City Kitty and Country Mouse

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  “Of course we can,” Lucy says. “Come up and see the furniture, and we can make some decisions. I don’t want to spend too much on refurbishing, but we need to decide on our look.”

  We go upstairs, through the dingy stairwell, and into the storage room. It’s packed, more than I’d expected, but at least we’ll have more than enough chairs and tables.

  “Tablecloths,” I say immediately. “Maybe slipcovers for the chairs, but that could be pricey.”

  “Too much, maybe,” Lucy agrees.

  “But if we keep the interest on the tables, and on the food, the chairs won’t matter so much.” I can see it in my mind now, one of Lucy’s creatures on each of the tables, holding court. “What about your cats and mice? Every table, and we can name them all. Or get the customers to name them.”

  Lucy nods slowly. “I can see it, but do I have enough of them is the question.” She does a quick count on her fingers. “I might just. But I might need to make one or two more.”

  “Can you show me how?” I ask. There’s something about Lucy in her leather apron, her forehead damp with perspiration, that gives me an urge I hadn’t expected. I sidle up to her, hooking my fingers through her belt loops. Lucy rests her hands on my hips.

  “Have you ever welded before?” she asks.

  I shake my head.

  “It might be better for us to leave that for later,” Lucy says. I lean in, my lips close to her ear.

  “I just want to see you working in leather,” I murmur. Her fingers tighten on my hips.

  “You do?”

  “But if we can’t do that, what about right here?” Lucy grins, tugging me close, our hips colliding, the heat of her soaking through my jeans.

  “I’m up for it,” she says. “But I’m pretty sure these chairs aren’t.”

  I don’t care about the chairs, just Lucy. “There’s a wall.”

  Lucy nudges me until my back hits the wall by the door. “You sure?” She’s undoing my jeans, and I feel a zing of desire knowing that she’s as into this as I am. There’s something about her, and I just can’t get enough of her. It’s like she’s the meal that never ends, the favorite dish, the craving for satisfaction I can’t ignore. Her hand slides into my panties, finds my sex, her finger swirling around my clit. I’m sure I drench her hand, even though I’m nowhere near orgasm yet.

  “I love that you’re so ready,” Lucy murmurs, her lips brushing mine. “And now when we’re here, I’ll remember this moment.” I part my lips for her and lose myself in her kiss, in her touch. She tastes of ginger and truffles. Delicious. Then her fingers are inside me, stroking, thrusting. I want to make her feel the same, but I’ve only just grasped her shirt when she rubs my clit hard, and my orgasm rushes over me so fast that I feel like I’m seeing stars. I’m trembling, panting, my nerves pulsing and dancing, my knees weakening. She holds me up as my head rests on her shoulder, my fingers tangling in her cotton shirt.

  “I love that I can do this to you,” Lucy murmurs. I nod, still not sure I can find my voice, find my words. I come back to myself as Lucy withdraws her hand, feeling an ache as she does, desire pushing for more. I move my hands to her belt, and she puts hers over mine.

  “We should go back to the farm,” she says. “I have welding to do, and you need to cook. We need our menu set.”

  I’m sure I look disappointed.

  Lucy leans in and kisses me, this time gently. “Don’t worry, it’ll be my turn soon.”

  “I promise it will,” I say. I don’t want to leave her wanting.

  “We’ll have privacy in the shed.”

  * * *

  Lucy sets me up with a stool at the workbench, and I’ve grabbed one of my legal pads and a pen. I sketch out a diagram of the storefront, trying to figure out the best way to arrange the tables. “Is this crazy?” I ask her, looking up from my sketchpad.

  “Which part?” Lucy asks as she putters around the shed.

  “It just seems so fast.” I’m talking about the restaurant, but I don’t really want to admit that us seems a bit fast too. Not that it’s a bad thing, it’s just…fast.

  Lucy sets a metal mouse by my pad. “We can do this,” she says. “We’ll take our time, do it right, no rushing.”

