Meows and Mistletoe, page 11
part #4 of Cat's Paw Cove Series
It was like walking into her childhood home, only smaller. Grandma Redbird had decorated her small apartment with photographs of the family, and her extensive shell collection. Her prize possession for as long as Charly could recall was a large conch, with an odd pattern that almost looked like a face. Tightly wrapped, the shell was particularly unusual because it had no opening, only a seam where the original inhabitant would have put its foot out to inch along. The conch sat in the center of a coffee table in a small sitting area with a couch, chair, and television. A modern galley kitchen with a table for two led to closed door she assumed was a pantry. Another room, this time with an open door, allowed Charly to see a queen-sized bed. A brown and white spotted cat stood, stretched, and greeted them with a chirp.
“This is Cowry.” She rubbed his head and sat on the couch then patted the cushion next to her. “Have a seat. He won’t hurt you. He’s a good boy. His sister, Junonia, on the other hand, is a bit of a sneak. She looks like him, but she has a brown mask. Enough about my cats and me. What about you? What happened? I thought you were doing well in Chicago.”
Charly sighed as she took a seat. What a fiasco her life had been since that dreadful day in Chicago. She didn’t want to tell her grandmother what a failure she was—but she’d never been able to keep a secret from her. A sob threatened, and she choked out the words. “I—I don’t even know where to begin.”
Warm brown eyes gazed into Charly’s—a traction beam for truth. “Was it a man?”
She barked a little laugh. “I wish. No. It was a well-heeled woman. A billionaire.” She told her grandmother about the incident with Meadows heiress. “I didn’t believe she’d follow through on her threat. You know, I’m a small fish and she’s this big shark. But apparently, by saying no to her, I’d chummed the waters. She said she was going to get me. And she did.”
Grandma Redbird patted her hand. “Go on.”
“She’s so used to ordering people around—she probably had someone do it for her. The outcome was the same. I was blackballed at every school in the Chicago area. She lodged a complaint with the Chicago Better Business Bureau, said I’d violated my contract. I sent a rebuttal, but the complaint stays on BBB’s website for three years. Thanks to her, my college, employer, and legal referrals dried up. She even tried to get my Traugott Institute for Knowledge of Life coaching certificate taken away—at least in that she wasn’t successful. Traugott’s widow called me and asked me what happened. She commended me for being ethical and for standing my ground, said her dearly departed husband would have been proud of me.”
“You’ve hit a bad patch.”
“You’ve got that right,” her words hiccupped with sobs. “I tried to think where I could go where no one would know me, so I could start over. It’s the holidays—I just wanted to go home.”
“You were right to come here. What with your parents selling the house in Tampa and moving to the Cotswolds, well, that wouldn’t have worked. It’s an enormous fifty-five plus community that’s like a theme park for seniors.” She waved her hand in the air. “Not a good fit for you. Besides, you’d never meet a man your own age.”
Charly snorted through her tears. “I’m not in the market for a boyfriend, Grandma. Right now, I’m trying to pull my life out of the trash heap.”
“What about Miami? You could live with your big brother.”
“The last thing Brendan needs while he’s studying to become a nurse anesthetist is for me to drop into his life with all my baggage. I couldn’t do that to him. He needs to focus. Besides, I’m already working with a real estate agent here in Cat’s Paw Cove. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Dylan Graham, goes by the name of Big D?”
“Oh, he helped my friend sell her home. Said he’s a wizard at finding the perfect forever home for people.”
“That’s a funny way of putting it, but yeah, that’s what I’m hoping for. A permanent place to hang my hat—and my coaching certificate.”
“Now you’re talking.” Grandma pointed at the kitchen counter. “There’s Junonia.” A masked cat stared at Charly. “She’s checking you out.”
“Are all the masked cats like that? The two jumbos on the porch looked at me like they were TSA Agents casing me for bombs.”
Grandma Redbird chuckled. “A lot of the cats in Cat’s Paw Cove are related to the Sherwood cats. You’ll have to ask Big D to take you to the Sherwood House. Quite a story. Anyway, they say all the Sherwood cats are charmed, but the ones with masks are magical. Although I confess, the only magical thing I’ve seen about Junonia is her ability to disappear for hours then reappear under my nose. But, I think that’s just a cat thing.” She waggled a finger at the cat in question. “Right, Princess J?”
