by Susan Oloier
Clint notices Leah and freezes. Even the brown grocery bag he carries appears riveted to the spot.
“Locked out?”
“Well,” Leah says, tapping a newspaper in her lap. “My cell phone with the flashlight app died, so it was the only place with light. Then I sort of fell asleep.”
Clint's eyebrows twist in confusion.
“It’s been a rough day. Plus,” she gestures toward her door, “I rented unfurnished.”
Clint moves to his door to unlock it. “Wanna come in?”
Leah drags herself up.
“I might have a lamp you can borrow. And I just bought some Merlot.” He lifts the arm that holds the bag. “To die for.”
Leah follows Clint inside.
“Have a seat,” Clint says, clearing off a section of his hidden couch that previously stood covered in books and CDs and clothes.
Leah reins in her shock when he unearths a dizzying sofa. It’s a block contemporary in myriad colors and patterns. Leah’s sure she has stepped into a time machine and traveled back to the 1960s—maybe even been force-fed some LSD on the way. There are blues and reds and greens and flowers and polka dots and even a leopard print.
She grabs a decorative pillow and hugs it to her as Clint hands her a glass of wine and plops down on the other end of the couch.
Leah takes a small sip.
“So,” Clint says, as if searching for something to talk about. “What were you really doing out in the hall?” He looks in the direction of the door, then back to Leah.
Leah pulls the classifieds. “Looking for a job.”
“Yawn,” Clint says, taking a large gulp of wine. “You could at least lie and say you were looking at singles ads.”
“Never.” Leah tells him. But mostly she’s caught up in her own thoughts. “The thing is, I had a job. It’s why I came to San Francisco.”
“What happened?”
“Long story.” She bites back tears.
Clint notices. “You’ll find something else,” he says, draping his arm across the back of the sofa. “There are lots of jobs in the city.”
“Yeah.” Her tone is unsure and she chases it with a gulp of wine. “Buskers and waiters and tourist shops.”
“A friend of mine got a job with this temp agency. It’s not perfect, but if you need a way to pay the bills…”
“Maybe.”
Clint takes his cell from his back pocket, does a search. “On the Mark Staffing.” He gives Leah the number.
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll give them a try.” Leah slips inside herself.
“Something else wrong?”
She shrugs as if to say nothing, but then she simply lets go. “So many things.”
“Like?”
“Like this veterinarian I met.”
Clint leans in closer.
“He’s exasperating! I mean just because I hit a cat with my car—”
“You hit a cat?”
“Doesn’t mean I want to keep it.”
Clint scrunches his face. “O-kay?”
“Or find a home for it. How am I supposed to find a home when I just moved here and know no one? Except you.”
Clint leans back, almost pushed by the force of Leah’s anger.
“I mean, he should offer a foster system for animals, don’t you think?”
“Sure. Is he cute?”
She doesn’t hear Clint. “And then his business card—”
“What does a business card have to do with anything? You’re not making any sense.”
“And everywhere I look I see Valentine’s this and Cupid that. It’s only January, for goodness sake. Plus, how am I supposed to get away from Charlie when I’m constantly reminded of love?”
“Who’s Charlie? Is Charlie the vet?”
Leah pulls herself out of her thoughts. “Huh? No. My…ex.”
“Then who’s the vet?”
“Ugh,” she says, taking a sip of wine, “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Sister, I think you need more than a sip.” He taps the rim of her wine glass, and she downs it in one gulp.
“Sorry,” Leah says.
“Hey, no problem. Just glad I can be a listening ear.”
Leah sweeps the room with her eyes. There’s another painting in progress.
“I was thinking about your business,” Leah says.
“I don’t have a—”
“All you really need is a marketing plan.” She tugs a file folder from her bag and hands it to him.
Clint sets his glass down on the floor and opens up the folder.
A full portfolio is laid out before him with the sample business card picturing his perspective painting on top.
“What’s this?”
