by J. T. Marie
Crazy about the Cat Lady
By J.T. Marie
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2018 J.T. Marie
ISBN 9781634866897
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Crazy about the Cat Lady
By J.T. Marie
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 1
It’s two in the morning, and Dayla Jeffreys lays on her back in bed, scrolling through part-time job listings on the Indeed app. She should really get some sleep—she has to get up in four hours if she hopes to make it to her current job on time—but for the life of her, she can’t seem to turn off the phone. As the minutes tick by, she knows she’ll hate herself in the morning, especially since the eight-to-two shift at the hair salon where she works is the slowest shift ever, but every time she gets to the end of the listings, she thinks, Just one more page, and ignores the way her eyes burn when she blinks.
She just needs something that will give her a few more bucks, that’s all. Something to tide her over when tips are down between paychecks. Doing hair at a high-end salon downtown is all fine and good, but she only has a handful of clients and Blossom isn’t exactly the Hair Cuttery. They don’t take walk-ins.
But her hours at the salon change every day. Sometimes she works late mornings, sometimes early afternoons. Sometimes she closes and sometimes—like tomorrow—she opens.
So she can’t just get any old part-time gig. She needs something flexible, something that will work around her current schedule or, better yet, let her set her own hours. Which eliminates any admin or office job—all those seem to want someone first thing in the morning, and she has a hard enough time getting up when she has to open as it is. If she suddenly couldn’t open because she had another job to do, her bosses might not be too happy about that. And as much as a few extra dollars here and there would be a nice help with the bills, doing hair is her first love. Styling, cutting, dyeing, highlighting…she loves it all. And she doesn’t want to give it up for a crappy position somewhere pulling down minimum wage.
She keeps scrolling through the listings, rejecting most without bothering to read the job description. She passes on the office jobs, and on the retail ones, too—she stands on her feet enough as it is, thank you very much. And she’s tired of seeing the sponsored ads for Lyft or Uber at the top of every page. Her car’s a piece of shit and she’s still paying off the tires she had to buy two months back—retreads, at that—and there’s no way she’d taxi people around for a few measly bucks. Knowing her luck, all the calls would come in after she’s already in bed.
Like I am now. She should really get some sleep.
One more page.
Not that she’s expecting to find much of anything at this point. She’s gone through fifteen pages, each with twenty listings apiece, and every time she clicks on the Load More button, her chances of finding something she wants to apply for that also pays more than a pittance grow slimmer. Maybe if she narrows it down a bit—she only put “part-time” in the search field—but part of the problem is she doesn’t really know what she’s looking for. Her contract with Blossom prevents her from taking a hairdresser position somewhere else as long as she’s with them, and she doesn’t really have many skills other than hair and makeup. Maybe she can find a job giving out wine or food samples. She’s seen people doing that at the store…
Just as she’s about to press her luck and load the next page, one of the listings catches her eye. The position just says sitter, which is ambiguous and could mean anything. Babysitter? Dayla doesn’t really like kids, so that’s out. Pet sitter? She’s scared of dogs. And birds. And she’s allergic to rabbits. So that’s probably out, too. Maybe someone needs a seat filler, an actual sit-ter, which might be cool if she lived in Hollywood or somewhere they had awards shows, but here in Richmond, Virginia, she can’t imagine why anyone would want to pay her to sit in a seat.
People used to sit up with the dead, her mind whispers. Hard on the heels of that thought is another. No way in hell am I doing that.
Still, it won’t hurt to take a look. Before she can change her mind, she taps on the listing.
When the page loads, the first thing she sees is a question. Do you like cats?
Aloud, she murmurs, “Yeah, who doesn’t?” She grew up with them—her family always had an indoor cat, and her father frequently fed a number of neighborhood strays, too. The cat she’d grown up with was an orange and white tom she’d named Peanut, and thinking back, she has to giggle at the nickname she’d given him, Peanie. It was cute then, but now it sounds like something a little boy would call his…well, that.
As her giggles threaten to get out of control, Dayla clamps her lips tight together and muffles the laughter. She lives in a one bedroom apartment with paper-thin walls, and the last thing she needs is to hear her neighbor bang on the one separating their bedrooms because she’s making too much noise so late at night. Too bad management doesn’t allow pets or she’d probably have a cat of her own now. Not Peanut, who was sixteen the year she graduated from high school. He’d had renal failure and was put to sleep at the end of that summer, just before she left for beauty school. Sometimes she still misses him.
And just like that, the giggles are gone now, and the beginning of tears prick her tired eyes. Blinking them away, she quickly scans the rest of the listing. This is the last one, she swears. After this, she goes to bed.