Junonia sniffed and turned her back to them.
“I get the feeling she thinks we’re peasants,” Charly noted. “Here to serve her tuna and milk on command.”
Grandma Redbird gave a sly smile. “You wouldn’t be wrong. Let’s go down to the dining room so I can introduce you to my friends. After dinner, I’ve got DME Bingo.”
“What kind of Bingo?”
“We all bring a piece of durable medical equipment to spice things up. Whoever gets the winningest Bingo cards gets to choose their prize. It’s always interesting to see what people bring.”
“Isn’t that gambling?”
The older woman shook her head. “No money involved—just our little contributions.”
Charly reflected on her time at the horse races. After that first trip, she’d gone every week—and had bet on Billy’s picks. She had taken care not to attract too much attention with her wins, tossing in some losers to keep a low profile. Over time, the other customers at the racetrack had begun to acknowledge her and say hello. Before she left Chicago, she had gone to the track one more time to say thanks and bid Billy farewell. She had trolled the bleachers and bar, asking the regulars if they’d seen him.
“Billy. I’m sure you’ve seen him around.” She repeated the same thing a dozen times. Short old guy, wears a newsboy cap, smokes like a chimney, raspy voice, and talks like he’s from Brooklyn.”
At last, an old-timer lifted his head off the bar. “Billy? Billy Guillermo the jockey?”
A jockey? Why didn’t I think of that? It all makes sense now. “Have you seen him?”
Grinning with a nearly toothless smile, the elderly man said, “Honey, the last time I saw Billy was at his funeral.”
Her heart stuttered in her chest. What an ungrateful person she’d been. She’d taken so much from him and had given little in return, except maybe a few laughs. The cigarettes must have killed him. “He’s dead?”
The man had nodded. “Very.”
“What happened?”
“He lived by the horse and died by the horse, right here at this racetrack, twenty years ago.”
The jumbo screen had gone in and out of focus, and the room had twirled around her. She grabbed a chair to steady herself.
Raising his glass, the man spoke up, “To Billy. May his spirit be with us at the Cicero Racetrack—forever.”
Charly shook her head, pulling herself back into the present and her grandmother’s apartment. The shock of being forced out of business and out of Chicago must have rattled her brain. No way that man she’d spent hours laughing and joking with had been a ghost. They must have been pulling a prank on her. Ghosts were only for Halloween, spooky stories, and haunted houses—right?
“Charly? Where’d you go?” Grandma waved a hand in front of her face. “You okay?”
“I’m sorry. I sort of spaced out. Did you say it was dinner time?” Her stomach growled. “The last time I ate was in Georgia.”
“Goodness, why didn’t you say something sooner? Let’s get down to the dining room.” Grandma Redbird stood, using the cane to steady her as she rose. “We have a nice menu with lots of choices, plus we can order some wine with our dinner—albeit by the thimbleful.”
“Quick question—where am I sleeping?”
“That couch opens up into a sleeper. Don’t worry. I’ll have it made up.”
“You have maid service?”
Her eyes twinkled. “Doesn’t everyone?” She grabbed Charly’s arm. “Let’s go down so I can introduce you to my friends. I bet a few of them have grandsons that are eligible bachelors.”
“Grandma!” The last thing she wanted was for her doting grandmother to parade her in front of the residents announcing her availability.
“Oh, hold on. I need to set something aside for Bingo later this evening.” She moved faster than Charly expected and came out of the bedroom, holding a black item aloft. “Back brace. Extremely sought after. Let’s go.”
A year ago, had someone told Charly she’d be looking forward to a meal in a retirement home, she would have doubled over in laughter. Never say never. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the way out. Puffy-eyes, chapped lips, hair falling out of her ponytail. Oh well, she supposed the one thing she was grateful for was that most of the residents were too old to even see her well. No one else her age would be in the room. She sighed. I can be myself.
