by Theresa Weir
“I’m glad you got it back.”
“I don’t care what you do. You’re an adult. Eighteen, nineteen, right?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Same thing.”
“So…a violin?” Emerson asked.
Les grunted and replaced his glasses on his nose. “Supplies alone are going to cost you a couple hundred.”
“I’m cool with that.”
“Go pick out some wood. A nice maple for the body, spruce for the belly, and ebony for the fingerboard. I’ll have to order horsehair and Brazilian wood for the bow because I don’t keep that in stock. Haven’t made a violin in years.”
“Why not?”
“Too damn touchy. Like I said, you can get magic. Problem is you can also end up with a dud. It’s skill, but it’s also just damn luck and I don’t like the odds. I’ve never been able to zero in on the X factor when it comes to violins. Just too many unknowns for me. I love guitars, where there’s more wiggle room. But have at it. I need to refresh my violin-making skills anyway. But damn—I don’t want people coming here asking for violins.” He picked up his buffing cloth and hunched over the guitar. “Hate making violins.”
Emerson grinned, then hurried over to the shelves of wood and began searching for the perfect pieces with the perfect patterns, especially the maple that would be sliced and put together to create a mirror image. Two halves of a whole.
Sam
Chapter 7
Even though this new set-up isn’t nearly as posh as my last joint, it’s a nice gig. The nicest gig I’ve ever had. Of course I’ve only been at Emerson’s a week, so things will probably go downhill the way they always go downhill.
Negatives? The food isn’t as tasty as the old digs, and the bed isn’t as soft. There are no good spots to view the action on the street so I can keep tabs on what’s going on outside. A cat’s gotta know what’s going on inside and out.
Emerson put posters of me up all around the neighborhood, but even if Third Owner sees one he won’t call the phone number. I’m not worried about that, but I have to play it cool. I have to be all cat. None of the mindmessing for food, or mindmessing for catnip, or mindmessing for feather toys. Just a cat.
I can do it.
Right now I’m being particularly catty, sprawled out on Emerson’s bed, lying in a patch of sun that’s managed to filter in through the dirty window. From outside comes a familiar clang that I recognize as the sound of Emerson’s bike.
He’s home!
I fly off the bed and race down the stairs, getting to the bottom just as the key turns in the lock and the kitchen door opens. I plop to the floor and begin licking my paws, just to prove I haven’t missed him. Nope, not at all.
“Hey, guy.” Emerson drops his backpack on a table that’s littered with mail and books and plants and a couple of coffee cups left over from the morning.
“I got you something.” Emerson unzips his pack and pulls out a feather toy—with a bell on it! For a few minutes that’s all I can think about. Grabbing that feather, getting that feather. Finally Emerson puts it on the table and it’s back to reality.
“I’m going to a cookout at Lola’s,” Emerson says. “You’re invited too.” He rubs me behind one ear and I lean into it hard, trying to ignore the party thing.
“What do you say?” Emerson scratches the other side.
Oh, man. I’ve given Emerson some of what I call pushes a few times, and I’ve even given him some lines, but I don’t want him to become dependent on me when it comes to Lola. That’s no way to build any kind of lasting relationship.
And it isn’t like I can be there for him every second, holding his paw…er, hand. And anyway, my brother is the matchmaker of the family, not me. I’ve always been more about food and shelter. But I can feel my resolve weakening. I can feel myself going soft.
Not good, because a soft cat is a dead cat. But deep down I know I don’t really care all that much about the food and the bed and the window. I like Emerson. Like him, like him—as in want to spend the rest of my life with him, which is another reason I have to watch it with the mind stuff.
I can’t have my heart broken again.
“What do you say?” Emerson repeats. “Lola’s party?”
Poor guy didn’t know this was like offering catnip to an addict. Once we get there and I witness Emerson’s struggle for words I won’t be able to stay out of the poor guy’s head.
Emerson
Chapter 8
Emerson had expected a small, intimate group, but he heard a band and the drone of a crowd a block before he got to the Brown residence. Beneath the band and crowd noise was a steady roar he couldn’t place.
The old Emerson would have turned the bike and headed home. The new Emerson stopped in the middle of a street lined with cars and stared at the Browns’ place while Sam sat in the basket.
The house was a typical Minneapolis Tudor, tan with black trim. Not tidy and fresh, but one of those Tudors that are always in some stage of disrepair, the kind of mild lack of attention that made Emerson feel okay about himself rather than feeling like a slacker because everything was crisp and maintained.
The party noise came from the backyard. Above the privacy fence he caught a glimpse of what looked like an inflatable castle with red turrets. He could practically smell the rubber.
He glanced down at his clothes. Black jeans, red sneakers, a dark blue suit jacket he’d worn to his grandfather’s funeral, and a striped vintage tie someone had given him for Christmas. Overdressed. Definitely overdressed.
You’re okay. You’re fine.
No, he wasn’t fine. You wouldn’t wear a suit and tie in a bouncing castle. He should leave. He should turn around and pedal home as fast as he could. Once there, maybe he’d eat the pie that was at this moment dangling from a shopping bag slipped over the handlebars. The crust was burnt where the apple filling had oozed out. Turned out pies were hard as hell to make.