Do you like cats? I’m looking for a reliable, trustworthy person to come by at least twice a day during the week to feed my cats and change the litter boxes. Sitting and playing with them for a half hour every day is a plus.
“Every day?” Why would someone bother to have a cat if they aren’t going to be home to care for it?
The listing continues: $20 each visit, plus mileage if you have to drive more than 20 minutes to my house. Occasional vet or groomer visits will be paid extra.
Dayla has to read that twice. Forty bucks just to feed a cat twice a day and scoop its poop? That’s the easiest money I’ll ever make. Damn. Even a good tip on a cut and dye tops out around thirty bucks. And she gets paid more if she has to go to the vet or groomer.
Though, realistically, how often does a cat need to be groomed? They clean themselves, and don’t roll around in mud and shit like dogs. There might be a vet visit or two�
�for shots, probably—but going to the groomer’s doesn’t sound likely.
Forty dollars a day. Under the table, too. Surely the person who placed the ad isn’t going to give her a 1099 at the end of the year, the way Blossom does. So she probably won’t even have to claim the payments on her taxes.
Forty bucks to take care of a cat on her own time. Hell, she can do that.
Without thinking about it further, Dayla clicks on the Apply Now link. When she’s filled out the short application, she finally turns off the phone and gets to bed.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Dayla hits the snooze button one too many times before realizing she has to get out of bed now. She skips breakfast, skips the shower, skips her usual thirty-minute hair and makeup routine, and hurries out the door still smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt.
As she drives to the salon, she takes advantage of the stop lights to apply her makeup. She manages to get half her face done by the time she pulls into the small public parking lot down the block from Blossom. There she finishes the job, drawing hasty lines across her eyelids and staring wide into the rearview mirror as her mascara dries. The clock on the dash says it’s 8:01, but will anyone really get all bent out of shape because she’s a minute late? Make that five, she thinks, getting out of the car. Thank goodness neither of her bosses are opening with her today.
On her way to the salon, she spots the neon Starbucks sign down the street and groans. God, she could use a double shot of just about anything right now. Her feet are dragging, her eyes burn, every muscle in her body aches…I seriously can’t be staying up so late anymore, she tells herself, knowing full well she’ll do it again soon enough. Can she help it if she doesn’t get tired before midnight?
If only I wasn’t tired now.
But she has a client scheduled for 8:15, and she still needs to get her station ready for the day, boot up the computer, review the salon’s email, check the phone messages…half a dozen things need to be done before she can take a breather, and no one’s supposed to be in to help her out until ten. Thank God we aren’t busier, she thinks as she unlocks the front door of the salon. The security alarm beeps slowly, then picks up speed as it counts down. She reaches the keypad across the room and enters the code just in time to keep the alarm from going off.
With a terrible yawn, she slaps her cheek to wake herself up. “Look alive,” she mutters. If only she had enough time to run down to Starbucks…
But no. It’s already ten after; where’s the time going? She hurries to get ready, expecting her client at any moment. Once she has her station set up the way she likes it, she turns on the computer at the reception desk and checks the salon’s voicemail while it boots up. The first message is her boss, Kiki, and her heart thuds in her throat until she realizes the call came in late last night and not first thing this morning when Dayla should’ve already been at work. Something about a repairman coming by later, Dayla doesn’t quite follow, and before she can replay it, the next message starts.
It’s her client. The one who should’ve been here by now. “So sorry,” the woman says blithely, as if Dayla didn’t pull herself out of bed at the crack of dawn and rush through her morning routine to make sure she’d be ready for the scheduled perm. “I’m going to have to cancel, dear. It’s such short notice, I know, but maybe you can squeeze me in next week? Let me know.”
Dayla feels her blood rising. Maybe I can squeeze you in? Think again. This isn’t the first time this particular client has bailed on her. She specifically set aside a good two hours to do the perm, so it isn’t like she has anyone else scheduled to come in. Nothing before 10:30, anyway. Why am I even here?
She isn’t sure, but at least now she can run down to Starbucks for that double shot of wake-me-up.
If Kiki calls, though…
Well, Dayla knows how to handle that. Dialing *72 on the desk phone, she forwards the salon’s calls to her cell, then checks to make sure it’s in her pocket where she’ll be able to hear it. She doesn’t bother resetting the alarm as she heads back out. A skinny caramel macchiato is calling her name.
* * * *
While she’s sitting at the counter in Starbucks waiting for her drink, her phone rings. She doesn’t check the number—who’d be calling her at this hour?—but answers as if she’s still in the salon. “Thank you for calling Blossom. What can I book you for today?”
“Um…” The woman on the other line hesitates, as if she isn’t sure she called the right number. After a long moment, she asks, “I’m looking for a Dayla Jeffreys?”
