. Gunderson, I was so sure she felt betrayed; this time I feel her hope. I bend to pick her up, and she nuzzles against me, bumping her nose against my cheek. Tears prickle my eyes as I close and lock the door, and then I’m laughing at myself for feeling this amount of relief that she came back.
I fix her another plate of tuna and set it on the floor, along with a bowl of water. When I start to move away, the cat abandons her dinner and follows me to the couch. The entire rest of the night, she won’t leave my side. I think of Meredith and her talk of signs and the Universe.
I know what I have to do tomorrow. This cat is mine.
*****
The next morning, I march up to Mrs. Gunderson’s apartment. Between the cat’s reaction to her and her reappearance last night, I don’t even consider bringing her with me.
The old woman opens the door after my second knock, a cigarette that’s mostly ash dangling from her fingers. “You again. What do you want now?”
“Your cat showed up on my balcony again last night.”
She lets out an impatient huff. I nearly gag when the scent of her cigarette and coffee breath hits me. “That damn cat is more trouble than it’s worth. Don’t bother bringing it back. See if the shelter will take it.”
“You don’t want her?” My voice pitches high in a combination of incredulity and indignation. “Why would you even get a cat if you’re not going to take proper care of it?”
“I didn’t want it in the first place!” She throws her hands up, causing ashes to rain down around her. “My granddaughter ended up with a litter and couldn’t get rid of all of them. She wanted me to have one, said I needed the companionship or some BS like that. Never wanted the damn thing.”
Anger bubbles inside me. What would have happened if the cat hadn’t found her way to my apartment? Would Mrs. Gunderson have dropped her at the shelter? Or just let her waste away? “I’m keeping her,” I tell her. “She deserves much better than you ever gave her.”
Mrs. Gunderson shrugs her bony shoulders. “Fine by me.” She starts to shut the door in my face, but I stop it with my palm.
“What’s her name?” I ask.
She shrugs again. “Doesn’t have one.”
“You never named her?” If my voice gets any higher, only dogs will be able to hear it. “What about shots and stuff?”
“Had all of them at my granddaughter’s insistence. Spayed, too. Cost me a pretty penny.” Her beady eyes narrow, sweeping over my face. “Come to think of it,” she says slowly, “since you don’t have to do all that and I saved you all that money, maybe I ought to sell the cat to you.”
I almost laugh. The nerve of this old lady is unbelievable! Cocking my head to the side, I pretend to think it over. “You could. Or you could let me have her and I won’t report you for animal cruelty.” Her eyes go wide and her mouth pops opens. All that comes out is sputtering. “The cat obviously hasn’t been fed or cared for properly. You can tell just by looking at her. Plus there was her reaction to you…”
I allow the words to trail off, letting the threat hang in the air. Respecting my elders was drilled into me in my youth, and I can imagine the earful I’d get from my aunt if she heard me speaking to Mrs. Gunderson this way. But my aunt isn’t here, and respect should be earned. This crotchety old woman doesn’t deserve my respect, nor does she deserve that cat. My cat.
Without another word, Mrs. Gunderson slams the door in my face. Before she can change her mind, I scurry back down to my apartment. The door is barely open before the cat rushes over and winds between my legs. Experimentally, I leave the door to the hall open. If she makes a break for it, I’ll know it’s not me she really wants, so much as freedom from Mrs. Gunderson. I hold my breath as she goes to the door, sticks her head out, and gives a little sniff. She returns a second later and goes back to winding around my legs.
I close the door and slide against it until I’m sitting on the floor. Scooping the cat into my arms, I bury my face in her fur. “I guess I have a cat now.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By the weekend, my apartment looks like I’ve always had a cat. Kathleen was thrilled when I asked her to accompany me to the pet store on Friday during lunch. She helped me choose the right food and treats, litter, a scratching post, and some toys. She referred me to her vet so I could get the cat checked out, just in case Mrs. Gunderson’s neglect has any lingering effects.
Celia’s not happy with me, but I’m used to that. When I informed her I was keeping the cat, she told me to keep ‘the thing’ away for her, which I doubt will be a problem since the cat avoids her. Now I just need to decide on a name for her. I had thought of Midnight, but that seems too obvious. I toyed with the idea of Salem because I was a huge fan of Sabrina the Teenage Witch back in the day, but she’s much sweeter than Sabrina’s out-for-world-domination familiar. I ran a few other ideas by the cat to see if she had any reaction, but she always just blinked at me and flicked her tail, as if batting away my suggestions.
Bolstered by the decision to keep the cat, I decide it’s time to make a few more changes. With my bare living room walls in mind, I head to the bookstore on Saturday. The last time I was in, the owner, Piper, had just stocked a bunch of framed bookish prints.
