by R A Muth
If my memory served--and I was pretty confident it did--then there wasn't space inside either the attic or the kitchen for a full-sized human, at least not a tall, muscular one like the man standing in my living room, to hide. There's no way he could have seen what happened in the Livingston kitchen from an adjacent room without Gavin and me also seeing him.
Using my free hand, I reached into the front pocket of my work apron to ensure the bottle was still there. Pulling it free, I held it in one hand while waving the remote at the man as a warning not to come any closer. He backed to the other side of the room before I took stepped forward and placed the bottle on the coffee table. Pointing the remote at him again, I ordered, "Have a seat in that chair. You've got a lot of explaining to do."
"Ye rubbed the bottle in the attic," Rune began.
"I brushed the dust off with my fingers so I could read the label."
"Aye, that's what rubbing is, lass, and, in doing so, ye bound me to ye."
"I what now?"
"A ginger lass with the mark of the sea must rub the bottle and repeat: Rua le tionchar na farraige. Beidh mé igcónaí faoi cheangal duit."
"Okay, but what does it mean?" I had no desire to waste time sorting out riddles in whatever language that was. Hazel would be back here soon. If I didn't get this guy out of my home, my bestie would call her brother to come and do it for me, which was the last thing I needed.
"I can give ye a loose translation. Red with the mark of the sea, I will always be bound to ye. Ye're a ginger lass, meaning yer curls are red, and I'm guessing somewhere on yer body, ye have the mark of the sea." He looked me up and down, his eye color deepening a shade or two.
A blush crept from my neck into my face as the lilt of his words fell into silence. There was no way I was going to reveal the seashell-shaped birthmark on the bottom of my right hip. A mere handful of people had ever witnessed it, including Duffy, Hazel, my parents, and my primary care physician.
"I'm right, aren't I?"
I defaulted to a trick Duffy had always used on me. When presented with a question you didn't want to answer, change the subject with a question of your own. "This is crazy. So, what? You're a cat who turns into a human?"
"Something like that, now that ye freed me from that forsaken bottle. Do ye understand how long I've been waiting for someone to come along and do it?"
"Kind of like a virgin lighting the black flame candle to resurrect Winnie, Mary, and Sarah Sanderson over in Salem?" Much to my dismay, Rune didn't react to my reference to Hocus Pocus, my all-time favorite Disney movie. I exhaled, the air coming out in a whoosh that puffed my cheeks a little. "Fine, Aladdin. If this is true, then how did you get into the bottle? How did it come to be in Mrs. Livingston's attic? And how long was it there?"
"Whist, lass." At my confused expression, he laughed and amended, "Quiet. I can only answer one question at a time, and I told ye. I'm called Rune, not Aladdin."
I'd let him talk, but as soon as he finished, he had to go. I put the remote on the coffee table as I sat on the couch but pointed it at him as if it held power to pause or mute him at the press of a button.
Wouldn't that be nice? I thought. Something else occurred to me, and I blurted, "Wait! Before you start, answer me this. Does the fact that you came out of a bottle make you a djinn? And if so, do you have to answer my wishes? How many wishes do I get?"
"I'm no djinn, but I am bound to my rescuer, and, unless ye're thick as bricks, ye might have noticed my rescuer happens to be ye."
Chapter 11
"Do you know the Talamh Taibhse?" Rune asked, settling into the chair. Lacing his fingers together, he rested his hands across his stomach.
Keeping one eye out for the cat, which I hoped was hiding out in another room of the house, I shook my head. "Nope. Never heard of that before. What is it?"
"It's the Fairy Land, lass."
"So you're like Tinkerbell?"
"Tinker-who?"
"Tinkerbell. Peter Pan's sidekick? Julia Roberts played her in the movie, but she was no match for the cartoon version." Rune's blank expression, combined with his cluelessness about Hocus Pocus, showed he wasn't much of a Disney fan. Pity. I could have used a movie-binging buddy. With a dismissive wave of my hand, I urged, "Whatever. Go on with your story."
"Very well. I shall start at the beginning. One night I was coming out of the Purty Kitchen when a ball of thread rolled past the tips of my boots."
"You were in a pretty kitchen at night?"
