“Is that what The Newest Thing does?”
“It’s what I would do.”
“Is it?” Lily pops open the can of tuna, dumps the fish onto a plate.
“You need more mirrors. You have only this one.”
“One’s not enough for you?” Lily puts the plate on the floor, and I scarf down all the tuna in a couple of bites, not sure I tasted anything.
“The kitty came out. I told you!” the girl says. “It’s like she hasn’t eaten in days.”
Not days, exactly. Well, maybe, but so what?
The girl points at me and giggles. “Her tongue is sticking out.”
I pull in my tongue. Meant to do that. Sometimes a tongue needs a little air.
Lily glances at me, then sets about moving clothes from one place to another while the girl returns to the dressing room. All the changing that humans do, a waste of time.
I’m sitting on a rug now, spacing out while Lily runs around “tidying up.”
When the girl emerges in her street clothes, she plunks me into a box before I can protest. What just happened? “Oh, kitty, quiet down. You’ll be okay. What’s your name? She needs a name.”
“Someone already gave her one, I’m sure,” Lily says.
I did have a name, but I can’t remember, and it doesn’t matter now.
“But you have to give her one. We all have names. You have a name, don’t you?”
“Lily. And you?”
“Bish. It’s not short for anything. Just Bish. You could call her Cottonpuff or Snowball or…What’s white? Dandruff?”
“I don’t want to name the cat.”
“Snowflake then.”
“She’s more of a Blanche. Kind of crazy. But forget it—”
“Blanche, I like that!” Bish says.
“It’s from A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“A streetcar named what?”
Someone’s taping the box, poking airholes. I’m in a fix, but I’ll make it through this—I’ve experienced worse. I sense Lily’s worry swirling through the air, and through a peephole, I see her frowning out the window toward the shop across the street, her eyes full of doubt.
Chapter Nine
Lily
Lily carried the box, with the cat inside, across the street to The Newest Thing, a storybook boutique in a rectangular redbrick building. Whimsical wind chimes hung from the eaves, and the latest fashions and handbags were carefully arranged in the large bay window. She felt some trepidation about going inside, but she had tried the Island Creamery and the Apothecary Shop, but they had not claimed the cat.
Now here she was, inside a rival dress shop that breathed freshness and light. Bish had been right. Everything smelled new. The owner had taken care to arrange the clothes in beautiful, well-lit configurations. Lily spotted six customers browsing the carousels of silk and chiffon, wool and rayon, not counting the women in the fitting rooms.
She had an urge to run back to the cottage, pack up all her things, and leave. Why even bother? She could never compete. She would never be able to wash out the smells of dust and smoke and sweat from the wrinkled old garments in her shop.
But she reminded herself that the clothes weren’t “old,” they were classics. Each one told its own story.
Still, how could she transform the messy rooms into anything to match this beauty? Josh had always been the interior decorator with the aesthetic eye. Lily had been the one to choose quirky clothes on impulse, to learn the history of each piece, to make adjustments, to keep the books, to keep Vilmont Designs in the black. But now she had no real idea how to attract buyers.
Behind the counter, a young woman, trim and close-cropped in every way, sat on a stool with her head bent over a smartphone, her thumbs tapping away, texting someone. The soft rustle of fabrics blended with pop music emanating from a hidden stereo system, but she didn’t seem to notice the world around her, including her customers.
The cat remained quiet as Lily wound her way to the counter, sidestepping displays and taking note of the artful layout, the cabinet of imported French soaps. The woman looked up only when Lily was standing right in front of her. “Can I help you?” Her eyes flickered with annoyance. Her name tag read “Chris.”
“I wonder if you know anything about this cat,” Lily began in a low voice, and then quickly told her story.
Chris shrugged, frowning slightly at the box, as if it were a burr that Lily had carried inside on her coat. “I don’t know. Don’t have a clue. I don’t think Florence has any cats. She would have a fit if anyone brought a cat in here. She’s the owner, not me.”
