A Very Special Man

by Deborah MacGillivray

“I shouldn’t give you the biggest portion of the chicken chunks, Simon. You really were a spaz while the satellite guy was here,” she fussed.

  Spaz? What the bloody hell is a spaz, pray tell? It didn’t sound like something he wanted to be. Maybe it was worse than being a cat. Possibly a dog! Simon glared at her, barely hearing her words. Dezzy tended to prattle to him. He had an idea she was lonely. Dezzy needs a man.

  “...he might even have asked me out if you hadn’t been stalking him.” She put the plate down before him, but he was too busy frowning at her to pay attention.

  I said she needed a man. I didn’t mean any man. The idea of Mr. Jerk with the big grin putting his arm around his Dezzy didn’t set well on his stomach.

  I might be getting a megrim. Did cats get a megrim? Oh, well, perhaps it was indigestion. Human frailties often confuse me of late.

  He closed his eyes in frustration. I am not a cat. I am not a cat. Say it ten times, Simon, and click your ruby slippers...

  “Come on, eat up. Then, we’ll set about decorating the tree.” She pushed the plate toward him in encouragement. “I got you some neat presents,” she nattered on.

  Simon sniffed. Better not be any more catnip mousies, I am running out of places to stash them. Silly woman thinks it’s a game―me hiding them everywhere, says it’s similar to Hide & Go Seek. Yeah, I hide and she goes and seeks.

  Dezzy sat down in her chair and then took a bite of chicken. Waving her fork, she said, “You know what I wish?”

  Wish? That triggers something in my brain. The male brain, not the cat brain. Something about a wish. Only what?

  Simon watched intently. He knew what he wished. He could imagine taking her wrist, and pulling her to stand. Dezzy would get that confused look on her beautiful face―her kissable, adorable face. He would nuzzle that soft spot on her throat, where her pulse pounded. Then, he’d back her against the table, bending her onto its surface, and teach her that his tongue had other talents...hmm...besides washing his fur.

  Sometimes, being a feline domesticus really is the pits.

  “Simon, are you ignoring me?” Dezzy asked. “You’re looking at me very strangely. You aren’t eating. You love Chicken Alfredo.” She reached out and touched his nose. “It’s cold. I guess you’re not sick.” Suddenly, big tears welled in her brown eyes. “Don’t you go and get sick on me, Simon. It’d be the last straw. I need you.”

  Frustration rose in him. He wanted Dezzy. Wanted to make love to her in a hundred ways. But he wanted more, so much more. He wanted to laugh with her, hold her while she cried. He wanted to topple kingdoms and give her the moon and stars. Teach her there was still magic in the world. He loved Dezzy so. It was maddening to have to sit here and pretend to be a cat. If he could only have Dezzy in this manner, then so be it. He’d do anything to stay with her. Maybe that was his punishment.

  Punishment. That caused his skin to ripple. There was something about the word which caused a reaction in him, same as the word wish. He sighed. Whatever the meaning, it was too illusive for him to snatch from the fog of his brain.

  “Simon, do hurry and clean your plate so I won’t worry about you. Then we can trim the tree and watch our new two-hundred plus channels.” Dezzy touched her napkin to her mouth. The action made Simon yearn to kiss her so much. Dezzy’s Chicken Alfredo kisses would be heaven!

  He knew kissing Dezzy would be sublime; one of those things he wasn’t sure how he knew― he just did. He’d kiss her softly, slowly, bringing a sigh to her lips. He wanted Dezzy to be happy. Sometimes, he had the feeling she was very sad, and that brought pain to his chest.

  If eating his meal reassured Dezzy, then he could scarf the dinner down. Scarf was a new word he’d gotten from watching that Bart Simpson person, one of the people in that other bizarre box Dezzy called tell-a-vision. Strange little person, all yellow. But then, who am I to quibble? I’m a cat. He nearly groaned. I am not a cat. I am not a cat. I am not a bloody cat!

  Making short work of the chicken and noodles, he licked the last bit off his nose. Nose? Simon nearly went cross-eyed staring down at it. The action of his tongue was one of those now automatic to him―the cat side asserting itself. He simply found it outlandish he performed personal hygiene mainly with his tongue! Until he found Dezzy nearly a year ago, he’d forgotten all these man thoughts. He was merely a cat, content to be a cat. Dezzy made him yearn for something more…if he could only recall how he got this way. There had to be a key to fulfilling Dezzy’s wishes.