"No, lass. It was the local."
"The local what?"
"The local pub."
"Why do you call it the local?"
His eyebrows narrowing, he exhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring from the effort. "Because it's the nearest one to where my aul man and wan live."
"Aul, who? Wan, what?"
"Pa and Mum, lass. Now whist. Will ye let me finish?"
I was uncomfortable with having a strange man in my home, regardless of his gorgeous features. Listening to his lilting voice, which was hot enough to cut a frozen stick of butter, was not exactly torture, though, so I conceded, "Sure. Go on."
"So, I kept following the ball of thread until it ran out, and there stood a lass so beautiful, I could scarcely stand to look at her. If someone asked me how the talent was, I could say I'd let her give me a few bobs, but the truth was that her beauty struck me dumb as a stump. While I stood mute before her, she held out a shiny red apple."
Much of what he said was incomprehensible to me, but like any girl familiar with fairytales--and you can be sure that I was--I understood the power of a shiny red apple. "Like Snow White's stepmother?"
"Snow, who's what now?"
"Snow White, in the fairytale where the evil stepmother turns herself into an old woman who peddles apples? And she saves the biggest, shiniest one for Snow White because she poisoned it in secret before leaving the castle." I stared at him. "Oh, come on! You must have heard of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”
Rune sighed. "Ye're not serious about any of this, are ye?"
"It's entertaining, but I'm merely waiting for you to finish so I can have my cat back."
"Right, then. So, the lass held out the very shiny, non-poisonous apple, which I considered a sign because jes' as we got to the pub, I found a Saint Patrick ha'penny."
"A what?"
"A Saint Patrick ha'penny. They're good luck, or so I thought."
"So, did you accept the apple?"
"Of course. I wasn't one to refuse a gift from a lass like herself. The minute I bit into it, though, I went rubber and lost my marbles. When I woke up, nothing looked right."
A look of sorrow crossed Rune's features when he paused, and I was surprised when a smidge of sympathy threatened to work past my skepticism. Unsure how this related to his claim that he was the cat I brought home from the Livingston mansion, I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and urged, "Go on. What do you mean 'nothing looked right'?"
"What I saw wasn't like any part of Ireland ye'd ever seen. I was in a glass boat, and the boat was run ashore of a magnificent coastline with sand as fine as fairy dust and the color of white gold. Bell song carried on the wind, a light tinkling sound." As he spoke, he gestured with his hands, and I found myself picturing the scene in my mind as he described it.
"And then what?"
With a disarming smile, he continued, "When I got out of the boat, I followed it to a long table laid out with the most brilliant dishes of every kind of food ye'd wish to have in yer belly. Before I could take anything, a gingernut with the biggest pair of knoc-"
"Oh! No, you don't!" I recognized where my guest was headed with the term and narrowed my gaze at him. Duffy was fond of that term--and ones far worse, too. Now that he was gone, my home would remain vulgarity-free, no matter how mild it may seem to others.
When Rune stared back at me with a blank expression, I ordered, "Human, cat, hobo, djinn, whatever you are, you'll watch your language as long as you're under my roof. Are we cl
ear?"
"Aye, lass. I do understand, and ye have my apologies."
The stranger at least had the decency to appear contrite, which was more than I could say for my ex-husband. "Thank you. Please don't let it happen again."
"I shan't." He paused a moment before saying, "Where was I? Ah, the gingernut, Maebe. She was a looker. When she offered her hand to me, of course, I took it. She stepped closer, and I can wager a guess at what might have happened next if her sister Deirdre hadn't belted me upside the head with another of those apples. Maebe claimed she jes' meant to feed me, but Deirdre was having none of it. Before I knew it, she put a curse on me and stuck me in that bottle."
"Uh-huh." Sarcasm dripped from my words, but I didn't care. I was born at night, but not last night.
Rune's shoulders slumped. "I can see ye think I'm half a bubble off true, but I swear, I'd not tell ye a falsehood!"
"Sure, and I'm assuming you being a cat is part of the curse?"
"Aye. Except jes' the person to whom I'm bonded to can see me in my pure form. And that person is ye, lass."
