The Cat's Pajamas

by Soraya May

“Just vegetables for the week from Cheryl.” Cheryl Collis, Jack’s wife, was a keen smallholder, and reliably offered the best produce in town. She also grew champion vegetables; giant carrots, pumpkins the size of wheelbarrows, and marrows like tree-trunks.

  How she did this was a closely guarded secret, and I preferred not to think too closely about it, lest my sleep be plagued by dreams of genetically modified horror-vegetables.

  “Stop dodging my question. What about the guy?” Farrah gripped her bag tightly, and fished in it for her coin-purse. “Man, I need a cup of coffee. It’s too early in the morning to be in a field in these heels.”

  “The guy, as you call him, said he wasn’t staying in town long.” I drew in a breath. “Soooo, if I see him again, I’ll be polite and friendly, but that’s it. No need to be standoffish.”

  A bark of laughter from Farrah. “It’s a bit late for that, sure.”

  “But, I’m not doing anything like that ever again. You are a bad influence, Foxworthy.”

  Farrah curtseyed, not an easy job on grass in stiletto heels. “At your service, Milsom.”

  Before getting to the vegetable stall, we browsed the craft tables, looking for bits and pieces, and enjoying the morning sunshine. Farrah bought a little butterfly brooch for May, and I looked for a scarf. I was trying one on in front of a mirror, when I heard a deep voice behind me.

  “The gray one would go better with your eyes.” A shiver went up my spine.

  Was it him? Oh damn. It’s him alright.

  I couldn’t mistake his voice. For a minute, I stood frozen, contemplating just not turning around, and pretending I hadn’t heard. Arms reached around from behind me, removing the scarf, and wrapping another one across my collarbone, and around my neck. “See what I mean?”

  I took a deep breath and turned. He stood in front of me, one hand in his pocket, the other one on his chin in a gesture of evaluation. God, those eyes, deep and dark. Those eyes I remembered from the bar, half-amused, then full of desire in the close, dark space. Half of me wanted to see that look again, and the other half would have quite happily had the earth open up and swallow me right now.

  There was a moment’s silence as we looked at each other, broken by—I should have known—Farrah.

  “He’s right, Cat. The gray is better.”

  Dammit. I exhaled, still fixated on the man in front of me. “H-hi.” Still tall, broad-shouldered and gorgeous. Damn, damn, damn. Now is really not the time.

  He smiled broadly and extended a hand. “I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. My name is Ryan. I didn’t catch yours when we…met…the other night.”

  “Cat. And this,”—a jab in the ribs prompted a sudden gesture toward my friend—”is Farrah.”

  “It’s great to meet you both.” His voice was rich and deep, self-assured and friendly. Part of me started to think that maybe I didn’t feel so awkward after all.

  “Hey, honey,” Farrah was beside me. “I need to go and see a guy. About a thing. In fact, there he is, just over there.” She gestured behind her in a magnificently nonspecific manner. “I’d better go right away so I don’t miss him. I’ll catch you later. Ryan, it was a pleasure to meet you.” Before I could protest, she’d wobbled swiftly into the crowd.

  Left with nothing else to do, I looked him up and down. Tall and lean, he was dressed in the same leather jacket and faded jeans he was wearing last night. A white t-shirt under the jeans left me in no doubt about his figure; muscled like a gymnast, I thought. Maybe he is an athlete.

  Ryan waited patiently while I looked at him, and it was only when my gaze reached his eyes that I realized he knew exactly what he was doing. I tried not to flush again, and almost succeeded.

  “So, you’ve got a day off from the bar today?” Clammy and flushed at the same time, just like I’d expected.

  C’mon, just talk to the guy. Friendly and professional, remember? “Well, just the morning. We don’t open until 4, because we’re not doing lunches, because the oven is—” I tailed off. Does he really want to know?

  He nodded. “Good to know. I was planning to come back this afternoon, and it’s probably best if there aren’t any customers when I do.”

  What the hell does that mean? My blank look must have showed on my face, because Ryan smiled, and held up a hand.

