by Jamie Wyman
Beside me, the god smiled. “We’ll have to see.”
***
Crunching across the pathetic courtyard to my apartment I saw the trademark pink terrycloth of my landlady. Mrs. McIntyre stood at my door holding a colorful bouquet of flowers.
As I came up behind her I said, “Hey, Mrs. M. What’s up?”
“Oh, Cathy,” she said, turning around gingerly. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Is it about the water heaters? I’m free the rest of the afternoon so I should be able to have a look.”
“No, dear, no,” she said, that phlegmy rumble clogging her voice. “Doris had her grandkids over and do you know they pushed a few buttons and now poor Doris can’t get her DVR working. You know how much she loves her shows.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “That’ll take two minutes to fix.”
I unlocked the door and held it open for Mrs. M. She hobbled in, leaning heavily on her walker with one hand and carrying the flowers close to her chest with the other.
“These are for you,” she said. My landlady put the vase down on the tile counter. “They were by your door when I stopped by. Along with this.”
Mrs. M dug into her fluffy pocket and produced a smooth white box about the size of a deck of cards. I looked at the vase and realized someone had sent me half a dozen orange and red dahlias. My throat grew tight and my fingers shook as I reached for the small envelope in the stems.
“Probably from your beau,” Mrs. M said. She pursed her lips in a knowing smile. “Seems he enjoyed your date.”
I grinned nervously. “Friday night was…memorable.”
Pulling the card from the envelope I saw a flowing hand had written a single line:
Don’t think I’ve forgotten.
My fingers shook as I opened the box. A swath of black fabric and nothing more.
Carefully, I picked up the cloth and shook it out to find elastic strings and a small triangle of cotton. Glittery text read Pirate booty.
Heat crawled up my face, and I thought my hair would catch fire. I chanced a glance at my landlady. Her wrinkled lips pursed together, and her cheeks flushed to match her Muppet-fleece robe.
“Oh, my!” She patted at her cotton-candy wisps of hair and looked away. I was convinced I’d caught a wicked twinkle in her rheumy eyes first, though.
I stuffed the thong into my pocket and stammered, voice cracking like a pre-teen. “I, well, we went to…uh. He thought…”
“Don’t worry a bit, Cathy. I’ve seen my share of thongs visiting my sister in Boca Raton. I even tried one once. Whole thing was made of pearls.”
And just like that, my flaming horror was doused by a cold wave of revulsion.
“Mrs. M,” I squeaked, “what was it you needed again?”
“Doris’s television.”
“Oh, yeah. I can get to that right now. And I’ll finish up with the heaters tomorrow, if it’s okay.”
“Fine, dear. Just fine. If you have time, could you also look at the stove in number four? I’m getting a new tenant in there next week, and I think the burners are shot.”
I nodded. “Sure thing, Mrs. M.”
She patted me on the cheek and passed along an effusive, toothless smile. “You’re a peach, honey.”
She tottered around and made her wobbly way to her apartment. I followed and stopped by Doris’s about the DVR. Sure, I’d spent the past few days running from gods and their minions. I had a new job and life had taken a strange, surprising turn. Of course I had other things I could have focused on. But Mrs. M had problems, and she’d called me to fix them. How could I say no?
I’m Cat Sharp, and I fix things.
It’s what I do.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I have to thank my publishing rock stars: my agent, Jennie Goloboy at Red Sofa Literary; my editor, Danielle Poiesz. Without them this would still be just a Word document being passed around to my friends. I also have to thank my Attack Fish, my intrepid beta readers: Angela Leach, Lejon Johnson, Rhys McNamee, Susana LaLuz, and Inge Atkinson. Special thanks goes to Jeremy Martin—dauntless GM extraordinaire—who was kind enough to let me borrow the concept of a satyr who can’t feel pleasure. To Jesse Cox, for many things, least of which is pushing me to rekindle my love of writing. My gratitude also goes to Colleen Lindsay and Gabrielle Harbowy, friends and colleagues who have helped me in ways they may not know.
Much love to the Red Hot Chili Peppers. No, they had nothing to do with making this book, but their songs provided not only the soundtrack while I was writing, but also the chapter titles.
Most importantly, though, I have to thank my family. My mother and father who always believed in me and pushed me to follow every dream. My grandmother who bought my first typewriter and recorded my first stories. My relatives and dear friends who have supported me through every peak and valley. And my husband, Sean, and our daughter, K. You put up with so much while I work and live in my head or ramble on about my imaginary friends. Words cannot express my gratitude and love, or what it means to me to know you’re always in my corner.
And last, but never least, I thank you for reading this book and giving me the chance to share my stories with you. This is only the beginning.
About the Author
After a misspent adulthood pursuing a Music Education degree, JAMIE WYMAN fostered several interests before discovering that being an author means never having to get out of pajamas. She has an unhealthy addiction to chai, a passion for circus history, and a questionable hobby that involves putting a flaming torch into her mouth. When she’s not traipsing about with her imaginary friends, she lives in Phoenix with two hobbits and two cats. Jamie is proud to say she has a deeply disturbed following at her blog. Visit and join the fun at www.jamiewyman.com.