The one thing that kept me from laughing was the sound of the door to the dooryard opening, followed by Hazel's voice calling, "Tori? Are you home? How's the cat enjoying its new life at Chez Madison?"
"You stay right there," I lowered my voice, ordering Rune while pointing to the chair. Looking over my shoulder, I replied, "We're in the living room. You're not going to believe this!"
"Aw, there he is," Hazel cooed. "So, what won't I believe?"
Whipping my head back around to look at the chair, I sat in stunned silence. Where the tall, dark, handsome Irishman sat mere seconds before was the black cat I'd brought home from the Livingston mansion. What the heck?
"Um, how quick Rune settled in once I got his litter box all set up." I looked at the cat as I spoke and could have sworn it smiled at me.
"Rune? That's a neat name. It sounds mystical." Hazel crossed the living room in a few steps and bent to pet the cat, who rolled on its back and batted the air with its paws. "Someone has made himself right at home, hasn't he? Oh, look, Tori, he's asking for a belly rub! This fluffy little monster is too adorable."
"Yeah. Adorable is the perfect word for it." The cat rolled its eyes and resumed his playful batting against Hazel's wiggling fingers.
"He's so clean, for a stray. Do you plan to have him vetted if nobody claims him?"
"Oh, for sure, I'll make sure they give him shots for things like distemper and rabies. It's probably a wicked good idea to have him neutered, too."
The cat made a noise that was something between a chirrup and a growl, and I bit back a smile.
Hazel cooed, her voice rising in pitch, "Aw, you don't like the idea of having your widdle bits snipped, do you? Tell your new mommy that you'll be a good boy, won't you? You fuzzy-wuzzy cuddly fella."
Oh, this was wonderful. My best friend had descended into full-blown baby talk. Using Duffy's strategy for the second time that day, I asked, "Have you heard from Marci or her cousins yet?"
"Yes, she called and asked again if we could meet with her. I told her I'd text her when we finish at the brewery." She explained as she continued showering the cat with attention. When I didn't answer right away, she added, "And we're going to have lunch first. It's my treat. Do you prefer Chinese food or pizza?”
A loud grumble emanated from my stomach, as I had not eaten since before we set out earlier that day. The sound sent Hazel into a fit of giggles. I grinned and said, "My stomach says pizza."
"Awesomesauce! Grab your coat and meet me in the van when you're ready." Turning on her heel, she left the room. I craned my neck to see her disappear through the dooryard door and pull it closed behind her.
Chapter 12
When the door clicked shut, I turned back around in my seat. You could have knocked me off the sofa with a feather. There in the recliner, looking even more handsome, if possible, was my resident Irishman.
"So, what did you do with my cat?" I asked, not willing to admit his unbelievable story might be true after all.
"I'm right here, right meow," he purred, much to my chagrin.
Did people during his time enjoy puns? Wait, his time? Ugh. I couldn't, wouldn't fall for whatever scam he was running. "Listen, I don't have time for this. Can you please explain in as few words as possible what's going on here?"
"Jes' ye can see me, lass. Whenever anyone else is around, I take the form of a cat."
With no choice for now but to believe him, I commanded, "Fine. In that case, you stay here. I'm going with Hazel and hope this other job pans out since someone seems to have murdered Mrs. Livingston."
My handsome houseguest sighed, his shoulders sagging as if weighed by whatever thoughts he kept to himself. "When will ye return, lass?"
"I'm not sure, but you have food in your bowl." Lifting my phone, I smirked, tapped the camera icon and snapped his picture. A glance at the screen confirmed the camera captured whoever this was and not my new cat. "There we go. If you rob me blind while I’m gone, now I have your picture to submit along with the police report."
I left the startled-looking Irishman standing in the middle of the living room as I walked toward the kitchen door. Opening it, I called over my shoulder, "Be a good kitty while I'm gone. I'll be back in a few hours."
Perhaps it was my imagination, but I could have sworn that I heard the distinct hiss of an angsty feline as I closed the door behind me.
"I'm so grateful that you ran into Asher over the weekend," Hazel remarked as I settled into the heated passenger seat and clicked the seat belt into place. "And he said this is all outside work?"
"Well, the sheds are behind the actual brewery, but we have to go out there to see the full extent of the work."