Not me. So this Florence could afford to hire at least one employee. She’d probably been in business a while. Lily could see that her clothes were overpriced. “Is she here? I’d like to ask her directly.”
“Oh, hell no. Flo’s hardly ever here.” Chris laughed softly. Her silver hoop earrings and small silver nose ring glinted in the light.
Hardly ever here, and yet her shop thrived. Or did it? A woman headed for the door empty-handed, and Chris watched with a standard brand of indifference. Did she not have an investment in the shop’s success?
“Could you call Flo?” Lily said. “Just in case. I would hate to take the cat to the shelter and then find out—”
“She doesn’t have a cat,” Chris said, her face becoming closed and guarded. “I would know. I work here, like, five days a week.”
Five days a week? What did Flo do all that time? Did she have another shop? “Could the cat belong to someone else around here? I’m pretty new in town. Maybe you have an idea?”
“Nobody has a cat like that.” Chris made as if to return to her texting, when a chunky woman, with a mountain of permed white hair, came up and draped a flowing pink shirt across the counter. “I love this but do I have to dry clean it? It says dry clean only. What alternative do I have to all those chemicals?”
Chris read the label inside the collar. “It says dry clean only.”
“I realize that. It’s a beautiful shirt, but—”
“Dry clean only. I would follow the directions.”
“You can use a mild detergent and hand wash,” Lily said. “Dry cleaning chemicals can be harsh—”
“That’s what I think!” The woman looked at Lily and smiled. “For this shirt, though?”
“You want to protect the shape of the fabric, so use cold water and don’t wring or twist.”
“How do you know all this?”
The cat mewled pitifully, and Lily’s arms were beginning to hurt from holding the box. “I have some experience with rayon. I just opened my shop across the street, Past Perfect. Vintage clothing.”
“Rayon is vintage?” The woman glanced out the window.
“Sometimes, yes.”
“Well, I’ll be. You’re in the old Candy Cottage? I’ve got to stop in there.”
Chris frowned. “You can’t return the shirt after you wash it, if you’re not following directions.”
Lily touched the shirt. It looked like rayon, felt like rayon, and the label—yes, it read “rayon.” She had learned to identify the textures of various fabrics. “In my shop, you can return a shirt like this even if you’ve washed it. I guarantee my clothes have already been washed anyway, some of them multiple times. Vintage fabrics are hardier than today’s fragile—”
“Do you want the shirt or not?” Chris cut in, tapping the counter.
The woman hesitated, then sighed and dug into her purse. “I do love the rose print on the front.” She smiled at Lily again. “Thanks, dear, for all your help. You are…?”
“Lily Byrne. I would give you a business card, but I don’t have any yet.”
“That’s okay. I’ll stop in.”
Chris pursed her lips as she rang up the shirt, and Lily hurried out into the cool, spitting rain. She’d just helped a rival shop make a sale, when the owner wasn’t even there and her employee couldn’t care less about the business. And all that Lily got in return was a homele
ss, mewling cat in a box and her own messy, empty shop. But still, her spirits rose a little. She had an advantage—something that just might make a difference. She genuinely loved the clothing in her shop. She and Josh had chosen each piece. She wouldn’t hire someone like Chris, even if she could afford an employee. She would stay in her boutique to answer questions in person, to impart her knowledge of fabrics and how to care for them, if only the customers would come inside.
Chapter Ten
Kitty
We’re in a car, and cars never lead anywhere good. The drone of the engine sears my eardrums, and the stink of exhaust nauseates me. Through holes in the box, I can see Lily staring ahead with glazed eyes. I get mesmerized sometimes, too—by clouds or birds, but never by windshield wipers.
“I shouldn’t be driving you. Josh would be the one doing this…”
The shapeless spirit? I didn’t know ghosts could drive. He’s not here, anyway. Through another airhole in the box, I see Lily’s white-knuckled fingers gripping the steering wheel. I’ve held on that tightly before with my claws, when I was up a tree. I meant to be there. I was merely taking precautions.
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. You’re turning me into an emotional wreck. Can’t you quiet down?”
