by Theresa Weir
“Maybe the girl you were with last night has them,” Lola suggested.
He locked eyes with her. “What?”
“Your roommate said…”
“I wasn’t with any girl.” He began digging again. “Not that I remember, anyway.”
“That’s probably one of the first true things you’ve said.”
He practically skidded to a halt in front of her. She could smell the alcohol on him, and he looked like hell. As much like hell as Emerson could look, which meant he looked pretty good.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“I don’t have time for this right now.”
“It’s now or you’ll never see me again, although I get the idea that’s what you want. And it’s definitely what I want.”
“Did you drive here?” he asked.
“What?”
“Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
He grabbed her arm. “Come on.”
“Go to hell.”
“It’s a matter of life-and-death.”
Oh, she had it bad. Because she was thinking how good he looked half drunk, all hyper and agitated, reeking of booze, his curly hair a wild mess. And she was thinking that at least he’d looked at her. Looked her right in the eye more than once.
She jerked her arm free, and together they ran down the stairs to her car.
As she drove, he gave her directions using the GPS on his phone.
“Whose life are we saving?” she asked, not believing it was really a matter of life-and-death. Probably just another weird thing he was doing.
“Sam. But I’m afraid it’s already too late.”
The traffic light turned from yellow to red. To hell with that. She gunned the car and shot through the intersection. Two minutes later they were merging onto I-94. She ignored the metered light and cut into freeway traffic as Emerson continued to give her directions.
Five miles later they pulled into the parking lot of a cement-block building with a flat roof. Emerson bailed out and sprinted for the door before Lola put the car in park.
Engine off, she ran after him, catching up at the front desk. In the distance, she could hear dogs barking.
Emerson
Chapter 21
“I’m here to get my cat.” Emerson gripped the edge of the counter with both hands. “He was brought in by mistake.”
The woman working the desk was large and blond and intimidating. “When did your cat arrive?”
“Yesterday.”
She clicked some keys on her computer. “Your name?”
“I didn’t bring him in. Somebody else brought him in. Long story.”
“So you want to adopt a cat?”
“Not any cat. This cat was black-and-white.”
“A tuxedo cat,” Lola added.
“The only tuxedo cat that came in yesterday was a feral.”
“That’s him. I’ll adopt him. Whatever I need to do to get him back.”
“Since he wasn’t your cat you don’t have any say in this and I can’t help you. If you want to adopt another cat, we have many in need of homes.”
“I want my cat.”
In one desperate motion, Emerson unsnapped his blue plaid shirt, pulled one arm from the sleeve, and peeled away tape to reveal his tattoo. “This is the cat I’m talking about.” He pointed. “I want him back.”
Both the woman and Lola leaned in to get a good look, and their eyes got big.
Emerson nodded as if his strip job would take care of everything. He replaced the Saran Wrap cover, slipped back into his shirt, snapped it, then waited. It would all be okay.
The woman was losing some of her bravado. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but the cat you’re talking about has been put down.”
Beside him, Lola let out a strangled gasp while Emerson clenched his hands into tight fists. “I thought you held them for a while. Like at least twenty-four hours.”
“We’re at capacity, and since we have the owner’s signature the minimum time wasn’t necessary. He was euthanized last night.” She looked up at Emerson. “I’m sorry.”
Beside him, Lola was crying.
“Let me see the cats,” he said.
The woman stared at him. “I thought you weren’t interested in any other animals?”
“I want to see them.”
“Emerson…” Lola put an arm around him and tried to coax him away.
“I want to see the cats.”
To pacify him, the woman grabbed a set of keys and came out from behind the counter. “Dog kennels on the left, cats on the right.”
Emerson followed while Lola clung to his arm, trying to coax him away, trying to get him to leave.
The woman unlocked the door and held it open. “Maybe you’ll find another cat. We got some cute kittens in a few days ago.”
Emerson barged through the door and Lola followed. The desk phone rang and the woman went back to her station, the big metal door slamming solidly behind her.
“Emerson, come on. Let’s go.”
He turned to Lola. Her eyes were glassy, and he was pretty sure his looked the same. He realized she was holding both of his hands, squeezing his fingers. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “You can come back another time.”
“I want to see the body,” he said. “Somewhere in here I’ll bet there’s a freezer with the body in it. That’s what they do. Freeze them until they’re picked up.”
The long narrow room was what he’d expected. Cement floor, cages down each wall, stacked three high. Sad and depressing. They walked the length of the room, looking in the cages.
“I want to adopt them all,” Emerson said.
“Me too. This is awful.”
“We should work on getting this place shut down, that’s what I think we should do,” Lola said.
“Or work to get it changed to no-kill.”
“Exactly.”
With each step, Emerson’s heart sank more. Why had he insisted on coming in here? What had he expected to find?