  Wishes...the word skittered along his skin again.

  “Simon you’re so silly like that. I didn’t know cats could look cross-eyed.” She leaned forward and cupped his chin, then kissed his nose. “I love you, pal. I wish...” She sighed. “Well, never mind. Gran said if wishes were horses beggars would say giddy up.”

  Simon barely heard her. The words I wish hit his brain like a witch’s charm―three-times-three, let it be―and caused a mild explosion within him. That was it! Dezzy has to make a wish then kiss my nose. So bloody simple I feel stupid for not recalling it before. Only, how do I convey that to her?

  “Come on, pal, I’m suddenly in the mood to decorate,” she said, setting the plates in the sink.

  Simon couldn’t recall anything about horses or beggars, but he understood if Dezzy would only believe and make the wish, everything would come true, and it would, indeed, be a Christmas to remember.

  ***

  Well, now that she had DirecTV, Desdemona was swamped with too many choices. HBO, Showtime, Starz, Cinemax…and several of each of them. Movies, movies and more movies! Unable to choose, she put on the nature channel, thinking Simon might enjoy the segment they were airing on big cats. He twitched his long tail and shot her a disgusted look.

  “Okay, what about How The Grinch Stole Christmas?” Switching over to the beloved Christmas cartoon, she tossed up her hands when Simon was instantly enthralled. “Now he’s interested. Cat, you’re a puzzle. Of course, you love the Simpsons. Maybe you’re a toon addict.”

  Simon tossed one of his human smiles over his shoulder to show he really liked the Grinch. Going to the hall closet, she dragged out the trunk where her gran had stored all the old ornaments. It’d been stowed in the attic, but she brought it down two weeks ago, though couldn’t find the heart to face the memories that’d come with handling the treasured bulbs and ornaments. Most were old even when she was a kid.

  In various ways, this was a sad holiday. She didn’t have family, no sisters or brothers. Either all the aunts and uncles were dead, or she had no idea where they lived, losing touch decades ago. This was the first Christmas she’d lived in the house that had been her grandmother’s. A beautiful turn of the century―the other century―Victorian ‘gingerbread house’, it was painted with the quaint shade similar to orange sherbet. Unhappily, she’d closed off the seven bedrooms upstairs, saving heating costs. It seemed a wasteful extravagance just for one person.

  She was glad of the move here, yet though the house now belonged to her it hadn’t fully sunk in that it was hers. As she was growing up, she’d spent a month in the summer visiting, and generally came at Thanksgiving and Christmas time. Still, despite changes she’d made to the house’s space since settling in, she couldn’t shake the sense that her stay here was merely another visit in a long line, as though she was in a state of waiting for something to happen. She didn’t know what, but it was as though some wonderful incident would occur and change everything; until it did, life for her was in a strange suspension. The downstairs had a formal living room, a sitting room, dining room, a breakfast cozy, parlor, music room and drawing room. That was simply too many rooms used for sitting. She’d taken the music room and turned it into her bedroom, then converted the drawing room into her study where she labored to be a romance writer.

  It was strange she’d chosen to write romances. Gran always thought her granddaughter would be a writer some day, but likely Cozy Mysteries or the next To Kill a Mocking Bird is what Madeline Vashon
envisioned. No matter what Desdemona wrote, the romance always took over; she gave up and was going for the throat, so to speak. In spite, it seemed odd that she could write romances when she was such a failure in that department. Somewhere deep inside was still a little girl who believed in kissing a frog and getting a prince, had never stopped wishing for love and happily ever after, despite all the bad cards life had dealt her.

  She glanced in the long mirror behind the console piano in the corner, catching sight of herself. It wasn’t vain to say she was pretty. She had long, dark blond hair and big brown eyes. Men were always whistling at her when she jogged in the mornings. Only, few ever bothered to ask her out.

  Going through a divorce was bad enough. Living in a small town had only made matters worse. Everyone whispered about her husband leaving her for another woman, pitied her. Then to compound the unpleasant situation, her soon to be ex-husband and the other woman were killed in a head-on car crash with a drunk driver. She reigned as topic of choice from the gossips for months.