I suppose I’m making noise. But who wouldn’t, in my situation? How would she like to be stuck in a box in a roaring killing machine?
“He once picked up a dead chickadee from the condo balcony. It hit the window and broke its neck. Why do birds do that? Fly to their doom?”
Who cares why? A dead bird is a dead bird and a tasty one if it’s fresh.
“Made me sad to see that little thing lying there. When I called the Audubon Society for advice, a volunteer suggested keeping the windows dirty so birds wouldn’t see their reflections. So I haven’t washed the cottage windows yet, but I should, if I want to compete with The Newest Thing. The windows are clean there, clean and shiny.”
People often do this, talk to themselves under the pretense of talking to me.
“Josh would’ve probably kept you, but he was allergic. He said, ‘If our kid wants a pet, I’ll try those allergy injections.’ But did he want a girl or a boy? Or both? We never had a chance to talk about it. Not that we could’ve chosen. We didn’t even get to say good-bye.”
So her mate departed in a sudden way. No wonder she talks to herself. No wonder he hangs around. Perhaps he doesn’t even realize he’s dead.
Now she’s pulling out a loose collar from beneath her shirt—or what humans call a “necklace.” She touches a ring that hangs from the necklace. The gold metal glints in the light. Something else, too—a tiny glass vial. I know what’s inside. Human ashes give off a dull odor, different from wood ash and barely detectable, which is probably why I didn’t smell them before.
She tucks the necklace back under her shirt, and I sense the clinic ahead. I shudder as she parks the car beneath a fir tree. “What if I leave you on the porch with a note? Okay, quiet down. I was only thinking aloud.”
I wish she would do less of that. My voice is going hoarse as she carries me inside, still in the box. Then all sounds disappear from me. We’re in hell—a crowded waiting room that reeks of dog and disinfectant. A tall man holds a trembling, yapping poodle in his lap; a woman sits next to a giant golden retriever, its tongue hanging out; a tiny man holds a cat carrier in his lap. I smell a depressed black tomcat with a damaged leg.
Lily props the box on the countertop. Through the pathetic airholes, I glimpse the girl at the desk. She looks up at us and smiles. “You’re Lily, and this is the kitty you found.”
The girl speaks with a slight accent. No wrinkles, but her eyes look old. Pulled back into a tight ponytail, each strand of hair is exactly the same shade of solid yellow.
“Your earrings are vintage,” Lily says.
The girl touches her right ear. “They’re begonias. My sister found them at a garage sale for two dollars.”
“They’re worth about fifty.”
“Then she got a good deal!”
“She did.” Lily glances at her watch. “So I’ll leave the cat with you?”
“You have to see the doctor.”
“But—”
“Please fill this out.” As the girl stands to hand Lily a clipboard, I glimpse her large belly. She’s about to pop a litter; actually, only one.
Lily’s face has gone pale, a strange look in her eyes—the look that people get when they’re either wishing for something or regretting some decision. “I don’t have time to fill out a form—”
“Just do the best you can.”
Lily sighs and looks at the girl’s name tag. “I’ll try. Thank you, Vanya.” She turns away, puts me on a chair, and sits next to me. She stares at the paper on the clipboard, screwing up her eyebrows. “I don’t know your age, sex, or medical history. How am I supposed to answer all these questions?”
She jots a few cryptic notes, then gets up and returns the form, and Vanya slips the page into a file folder and leads us down the hall and into a small room. “Dr. Cole will be with you soon. Make yourself at home.”
She waddles out and shuts the door.
“Make myself at home?” Lily says, rubbing her arms. “I can barely breathe in here.”
Likewise. She goes on babbling while I press my eye to the biggest hole and take in my surroundings. To fight a successful battle, one must know the enemy. Jars of cotton balls and spray bottles are lined up on a narrow countertop next to the sink. The tub of treats is designed to fool unsuspecting victims. A dog might fall for that one, but not me. Worse, a morbid drawing of a cat hangs on the wall, the skin cut away, showing a side view with labeled arrows pointing to various internal organs. I’m shivering all over, not liking the smells in here.