The dining room buzzed with conversations and laughter. Grandma introduced her to a table of four gray-haired women in assorted shapes and sizes, all wearing large flowered print dresses. “The Flower Girls,” Grandma whispered. “They don’t own any clothes without floral patterns.”
Another table of women, one with long, bright red hair, was intent on a game of cards. “The Players, exceptionally serious about their games. They eat and play at the same time.”
At a table in the center of the room, three Asian women and a balding Asian man worked at a jigsaw puzzle. “The Puzzlers. Keeps the brain fit. They finish a puzzle a day and like to speak in riddles.”
A long table beneath a large window bore an assortment of holiday decorations in miniature, along with a doll’s house. When she drew closer, Charly realized it was a made to scale model of the retirement home. A group of women fussed around the decorations and the tiny Victorian model, placing wee decorations with precision. “The Decorators. I dare not interrupt them. They need to focus. This is a busy time of year for them.”
Over in the corner, a group greeted them with loud shouts of hello. “The Debaters. They can argue over the best kind of bread, peanut butter, or orange juice. You name a topic, and they’ll give you a debate.”
A rotund man with a bad toupee proffered a bright white grin. “Would you like an argument?”
“Not today, Frank, but thanks.” Her grandmother urged her along. “We could be here all night arguing with him.” She pointed her cane at a table in a cozy corner of the dining room. “Here’s our table. Darla, this is my granddaughter, Charly.”
Like a deer in the headlights, Charly froze in place. An attractive seventy-something blonde woman clung to the arm of a large man who looked to be just a tad older than herself—twenty-nine or thirty years old. He looked up at her with dark, mischievous eyes, and smiled. The dimples made the flock of butterflies take off in her stomach—that plus the fact he was movie-star handsome. He looked as surprised as she felt. Face hot with embarrassment, the idea that homeless people looked better than she did kept looping through her mind. When he spoke, she knew the rumbling tenor sent shivers down to her toes. She’d spent hours on the phone with him discussing houses, listings, and prices.
Smile broadening, he rose, towering above her now, and extended his large hand. “Big D. Delighted to meet you.”
Chapter Two
Dylan grasped her small hand in his and gave a gentle squeeze—short enough to be polite but long enough to validate what his psychic dowsing rod had pointed to during their phone calls. This woman was powerful—and she didn’t know. Beneath the power, a wave of sadness rose and fell like the tide. People moved to Cat’s Paw Cove for all kinds of reasons, some magical, some mundane. Her motive flashed into his mind with a stab of shame and pain. Failure.
“I am so delighted to meet you,” he said. Delight was such a milquetoast word. He wanted to say ecstatic—but knew alarm bells would go off in the beautiful auburn-haired woman’s head. Reaching into the pocket of his blazer, he extracted a handkerchief and extended it to her. “Once you get used to the pollens down here, your allergies will subside.”
Surprised registered on her face. “Thank you,” Charly accepted the soft cloth as well as the lie. “They’re killing me.”
Grandma Redbird piped up. “If we don’t sit down, they won’t serve us.”
Charly rolled her eyes. “Okay, Grandma.” They obeyed the not-so-subtle command.
“I know you’ve reviewed all the listings I sent to you. We are low on inventory in Cat’s Paw Cove,” Dylan said. “There is talk of building some condos and apartments in the area, but that’s in the planning stages.”
Grandma Redbird tapped Dylan with a menu. “We’re here to eat, young man, not talk business. My granddaughter is starving.”
Head down, a rosy glow creeping up her neck and cheeks, Charly ran her finger down the menu. “How’s the grouper?”
“The food is so good; I’d swear it’s made by elves.” She chortled. “But we all know they only exist in fairy tales.”
Darla stared at Dylan, raised her eyebrows, and shook her head slightly.
He got the message. Charly has no idea she’s in a retirement home for magical beings.
In fact, FFRH was a hotbed of mythical creatures—wood nymphs, gods, goddesses, and spirits of gambling. Chinese dragons, genies, trolls, medicine men and women, witches and wizards, and, yes, even brownies also resided under the home’s roof. Looking for better opportunities than churning butter, sweeping floors, and washing dishes, the brownies had immigrated to America from the British Isles. They cooked and cleaned, and they were the FFRH administrators, attending to all details of managing this magical home.
