by Soraya May
Ryan was quiet. I looked into his eyes, and the bar, the crowd, the world around me all faded.
Somewhere, very deep in them, so far down that they almost swallowed me up and I couldn’t see or hear anything except the sound of our breathing, I saw a little spark of what might, on a good day when the sun was shining over the sea, look like hope.
“That…depends on what the owner thinks.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah, it does.”
I reached into my pocket, took out the little wooden cat figurine, and held it up. We both looked at it for a minute, then I pressed it into his hands, and pressed my hands around his. “I think,” I said, very slowly, “that you are the right man for the job.”
37
Epilogue
“Until this moment,” Ryan said, “I’d never realized just how much work it took to make wine.” We walked up the long driveway to Farrah’s winery, his arm around my waist. It was a bit awkward on some of the potholes, but somehow we didn’t really want to be any further apart than we needed to.
I ruffled his hair. “Uh-huh.”
“I mean, I’d read books about it, and read newspaper reports of vineyards going bankrupt, but that was it.”
Evidently, he’d never been to a winery and seen the array of machinery, or understood all the hundreds of things that could go wrong with a vintage. Farrah’s business wasn’t large - only four permanent employees - but during the harvest, she employed up to ten or twelve other people from around the area to help with all the work of harvesting and bottling. A couple of wooden outdoor picnic tables had been set up on the grassy area next to the tasting room, and they were already piled high with food. Farrah’s seasonal workers sat at the tables, laughing and joking. Nearby, another table with an umbrella stood in front of a set of ice-filled boxes with wine in them.
After a long session, Ryan had convinced the Heritage Committee that he really did want to take the role here supervising the excavation, and that ‘engaging with the local community and the site owner’, as he put it, wasn’t going to be a problem. Their initial confusion gave way to a cautious enthusiasm when he presented his suggestions—pulled together with my help, if I do say so myself—for making the bar into a ‘living museum’ for the region. It would be another month or two before he moved down here for good, although he’d elected to keep his apartment in the city for when he was visiting his family.
“Mom says she’ll come down to Cable Bay to visit, after she’s done moving into my apartment. She says she’s really looking forward to meeting you.”
“Should I be nervous?” I squeezed his hand, still unwilling to let go of him. “She sounds like a pretty strong-willed lady.”
He snorted. “No. It’s me that should be nervous. I think the two of you are going to get on just fine.”
Over the last few days, we’d been working through a detailed list of everything that would need to happen so the excavation could go on while the bar kept operating. It was going to be hard work, but we were doing it together, and somehow that made all that work seem like the greatest prize in the world to me.
Farrah hovered in between the table of wine, and the picnic tables, wine glass in hand, showing her typical nimbleness in navigating the damp grass in high heels. “Cat! Ryan!” She beckoned happily.
“Hey, Faz. How’s the celebration going?”
“Much better, now you guys are here. Come and help yourselves to wine and find a seat. We’ve got bread and cold cuts over there—” she indicated one of the tables, “and a fruit platter on the other table.”
We sat down and looked around. Jack and Cheryl Collis sat at one of the tables, and Ross was perched on the end, taking up about two spaces, determinedly cutting slices of bread with a big bread-knife and handing them to little May who piled them onto plates. Nearby, Ross’ dog Sultan lounged, tongue out, watching people as they walked past. Every so often, people would come past and scratch his knobbled head, making his tail wag happily.
This is my place, and these are my people. My friends, my colleagues, my neighbors.
The sound of a car pulling up made us turn our heads; Bea’s battered Ford truck rolled into the driveway, fat tires spilling gravel in every direction, and trundled up onto the grass. Inside, I could see Beatrice, hands clamped on the big steering wheel, and a smaller figure next to her. That’s not Andy, I thought. Bea got out, and made to go around to the passengers’ side, but before she could, the door opened, and a hunched figure sprang from the car with surprising—but unmistakable—speed.
“Daisy!” Ryan called over to her with genuine enthusiasm. Daisy turned her head, and waved a hand clasping a square of yarn. Bea closed the door after her, and vaulted over the hood of her truck to stand in front of us.
“Hey, Egghead. Hey, Cat. Thanks for inviting me.”
I looked, once, again, and almost managed to conceal my surprise.
Beatrice Macfarlane, auto mechanic extraordinaire, was wearing a dress.
And not just any dress; it was a knockout, a black three-quarter A-line number with little cherries on it, picked out in bright red, and dark green for the stems. Her dark hair was clipped back with little silver clips, and—miracle upon miracles—she was wearing heels, a natty pair of black patent pumps.
She saw me looking and stared back, challengingly. “What? I thought I’d better make an effort. You should count yourself lucky. I don’t get dressed up for just anyone.”
This time, it was me hugging her, and she didn’t even struggle. “Bea, you look like a million bucks. You should do this more often.”
She grunted. “Yeah, maybe. At least the black doesn’t show grease.”
Stepping back, I looked at her again in wonderment, and she scowled. “Okay, okay. Stop making a big deal out of it. You’re making me self-conscious.”
I tried not to laugh and indicated the hood. “How the heck did you…get over that in heels, without flashing your underwear at everyone?”