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to be mysterious. I’m an archaeologist. I’m here because the bar owner contacted me asking about some bones that were discovered underneath the bar last week. So I’ll be at the bar quite a bit.”

  I was temporarily dumbfounded. “You’re Ryan Sanders? As in Doctor Ryan Sanders?”

  He saluted. “At your service. Normally I’d be flattered you’d heard of me, but realistically I don’t think I’m that famous.” He paused, grinning. “Yet. A man can hope, I guess. Those photos the owner sent me did look pretty interesting, so you never know.”

  “Y-yeah.” I’d expected the archaeologist to be a wizened little old guy, not…not, well, Indiana Jones.

  Hell! And I kissed him!

  “Mind you, if this is a significant find, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find another job. Your boss should be pretty well-compensated for the demolition of the place, though.”

  Demolition?

  “What. Do. You. Mean. Demolition?”

  Ryan picked up another scarf, and held it up to my face. He appeared to be completely unaware of the look of horror I had. “Maybe the blue? Hmm. Well, if the site is deemed to be valuable, then it will be acquired by the Government, and we’ll clear it and start the excavation.”

  “Excavation?”

  “Yes, excavation. There could be fossils and artifacts spread over quite a wide area, so we’d level the site and start digging down, bit by bit.” Finally, after some time, Ryan noticed my horrified expression. “Oh, you’re worried about your job?” He gave me an apologetic smile. “Yeah, I understand, and I’m sorry about that. But an experienced bartender like you should be able to find another one pretty easily, surely? I watched you work, and I was very…impressed.”

  My brain whirled, and I looked about desperately. Where the hell was Farrah when I needed her?

  “W-who decides if the site is valuable?”

  Ryan shrugged again. “Well, it’s a Heritage Council committee decision, based on a report I make. That’s mostly what I’m here for. I’ll assess the place over the next week, do some excavation, and come to a decision. It shouldn’t take long.” He reached out and took my unresisting hand. “Honestly, don’t worry. It’s not like it’s going to happen immediately. You’ll have plenty of time to find another job. I’ll come and talk to the owner, and he’ll explain everything to you, I’m sure.”

  That did it. Now, I was a bit annoyed. “I am the owner, Doctor Sanders. I’m the one who emailed you.”

  Now it was Ryan’s turn to be speechless, and I didn’t know whether to be gratified at the look of shock on his face, or annoyed that he quite evidently hadn’t even considered the possibility of my being in charge.

  “You are? I, uh, yeah. Okay. Uh, great.” He looked at the ground for a moment. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. So, you’re the owner? Cat, uh, Milsom?”

  “Yes, I’m the owner,” I snapped at him. “What part of this is difficult for you to understand?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.” Ryan’s face was guileless. “You didn’t exactly identify yourself last night at the bar.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “I thought I was just talking to a bartender.”

  “I thought I was just talking to a customer.”

  A wry smile spread across his face. “Well, your hospitality was impressive. If all your customers get that sort of treatment, I can see why your bar is so popular. I’m amazed there aren’t queues outside, in fact.”

  I fumed; I wanted to hit him, but I settled for what I thought looked like an imperious glare. It more-or-less worked, in the sense that he had the grace to look apologetic. “Okay, I’m sorry, that was a bi
t unfair. Look, I wanted to say—”

  “There’s nothing to say.” I interrupted, talking quickly to cover my embarrassment. “It was…a mistake. I don’t know what happened.”

  Ryan looked slightly hurt. “I meant I wanted to say that if you’re the owner, you’ll be well-compensated for the bar and the land. Seriously, the law about compulsory acquisitions is very generous. You’ll get many times the market value, believe me.”

  In between my embarrassment at the kiss, and my shock at the idea of my bar being demolished, I didn’t know which emotion to feel first.

  Ryan coughed. “As for the other issue…well, I was pretty impressed when you kissed me. It was kind of unexpected, I have to say.”

  “Well,” I spluttered, “you were all argh rargh alpha male at the bar, remember? What were you hoping would happen?”

  “Yeah, okay, that.” He held up his hands. “Mea freakin’ culpa. I just didn’t think it would happen, that’s all.”

