head switched into thinking gear, my feet followed him into the building and to the doorway of his apartment. And I did have his catnip mouse.
He was oblivious to me. The travel crate tipped, swayed and shuddered as its inhabitant rocketed from one end to the other, howling discontent and elevating his owner’s already apparent annoyance.
Mesmerized, I stepped into the apartment, unaware of anything but what was inside that crate. I imagined catastrophe—the smells, the sounds, the claws, the danger, the inevitable showdown and the blood, most of which, I quickly realized, would be Winslow’s. He wouldn’t last a minute if he came face-to-face with the Tasmanian devil hunkered evilly in the corner of his crate.
I’d meant to ease myself noiselessly out of the room after dropping the mouse on a nearby table, but was captivated by the space around me, which spoke volumes—literally—about its owner. Books enveloped the room floor to ceiling like wallpaper. In the corners piles of hardbacks teetered like architecture in Pisa. The reading material was eclectic—history, autobiographies, nature and what appeared to be college textbooks.
But the books were a mere background for the rest of the room’s decor. Framed photos in color and black and white leaned in stacks against the legs of furniture, and magazines littered the floor like carpet samples. A film of dust coated the armrests of his oxblood leather couch and a petrified burger and fries spread out on the coffee table made it appear he’d fled the apartment as if it were on fire.
It was all very exotic to me, who’d spent the past eighteen months in Simms, where no one can disappear for more than an hour without being missed, no one’s business is private and all is fair game for coffee-klatch discussion. Of course, this guy was nothing like the men I’d grown accustomed to in Simms. The most mysterious thing about most of them was when they’d last changed their socks and flossed their teeth.
“You’ve lived in this building for a while, haven’t you?”
He spun around on his heel, scowling. “Wha…” He hadn’t even noticed that I’d followed him to the apartment.
“Welcome home,” I blurted, trying to recover some sense of propriety, and thrust into his face the bundle of flowers I was carrying. The tulips, daisies, daffodils, roses, the offending carnation and wildly out of place bird-of-paradise erupted out of the green florist paper and into his arms.
“They were so pretty that I bought some of each. You can’t buy flowers in the market where I come from. It’s only on a rare day that you can buy an eggplant….”
Shut up, Cassia.
“Then you should keep the flowers.” He gently pushed at my outstretched hand as his glower morphed into something softer—a grimace, perhaps. Not much of an improvement, but nothing could dim his good looks.
“I don’t own a vase to put them in. They won’t look like much in a mayonnaise jar. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I thrust the bouquet back at him. I’m nothing if not persistent. Once I embarrass myself, I don’t stop until I’ve achieved it fully.
He obviously didn’t know what to make of my gesture. Finally he raked his dark hair into spikes with his fingers and stared intently at me, as if seeing me for the very first time.
When he looked straight at me, that jellyfish feeling came back into my legs, and I wondered if I’d fall. Perhaps the fruit was weighing me down. I opened my hand, and the sack dropped to the floor. The cage inhabitant howled loudly, but the gorgeous Mr. Mystery Man didn’t even flinch.
His unsettling eyes were the color of espresso, and the look he gave me was as disquieting as if he’d pumped pure caffeine into my nervous system. But if he meant to scare me off, he’d met his match. I’d come too far into my folly to turn back without attempting to save face. Besides, I’d traveled in far more hostile environs than these. Anyone who has spent months calling on parishioners who haven’t darkened the door of a church since Nixon was president would understand. If my neighbor meant to intimidate me, he’d have to try harder than this.
“No problem.” I looked around, trying to think of something friendly to say before I made my departure on my own terms. The walls of books and heavy leather furniture were masculine and inviting. Ernest Hemingway would have felt right at home.
“It’s very cozy in here. Much more comfy than my place. Lots larger, too. I haven’t seen you before. You must travel a lot.”
My mouth overfloweth. James 1:26, Cassia, James 1:26!
If you claim to be religious but don’t control your tongue, you are just fooling yourself, and your religion is worthless.
“Let’s just say I have enough frequent flyer miles to take free vacations until I’m a hundred and five.” He seemed amused. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to let Pepto out of his cage, and it might be a good idea if he didn’t see any strangers until he’s reacquainted with the apartment.”
“Pepto?”
He actually smiled. “After the Pepto-Bismol case in which I found him hiding. He was the king of unwanted strays, fighting, romancing the ladies and living off food from the garbage can outside my bedroom window. I brought him in and fed him in order to shut him up so I could get a decent night’s sleep. Somehow, in the process he adopted me.”
I had one of those Awwww… moments. “How sweet!”
He eyed me as if I were as loony as Pepto. “Right. Sweet. A regular Lion King. I’m going to let him out now, so you might want to step behind a piece of furniture just in case. Or, safer yet, close the front door behind you.”
At first I thought he was kidding—about the danger, at least. I knew he was dead serious about my stepping out the door. But before I could get to the entrance of the apartment, he lifted the pin on the travel crate and Pepto was rereleased onto the world.
A shriek that could have frozen molten lava and a brown-and-black blur of fur, teeth and claws shot out of the carrier and ricocheted off several pieces of furniture and two walls. When a floor lamp landed on its side in a clatter, the cat howled as if he’d been disemboweled and plunged himself deep beneath the couch.
I instinctively hit the floor like a ton of bricks, covered my head with my arms and curled into a fetal position to avoid the thrashing animal. When I came up for air, Pepto’s owner was staring at me with alarm. He was as cool and nonchalant as if he risked having his eyes clawed out on a daily basis.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll let you know for sure when my legs stop shaking.” I felt my knee buckle, the one I’d hit on the floor as I dropped. “But I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a moment, Mr.…”
“Adam. Adam Cavanaugh. Please, sit.” He gestured to an antique chair that looked something like a cat itself with animal-like jaws carved into the wooden armrests and paws with claws for feet. It was upholstered in something that looked disquietingly like fur.
But beggars can’t be choosers and I was beginning to feel a little queasy. If that thing even saw Winslow… Eyeing the base of the couch, half expecting to see a claw-studded fur ball soar from beneath, I dropped onto it. Dust flew into my nostrils. How long had these two been gone, anyway?
“Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.” I pointed my finger to the ceiling over our heads.
Something