They were nearing the end of the room when he felt Lola’s hand tighten on his arm. He followed the direction of her gaze to a cage tucked away in the corner. It was too dark to make out much, but Emerson thought he saw black-and-white fur.
“Sam?” he asked.
The cat meowed.
Emerson lunged forward and fumbled with the latch, finally releasing the door, metal clanging.
The cat jumped from the cage to his shoulder.
“It’s Sam!” Emerson said with joy in his voice as he reached up to pet him.
Lola put a trembling hand to her mouth and let out a choked sob, then she began to laugh.
Emerson coaxed Sam off his shoulder so he could hold him to his chest and pet him. The cat meowed and purred. With Sam between them, Emerson and Lola put their foreheads together.
Minutes later, they made their way down the depressing aisle of cats to the front desk.
When the woman saw Sam, her mouth dropped open. “What the…?”
“This is my cat,” Emerson said.
“I don’t understand.” The woman grabbed the phone, punched in a number, and immediately began chewing out the person on the other end of the line. After some back-and-forth, she hung up.
“My assistant says he was ready to euthanize the cat, but just couldn’t make himself do it. So he stuck him in a cage in the back of the room. I don’t get it, because Mason has always been emotionless about his job. He has to be.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at the animal. “I thought he was feral. The guy we got him from was covered in scratches.”
“He’s not feral,” Emerson said. “The guy you got him from was just a sleaze.”
“According to our paperwork the cat’s already dead, so just go.” She waved a hand toward t
he door and pulled out her wheeled office chair. “Take him.”
“I don’t mean to pry, “ Lola said, “but have you ever considered going no-kill?”
“We were for a while, but the money just wasn’t there. Tried to get a grant from the city. Couldn’t do it.”
Emerson could tell Lola was thinking. “I’d be interested in putting together a fundraiser,” she said.
“Honey, we’ve tried that. You have to sell a lot of damn cookies to feed a hundred animals a day. It’s not that we don’t have room. You saw the empty cages. We simply don’t have the funding.”
“I think I could get you the funding you need. I know a lot of musicians who’d help. I’d like to see what I can put together.”
The woman produced a card from the mess on her desk and handed it to Lola. “Call me or email if you come up with anything. I’m always ready to listen to ideas that are more than a corner bake sale.”
Lola tucked the card in her bag. “I’ll be in touch.”
On the way back to southwest Minneapolis, Emerson marveled at the day, and marveled that he had Sam back, marveled that he was sitting in Lola’s car, and marveled that he’d actually been able to talk to her with no fear when he’d really needed to.
“I’m thinking a festival in Loring Park,” Lola said as they passed St. Mary’s Basilica.
“And maybe a silent auction,” Emerson added. “I’ll make a guitar for it and donate some repair time. Oh, hey, maybe a compilation album that people can buy.”
Lola jumped in. “Anthems for Animals.”
Emerson looked down at the cat sitting on his lap. “Songs for Sam?”
“Ooh, I like that.”
She took the exit ramp to Colfax, then stopped at a red light. “So if poor Sam had lost his life, does that mean you’d be an asshole forever? Because here he is, and now you’re nice again.”
Her words destroyed his buzz. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I don’t know if you’re messing with me or if you really believe the stuff about the cat. Either way…” She shook her head.
“It’s been scientifically proven that pets lower blood pressure and help us deal with stress. I think that’s what it is, just magnified.” That’s what he tried to tell himself anyway, and it made sense. It was the only thing that made sense.
She pulled to the curb in front of Emerson’s house and put the car in park, but didn’t shut it off.
“You want to come in?” Emerson asked, afraid of her answer.
“No.”
That sounded very final.
“I can’t be in a relationship with you,” she said. “I need someone less bipolar, you know?” It seemed she was trying to convince herself of her decision. “I dated a chameleon, and I can’t date another one. I have to be with someone I can trust.”
“I can change. I can be less…less of what I was yesterday.”
“I don’t want you to change for me. That’s what guys never seem to get. Because that kind of change isn’t real, and it always ends up in resentment.”
“Is this where you talk about the friend thing?”
“Honestly, Emerson. I don’t even know about that. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
He nodded because he understood. He was a mess. At least when he was around her. And he wasn’t sure he could ever get that under control. It was unpredictable. Maybe he was crazy.
He opened the car door and got out. “Thanks for the ride.”
Sam jumped on his shoulder, and the two of them walked down the sidewalk to the house.
Lola
Chapter 22
Lola checked the wrapper on the chocolate bar, only mildly curious to know if it had any food value since it was the only thing she’d eaten all day.
It had been a late night at work, with several tables showing up right before closing, but at least tips had been decent even though she hadn’t felt like instigating the usual banter, and she hadn’t gone out of her way to make sure her tables got any service above and beyond.