Hazel stared ahead and mumbled. When I asked what she said, she repeated a bit louder, "I hope the snakes are hibernating."
I groaned and shuddered in my seat as my brain conjured the image of neglected sheds housing a den of slithering reptiles.
While I took a few deep, calming breaths, Hazel squeaked out the word, "Sorry" between giggles.
"Wasn’t Asher trying to get one of Mrs. Livingston's beach plum plants?" I asked, changing the subject. The fruit thrived in New England’s sandy coast. Although sour when eaten straight off the plant, the fruit was wicked popular among locals who used it in recipes for everything from jam and chutney to pies and cobblers. The limited quantity made it that much more desirable.
"Mhmm. Well, Asher's mother was, but it's the same difference, as they and Thom all have equal shares in the business."
"I love beach plums. They're my favorite fruit. Anytime Ivy has fresh, sugar-dusted donuts filled with beach plum jam at Mocha Joe's, it is a good day. They're how I got these hips." I wiggled in the heated seat for emphasis.
"Those hips don't lie," Hazel quoted a line from one of our favorite Shakira songs, and I couldn't help but laugh. Once we caught our breath, she continued, "Mandy Leigh wrote something about the beach plums for her Careless Whispers blog. The plants are dying out due to things like development and overharvesting. The controversy is that some of these commercial micro-farmers are experimenting with cross-pollinating with other fruits, and it changes the shape, size, and flavor of the beach plums. They're sacrificing originality for speed and profit."
"Yeah, I can see where that would be a problem. I mean, I wouldn't like it if the Little Dog Diner in Misty Harbor to start raising hybrid crustaceans for their lobster rolls."
Hazel took one hand from the steering wheel long enough for a quick fist pump. "Mhmm! They're perfect as they are. Changing the nature of the ingredients would be no different than changing the recipe itself."
The van slowed, and I saw that we had reached our destination. At the edge of the property, a sign the size of a baby elephant read "Blue Bear Brewery" in a less-than-subtle shade of cerulean.
"Well," Hazel said as we passed by it. "Someone's overcompensating."
I simultaneously
giggled and felt ashamed for agreeing with my bestie. "It was probably the work of Elizabeth Sparrows.”
"Right? The poor guy can't take two steps without his mother running alongside him, trying to micromanage his every move."
"Watching how she treats Asher makes me glad my mother moved to Georgia with my stepfather. When she returned to attend Duffy's funeral, she was a big help. After that, though, not so much. I was relieved when she left."
"I bet. Not to be rude, but your mom got on my nerves, and I only spent a fraction of the time with her that you did! So help me, if she'd said 'poor Victoria' one more time…" Hazel didn't finish, and I didn't prod. The barn-turned-brewery came into view, and we both openly stared, our mouths gaping open.
"Wow. Asher and Thom have done a lot with this place since I was here last," I finally said. A couple of weeks before Duffy passed away, he and I had our final date night at the brewery. We arrived separately and left separately. The next day, I found out he was cheating on me with his secretary when her husband took all three of their lives.
Pulling me from my memories, Asher stepped through the barn doors and, spotting the van, smiled and waved. We exited the vehicle and met him on the long front porch, where a couple of stray cats slept in an errant ray of sunlight.
"This place looks awesome!" I enthused.
Asher grinned, the expression more bashful than smug. "Thanks, Tori. Your Beetle’s still out of commission?”
“For now, yeah. Hopefully not for too much longer!” I noted the tone of my voice bordered on shrill and paused for breath. “And you remember Hazel, of course.”
Asher turned toward my bestie. His smile rivaled that of a toothpaste model. “Of course, I remember Hazel. How are you? And how’s that husband of yours?”
"Hey, Asher, we’re good, thanks. I love the way you've painted the barn blue. You've got quite a theme happening here," Hazel said, laying on the charm.
From the way Asher beamed at us, I guessed her flattery worked. He explained, "Market research shows blue is a color that appeals to a lot of demographics, which is great as our goal is to give the brewery a family-friendly environment. Mom created a recipe for a non-alcoholic blueberry lemonade fizz. It's, well, I'd love to have you sample it."