As soon as I walk in the door, Piper rushes around the counter to hug me. “My favorite customer!” She gives me a squeeze-and-jiggle combo, sending her red ponytail swinging. “You’re actually just the person I was hoping to see.”
“Oh yeah? One of my coworkers at Santa’s Village keeps talking about signs and the Universe and stuff being meant to be. Now it seems like all these weird coincidences keep happening.”
“Meredith?” she asks, and I nod. I knew Hugh was friends with Piper, and Meredith must be too. “Some people say there’s no such thing as coincidence, you know,” Piper adds, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning. “I have some books I could recommend to you if you’re interested in learning more. For now, I have a question. Do you have time?”
When I tell her I have all day, she motions to one of the small seating areas scattered around the store. “Can I get you a coffee or tea? I just learned how to make London Fog lattes and they’re pretty good if I do sa
y so myself.”
“I’d love one. Thanks.”
She disappears into the back and I take the opportunity to check out the art prints. There are a variety of book quotes on different backgrounds—flowers, cityscapes, starry skies. My eyes gravitate to one with beautiful watercolor flowers and a quote from Anne of Green Gables: “Dear old world, you are lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.”
“I almost set that one aside for you when it came in,” Piper says from behind me. “I was sure you’d love it.”
“I do.” Closing my eyes, I picture it hanging next to the bookcase in my living room. Perfect. I take it to the counter and set it next to the cash register before joining Piper. “This is amazing,” I tell her after taking a sip of the latte. “You should think about selling these.”
She smiles, clearly pleased. “That’s actually part of what I wanted to talk to you about.” She sits back in her squishy chair, kicking her shoes off and tucking her legs up under her. “I know you’re busy at Quest and Santa’s Village, but I was wondering if you’d have time to work on some ideas for promoting the bookstore. In an official capacity, I mean. As in, I’d pay you.”
For some reason, this makes me laugh.
Piper takes it in stride, shrugging and laughing along. “I figured since marketing is what you do for a living and you love books, you might have some good ideas. I’d rather brainstorm with a fellow book lover than a company who might have generic and impersonal ideas, you know?”
“I’d be honored.” I’m trying to keep my cool, despite the fact I’m freaking out inside. Even though some small, secret part of me has always dreamed of owning my own bookstore, I’ve never actually thought it would happen. That hasn’t stopped me from daydreaming about how I’d run my own store, though. I would rock this job. “Are sales down?”
“Yes and no,” she says. “Since we don’t have a big chain in town, I have a loyal base of customers, plus we’re weirdly popular with the tourists. Probably because the building is old and cute. But people are buying online more and more these days. I’ve toyed with the idea of setting up a website, but I don’t know enough about how it works, and I’d rather get people into the store anyway.”
I hold up my mug. “Well, this is one way to do it. You don’t really have the space to become a bookstore-slash-café, but if you could offer a few refreshments for sale, it might draw in more people.”
We bounce ideas around over the next hour. Whenever customers come in, I take the time to jot down the thoughts flooding my mind. This job would be the next best thing to my dream. Maybe even better, because I wouldn’t have the responsibility of owning and running a store on my own. It would be the perfect way to combine my passion for books and my marketing know-how, plus get paid.
Piper flops into the chair across from me, startling me from my thoughts. “So, what do you say? Can I officially hire you and we’ll figure out the details from there?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely.”
*****
My awesome day turns into an even better night when I get two calls back to back: one from Celia, telling me she’ll be going out with people from work tonight, and one from Hugh asking if he can come over after the Village closes.
With a little over an hour to kill before Hugh arrives, I grab a notebook and start jotting down ideas for Piper.
-Book club where participants get a discount off each month’s book?
-Implement a store loyalty reward system?
-Social media contest—people take pics of the books they buy, themselves inside the store, at events that happen there, and then do a monthly gift card draw.
I’m still scribbling notes—and I do mean scribbling, because my brain is working at warp speed and my hand only moves so fast—when Hugh buzzes from downstairs. I greet him at the door, launching myself into his arms the moment he appears.
He lets out an ‘oof’ followed by a laugh as he wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my hair. “Nice to see you too.” He presses a kiss to the side of my head. Whatever he’s carrying bumps against my arm and then falls to the floor. “Ahh, fiddlesticks.”
I burst out laughing. “Did you just say ‘fiddlesticks’?”
He crouches, shooting me a grin. His attention shifts to the cat when she runs over to inspect what I now see is a box from the Village’s bakery. Hugh holds out his hand for her to sniff, then pets her in long, even strokes. I swear her eyes roll into the back of her head in sheer bliss. Can’t say I blame her.
“Aye, I said ‘fiddlesticks’.” Hugh gives the cat one last pat before scooping up the box and rising. He takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. “When you work with kids, you learn quickly to watch your language. Sometimes things burst out, so I’ve trained myself with creative alternatives.”