She shrugged. “All kinds of skills, me. You wait and see. Sorry I’m late; I had to go and pick up the old lady as well.” With her thumb, she indicated Daisy, coming around the hood of the truck to greet us.
“Where’s Andy?” Ryan stood up to offer Bea his seat at the long table, but she shook her head.
“At home.” Her face was worried for a minute. “He gets tired easily right now. But the docs say he’ll be okay once he adjusts to the new medication, and he might even be able to drive after a while.”
I reached out a hand. “It’s okay to be worried, honestly. Illness is hard on everyone, whether you’re the person with it, or the family. Just hold on, okay?”
She nodded at me. “Yeah. Sure.” There was a pause. “Thanks.”
Farrah came past balancing a plate of nibbles. “Tell Andy he’s welcome to come up here if he wants to get out of the house. May keeps on asking when he’s coming back; she’s pretty keen on him after he fixed her bicycle.”
Bea smiled; her smiles were becoming a lot more frequent these days. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. He likes kids.” Her phone rang, and she frowned. “Sorry, I’d better take this.” She pulled out her phone and drifted away from the group. “Hello?”
Harriet and Matilda, the ringleaders of the knitting circle, sat in the middle of the long table, holding court. As Ryan and I sat down, faint snatches of conversation came to us.
“You just need larger needles…I keep telling you those stitches are a waste of time…”
Ryan squeezed my hand, and looked at me. “Do you know anything about knitting? Does that stuff really make a difference? I mean, it’s just…”
I looked at him. “Well, it’s important to some people. I mean, I don’t really get it myself, but I’ve been to community center things with them, and…look, yeah. There’s a lot to know.”
His face was troubled. “Okay. I guess so.”
“Ah, Mr. Sanders! So good to see you again.” Daisy’s clear, chirpy voice made us all blink. She looked
hard at me. “And you too, Catherine. Beatrice tells me that she’s had some success fixing your oven?”
“That’s right, Miss McNeish. Without her, I’d be out of business pretty soon.” I took her arm. “With the money I’m getting from the heritage conservation fund, I’d like to expand the kitchen and offer a bigger range of meals; the only problem is, I’d need to employ a chef, and I don’t think there is one in Cable Bay. I hope the ride from town was okay?”
“Sure was.” Daisy waved the square in one hand, ball of yarn and hook still attached. “I even got some crocheting done.”
At the sound of the word ‘crochet’, heads twisted at the table; Harriet and Matilda had turned around, and were watching the four of them. Slowly, inexorably, Harriet raised her needles, stitches still on them.
Daisy’s eyes narrowed, and she stepped back, gripping her crochet hook.
Ryan coughed. “Uh, ladies…”
I put a finger to his lips. “Ryan…”
“But I don’t underst—”
“Leave it!” I hissed. “They need to sort this out for themselves.”
Harriet pointed her needles directly at Daisy. “That a crochet hook?”
“Yes.” Daisy’s answer was careful and precise. “What about it?”
There was a pause. “You got enough yarn there?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Oh, nothing. You’re going to need it. You know, with all that extra yarn crocheting wast—uses.” The correction was a fraction too deliberate for anyone to mistake it as accidental.
Daisy’s crochet hook rotated slowly through her fingers as Cat and Ryan watched. “That’s a myth, and you know it.” Her eyes never left the pair at the table, needles raised. “You got enough needles there?”
Matilda’s eyes were flinty. “More than enough.” She patted the plastic bag next to her, producing an ominous clinking noise. “Got some really big ones in here.”
Daisy leaned forward on her stick. The hook stopped its smooth passage between her fingers, and pointed directly at the other lady. “Not…overcompensating, are you?”
Behind me, Ryan spluttered. “But that doesn’t even make sense—”
“Shush!” I poked him in the ribs. Behind us, another car pulled up, and we heard a door open.
“Afternoon all!” Bob’s cheery drawl cut through the tension. Completely oblivious to the showdown, he strode directly in between the antagonists, doffing his hat. “And a special good afternoon to you all, ladies.” His eyes twinkled. “I have a surprise for everyone here, right off the smoker.” In one hand, he held up a container containing an enormous lump of something dark. “Smoked marlin! Caught it just a few days ago.”
I blinked. The afternoon had taken an unexpected turn with the Knitfight at the OK Corral, and the appearance of a large piece of smoked fish to defuse the situation had pushed it from ‘unexpected’ into ‘truly bizarre’.
Bob put the container down on the table next to Harriet and Matilda, and pulled off the lid, whistling as he did so. Slicing off a piece expertly, he slipped it onto a cracker, and proffered it to the crowd. “Ladies, can I offer you a taste?”
There was a brief pause, and finally Daisy spoke. “Thank you, Robert. I’d love to try some.” The hook had disappeared—I was sure it been right there, just a second ago—and she made her way carefully forward. Reaching out a hand, she took the cracker and eyed it for a moment, then bit into the dark, smoky fish. Chewing thoughtfully, she looked at Bob, and then nodded. “Delicious.”