  “Neither did I.” The ludicrous nature of this conversation was gradually catching up with me, like being stalked by a housecat; you know it’s behind you somewhere, but you’re unwilling to face it until it pounces on you.

  He winked at me. I think he was going for raffish and Tom Hiddlestonesque, but instead he looked like he’d got something in his eye. “If you’re ever in need of a repeat performance, I’m happy to oblige.”

  My irritation finally boiled over. “You come down here, talk me into kissing you under false pretenses, tell me you’re going to demolish my bar, and then you ask if I want a repeat performance?” Unwrapping the scarf he’d placed around my neck, I balled it up and threw it at him. “Perform this!”

  The scarf hit Ryan directly in the face, and he caught it as I stormed off. I heard him call after my rapidly-retreating back, “Uh, I’ll pop round this afternoon, if that’s okay?”

  Stalking through the crowd, I cast around for Farrah. Or someone. Anyone.

  You kiss one hot guy—just one—and the next thing you know he’s wanting to demolish your bar. Great.

  10

  Cat

  Stretching, I descended the stairs, bare feet padding on the worn wood. By now, I knew every knot and creak in them, which was handy when I wanted to go up or down in a hurry. You could hear people going up and down the old stairs from the other side of the bar, but I knew exactly where to step to avoid making a noise. The overnight rain was clearing, steadily, and I looked out the big picture-windows toward the coast.

  Across the road, the low tussock stretched away for about a quarter-mile, then gave way to sand dunes; on a clear day, I could see whitecaps on the breakers rolling in from the deep ocean.

  What a gorgeous place. I’m so lucky to be here.

  As I busied myself about the bar, setting up for the day, this morning’s meeting with Ryan kept trying to replay itself in my head, and I kept stopping it.

  What the hell am I going to do? If he decides those damn fossils are important, I’m going to lose the whole bar.

  What infuriated me most about his attitude—even more than the assumption that I wasn’t the owner because I was a woman—was that I would be happy to see the place demolished. I might have money, but if I lost my bar, then I’d be rootless, again, just like I was before I turned up here and saw the place.

  Even if this is running away, it’s my place. It’s my running away, and I’m not going to just pack up and disappear.

  Sighing, I turned myself to the other, more immediate problem; the oven. Where was I going to get money to fix it? The bar was breaking even, but I exhausted all my savings buying inventory, and I wasn’t going to have more for some time. Somehow, the chance of Beatrice Macfarlane giving me an easy-payment option seemed pretty remote.

  I could ask my parents for the money. It’s not as if they can’t spare it.

  I remembered the look on my mother’s face when I arrived at their house to tell them I was leaving Boston, the day before my flight.

  “But don’t you think you should stop and think about this, Catherine?” My mother fiddled with the strap of her Cartier watch as she paced about their entrance hall. “I mean, what about Kirk? What about your career?”

  Bag in one hand, I tried to explain again. “I told you that Kirk and I have split up, Mom. In truth, we’ve been emotionally separated for a long time now. It’s just taken a while for the rest of us to catch up.”

  “But your career—”

  “Mom, I’m tired of it. I’ve been dreading going to work every day for six months, and I can’t stand the idea of doing that for the rest of my life. I have to break out somehow, or I’ll go crazy.”

  “Let her go.” My father descended the stairs, carrying his briefcase. “Catherine, I can’t say I agree with this…silliness…but if you have to get it out of your system, then better it happens now than later when you have a family of your own to consider, and responsibilities.” He turned to my mother. “She’ll be back soon enough when her money runs out, or when she learns whatever lesson she’s trying to learn.”

  Gee, thanks, Dad. Way to support your only daughter who’s always done everything you said she ought to do. The first time her life she makes a decision for herself, you call it ‘silliness’.

  Since then, my contact with my parents had consisted mostly of my mother’s weekly emails asking when I was coming back, and if I’d been in contact with Kirk. I was seriously thinking of setting up a form response saying ‘I don’t know, and no, I haven’t, and he’s engaged to The Dermatologist with Lovely Skin, remember?’.