  Barely dealing with the fall out of that mess, the sad news came her grandmother had died in her sleep. Losing Gran was hard. She was surprised when the lawyer said Madeline willed her this marvelous old house and enough money to get by for a couple years. It was as if her grandmother were saying, go for your dream, and giving her the means to do so as a final gift.

  Desdemona packed up her few cherished belongings, had a three-day yard sale with the rest―more money to live on while she worked to sell to some lucky publisher in New York. With hope riding in her heart, she’d moved in to her new home high on a hill at the edge of town. Started fresh. The only problem with moving into an older settled area, while she had lovely neighbors, most were married with kids or elderly. Not the best dating prospects.

  But then, she didn’t want to date. Dating was a lot of bother. She just wanted someone special to love, who loved her, someone to share her days.

  “Not a lot to ask,” she muttered. Simon came over and rubbed against her leg, clearly sympathizing with her dilemma. “Ah, Simon, I wish there was a man just like you, who loved me the way you do.”

  ***

  Well, bloody hell, the fool woman could’ve had her wish if she’d kissed me on the nose as she usually does. Last time she kissed me, then made her wish. The ritual was reversed so didn’t work. A certain protocol to these things has to be observed. First the wish, then the kiss. Afterward, everything is possible. What is so ruddy hard in that?

  Simon snapped his tail. His head whipped around and glared at it. He had to admit that for expressing your displeasure a snapping tail was a pretty nifty thing to have. Then he frowned. He knew he frowned because he could feel the space between his ears flex, but wasn’t sure if real cats frowned. It’d been so long, it was hard to remember some things. I am not a cat. I am not a cat. I am not a stupid, delusional cat! Did he have a tail when he was in his other form? And precisely what was his other form? That there was another form he was growing surer of with every passing minute, merely some details still eluded his thoughts. It had been so long. However, if Dezzy would simply make her wish and kiss my nose, then we could get down to Ho Ho time.

  Simon watched her lovingly handle the old Christmas ornaments. Since coming, he gathered that Dezzy hadn’t always lived here, but it was the home of her grand-mère. Through one of Dezzy’s constant prattles, he’d learnt she’d been married once. Obviously, the guy didn’t deserve her. Simon sniffed. Actually, no mere mortal deserved his Dezzy. His lady needed magic in her life, and he fully intended to give it to her...just as soon as she made the bloody wish and gave him a kiss! Hmm, he communicated with Dezzy’s mind when she was asleep. Perhaps, if she couldn’t get her act together and make her wish soon, he’d reach her on that level and plant the suggestion of what she needed to do to release him from the dark spell.

  Dezzy dangled the glittering garland before him, enticing him to chase it. Oh, well, until he got her to do her thing with the magic words and the kiss, why not be a cat? He might as well enjoy catdom for a little while longer.

  Simon jumped down and ran around the living room, chasing the garland and making an utter fool of himself.

  Ah, what a man won’t do for the woman he loves.

  ***

  Desdemona couldn’t believe how gorgeous the tree was. Now she was sorry she’d put off decorating it for the past two weeks. Simon and she had a blast trimming it. They’d shared eggnog laced with rum. Ridiculous cat had gotten drunk, and was a sight staggering around. Now, he lay on the leather sofa on his back, totally blatzed, the stones of his collar reflecting the firelight.

  Simon had been wearing that strange collar when she found him at her front door, just after she moved in last January. Late one night, as the clock had chimed twelve times for midnight, she’d heard a scratching at the front door. Opening it, she found him sitting there, his fur wet from the near freezing rain. Poor thing was tired, cold and hungry. After he’d been with her a few weeks, he’d started to put on weight. Fearing the collar was growing too tight for him, she’d tried to loosen it, only she couldn’t find any way to release the catch. There was a small metal closure that almost looked like the head of a signet ring. However, there must be some trick to releasing it, and for the life of her, she’d failed to figure it out. Resorting to a quicker solution: she’d attempted to cut it off with a pair of sheers, only Simon grew very agitated. Afraid she’d accidentally injure him, she’d let it ride a few days. The next time she checked, it was oddly loose on his neck. An expensive collar, the glittering stones of yellow, green and red looked real. She was surprised a foundling ran around with such a high-priced choker about his neck.