  I look down at the pad, then up at her. Her dark eyes are warm, and somehow, I feel reassured.

  “I’ve always called this one Bert,” she says, patting his little metal head. I’m not sure what he’s made out of. I draw a little mouse on top of one of the diagrammed tables. It’s horrible. Drawing is not my forte.

  Lucy puts down another small creature, this one with wings. “It’s a bat,” she says, “but not my favorite. What do you think?”

  I set down my pen and lift it up. “We could hang it near the door?”

  “Or just leave it,” Lucy says. She bends and brings up another creature, this one slightly larger. It looks like a Pomeranian.

  “That one looks like a Princess, or maybe Queenie.”

  “Something a bit frou-frou,” Lucy agrees. She goes back to a pile of metal and extracts another creature. It’s bulkier, but recognizable.

  “A cow suits,” I say.

  “It’s a little chubby,” Lucy says. “Feels too awkward.”

  “We could call her Moo,” I say.

  Lucy shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

  “That’s so predictable.”

  “But funny,” I add.

  “We need to think details now,” Lucy says, “like dishes. And paying for all this. I covered the costs of the permits, but we need to get the big things in order.”

  “I’ll cover the costs,” I say immediately.

  Lucy frowns. “We should make this equal.”

  “I have a lot in savings.” I’m not trying to brag, but it’s true. That’s what happens when I have no time to spend what I make. “All work and no play.”

  “Even still, we should do this up officially.”

  “I can ask Cindy to draw up a basic contract,” I offer. “We can personalize it.”

  “I like that.” Lucy sets the cow down and pulls out another little mouse. “All the expenses, and then any profit, equally split.”

  I pull out my phone, check my schedule, and text Cindy. “I’ll figure out a time we can meet with an accountant, get everything set up.”

  “Perfect.”

  “When should we make this real?” I pull up my calendar.

  “After the September long weekend,” Lucy says. “If we do it on the long weekend, we risk people being out of town. The weekend after that.”

  “A month and a half, then,” I say, calculating the days. “I think we can do it.”

  “The permits will be in by then, and we can get the space all set up.”

  “Lucy, we’re really going to do this, aren’t we?”

  She grins, pulls me toward her. “We really are.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “I have a surprise for you!”

  Cindy opens my door and nudges it with her hip—she’s carrying two coffees. She plunks one down on my desk in front of me and drops into a chair.

  I lift the coffee. “Latte?”

  “Of course,” Cindy says, “but that’s not my surprise.” She’s excited and can’t sit still, her feet tapping.

  “You found out how I can be independently wealthy?” It’s an ongoing joke.

  “Pfft. No. Better than that.”

  “What can be better?”

  “I’ve set you up on Facebook and Instagram and set up a basic website with the domain name you bought. You needed an online presence, stat.”

  “What?”

  “For Ming Kitty, of course,” Cindy says. “Kitty, you can’t have a pop-up restaurant with no social media. That’s how we’re gonna get the word out.” She sets down her coffee and takes out her phone, bringing up her browser. She types something in the search bar, then passes her phone over. Loading is a curled-up cat with brilliant orange text over top: Ming Kitty.

  “Cin
dy, you are…” I hardly have the words. “Amazing. Incredible. Unbelievable. And so, so smart.”

  Cindy grins. “I know. And you can pay me back by letting me attend the first night, and every night thereafter. Or most of them.”

  “Done and done, and you’ll get free meals besides.” I’m in awe.

  “You just need to give me the menu and the address and I’ll put it in,” she says. “And if you give me all your domain details, I’ll get it transferred over. It’s super easy. And give me whatever else you want on there. Pics, bios for you and Lucy, the works.”

  “I should be the one bringing you coffee.”

  “Caramel macchiato, extra caramel,” Cindy says immediately.

  “Noted.”

  “Have you and Lucy thought about a date for the first dinner?” Cindy asks, leaning forward and grabbing her coffee again.

  “It’ll be just after the September long weekend,” I say. “We think we can get everything sorted by then.”