He didn’t take off. Instead, he wheeled his bike up the front walk and leaned it against a railing. Sam jumped to his shoulder before he had the kickstand down.
Grabbing the shopping bag and pie, he circled to the back, regretting every step that took him closer to the noise and people. Once inside the backyard gate, he was enveloped in chaos. Kids running and laughing. People with plates of food, standing and talking in private circles, and a band at the far end, taking a break now, the live music replaced by somebody’s iPod.
And hell yeah, there was an inflatable castle taking up a large portion of the yard. Emerson had always wondered who’d get something like that. Now he knew. Sometimes cool people did dorky things just for fun, he guessed. As he looked at it, seeing the bouncing silhouettes inside, seeing that those people were adults, he kind of wanted to join them.
Hoping nobody would notice, he unloaded the ugly pie near the spread of food, tucked the bag under the table skirt, then walked toward the castle, the people he passed smiling at him in such a friendly way that he began to relax a little.
“Going in?” asked the middle-aged guy standing guard at the castle door. Or more accurately, castle flap.
Emerson looked from the guy to the castle, then to the generator that was keeping the whole thing filled with air. That explained the noise he hadn’t been able to place.
“No cats allowed,” the guy said. “And you have to remove your shoes. No food or drink inside, and no smoking.”
Emerson had forgotten about the cat on his shoulder. That explained the smiles.
The red flap of the door flew open and Lola burst out, immediately spotting Emerson, zeroing in on him.
“You came!” Her face was flushed, and damp; burgundy hair clung to her cheeks. He didn’t need to worry about being overdressed—she was wearing a blue princess gown. “When Melody said she was ordering an inflatable castle I told her she was crazy, but it’
s so much fun. You have to do it.” She was trying to catch her breath, and just looking at her made Emerson’s legs go weak.
“Maybe later,” he said. He wasn’t sure he could remain upright on an unsteady surface when he was having trouble on solid ground.
“We’ll both do it later.” Gripping his arm for support, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of black ballet-type shoes. “How about the photo booth? Wanna get our picture taken? With Sam?”
“Sure.”
“I love your tie and jacket, by the way. We kind of match.” She grabbed his hand and led him across the yard, weaving her way between groups of people, not bothering to stop and talk. She was a woman with a goal.
“I thought this was going to be a little cookout,” Emerson said.
She laughed. “Me too, but it somehow morphed into this. Melody was behind the whole thing.”
In the photo booth Emerson sat on the stool and Lola settled herself on his lap, her arms around his neck as Sam cuddled up to them both. Emerson had no choice but to wrap his arms around Lola’s waist. One happy family.
“Smile!” Lola said.
Four photos in all that almost seemed to reflect four stages of a relationship. The couple staring at the camera, smiling just a little, then a bigger smile, then turning to each other, expressions baffled and sweet. In the last one, Lola leaned close and planted a kiss on Emerson’s lips. Just a fast one, kind of like the other night at the bar where the touch was over almost as soon as it started.
Even as they stood outside the booth looking at the strip of developed black-and-white photos, the sensation of her lips on his remained. And the taste… Sweet, like some kind of fruit, or maybe honey.
Did she kiss everybody? Was she one of those people who always touched and hugged and kissed? Did it mean anything? He wanted it to mean something. But he had to warn himself that it probably meant nothing. Girls didn’t hug him or kiss him.
“You hungry? Want something to drink?”
With the cat back on Emerson’s shoulder, Lola led the way to a long table and filled a glass with red wine, drinking half, then refilling and passing it to him. It hit him that she was drunk, and the sweetness that he’d tasted on her lips was wine. Not crazy drunk, and not out-of-her-mind drunk the way he got, but she had a good buzz on.
He shook his head. “Think I’ll grab a beer,” he said, spotting the coolers of ice and brown bottles.
She leaned forward and whispered loudly: “I’m kinda wasted.”
“I thought you might be.”
“The party started at noon. What time is it now?”
“Six, maybe?”
She gave him a big blink. Emerson knew that feeling.
“You wanna know something else?”
“What’s that?”
“I was worried you might be coming.”
“And that drove you to drink?” he asked, trying to keep track of the thread.
“Yeah.” Gears shifted. “Oh, my god. I love this song. Don’t you love this song?”
She put down her glass and grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the temporary plywood dance floor. Somewhere along the way, Sam jumped off his shoulder.
Emerson looked back at the cat with the kind of panic and longing reserved for love. Not that he thought Sam had any special powers. He wasn’t crazy or anything, but he’d decided that having the cat around was his good luck. Like some people had a lucky hat or lucky underwear or a lucky penny. Emerson had a lucky cat. And he wasn’t sure he could function without him.
He watched as Sam skittered through the crowd to dive under the skirt of a table. Reassured that Sam was sticking around, Emerson turned back to Lola, freshly aware of the music and her smile and her arms that reached for him, and his arms that reached back.