  Ready to call it a night, she went to check the front door was locked and the security chain in place. Absently peeking out the panes that ran up the side of the door, she stared down the long drive. It was snowing heavily, and obviously had been for some time. The heavy blanket of white made the whole hillside appear like a scene from some Victorian Christmas card.

  “Oh, Simon, come look,” she called in her excitement.

  The cat gave a disgusted sigh at having to move from his comfy position, but finally padded over to her. She bent down and picked him up, hefting him into her arms so he could look out the panes, too.

  “Isn’t it beautiful? We’re going to have a White Christmas. It’s been years since I’ve had one. It’s magical. Like something special is going to happen.”

  The cat shifted in her arms and put his front legs, one on either shoulder, and then looked at her nose-to-nose. It scared the bloody hell out of her! For a long minute, they stood staring into each other’s eyes; suddenly she wasn’t staring into the amber cat eyes, but the eyes of a man. She mentally tried to shake the notion, but the impression lingered.

  The bloody cat smiled slyly, only she had a hard time remembering he was a cat. “Simon, I think I am losing it.” She hastily put him down, eager to be rid of the bizarre impression. Peculiarly, it left her aching for the nearness of a man. “Let’s turn out the lights in the house. Enjoy the tree and the falling snow, and see what my magic dish has on for us to watch. Surely with all these channels there’ll be something good.” Using the new remote she flipped through the menu. “Ah, A Christmas Story in letterbox. Ralphie and his Red Rider bb gun is the perfect prescription to welcome Christmas Eve. I’ll fetch us eggnog, poke the fire, and we can enjoy. Are we lucky or what, Simon?”

  ***

  Lucky is watching Dezzy’s cute derrière in her tight stretch jeans. Simon leered. Ah, what a delightful sight. But then Dezzy was a treasure from any angle. It was still surprising some man hadn’t long ago seen Dezzy for the gem she is. He’d seen that repairman drooling. Jealousy rising, he’d been afraid he’d need to go into that scary attack-cat mode to set the man running. Dezzy was his.

  Maybe tonight I shall get to show her that.

  Dezzy came back and set the crystal cups of eggnog on the coffee table, then turned out the lights. Hu
mming Greensleeves, she opened the glass doors on the fireplace and added a log, then poked several times with the poker to stir up the embers. Simon liked it when she hummed. It meant Dezzy was happy, and nothing was more important to him than that.

  She settled down on the comfortable sofa, and put up her feet, then stretched out partially on her side. Seeking her nearness, Simon curled up next to her stomach. Dezzy stroked the length of his back, her touch soothing. His skin rippled, responding to the sheer sensuality. It made him crave that hand on his bare flesh. How long had it been since he felt that sensation? It hardly mattered. Nothing mattered but Dezzy. Everything would be new again with her.

  As she watched the movie, the rum went to work. Dezzy was not a drinker, too much into fruit drinks and colas. She had, however, bought a bottle of The Macallans and kept it on a special shelf in her office. The wench planned to toast herself when she finally sold one of her romance books. Dezzy would sell. She had the soul, the heart of a romantic. It was just a matter of time until someone spotted that. Perhaps, she might want to toast another event: the return of Simon Glashiel Ravensdale, the seventh Viscount Moordon.

  Wouldn’t Dezzy be surprised? He wondered how she felt about being a Viscountess. Of course, he would be an earl now. His father would be long dead, naturally, but then they had never been close. Thus, he would be the eleventh Earl. Now that memories were returning to him, they came in a flood. His father had sent him away to France, which is what landed him into this mess. Creighton Ravensdale could not accept his son’s true nature, that his wife had been one of the Cait Sidhe, a race of witches originating from the Picts of Scotland. People of his blood had the ability to change into a cat nine times in their lifetime. His father had come upon Simon when he’d just turned seventeen, in the midst of undergoing the first transformation. Revolted, and perhaps a little scared by his son’s ‘unnatural abilities’, his father had banished him to Paris, hoping…well, Simon couldn’t remember what had been his father’s intent. It hardly mattered now.