Bob beamed. “I’m very glad you like it, Miss McNeish.” Working quickly, he sliced off some other pieces and offered them to Harriet and Matilda. “Ladies, for you?”
Evidently unwilling to refuse, they took the crackers too, and began to chew on them. Needles were lowered, and an uneasy truce seemed to have developed, brokered by the unconventional negotiating tool of smoked fish in the hands of a man who had no idea what was going on.
I squeezed Ryan’s hand. “I think we all had a lucky escape there, don’t you?”
“I, uh, yeah.” Ryan’s mystified expression was still plain on his face. “So it would seem. I think I need a drink.” He led me over to the side-table, wine bottles lined up neatly, and poured us both a glass of wine. “Cheers.”
We clinked glasses, and I leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. “I’m glad I could be here with you.”
He smiled. “Me too. Farrah’s a good friend, and these are good people.”
Bea came up beside me. “Guys, I have to leave for a little while. I just got a call that someone’s broken down outside of town. Motorbike it sounds like. Andy can’t drive yet, and I’ve got the truck anyway, so I have to go get them. Tell Farrah I’m sorry for being a party pooper, and I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”
We waved at her as she jumped back in her truck, gunned the engine, and jolted back down the driveway, brow furrowed in concentration, hands tight on the big steering wheel.
Ryan and I watched her go, and he put one arm around my shoulders. “She’s quite a woman.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s…a masterpiece of understatement. Heaven help the guy who falls for her.”
We walked a little way away from the table towards a big old oak tree; it was wonderful to see everyone, and to be close to them, but right this moment, we both felt the need for a little bit of ‘us’ time.
Just a moment.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think our Beatrice has got—what would you call it? Hidden depths. Yeah.” Ryan sounded satisfied. “Hidden depths.”
As the party continued around us, Ryan leaned back against the broad trunk of the tree, dappled sunlight through the leaves across his features. I put my arms around his neck, then stretched up to kiss him. “So,” I murmur in his ear, “are you happy overall you came to Cable Bay, then?”
He smiled, a slow, lazy, contented look that made me want to take him home and spend the rest of the afternoon in bed.
“Very happy. This town is full of surprises, and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it to the…discerning traveler.”
Another kiss, and this one took several minutes. There might have been some hooting and cat-calling taking place in the background, from the table of onlookers busily working their way through cold-cuts and Farrah’s vintage, but if there was, we didn’t notice it.
I put a hand up to touch his face, to trace the line of his jaw, and brush across his lips. “No regrets about being stuck in my basement for years to come, then?”
Ryan wrapped his arms around me, and I felt the delicious warmth of him all around, enveloping me, lifting me up almost off my feet. “Well, I’m hoping you’ll let me out of the basement now and again.”
“Now and again, maybe. You do have a lot of work to do down there, though.”
“I do. But I have another calling now as well.” He stroked my hair, and kissed my forehead, and I tried not to purr too obviously.
“Really? What’s that?”
“You.” His eyes were as deep and dark as the first time we’d met. “Because, Cat Milsom, it’s you I love. And you and I have memories we need to make together. Today, tomorrow, and forever.”
Letter From Soraya
Dear Reader,
I really hope you liked my story! Now you’ve read it, I wanted to share a few tidbits with you:
Cable Bay is a real place in New Zealand, although the town there is fictional. It does have a lovely picnic area though.
Wunderbar is a real bar, although it’s nestled in the Port Hills of Christchurch. I have taken the liberty of moving it for the sake of narrative, although the fittings are accurate; the lampshade made of doll faces, and the floor candelabra are quite real.
I have used US English spellings in speech and writing, although in real life New Zealand English spelling is closer to UK English in most cases. I have also omitted macrons for words in Maori for reasons of support; unfortunately, they don’t always come out correctly on e-readers. For th
is and any other errors, I beg your patience.
‘The Cat’s Pajamas’ is my longest and most ambitious work so far. So many people helped me to bring it to life, and I wish I had time to thank all of them. As always, though, my greatest debt of thanks is to you, for reading my books and allowing me to have the best job in the world. Authors always say this, but each and every one of us knows it to be true.
Before I go, please take a moment to review ‘The Cat’s Pajamas’ on Amazon or on Goodreads. For a new author, reviews really make all the difference in helping people find my books, so I really do appreciate you doing it. If you’d like to get in touch, you can email me at [email protected], or contact me on Facebook — I’d love to hear from you.
I hope you enjoyed Ryan and Cat’s story, and I hope you’ll stay with me to find out what happens next for the inhabitants of Cable Bay.
Your friend,
Soraya
About the Author
Soraya May writes contemporary romance with silly jokes, sweet (but strong) heroines, and likeable (but sometimes infuriating) heroes. She grew up on a remote New Zealand sheep farm with only books and animals for company, and she’s been using her imagination and making her own fun ever since.
Soraya has been a dance teacher, project manager, fashion model, voice actor, cancer scientist, technical writer, and short-order cook, not necessarily in that order. She believes that there is no such thing as ‘too many books’, or ‘enough dance shoes’, and the only thing in the world she really can’t stand is beets (called beetroot in NZ). Not even her cat likes beets, and that cat will eat most anything.
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