You Only Live Nine Times, page 12
Better even than the terrace’s size, however, was its commanding view overlooking Hibiscus Road. Tommy had been relentless in insisting that Rachel needed to transform the space into the perfect backdrop for elegant entertaining it was so clearly destined to be. “Just imagine what your dates will say when they see this place!” His Savannah accent had thickened as his imagination took flight. “Think of all the candlelight dinners and romantic tête-à-têtes you’ll have here.” This had been back in the early days of Rachel’s Coacoochee residency, when she was still reeling from her breakup with Henry, and just the thought of dating again left her queasy.
Besides, Rachel had neither the time nor the money to accomplish anything close to Tommy’s ambitious vision. She'd managed to collect a couple of battered old chaise lounges—the kind with metal frames and horizontal plastic strips that had been ubiquitous around Miami pools back in the Seventies—and covered them with lively, tropical-print cushions she'd unearthed at a Salvation Army thrift store. She'd also acquired an outdoor table—complete with umbrella and matching chairs—from a moving sale she'd spotted in the Daily News classifieds shortly after her arrival in Coacoochee.
She'd positioned the table and chairs close to the low wall that overlooked Hibiscus Road. On the right kind of day, with just the right weather conditions, dining at that table felt like having a private VIP perch above the bustling pedestrian mall below. Any of the upscale restaurants that dotted Hibiscus Road would have killed to be able to offer such a spot to well-heeled patrons.
Rachel was up early this morning, having invited Natalie over for a Sunday bagel brunch. Raised to believe that the only thing God hated worse than a heretic was a stingy bagel brunch and the person who’d thrown it, Rachel had driven at seven a.m. up to Bagel Bar in North Miami Beach—and returned to Coacoochee with a half-dozen assorted bagels, scallion cream cheese, thinly sliced lox, the oily and delicious kippered salmon Rachel and her dad preferred to lox, whitefish salad, potato salad, pickled herring layered delicately with white onions and cream sauce, sliced red onions, ripe tomatoes, Muenster cheese, and a baker’s dozen of various rugelach fresh from the oven.
The rich aroma of smoked fish, once it had been set up under the umbrella outside, made the cats restless with anticipation. Even Scarlett—who generally eschewed human food as inherently inferior to the individually canned servings of her preferred flavors—could feel her mouth water. They found it hard to restrain themselves, and several times Scarlett had to stop Homer in the act of “sneaking” (in plain sight) onto the table to gobble down a morsel or two.
"Homer!" Scarlett's paw shot out with lightning speed, catching Homer just as he was about to hoist himself onto the edge of the table. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I’m just smelling everything, that’s all." Homer’s wildly twitching nose belied his air of innocence.
"Get down now.” Scarlett’s tone brooked no dissent. “Otherwise I’ll start knocking things off the table until Rachel comes out to see what’s happening.”
“You wouldn’t hurt…” Homer gulped nervously, and his skin paled beneath his fur. “You wouldn’t hurt the salmon, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I?” Scarlett raised one front paw in the air and gently waved it back and forth. The sound it made was infinitesimal—nevertheless, Scarlett knew Homer could hear it loud and clear. She watched as he slowly backed away.
“Scarlett! Get down from there!” Both Scarlett’s and Homer’s heads whipped around as Rachel—who’d spotted Scarlett atop the table through the kitchen window—came rushing out. “I’d expect this from Homer, but I’m surprised at you, Scarlett.” Her scolding tone was one Scarlett rarely heard—and never liked.
Scarlett leapt to the ground with an air of wounded dignity that made Rachel smile despite herself. She stalked toward her favorite chaise lounge, head and tail held high, ignoring Homer’s barely suppressed laughter and the look of genuine sympathy Vashti threw her way.
“Some people,” Scarlett muttered, “have no gratitude at all.”
All three cats consoled themselves with the knowledge that they’d get their fair share of leftovers once the human brunch had concluded; it was manifestly impossible for two women alone to consume so much food.