  The idea of asking them at this point for a loan to rebuild a derelict commercial oven in an old bar on the far side of the planet was about the least appealing thing I could imagine. I thought of the self-assured tone in my father’s voice.

  “She’ll be back soon enough when her money runs out.”

  Like hell I will, Dad.

  I sighed again, got down on my hands and knees and started scraping the wax off the floor near the old floor candelabra. The heavy piece of ironwork did great things for the ambience of the bar, but it required daily cleaning, and I had regular nightmares about a drunk farmer crashing into it, or someone’s hair catching ablaze.

  I should increase my fire insurance coverage; file that under ‘things to do when you have an unlimited amount of money’.

  Engrossed in scraping at the hardened wax, I didn’t hear the knock at the door, and a deep voice from behind me made me jump.

  “Hey.” Still on all fours, I twisted around. Oh, great. Him already.

  Ryan was in the doorway, arms folded. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No,” I replied with a touch of sarcasm, “I spend most mornings on my hands and knees like this for fun. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long. I was…distracted. Again.”

  With a start, I realized the doorway was directly opposite the floor candelabra, and Ryan had been admiring my rear. My old pajamas were threadbare, and definitely didn’t leave very much room for modesty. Getting to my feet, I tried my best to scowl at him, and tried to ignore the part inside me that secretly enjoyed the look of appreciation on his face.

  Stop it, Cat. He’s a smug jerk.

  “Dr Sanders—”

  “Please, call me Ryan.”

  “Very well. Ryan. I’d appreciate it if you’d knock louder next time, instead of skulking and…looking at me.”

  He stepped inside. “Sorry. But, okay.” Holding out his palms, he assumed a contrite expression. “I actually came to ask a favor of you.”

  “A favor of me?” I dropped the scrubbing brush on the bar and stared at him. “What kind of favor? If you’re wanting to get into the basement right away, then I can’t—”

  Ryan shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I’m happy to fit around your schedule, and I don’t want to get in your way. I understand that you have a bar to run.”

  Yeah, despite the possibility of you deciding to demolish it. Deep down, I kne
w this was a little unfair of me—the guy was just doing his job—but I couldn’t help it; the bar represented the only source of constancy in my life, and was about the only thing I could call a ‘success’ since I left Boston.

  “Okay, so what?”

  “Well,” Ryan was obviously choosing his words carefully, “I need somewhere to stay. My room at the guest house has developed a leak. A serious one. Directly above my bed. I’ve called everywhere within twenty miles, and there are no spare rooms at all. Not one.”

  He leaned against the bar, with that half-amused smile I was quickly coming to find a fifty-fifty mixture of very attractive and intensely irritating. “Then, I remembered the other night, you said that you had some rooms here, and I thought maybe—”

  “Oh no.” I shook my head emphatically. “No way, buster. I may have to let you into my basement so you can decide whether or not you’re going to knock down my bar, but if you think I’m going to let you live here, you’ve been inhaling too much mummy dust, or whatever it is that you do.”

  Ryan looked pained. “I’m not really an Egyptologist, so that doesn’t really—look, never mind. I can afford to pay.”

  My lips were clamped together in a thin line. “Still no. It’s not about the money. Besides, you couldn’t afford it.”

  “Try me. I’ve got an expense account for business trips. You can charge me whatever you want, no questions asked.” He exhaled heavily, and looked genuinely downcast; for a minute, I almost felt sorry for him. “Look, Cat, I’m kind of desperate here. I need somewhere to stay to do this investigation, and you’re the only person in town who has a spare room.”

  I was about to refuse again, when I paused. This was how I could get the money to fix the oven. If I said no, he’d find somewhere to stay sooner or later, and then I’d be in the same situation, except without the money. I couldn’t stop him from carrying out his damn investigation, and whatever he found, I was determined to keep the bar going for as long as I could.

  The two old bedrooms upstairs were dusty and only used for storage, but if I could put him in one of them for a week and get enough money to fix the oven, it wasn’t going to cost me anything.