The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

4

As I passed all the hotels and bungalows along Siesta Key Beach, I started thinking that maybe I’d misinterpreted the little surge of excitement I’d felt at the prospect of diving into a new book. It must have just been a little post-tramautic adrenaline, because my whole body was starting to tighten up and my neck was tingling. By the time I reached Midnight Pass Road, my shoulders felt as if they were each holding up a ten-pound bag of sugar.

Great, I thought. Whiplash.

I’d probably jolted my neck when the pink VW bonked into my rear bumper, and then carrying Baldy around probably hadn’t helped matters any. All the more reason to take a good long hot shower as soon as I got home. I stepped on the gas. After my performance with Deputy Morgan I figured I was temporarily immune to speeding tickets.

All the way down Midnight Pass I couldn’t stop thinking about Baldy—how he had looked up at me with that strange smile on his face and said, “Safe.” Just the fact that he had to ask me if he was even alive kind of broke my heart. At that point he must have thought he’d died and gone to heaven, and I’m sure all those pain-blocking endorphins coursing through his bloodstream felt pretty darn heavenly.

I wondered if maybe he hadn’t recognized me from before when he sped past. Maybe he was smiling at the irony of it all. Maybe it was his way of saying, “You’re right, I am a jackass. Sorry for the trouble.”

I pulled into the curving lane that leads down to the place I’ve called home for about as long as I can remember. The sound the crushed shell made as the wheels rolled over it actually made my shoulders relax a bit. I hear that sound every single day. It means home to me, just as much as the sound of the waves lapping up on the beach down below the house. My headlights lit up the tangle of pines, mossy oaks, sea grapes, and palms on either side of the lane, and after a couple of twists and turns, I pulled into the courtyard.

Most of the houses along this stretch of the key are sprawling, multimillion-dollar mansions filled with movie idols and star athletes, but ours came right out of the Sears, Roebuck catalog. My grandparents picked it while they were still newlyweds and dreamed of finding the right spot to build one day. Then, a couple of years after my mother was born, my grandfather was in Florida on business, and a co-worker took him on a tour of Siesta Key. When he returned home, he presented my grandmother with a brand-new deed to a piece of land on the edge of the Gulf. She nearly divorced him, but he persuaded her to come down and have a look herself. They stood on the future spot of their dream home and watched the sky turn gold as the sun settled into the ocean. My grandmother always said that buying this land was the smartest decision she ever made, and my grandfather would nod at me and wink.

It’s a simple, two-story frame house with white siding, weathered a milky gray from years in the sun and salty air. After my grandparents passed away, my brother moved in with his partner, Paco, and our cat, Ella Fitzgerald. I live above the four-slot carport next to the house in the apartment our grandfather built for relatives to stay in when they visited from up north.

It has a balcony with a hammock and a little glass-topped breakfast table, and French doors that open into a small living space with a sofa and a big, comfy armchair. A breakfast bar divides the living area from the kitchen, and then there’s a short hallway that goes back to my bedroom. There’s a bathroom on one side of the hall and an alcove with a washer and dryer on the other, and I have a big walk-in closet with room for a desk, which is where I take care of all my pet-sitting business. It’s small, but it suits me fine.

Today, the house and the apartment aren’t worth a hill of coconuts, but the land they’re sitting on … well, that’s a whole other story. We could all retire and travel like queens all over the world on the money we’d get for it. We’ll never sell, though. It’s practically a member of the family now.

As I rolled past the courtyard, I noticed Michael and Paco were out on the deck laying fish and sliced vegetables on the grill. I was happy to see them—not every girl gets to come home to a couple of shirtless hunks making her a gourmet dinner, but also, our schedules don’t always line up so great. Michael works twenty-four/forty-eight at the firehouse, which means he’s at the station one full day and then off for two days. Paco is an agent with the Special Investigative Bureau, which means his schedule, not to mention his job, is a complete mystery to all of us. He’s sometimes gone for days on end, working undercover.