Footsteps approach in the hall and the doctor bursts in frowning, like a storm cloud, his dark hair mussed. His white lab coat flaps over faded blue jeans. He washed up but he can’t mask the traces of blood and sickness, all mixed in with soap and sweat and the scrambled eggs he ate for breakfast. He looks nothing like his offspring, Bish. She has a delicate nose and fragile skin sprinkled with freckles. She has not inherited his blocky features or square jaw.
And she has not inherited his terrible discontent, his slow heartbeat full of bitterness. His loss is not like Lily’s, not full of wistfulness and happy memories. No, his heart is brooding, angry, and trapped, and he doesn’t see any way out of the darkness.
Chapter Eleven
Lily
The doctor took so long, Lily thought she might grow old and die while she waited, shriveling to dust before he even arrived. She pictured her shop sitting empty and dark, the sign swinging in the wind, customers pressing their noses to the window, then walking away.
How many opportunities had she missed in the last hour? Maybe only a few, but the point was, she wasn’t in her boutique. She was here in a stinky, noisy animal clinic in a room as small as a closet, trying to ignore the dank smell of wet dog and the distant mewling of distressed cats.
Now the vet breezed inside, his head bent over the cat’s open file folder. No apology, no acknowledgment of Lily’s presence. When he finally glanced up at her, she thought he looked vaguely familiar. She’d seen him in Jasmine’s Bookstore, only he’d looked relaxed. Now he was all business in a white lab coat, and if he recognized her from their brief encounter, he showed no sign. He looked distracted, disheveled, and full of his own self-importance.
“Ben Cole,” he said in a gruff voice, almost like a bark. Perhaps he spent too much time around dogs. He reached out to shake her hand. She bristled, giving his fingers only a perfunctory squeeze. His hand felt warm, solid, and damp. Stubble formed a shadow on his jaw, and his eyes were pale gray, nearly colorless. His nose had a slight bump, as if someone had punched him a long time ago. Not surprising, she thought, considering his utter lack of regard for his clients’ time.
“Lily Byrne.” She pulled back her hand and wiped off the dampness on her jeans
. His gaze lingered on her face, and then he bent and peered into the box. The cat let out a tiny meow. He straightened, frowning. “You need a carrier, not a cardboard box.”
Now he was giving her advice? “The box worked fine. The cat doesn’t belong to me. Bish said you might take her.”
“She told you that? If I had to take in every animal—”
“But I can’t keep this cat.”
He said nothing, but at least he didn’t press her for a reason. What would she tell him? That she feared the cat would ruin her shop? She couldn’t take care of another fragile living creature. She felt fragile enough already.
The room seemed to shrink around her, her pulse pounding in her ears. The hospital sounds faded into a faraway hum as the doctor reached into the box and expertly picked up the cat. Lily felt inept as she watched him arrange the kitty on his lap and examine her. She purred and squinted up at him, and he squinted back. Was this some form of secret feline communication?
This is his job. He’s supposed to be good at it, Lily thought, but she wondered what she herself was truly good at. She’d managed to keep Josh’s design business running from the back office, but adding up columns of numbers had not prepared her for this solitary life, her own shop, or the possibility of failure. Now there was this cat, a small creature but to Lily, a huge intrusion. Was this what it meant to grieve? Was it normal for every small thing to feel immense?
What would she say to this vet if he were to walk into her shop, looking for something to wear? Would she point him to a Ralph Lauren turtleneck or a flannel plaid shirt? Or would she be tongue-tied?
As she watched him work, so calm and sure, she wanted his boldness, his confidence, maybe even a little of his inflated ego.
“She’s an odd-eyed cat,” he said. “It’s a feline form of complete heterochromia.”
“Hetero-what?”
“Lack of pigment in one eye. In this case, in her green eye. Some white cats are deaf as well, but she has a sharp sense of hearing. She’s been out there a while, but she’s calm and pretty tame.”
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