  “Do you have an invite list?” Cindy asks.

  “Not yet, but we have some idea.”

  “And what about critics? You can’t have an opening without a restaurant critic or two. It’s publicity.”

  My stomach churns with nervousness. The idea of being judged wanting for my cooking is terrifying. I don’t want to admit it, but there’s so much riding on this, so much I want to accomplish. And I want it to be a success for Lucy and for her farm. If the critics end up hating us…that could be the end of everything.

  “Your friend Jo Raj is a freelancer, isn’t she?” Cindy asks.

  Jo. She’s taller than me—not that that’s saying much—a bit crazy, super energetic, dresses with incredible individual style that I’ve always envied, and is one of my favorite people that I haven’t seen in too long. Freelancer extraordinaire. “She works for one of the local free papers,” I say. “I’ll email her.”

  “There. Perfect. And the sooner you get the guest list, the sooner we can send out real invites. I’ve been looking online and this printer has fabulous templates that we can customize with the logo and everything.”

  “You are way too good at this. Why are you working in a law firm? You need to be in promotions.”

  “One day,” Cindy says. “One day. I just need to get a bit more seed money so I can manage it. Event planning is so much fun. So much better than arranging meetings and lunches for the partners.”

  I hand Cindy back her phone. “What do I owe you for the website and Facebook page?”

  “Nothing for the page,” she says, “and I’ll make you an admin there, and the web space right now is free, until you move it to your own. I’ll update the DNS and stuff when you want to do that.”

  “You are incredible.”

  “I know.” Cindy rises from her seat. “Your nine o’clock will be here soon. And I hope you brought me some delicious leftovers for lunch.”

  I didn’t forget her when I packed up rice and chop suey yesterday before heading home from Lucy’s. “Check the fridge. I have a few containers in there. A bit of everything we made yesterday. Let me know what you think.”

  “Yes!” Cindy pumps her fist. “Brilliant.”

  She heads to the door, giving me a wave as she exits.

  I text Lucy, bringing her up to date. Then I open my email, searching through for Jo’s address. I swallow another gulp of coffee, trying to ignore my anxious, fluttering stomach.

  Jo, I have a new project, and I think it’ll be right up your alley. Do you like Chinese food? I can only hope she does.

  When I’m done with the email, I pull out my legal pad from my bag, the one with all the sketches and notes from the weekend. I flip to a clean page and start a list.

  Cindy

  Jo

  Alice

  Mom & Dad?

  My boss?

  No, probably not Jack.

  And there, my brain stalls. Who else can we invite? We can’t have tons of people, especially not for a first time, but we need a few more. I think again about inviting my boss, but my stomach does a flip-flop at that, a big one. No, that’s one pressure too many.

  I text Lucy. Who should we invite? People in town? We did discuss this a bit, but I feel like there should be more invitees. Should we ask the town mayor? Or is that too much?

  I set the pad aside as I hear Cindy’s voice just outside the door. The door opens, and it’s my nine o’clock. I rise to my feet.

  * * *

  At lunchtime, I meet Cindy in the firm’s break room. She’s already taken out the containers and is starting to put the contents onto a couple of plates.

  “I can’t wait to try these,” she says, spooning out some rice next to a small heap of the honey and soy chicken. “My stomach is growling just at the scent.”

  “I hope they microwave well.”

  Cindy takes a fork and pops a piece of chicken into her mouth. “Fabulous cold. Is that a bit of truffle I taste?”

  “It is. But we had it on the frisée, not in the chicken. Some of it must have transferred.”

  “It’s good in the chicken too,” Cindy says. She takes a large spoonful of the chop suey and puts her plate into the microwave. Another full plate is there, and my mouth waters even though I was eating all this food over the weekend. I have plans to make it again this week, each and every dish. I need to be able to do it quickly, and get my timing down. I want it to be like second nature by opening night.