“There’s the business card, followed by an assessment of the marketplace—”
“No, I mean…why?”
“Because your art is good. The problem is…” She stops herself.
Clint freezes and raises an eyebrow in wait of the finish to her sentence.
“You. Well, not you per se. But your marketing.”
Clint leafs through the papers. “Social media. Website. Investors.” He looks up at Leah. “My art is not that good.”
“It’s great.”
“You should do this for a living,” Clint says, waving the file folder.
Leah thought that’s what she was doing when she moved to San Francisco.
Chapter Thirteen
The classified ads are barren and fruitless. When Leah’s phone rings, it is a much-needed distraction from all the reasons she should have stayed in Illinois.
“Hello?”
In the kitchen of her house in Zion, Illinois, Lorna Newland talks into the phone. In the other room, Darrell sits in his recliner, watching television.
“Leah, is that you?” Lorna asks, doing nothing to cover over the terror that racks her voice. “You're alive.”
“Mom?”
“Your father and I have been worried sick.”
Lorna peeks from the kitchen to the living room to glimpse her husband. “Haven't we, Darrell?” She turns her attention back to Leah. “We've been calling for the last few days and you haven't answered.”
Leah rolls her eyes. “Mom...”
“We thought someone abducted you. Did someone abduct you?”
“No, Mom. I’ve…” She thinks to tell her mom about how crazy things have been since she arrived in the city, but then reconsiders, conjuring an untruth. “I…misplaced the phone. How's Grandma?”
“Misplaced the phone?” Lorna directs her attention to her husband who is not at all listening. “She said she misplaced the phone, Darrell.”
Leah holds the phone away from her ear.
“How do you misplace a phone?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, we have good news.”
Leah lightens.
“Your father and I are coming for a visit.”
Leah slumps against the wall. “Where? To San Francisco?” Leah’s eyes dart around her bare apartment, from the empty room and white walls to the bathroom with the toilet handle that must be jiggled to the vacant room.
“Of course San Francisco.”
Leah bites her thumbnail. “When?”
Lorna’s voice is filled with excitement. “Next week.”
Leah’s breathing becomes erratic, and she works hard to keep each inhale and exhale under control.
“But I'm not settled in yet.”
“We won't get in your way. We promise. We’ll even sleep on the sofa.”
Leah looks. There’s no sofa.
“Your father wants to know how your job is.” Lorna directs her statement to Darrell who remains oblivious in the den. “Don't you, Darrell? You want to know how her job is?”
“My job?”
“Yes. Have you met a lot of friends?”
Leah begins to speak, but her mom doesn’t wait for an answer.
“We'll be in on Monday at three-thirty.”
Instead of rummaging for a pen and paper to jot down the information, Leah searches for her medication. She’s definitely on the brink of a panic attack or, at minimum, hyperventilation.
“Frontier flight 874. Can you pick us up? We know you're working, but we thought Granberry would make an exception for your parents.”
Leah sets her teeth against the pad of her thumb now.
“Leah?” her mom says with a touch of panic. “Did we lose you?”
“No. I mean, yeah, I'll be there.”
“Goody, goody. We love you. Grandma says hi. She misses you.”
Leah’s heart leaps a little at the thought of her grandmother. She begins to ask about her, but then she hears Glen in the background.
“She doesn’t even remember who Leah is.”
“Shh!” Lorna says as if Leah can’t hear her. She turns back to the phone. “Remember to hold your key between your fingers like they taught us in—”
Leah doesn’t finish listening. Rather, she hangs up in mid-conversation and looks around.
“Great. Now I need to get furniture.”
Chapter Fourteen
Leah doesn’t know why she carries the business card in her hand. Or why she meanders out onto the sidewalk and heads in the direction of Pacific Coast Veterinary Clinic. It’s not as though she cares at all if Everitt’s business is successful. It must be his unsound marketing plan that causes her to venture over there. She has better things to do with her time like look for a job or go furniture shopping with the money she doesn’t have. In truth, Leah wants to go over to see how the cat is doing.