Homer was the first to hear Natalie's approach, his keen ears picking up her familiar footfall before it reached the outdoor metal staircase that ran up the side of the building. It was the one Rachel used when inviting guests to her private home above the shop, or when she herself wanted to come and go without first having to walk through Title Wave. "Natalie's here," he announced to the others. "And Hot Mike, too."
Vashti, who had been meticulously grooming her pristine white fur in preparation for company, paused to lift her head. "I hope she brought those treats again," she said. "Those dried fish bits in the little plastic bag."
"She didn't," Homer replied with certainty. "I smell orange juice, though. And champagne."
"Champagne for them, leftovers for us," Scarlett harrumphed, although secretly she believed she and her feline siblings were getting the better end of the deal.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs outside had grown loud enough to catch Rachel’s attention, and she opened the door with an enthusiastic greeting. Natalie entered, carrying a bottle of Mumm in one hand and a carton of fresh-squeezed orange juice in the other. Hot Mike padded in beside her, his posture stiff and correct, but his eyes brightening as he spotted the three cats. "Morning, all," he greeted them, with a courteous dip of his head, as he followed Natalie out onto the terrace.
"You've outdone yourself!" Natalie exclaimed, surveying the spread Rachel had arranged.
The two women settled into their seats, the October sunshine warm but not oppressive against their skin. A gentle breeze carried the mingled scents of the ocean and of the restaurants and cafés below. From their elevated vantage point, they could see outdoor tables bustling with the brunch crowd, and the line outside Butterflake Bakery that stretched down the block as tourists waited patiently for the bakery's famous guava pastries.
Street performers had begun to appear—a busker playing a guitar outside the 710 Bar, a caricature artist who'd set up near the crossing at Eighth Street, and a young woman creating enormous iridescent soap bubbles that drifted up lazily toward Rachel's terrace. Tourists strolled unhurriedly, cameras at the ready, many wearing the telltale pink glow of yesterday's sunburn, while locals moved with more purpose, some walking dogs, others toting their finds from the open-air antiques market that ran every Sunday on Hibiscus Road from Fifth Street to Ninth.
The cats had arranged themselves on the chaise lounges in a sunny corner of the terrace not far from where Rachel and Natalie sat. Hot Mike, ever the professional, had settled himself in a shady spot beneath the table. It was his preferred position—close enough to Natalie to respond instantly if needed, yet unobtrusive so as not to disturb the humans' meal.
Rachel spread cream cheese on her sesame seed bagel as she gestured to the Daily News that lay on the table. "Did you see the sendoff they gave Isabella?" She added kippered salmon and a slice of onion. "Two full pages with photos spanning her career."
Natalie nodded appreciatively as she surveyed the newspaper. "She's earned it. Ten years as the voice of Coacoochee nightlife is no small accomplishment." She speared a piece of lox with her fork. "Isabella has a knack for making herself indispensable. Her PR venture will be a success—you can bet on it." Natalie took a sip of her mimosa, the plain jade band she wore on her index finger making a soft clink against the glass. "I hear somebody’s finally taken over that storefront on Lantana Lane where the souvenir shop used to be."
Rachel spooned a piece of pickled herring onto her plate, careful to get a dollop of cream sauce and onion along with it. "Dahlia mentioned it's going to be some kind of gourmet ice cream place. Apparently they make everything with local ingredients—mango from Homestead, key lime from the Keys."
"I need more ice cream within walking distance like a kangaroo needs a surfboard." Natalie laughed. "But I'll be first in line anyway. There's something about living in a tourist town that makes you act like a tourist."
"I know what you mean. Before I moved here, I hadn't been to the beach in years. Now I'm there with a book at least once a week."
A breeze swept across the terrace, rustling the pages of the newspaper. The sun had climbed higher, casting the terrace in a brilliant light that fell through the prism of the water pitcher to throw rainbows onto the terrace floor. Rachel looked out over Hibiscus Road, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
"You seem distracted," Natalie observed. "Everything all right?"
Rachel sighed, setting down her bagel. "I've been worried about Tommy," she admitted. "I left him at least three messages to join us today. But he never called back." She bit her lower lip. "He hasn't been himself since...well, since what happened to Daisy."