As soon as we sit down, the cat jumps up on the arm of the couch. She walks across my lap and stops with her front paws on Hugh’s leg, as if trying to decide which one of us to sit on.
“Fiddlesticks,” I say.
Hugh gives a dry chuckle. “I’m glad I amuse you so.”
“Fiddlesticks?” I say again, this time to the cat. Her ears flick. She stares at me for a minute before moving fully into my lap, resting her paws on my chest the way she did that first night. “Hugh, I’d like you to meet Fiddlesticks.”
“You’re naming her Fiddlesticks?” he asks, incredulous. At my nod, he cocks his head and studies the cat. “Suits her. And having her seems to suit you.”
“It does. Believe me, no one’s more surprised by that fact than I am.” I look at Fiddlesticks; she gives a slow blink, then closes her eyes. Turning my attention back to Hugh, I incline my chin toward the bakery box. “What’d you bring me?”
He lifts the lid and my nose is greeted with the rich scents of cinnamon, ginger, and sugary goodness. “I got a variety,” he says. “The baker was experimenting with gingerbread flavors and came up with a cupcake.” He angles the box so I can see the cupcake, slathered in thick frosting with a mini gingerbread person on top. The box also holds a cinnamon roll and a couple of cookies shaped like reindeer.
“Wanna split the cupcake?” I ask. Hugh nods and peels off the paper. He breaks a piece off and brings it close to my mouth. I’ve never been all that comfortable with guys feeding me, but his fingers are already covered in icing, which means I’d get sticky if I took it myself. I’m not sure Fiddlesticks would be too pleased with said sticky fingers in her fur.
“I figured this would be easier than attempting the whole cupcake,” he says, eyes on my mouth. “I wouldn’t want to smush the frosting all over your face.”
I open my mouth and Hugh gently feeds me the bite of cupcake. My lips brush his fingers. A thrill zings through me when he licks those same fingers, cleaning the icing off. Okay, so I guess there’s something to be said for letting a guy feed you occasionally. It shouldn’t have been a sexy gesture, and yet the air is suddenly charged. Hugh’s gaze returns to my lips as I chew and swallow mindlessly, only vaguely aware of the gingerbread flavor.
“You have a little something…” Hugh points to my mouth. He leans toward me, his breath warm on my face as he lingers for a moment before pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. “Sweet,” he says in a quiet, rumbly voice before his lips capture mine.
Fiddlesticks makes a disgruntled sound and slides down my lap. She doesn’t go far, because her weight shifts and settles on my knees. My awareness of her, along with everything else fades as I’m consumed by Hugh—his scent, his taste, the warmth of his body, the slow slide of his tongue over mine. Good god the man knows how to kiss.
His fingers have just found their way under the hem of my shirt when the sound of keys in the lock jolts me back to reality. The door swings open and Celia’s gaze settles on us. I expect her to glance away quickly like she usually does when she finds Hugh and me together, but she seems frozen, her wide eyes taking in the scene before her.
Hugh clears his throat and ease
s into an upright position. It seems to break whatever spell Celia is under. I have a second to see the twist to her lips before she turns to close and lock the door. She kicks her boots off haphazardly, letting them remain where they land, then sheds her coat and jams it on the coat rack. I inhale deeply, knowing a snide remark is imminent in three…two…one…
“Isn’t this cozy?” She whirls around, waving a hand in our direction. Her eyes narrow when she sees Fiddlesticks on my lap. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, so I’ll just go to bed and leave you to it.” She snatches her purse from where she dropped it on the floor and flees to her room.
The slamming of her door makes something in me snap. Fiddlesticks must sense it because she scrambles off my lap and ducks under the couch. “That’s it. That. Is fucking. It.” Hugh reaches for my hand as I stand, and I shake him off. “Sorry,” I say quickly, touching his hand where it still hovers between us. “I just need to deal with this.” I’m torn between begging him to stay and asking him to leave; I have a feeling a screaming match is about to ensue, and I’m not sure I want him to see that side of me.
“I’ll be right here if that’s okay,” he says. My relief must be visible because he gives me a small, reassuring smile as he settles back on the cushions. As I walk away, I hear him coaxing Fiddlesticks out from under the couch.
I march down the hall and throw Celia’s door open without bothering to knock. She yelps, tugging her pajama top into place. Oops. “We need to talk.”
She heaves a tired-sounding sigh. “Not now, Ivy. Go be with your lover boy and let me go to bed.”
“Not until you tell me what your problem is.” She rolls her eyes and moves toward me as if she’s going to shoo me from her room. I stand my ground, anchoring my feet and crossing my arms. “I’m sick and tired of you stomping around here, treating me like shit, and going off on me for absolutely no reason. I’ve tried over and over again to get you to open up, to do things with me, or at least to cohabitate peacefully, and you’ll have none of it. I’m not leaving here until you tell me why.”