But then the place was called Mean Waitress, so that pretty much lowered expectations as soon as customers stepped in the door. In fact, new people were often surprised when she smiled at them, unlike her friend and co-worker, Rose, who went out of her way to play up the mean waitress thing. Customers loved that.
After work, Rose tried to talk Lola into going to a movie, but Lola knew she wouldn’t be good company and wouldn’t be able to concentrate. A text from Melody had invited her over for a night of marathon TV and raspberry chocolate ice cream, but as comforting as that sounded, Lola just needed to be alone in her apartment with her candy bar.
Two days had passed since the animal shelter thing, and she’d had no contact with Emerson. Her regulars at the rose garden noticed his absence, and a couple of people shyly asked about him. She just shook her head and tucked her violin back under her chin.
Now she slipped the last bite of chocolate in her mouth and tossed the wrapper. After a shower she tugged on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a Smiths’ T-shirt—appropriate, considering her frame-of-mind. She was heading to the bedroom when a quiet knock sounded on her door. The wall clock said almost 2:00 a.m.
The knock wasn’t aggressive, not hurry-up-and-open-this-damn-door. No, it was almost the kind of knock meant not to get someone’s attention. The kind the UPS driver used when he didn’t want to wait for you to sign. Just knock very lightly, leave the package, and run like hell.
Times like these Lola wished she had a peephole so she could see who was out there. She didn’t live in the best neighborhood in town, and most people who knew her would have texted before dropping by, or texted as they stood outside the door.
She wouldn’t open it or reply. That decision was no sooner made than she heard retreating footsteps followed by the closing of the entryway door. Her apartment was at the back of the building so there was no street view, no way to look and see who might have been walking away.
She waited, listening for any sound, because really, a girl alone had to be careful. Her old boyfriend had taught her well, and now suspicion would always be a part of her nature. And Emerson had only reinforced that distrust.
Trust issues. Now she had that around her neck. Hated to think that’s the disease she’d been left with, but there it was.
Finally, after what seemed an hour but had probably only been five minutes, she quietly turned the deadbolt, then slowly cracked the door a couple of inches.
The hallway was faintly illuminated by a light from the first floor and light from a streetlamp—enough to see that nobody was there. She opened the door all the way, making a visual sweep of the space. There, next to her door, was a familiar-looking violin case, one she’d definitely seen before. Old black leather. Silver latches. She could smell its age. And after her visit to Emerson’s room, she knew damn well what was inside.
She slammed the door and turned the deadbolt, leaving the case in the hallway.
Asshole.
Returning her letters.
She went to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out her last candy bar, unwrapped it, and began mindlessly shoving it in her mouth, chewing with passion and anger. She’d get him back. She’d gather up all of his notes…and…and… what?
Another bite.
Burn them on his front lawn?
No.
Stick them under the windshield wipers of his car?
Not inventive enough.
Another bite.
Tape them to the front window of Let It Be? Totally cover the windows?
That was pretty good, but it would drag unsuspecting innocents into their mess.
Another bite.
Mail them back to him in a pretty box all tied up with a gift bow?
Not bad, but a little too close to what he’d just done.
She was taking the final bite of chocolate when she came up with what she thought could be a winner. How about shredding them—enough so words could still be read—then spreading the shredded paper all over his yard? On a rainy night so it would stick to everything.
Yeah, that was good. She liked that.
She imagined him opening the front door, seeing the mess, and at first just thinking it had been done by a bunch of kids. But then he’d start picking it up, shoving it into a giant trash bag (because there would be a lot of paper), and some random line would catch his eye…and he’d know. He’d know the words all over the yard were his words, torn up and discarded.
Oh, yeah. That was good. That was really good.
Almost too good.
She wasn’t a cruel person, but she wanted to lash out at him for his trickery, for deceiving her, for creating this person she could love, this person she’d been crazy about, this person who’d made her ache in a way she’d never ached. And to find out he wasn’t real…
It was like he’d died. And she wanted to get back at the guy who’d killed him and broke her heart.
She went to bed—defiantly and without brushing her teeth after eating two candy bars—and pulled the covers over her shoulder to her chin, but her brain wouldn’t shut off.
She kept thinking about the violin case in the hallway.
Finally, disgusted with herself, she tossed back the covers and walked barefoot to the apartment door, opened it, and pushed the case inside with her foot, closing the door behind her. She stood and stared at it, hands on hips. Why open it when she knew what was inside?
Another idea was to remove her letters, replace them with Emerson’s, and return the case to him, but that was childish. Then she would be playing his game.
She dropped cross-legged on the floor, tucking her bare feet under her. Might as well get it over with, she thought, unsnapping one lock, then the other before slowly opening the lid.
Her heart stopped.
In her mind, she’d already formed the image she would see. Red envelopes against blue velvet. But there were no red envelopes in the case. Instead, cradled against the neck block, was a violin.