Leah slows alongside the homeless man who now sits propped up against the wall of the building; his eyes are open. She sets down a five-dollar bill, and he nods his thanks. Leah offers a quick smile and continues on. She really can’t afford to keep doing this—giving away her money. Soon, she’ll be the one on the street without a place to live. Or, she’ll be back in Zion. Either scenario doesn’t appeal to her.
She pushes into the lobby of the clinic. This time, a receptionist sits behind the desk.
“Good morning,” the woman says, glancing around for Leah’s pet. “Do you have an appointment?” Her eyebrows arch into a question mark.
“Actually, I was wondering if Everitt—Dr. Grady—is available.”
“I can find out. May I have your name?”
Everitt meanders into reception.
“Oh. Hi.” He abandons the file in his hand, spellbound. “I didn’t expect—”
The receptionist volleys her attention between the two.
“I shouldn’t have stopped by without calling.” Leah reconsiders the business card.
“No, no, it’s fine. Stacy?” He turns to the receptionist. “Will you take care of the bill for this patient?”
“Sure.” Stacy hides a waxing smile.
“Come on back,” Everitt says to Leah.
He takes Leah to another white-washed and sterile room.
“Look,” Everitt says.
Leah glances around, but doesn’t see anything. But then she hears a mew, and the cat slinks from around the back of the exam table.
Leah’s eyes reach up to Everitt. “She’s walking?”
“She’s walking.”
Everitt bends down, lifts her into his arms, and strokes her fur. Her meow turns into a purr.
Without giving it a second thought, Leah walks over and pets her, too. She stuffs the business card in her purse.
“She’s a fighter,” Leah says.
“Nine lives.”
“So she’s better?”
“Yeah. In fact, she can go home. Well, if she had a home.”
“No luck?” Leah scratches behind an ear.
Everitt shakes his head. “You?”
“No. But I only know one person here in the city.”
The two continue to shower the cat with affection, but stop when their fingers brush.
Leah freezes and pulls away. She clears her throat.
“I came over to—”
A knock.
“Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Grady. But,” Stacy stands halfway inside. She reigns in her words at the sight of Leah, but then snaps her attention back to Everitt. “Tess is on the phone. She says it’s urgent.”
Everitt runs the palm of his hand over his forehead. “Tess?”
“Yes.”
“Please take a message, Stacy.”
“I tried.” Stacy’s eyes flit to Leah again.
“And…?”
Stacy shakes her head.
“Will you excuse me?” Everitt asks.
Leah nods.
Everitt passes the cat into Leah’s arms as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Leah stiffens, not sure how to hold an animal, much less an injured one. She slides her purse off her arm as she takes the animal.
Everitt and Stacy leave the room.
It takes a while, but Leah finally eases into the idea of holding the feline.
“You’re very sweet,” Leah says, pressing her nose into the top of the cat’s head. “I’m sorry I hit you. Sorry I can’t take care of you. But I need to be on my own.”
The cat sinks into sleep.
“Is someone missing you, little kitty? Do you have a name?” She studies the cat with its tan fur and smudge-of-charcoal face. “Should be something creative like…Mrs. Mistoffelees or Princess Meow or—”
“Fur Elise.”
Leah startles and whips around to see Everitt leaning against the doorjamb, watching her. The cat wakes up.
“You scared me. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”
“Mrs. Mistoffelees, huh?”
“You know, T.S. Elliot? Cats?”
Everitt shakes his head.
“The musical?”
“Ah.”
“I really need to go,” Leah says.
Everitt’s cheerful demeanor disappears.
There’s too long of a silence.
Leah picks up her purse. “I have to look for a job, go furniture shopping, pay a parking ticket…”
“Why’d you come by?” Everitt asks as Leah heads for the exit.