The name hung in the air between them. Rachel's voice had grown quieter, as if merely speaking of Daisy might disturb her rest.
"It's affected all of us," Natalie agreed, her tone somber. "But Tommy arranged such a beautiful memorial service. Maybe he just needs time alone to process everything."
Rachel nodded slowly. "Maybe. But there's something off about the way he's been acting." She hesitated. "I saw him and Daisy arguing during the book signing. I meant to ask him about it later, but then..." She gestured vaguely. "And now I keep wondering if it was important."
"What were they arguing about?"
"I couldn't hear. But they both looked upset. And then there was this woman in the store the other day—she works in cardiology at Coacoochee General.” Rachel’s hands picked restlessly at the paper napkin in her lap. “She was saying how unusual it is for someone Daisy's age to have heart failure with no warning signs."
Natalie's expression sharpened. "Medical professionals tend to notice when things don't add up."
"I know it probably doesn't mean anything," Rachel said. "But I ran into Marc Gottsegen at Beachy Beans." She met Natalie's eyes. "He asked me how well I really know Tommy."
The cats, despite appearing to lounge in the sun with complete uninterest in what the humans were doing, had perked up at the mention of Tommy’s name. Vashti’s ears swiveled in the direction of the conversation, twitching as she listened. Even Hot Mike, resting near Natalie’s feet, tensed slightly.
"How well do you know Tommy?" Natalie asked. "Your friendship is barely six months old."
"I know him better than I know Marc." A touch of defensiveness crept into Rachel’s voice as she asked, "How well do you know Marc? I know you live next door to him, but you hardly seem like tight friends."
Natalie didn't appear offended. Instead, she nodded thoughtfully, her auburn hair catching the sunlight. "I've lived next door to Marc for years," she said. "We may not be the closest of friends, but we have each other's spare keys. We get together socially now and then—we had lunch yesterday, as a matter of fact." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "The one thing I can say about Marc with absolute certainty is that I've never known him to lie."
Rachel fell silent. Part of her wanted to defend Tommy outright, to dismiss Marc's insinuations entirely. But, despite herself, another part of her kept circling back to the argument she'd witnessed, to Tommy's behavior at the memorial, to the cardiology worker's comments about how unusual Daisy's death was.
Hot Mike crept as discreetly from beneath the table as an eighty-pound German Shepherd could and loped over to the chaise the cats occupied. Settling down nearby, he joined their whispered conversation.
"Rachel doesn’t seem as sure about Tommy as she’d like to be," Hot Mike said.
“No, she doesn’t.” Homer's tail jerked anxiously. "Maybe we should try to discourage him from coming around Title Wave so often."
"I’ve spent more time watching Tommy than any of you," Vashti said staunchly. “I don’t know how to explain everything, but I know he has a good heart.”
"Humans are always full of secrets," Scarlett said. "Even the nice ones."
“Even Rachel?” Vashti challenged.
Scarlett rolled onto her back and closed her eyes—indicating that, as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.
The sun had risen higher in the sky. The initial tension between the two women dissipated as they continued to eat, but the subject of Tommy hadn't been abandoned entirely.
"I'm not a fool, Natalie," Rachel finally said. "I understand why Tommy’s behavior might seem suspicious to you. But I can't believe he'd ever hurt anybody—especially not Daisy."
Natalie's expression softened. "You're probably right," she conceded, reaching for a piece of rugelach. "The odds are still in favor of natural causes, like the ME said." She popped the pastry into her mouth, then smiled. "Maybe we should put it all behind us and enjoy this beautiful day." She glanced around, taking in the bright sunshine and gentle breeze. "Do you know what you're dressing as for Halloween?"
Rachel’s eyes danced mischievously. "The real question is, what will the cats dress as for Halloween?"
Scarlett's entire body instantly stiffened, her yellow-green eyes flying open in horror. Vashti, by contrast, looked intrigued by the possibility, mentally sorting through costumes that might showcase her angelic white fur to best advantage. Homer cocked his head to one side.