“This is she.” Dayla sits up taller, suddenly interested. Maybe she’ll get a morning client after all.
More sure of herself, the caller says, “Oh good. I didn’t realize you’d given your work number.”
“My…” At first Dayla isn’t sure what the woman is talking about. Given her number when?
Then it hits her—the cat sitter job! She put her cell number on the application. And I just answered as if I’m at work. Shit.
“Oh, no,” she hurries to explain. “I’m just the only one here at the salon, so I forwarded their line to my cell. This is my number. How can I help you?”
“Well, I’m calling about the sitter position.”
Bingo! “Great!”
Dayla gives the barista a huge smile as he sets her drink down in front of her. For a moment he lingers, as if he thinks she’s talking to him, but when she turns away, he leaves.
“So, you have cats,” she says to start things moving. “I love cats.”
“Do you have any?” the woman wants to know.
With a shake of her head, Dayla says, “No, unfortunately. I grew up with them, but my lease won’t allow any pets. I really wish it did…”
“Sounds like you need to find a better place to live.”
Dayla laughs. “I know, right?” As if she could afford to move. Part of the reason she’s looking for a second job is to help make ends meet as it is.
The woman waits to see if Dayla has anything more to add, but she doesn’t. Before the silence can grow awkward between them, the woman speaks again. “Well, I do have cats, as you probably figured out. I’m Keri Meredith, and I’m looking for someone who can stop by my house twice a day to take care of them during the week. Once in the morning and once in the evening—”
“I can do that,” Dayla assures her. “You must put in some long hours at work.”
“You can say that.” The woman’s voice is firm, her words clipped. Dayla gets the impression this is a woman who insists on being called Ms. Meredith, emphasis on the Ms. She wonders if Ms. Meredith is as severe looking as she sounds, or if it’s an attitude she affects to play hardball in a man’s world.
And what’s beneath that hard exterior? Dayla muses. Is there a playful kitten inside the corporate lioness?
Dayla shakes away the question. Who cares, as long as she pays in cash?
“So twice a day,” Dayla says, taking the lid off her cup to blow on her macchiato. “I can do that.”
“I need someone reliable,” Ms. Meredith says, “someone I can trust.”
Sipping her hot java, Dayla winces. “Sure.”
“Who can start today.”
Dayla almost chokes on the drink. It burns down her throat and she gasps, trying to catch her breath. “To…today?”
“Well, this week,” Ms. Meredith amends, “but we’d need to meet to discuss the particulars and I have some time open this afternoon. What’s your schedule look like?”
We can’t talk things out over the phone?
But Dayla realizes that won’t work; for starters, if she’s hired, she’ll need the key to Ms. Meredith’s house. Can’t really check on a cat just by looking in through the windows, and the litter box won’t clean itself.
“I’m here till two,” Dayla says. “So I can meet up any time after that. Where are you at, exactly?”
“Windsor Farms. Are you familiar with it?”
Of course. Did Dayla
expect anything less? Windsor Farms is a posh neighborhood full of high-end, multi-million-dollar homes right on the James River. Or, as those who live there say, on the rivah. Though only a fifteen minute drive from Dayla’s little apartment, it might as well be on another planet. Working girls like Dayla can’t afford to look at most of the houses in Windsor Farms.
Who’s she kidding? She can’t even dream of them.
Carefully, she says, “I know where it is.”
“Great.” Ms. Meredith reels off an address and doesn’t ask if she needs directions. In this day and age, Dayla can find it easily enough on her phone. “I’ll expect you at three, then? How does that sound?”
Dayla has to bite back the urge to make a snooty reply, something like, “Smashing, dah-link. Toode-loo!” Instead she murmurs in agreement, sipping her drink to keep from saying anything she’ll regret.
Forty bucks a day, she reminds herself. Don’t blow this.
“Good,” Ms. Meredith purrs. “See you then.”
Chapter 3
When Dayla’s shift is over, she hurries home to freshen up before she has to meet Ms. Meredith. In front of the mirror in her bathroom, she grimaces at her reflection—the cute updo she wore earlier in the day has fallen into a messy bun, and there isn’t really time to fix it properly. So she grabs a handful of contour clips in a shock of colors and pins up every dangling tress she can find.
When she studies her appearance, she can’t help but cringe. Thank God this isn’t an interview for a hairstylist position. Jesus, I look as bad as a teenager heading to the mall to hang out. Do kids even still do that nowadays?
At twenty-eight, Dayla’s far enough removed from high school to be able to look back and laugh at what had passed for fashion then. For a moment she considers pulling out the clips, running a brush through the mop on her head, and calling it quits. But what’s it matter what her hair looks like when she meets Ms. Meredith? She’s only going to be feeding the woman’s cats, jeez. This isn’t a date.