“Mrs. Redbird,” Dylan asked, “What do you recommend?”
“Big D, call me Grandma Redbird. Everyone else does. You can’t go wrong with the chicken. Melts in your mouth. Plus, the mashed potatoes and green beans are delicious. Just wait ‘til you taste the cornbread. You won’t be able to stop eating it.”
She waved a uniformed teenager over to the table. “We’re ready.”
Dylan ordered the chicken, and Charly said, “Make that two, please. The cornbread sounds heavenly.”
“Three.” Darla handed the server her menu.
“Four—and bring us a bottle of Chardonnay. And real wine glasses, not those thimbles you usually bring out.” Grandma looked around the table. “What? I’m almost a century old. You think a little wine is going to kill me?”
Laughing, Dylan agreed. “I think once you hit eighty, you have the right to eat and drink whatever you want—as long as no one gets hurt.”
“Thank you.” She turned to her granddaughter. “What are you doing sitting between Darla and me? You need to get closer to Big D. He has a house for you.”
“Trying to get rid of me?” Charly changed chairs. “Sorry,” she whispered to him. “I don’t recall my grandmother being this bossy before.”
“I hear the older we get, the more we become like ourselves.” A whiff of a perfume he couldn’t place wafted toward him. Floral, with a hint of vanilla. Something a wood nymph might wear. Puzzled, he slid his hand across the table to reach for his glass of water and made sure to accidentally bump hers. No. Not a wood nymph. He’d never sensed this type of magic before. What the heck is she? “Let’s set the house talk aside for now. How was your trip?”
“Exhausting. I wanted to get as much distance between Chicago and me as possible. I put the pedal to the metal in Pearl, my little hybrid. It’s a wonder she didn’t give up halfway here.”
“Why the rush?” Failure beat its nasty little drum, radiating from Charly like the pulsing throb like a headache. “Escaping someone?”
She sighed. “You could say that.”
He didn’t push. When she was ready, she’d tell him the details.
“We all have someone like that in our life. A bad boss, a rotten ex, or a crappy job. Sometimes bad people or situations push us along in our lives, to become a bigger person, or to utilize all our abilities. Ready or not, here you go. Life is funny like that. We have to look back to see what our turning points were. Maybe this is one for you.”
Charly sipped her sweet tea. “Easy for you to say. Looks like you’ve been a success all your life.”
“Ah, no.” He shook his head. Even with his ability to spot psychics—what he called his dowsing rod—he didn’t feel successful—which in his mind meant magical. He was more like a talent scout who could spot supernatural beings but didn’t own any particular ability. “I used to sell cars, got paid on commission. I was terrible. My boss told me I needed to go in for the kill.”
“Sounds predatory.”
The food arrived to a chorus of ahhs and conversation ceased momentarily as everyone tucked into their meals.
“It was,” Dylan agreed.” I couldn’t sell people cars they couldn’t afford. Even if they could pay for one, my boss wanted me to upsell. You know—hey, you need undercoating, and don’t you want those windows tinted? I steered customers to used or inexpensive vehicles and told them they didn’t need the extras. The customers appreciated it, but my boss didn’t. He fired me.”
“Where were you when I bought Pearl?” She pointed a chicken leg in the direction of the street. “I’m positive I bought all those add-ons. Probably added a couple thousand to the price.”
“At least you’re not a family of four on a poverty-level income.” He recalled the Latino couple working two jobs each just to make ends meet. The day he sent them to a reputable used car dealer was his last day on the job. Face twisted with rage, the owner of the dealership had dressed him down in the middle of the blacktopped parking lot as the sun blazed overhead, glinting off hundreds of windshields. Shards of rage had slammed into his torso and head, leaving Dylan with a migraine that lasted a week. At the time, however, all he could say was, “Thanks.” He removed his nametag, handed it to his puzzled supervisor, and then drove home. A week later, he woke up feeling human and decided he would never sell anything to anyone who couldn’t afford the cost. Unlike his former boss, he was not a landshark.