I pulled into the carport to find Ella Fitzgerald perched on the hood of Paco’s pickup. She was licking one white paw and daintily drawing it over her left ear. When she saw me, she stretched herself into a scary Halloween cat and let out a little nik-nik sound to signal that she would very much appreciate it if I would be so kind as to come over and give her a couple of scritches behind the ears.

Ella is a pure calico-Persian mix, with alternating patches of red, black, and white fur. She was a gift to me, but it didn’t take her long to figure out that all the good stuff is in Michael’s kitchen—in addition to being a first-class fireman, he’s a world-class cook—so she spends most of her time there. I still think of her as mine, though. I learned a long time ago that just because you love something doesn’t mean you get to keep it forever.

I shut off the ignition and planned my course of action. If I played my cards right, I could slip past the boys, hide my bloody clothes, take a quick shower, and get back down for dinner in a cat’s pounce. Not that I get some sort of thrill sneaking around behind their backs, but I didn’t think it would do Michael any good to see me looking like a bit player from Dawn of the Living Dead. He has enough on his plate as it is, and being my older brother hasn’t exactly been a tiptoe through the tulips, so whenever I can I try to spare him the bloody details, so to speak. Although the thought did cross my mind that he’d be pretty proud to find out I’d practically saved a man’s life.

I put Ethan’s hoodie back on and watched Michael and Paco at the grill, waiting for the right moment to make my move. Just then, they both went back inside to get something from the kitchen, and I took a deep breath. My heart quickened, and I felt like James Bond or George Smiley, as if I needed to synchronize my watch or whisper into my sleeve, “We’re goin’ in!”

I heaved my stiff body out of the Bronco and closed the door as quietly as possible, then gave Ella a quick rub on her head as I went by. She could tell my heart wasn’t really in it, though. “Sorry, Miss Ella,” I whispered. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

I tried to take the stairs two at a time, but my neck was so sore I could barely handle them one at a time, so instead I took little baby steps, slowly so I wouldn’t make any noise, and just as I was halfway up, Michael came out with a big bowl of mixed greens. I pressed myself against the side of the railing and froze as he set the bowl down on the big teak table our grandfather made. Then, as slowly as possible, I slithered sideways up the steps, keeping my back flat against the wall.

I’ve always thought that if my pet-sitting business didn’t work out, I’d convince Paco to get me a job at the Special Investigative Bureau. I’d make a good spy. Even injured, I’m nimble as a cat and sneaky as a snake, I thought to myself.

Michael said, “Dinner in five, Dixie.”

I sighed. Well, maybe not.

“Okay, great,” I said as I trudged up the rest of the stairs. “I just have to take a quick shower, and then I’ll be right down.”

“What? A shower? Didn’t you already take a shower this morning?”

“Yes, Michael, I did, and now I’m going to take another one. I’m covered in cat hair.”

He walked over to the edge of the deck and cocked his head to one side, as if he were inspecting a steer at market. “Are you okay?”

I paused at the top of the stairs. “Yep. I’m fine.”

“Um, isn’t that hoodie a little big for you?”

I turned around and put my hands on my hips. “What is this? Twenty questions?”

“Whoa.” He put his hands in the air like a bank teller in a holdup. “Okay, grumpy. Five minutes till dinner.” He shook his head as he headed back to the grill.

I put my keys in the door and breathed a sigh of relief. That was close. I congratulated myself on my spy skills. Of course, I’d eventually tell him what happened, but after what I’d already been through that day, the last thing I felt like listening to was a lecture about the dangers of getting near a smoking car or pulling semiconscious strangers from accidents. At that point, all I cared about was stripping out of those bloody clothes and getting in a nice hot shower.

I swung the door open, and there was Ethan, grinning, his arms stretched out for a hug.

“Hey there, gorgeous.”