“Oh.” She touches her bag, considers the card. “It’s not important.”
Leah hands the cat to Everitt.
“She won’t…get put down, will she?”
“No. I was thinking of calling the Humane Society. They’re better at placing animals than I am.”
“Humane Society? But if they can’t adopt pets out, don’t they…?” She doesn’t want to say the words.
“Sometimes, but there’s really no other option.”
“You.” Leah pleads with Everitt.
He glances toward the door. “I told you. I can’t.”
“But why?”
“I lost a cat recently,” Everitt says. “He didn’t die, but… I’m not ready for that kind of commitment right now.” His eyes sweep toward hers.
That’s not what Leah expected to hear.
“So unless you know of someone…”
Leah strokes the cat, taking time to weed through the countless reasons she shouldn’t speak her next words.
“Well, maybe I do.”
Everitt raises an eyebrow.
“Me?”
“I thought you said—”
Leah gazes down at the animal. “Thing is,” she says as she looks back up to meet Everitt’s expectant eyes, “what if she never finds a home or a family who loves her or anyone to call her Fur Elise?”
A smile edges the corner of Everitt’s mouth. “She’ll need a day or two for final tests.”
Leah purses her lips and takes a deep breath, unsure of what she’s doing. Yet she nods.
“I can give you the kennel. Gather some supplies. If you want, I can bring her over.”
“That would be nice.”
“She’s lucky to have you.” He reaches out and touches Leah’s arm. His hand lingers, and he holds his breath.
Leah’s fingers go to the pin on her shirt. For some reason, she trembles.
Everitt pulls away, takes a moment.
“So is that her name?” Everitt asks.
“What?”
“Fur Elise?”
Leah’s lips part, and she studies the animal. “Yeah.”
Chapter Fifteen
Leah double-checks the lock on her car before she steps onto the sidewalk in search of the temp agency.
As she reads the building numbers, Leah’s mind wanders. She can’t believe she agreed to take the cat. Her goal was to be independent, and now look what she’s done: sidled herself with a dependent in a foreign city where she has no job and an apartment lease that clearly prohibits pets. What was she thinking?
She’ll have to tell Everitt she can’t do it after all. She can’t take on that kind of responsibility, not when she’s just starting a new life and gaining her independence.
Leah pulls herself out of her thoughts. She holds out the written address and matches it to the number on the building’s front. An office with a dangling, weathered sign reading On the Mark hides in the cubbyhole of a building.
Inside, the walls of the room sit too close to one another. There’s a bank of computers, a couple of small offices in the back.
Leah considers turning around and abandoning this whole ridiculous idea. In fact, it has crossed her mind to pack up what little she has and head back to Zion. But then Glen will lay the I told you so cliché on her, and she’ll never be able to live down her failure.
Leah touches the outside of her purse. The Xanax is inside, but she takes a deep breath, not ready to take one just yet.
She signs in at reception where the woman has a small Valentine’s tree on the corner of her desk. It makes Leah sick. There’s nothing to celebrate about love. She wishes it were already February 15th.
“Leah Newland?” a voice says.
Leah snaps free of her thoughts and follows the woman to the computers.
“You’ll need to take a typing and ten-key test before the interview.”
“Ten key?” Leah says, unsure of what that might be.
The woman gestures for Leah to take a seat in front of one of the monitors. She leans over Leah’s shoulder to type something onto the screen. Leah gets a whiff of her faux floral perfume and is pretty certain she’ll have an asthma attack if the woman doesn’t beeline it out of here ASAP.
Leah glimpses the door. It’s not too late to make a getaway. But her brother’s voice—like the devil on her shoulder—resonates through her mind.
The woman flips open a laminated booklet. “Hit start when you’re ready and type as much as you can before the computer timer ends.”
Leah feels the pinch between her brows. “Okay?”
Leah hammers out words before the timer locks her out of the program. On cue, the woman reappears, waving Leah from the room to another slightly bigger one.