  The microwave dings, and Cindy takes out her plate and puts the second one in. She takes her plate to one of the three small round tables, then comes back for a glass of water. “I’m not going to wait for you,” she says. “It smells too good.”

  “I won’t hold it against you,” I quip.

  “Mm-hmm,” is her reply as she takes a full forkful of rice and chicken. She gives me a thumbs-up as she chews, nodding.

  The nervousness I’ve felt subsides, and there’s a feeling of accomplishment instead. This will work. We can do it. I know we can.

  When my plate is ready, I take it over to the table across from Cindy. She’s devouring her meal, and I’m glad I brought a lot of extras. I take a forkful of my chicken, and she’s right, it is delicious. Even better the next day, although I don’t know that our customers would think so. I can imagine coming out to say “Thanks for coming everyone, enjoy your leftovers!” I try not to cringe. But if we could do that, it would keep the work of the evening down a bit. I’m going to have to practice the dishes, get them down pat. Figure out the quick methods. It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked in a commercial kitchen.

  God, I’m nervous again. I need to stop worrying, but I can’t help it. I want everything to be perfect.

  Cindy scrapes her plate clean with her fork, gathering the remaining rice. “You two are going to rock this pop-up,” she says. “Have you figured out who to invite? A friend of a friend works for Avenue magazine, and his take might help. And maybe Jack knows a few people.”

  “I don’t know that I want work people involved in this. At least, not until we’ve figured this out and are making a bit of money.”

  “Your dad will probably tell Jack, though, don’t you think?” Cindy says. “They chat often.”

  “I hope he doesn’t,” I say. “I don’t want more pressure. But I haven’t told them yet, either.”

  “Are you inviting them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should,” Cindy says. “I know you’ve got them on the info diet, but this is something you want to trumpet. Brag a little.”

  “I guess so. They just get so judgy. They hated that I worked at a restaurant during my degree.”

  “Their loss. Want more food?” Cindy asks, rising. I shake my head. I have plenty for lunch, and I know I’ll be eating more tonight, working on the steamed fish. “Oh, good, more for me.” She grins and empties the container of chop suey onto her plate.

  I pick at my own food. I should be inhaling it, but talk of my parents has put me off.

 
; “Don’t invite them if you don’t want to,” Cindy says. I look up from my plate.

  “How is it that you know me so well?”

  “I just do. But seriously, if it’s going to upset you to have them there, then don’t have them there.”

  “I want them to see what I’m doing,” I reply, “but it’s just…what if they don’t like Lucy? Or don’t like that I’m with her? Not to mention that if they meet her, they’ll assume it’s serious.”

  “Isn’t it? Serious, that is?”

  I shrug. “We’re having fun. Lots of fun.”

  “Then keep having fun. Don’t worry so much. Things will work out.”

  Easier said than done, but I’ll try.

  * * *

  I text Kitty late in the afternoon. Over the past couple of weeks, things have started to come together, but I’m starting to worry, starting to wonder if this really was a good idea. It was, wasn’t it? A restaurant, a pop-up restaurant? But what if we mess up? What if we burn the food? Or what if no one comes?

  It’s silly to worry, I know. My dad would have told me as much, told me to worry about things when they happen, not before.

  We should do a test evening in the kitchen, Kitty texts back. I’ve been worried too.

  Can you come out? I reply, texting quickly.

  Maybe. This weekend for sure, but maybe earlier. Let me check my schedule.

  I take my phone with me to the greenhouse, going through my regular walk, checking the hoses and trays, that the lettuce is growing and not wilting. Another batch will be ready soon.

  Kitty texts me back about ten minutes later. I’m done as of half an hour from now. I can drive out. Can we get into the storefront?

  Absolutely.

  Let’s make the steamed fish, and the chicken again, Kitty replies. Do you know anyone who wants a free meal?

  I chuckle to myself. No one turns down a free meal.

  I’ll find someone.

  My anxiety is slightly dampened, and I continue along my usual route. Tomorrow is farmers’ market day in Airdrie, and I have to be ready bright and early.