"What's the point of a costume anyway?" he wondered aloud. "Looking different doesn't make you smell or sound any different. That’s all anybody needs to figure out who you really are."
"Don’t ask me," Hot Mike said stiffly. "Natalie made me wear a costume last year, and I felt ridiculous."
"Let’s hope she doesn’t give Rachel any ideas," Scarlett muttered darkly.
Back at the table, Rachel and Natalie had moved on to lighter topics—the upcoming Coacoochee Halloween parade, a new vintage store that had just opened on Allamanda Avenue, the rumor that a famous actress was house-hunting on Mercury Island. The breeze picked up, carrying with it the faint strains of music from a café below.
Rachel raised her mimosa glass, letting the sunlight filter through the pale orange liquid. Homer stood and arched his back in a stretch, then padded over drowsily to jump into Rachel’s lap. He kneaded her leg with his paws before lying down and sinking into a purring half-nap beneath Rachel’s gentle, stroking hand.
Hot Mike and the other two cats dozed as well, all of them content in the certainty that a bounty of whitefish and salmon would soon be theirs. Whatever mysteries and concerns might lie beyond this terrace, whatever secrets Tommy Duvall might be keeping, could wait for another day.
Monday started out with promise. Rachel had to come in on her day off so Nadia could drive her grandmother to the doctor, which was kind of a bummer. Nevertheless, she opened Title Wave promptly at eleven and business flowed in a steady, pleasant rhythm. Morning thunderstorms gave way to an afternoon of sunshine, which fell through the shop’s windows and made the wave-patterned terrazzo floor sparkle like the surface of the ocean. Rachel called Evan Kirschner about holiday titles and got his voice mail, noting the way that hearing his voice on the other end of the line gave her day a lift.
Homer, as always, took up his post near the front door, greeting each customer with an enthusiastic head-bonk to the shin. Vashti claimed her new favorite spot—a small stuffed pouf Rachel had installed near Self Help—and her white fur shone like platinum in the afternoon sun. Scarlett, temporarily ousted by the Halloween decorations from her beloved display window, settled regally atop a stack of coastal-themed coffee table books, where she undertook a thorough grooming of her face and whiskers.
It wasn't until a little after three that the bell above the door announced Evan. He was lugging a cardboard box filled with advance copies, the muscles in his forearms visibly working beneath rolled-up sleeves as he set the heavy load on the counter.
"I know Monday’s usually your day off. But when I got your message I figured I’d take a chance.” A smile crinkled the corners of his dark-blue eyes. “Thought you might want to get your hands on some of these before they officially hit shelves."
"You certainly know the way to a girl's heart.” Rachel rifled through the books with undisguised excitement. "Is this the new Haruki Murakami?"
"Out in paperback this month," Evan confirmed. His dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that suggested he'd forgotten to get it cut rather than deliberately styled it that way. "I had a feeling you'd appreciate that one—and not just because there’s a cat in it."
Rachel rewarded him with a beaming smile. "I've been waiting for this since I finished his last book." Her eyes met his. "Thank you. This is incredibly thoughtful."
"He's been saving that one especially for her," Homer observed from his spot near their feet. His sensitive ears had picked up the slight quickening of Evan's heartbeat when Rachel expressed her excitement.
Vashti had abandoned her pouf to join the conversation, her snow-white paws moving silently across the terrazzo as she approached. Now she leapt smoothly onto the counter beside the books, settling herself with perfect calm.
“Look how big Rachel’s smile is,” she noted. “She used to smile at Henry like that sometimes.”
Homer had begun to weave between Evan's ankles, his active black nose mapping every scent: coffee, books, the faint trace of cologne, and something else that piqued his interest.
"He brought treats!" Homer announced to his siblings. "The good kind with real chicken."
As if on cue, Evan reached into his pocket. "Almost forgot." He produced a small bag of gourmet cat treats. "These are for the famous Title Wave bookstore cats. The lady at the Coacoochee Pet Spa assured me they’re the caviar of cat treats."
Rachel laughed, the sound warm and genuine. "You’re about to make yourself three friends for life," she told him.