Slow dance. He didn’t know how to slow dance and he didn’t know how to fast dance, but he was pretty sure slow dancing was just hanging onto each other and swaying to the music. Which was what he did. With a princess in his arms. Her skirt was so big that his legs disappeared into clouds of blue.
No talking. This was good. He could do this. Just don’t talk.
At some point she leaned back and looked up at him with those amber eyes. “After the show at the bar the other night I decided I’m going to start playing my violin on the street.”
He imagined her outside some druggy joint, and was immediately afraid for her. “Might be dangerous,” he managed to get out.
“Depends on the location. I’ve decided to try the rose garden near Lake Harriet. That’s a beautiful spot, and a lot of people around.”
He wanted to say that most of the people would be jogging. They wouldn’t have cash with them. When you play on the street the idea is to park yourself near a café or a place where people were going to be spending money, but he couldn’t get the words out. They were there, but he couldn’t make himself say them. She looked at him with expectation, and maybe some trepidation and a growing worry that he’d seen before.
For a brief moment he felt relief when the song sped up and they broke apart. It seemed like a good idea. No talking. But that meant he had to dance. Like really dance. Wasn’t going to happen.
He signaled to Lola, pointing toward the beer he hadn’t yet inhaled. He needed a drink. And then he walked away from her. Just walked away. Straight for the beer.
He didn’t even care what it was. Find an opener, pop the top, start drinking. Don’t stop until you’re done. Which was what he did. He was reaching for a second when Lola showed up at his elbow, hands on her hips, the expression on her face…not at all happy.
“What the hell?” she said.
“Sorry.” He opened the second beer. “I’m not a dancer. And I was thirsty.”
“You are such an ass. I can’t decide if you’re rude or just completely lacking in social skills.”
This was it. This was the end. The end of Lola and Emerson.
“Is there a third option?” He took a swig and remembered the violin he was making, and the thought of sanding the beautiful wood was almost his undoing. For a second he imagined dropping to her feet and sobbing.
Instead, he found himself smiling at her and taking her hand. He told her he didn’t want to dance because he wanted to talk, he wanted to know more about her. In his head he thought that sounded slick and sleazy, but he saw her relax.
He poured her a glass of wine, then led her aside to a small, somewhat private table. Once she was seated, he told her he’d be right back. Minutes later he returned with a plate of food for sharing.
He wasn’t sure what he said. Words just came out. Words that made her smile and nod. Later, her parents and sister and her sister’s boyfriend, Joe, came around and they all hung out.
And Sam the cat was there. He was always there, sitting on someone’s lap, being fed a piece of chicken, given a drink of water. At some point Melody leaned over and said something to Lola about how funny and charming Emerson was.
Within this warm bubble, time continued to move forward, and as darkness fell people began to leave, the band packed up, and strings of white lights came on.
In the castle, grasping hands, Emerson and Lola bounced and laughed and finally crashed and fell to the center, their combined weight smooshing them together, tangling them in Lola’s blue skirt.
Emerson held her by both arms as they struggled to catch their breath. “I’m sorry about the dance.”
“I’m not going to forget. You owe me a dance. A real dance.”
“Deal, but not tonight.”
“No, but someday.”
So, there would be a someday.
She was almost on top of him, her breasts crushed against his chest, threatening to pop out of her fitted gown. Her skin… It was like real princess skin, like porcelain.
“I don’t know what to think of you,” she said. “You�
�re such a weirdass.”
“At least I’ve gone from ass to weirdass. That’s a step in the right direction.”
And then he did something very bold and very unlike him. He placed a hand on the back of her head and urged her near until she was close enough for him to feel the stir of her breath. Her eyelids fluttered and he pressed his lips to hers.
Unlike her kiss, this wasn’t fleeting. This was real and deep, the kind of kiss that produced a melting and a sigh. The kind of kiss that led to a deeper kiss, with open mouths and hands that began to roam.
Someone cleared his throat and they broke apart, the bemusement still there, a weakness in every part of Emerson’s body but one.
“I need to let the air out of this thing,” the operator said.
“He means storm the castle,” Emerson whispered.
Lola giggled.
It wasn’t easy shifting their weight and untangling themselves, but finally they both crawled toward the opening, Lola with her skirt pulled up to her knees. And then they were tumbling through the door, collapsing together on the ground where Sam the cat waited.
Emerson and Lola
Chapter 9
Thinking a cat he’d found on the street was somehow making him cool… Well, only one word for that, and that word was crazy. And Emerson knew he’d never have any kind of a chance with Lola if he had a cat on his shoulder or under his feet every time he saw her. He had to figure a way to break through his fear, and he had to figure out how to do it without a cat or booze.
And so he came up with a plan. Not a great plan, but one he thought of as rather romantic. And it wouldn’t require talking, and at the same time it would allow him to share his thoughts.
Writing.
Old-fashioned, yes, but he was an old-fashioned kind of guy when you really got down to it. He loved old-school anything, from handmade instruments to mixtapes actually made on cassettes. He loved vintage clothes, not because they were the cool thing to wear, but because he liked that they gave him a connection to a past that could actually touch his skin.