Now, I may or may not have mentioned that Ethan is about the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Women generally swoon in his presence. I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean actual swooning. As in eye-rolling, knee-weakening swooning. Chests heave, bodices rip—you know the type. Basically, he’s smokin’ hot.

“No,” I said, pulling the hoodie tighter. “I can’t hug you, I’m covered in hair.”

He stepped in front of me. “What? I don’t care about a little cat hair, come here.”

“No, seriously, Ethan, I’m a mess.”

He was wearing jeans and a faded pink V-neck T-shirt, but that’s all I saw at first. I was trying not to look at him. When I’m around Ethan, I tend to lose my concentration if I’m not careful. There are a number of things about him that can be a little distracting: his beautiful light brown eyes, his thick lashes, his curly locks of long black hair, his broad shoulders, his muscled arms, the soft hair on his chest … I could go on.

“Hey,” he interrupted. “Is that my hoodie?”

“Yeah, sorry. I got a little cold, so I put it on.”

“Umm, it’s like eighty degrees outside.”

“Yeah, I know that, but…” I cast about in my head for a good excuse, but all I could come up with was a plaintive “I like how I look in it…?”

He raised one eyebrow. “Yeah. You’re like a hot shoplifter.”

I shrugged and flashed him a sweetly disarming grin, but he wasn’t buying it.

“Dixie, what’s going on? And what happened to your lip?”

I sighed. “Alright, but you asked for it.”

I put my backpack down and said, “Now, I’m totally fine, but…” I unzipped the hoodie and slid it off my shoulders.

Ethan’s jaw fell open. “Holy … Dixie, what the hell happened to you?”

“I was in an accident, but really, I’m fine.”

His face went pale as he looked at the bloodstains on my clothing, and for a second I thought he was about to swoon himself.

I put my hand on his chest just in case he tipped over. “No, no, no. The blood’s not mine!”

He stood there, nodding for a couple of seconds and taking it all in. Then he said, “Yeah. I need to sit down.”

I led him over to the couch, and he stretched out on his back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Okay,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “Go ahead.”

I knelt down at the edge of the couch and smiled sheepishly. “You okay?”

He nodded vigorously. “Oh sure. Yeah, I’m great. Go on.”

I told him everything that had happened. All about the accident, how Baldy had been tailgating me, how after I’d let him pass he had hit a truck head-on, about the pileup and how I’d been rear-ended by a girl who was talking on her cell phone and only braked at the last minute.

His eyes were closed, but I went on anyway. “And now, except for a stiff neck and a little cut on my lip, I’m really, totally fine.”

He turned and looked at me. “Good story. Now get to the part where you pulled the bloody guy out of his car.”

“Oh right, yeah. So then I pulled the bloody guy out of his car.”

He waved one hand in the air nonchalantly. “And hence the blood.”

“Ethan, I didn’t have a choice. There was smoke pouring out of it. If I hadn’t gotten him out before it exploded, there’s no way he would’ve survived.”

He stared at the ceiling. “Exploded.”

“Oh. Yeah, his car exploded. Well, ‘exploded’ seems a little dramatic. It blew up.”

He shook his head and started laughing quietly to himself.

“Ethan, seriously, there was nobody else there to help him. What was I supposed to do?”

He turned and looked at me. “I know. You’re amazing.”

I held up my hand for a high five. “Finally! This is what I’ve been trying to tell everybody!”

He shook his head. “No, seriously. That took guts. How bad is your neck? Maybe we should get it looked at.”

“Oh please, don’t be such a drama queen. I’m fine.”

He sat up slowly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s nothing an aspirin and a hot shower can’t fix. And look, can we please not tell Michael and Paco? I don’t want them to make a big deal out of it.”

He put his hands on my knees. “Okay. Sure, if that’s what you want. I’ll give you one of my patented neck massages later.”

I sighed. “Okay, good. I mean, I’ll tell them later. I just don’t want Michael to freak out.”

He nodded, and that was it. No lecture, no hand-wringing, no “next time this” or “next time that.” Just a little dramatic light-headedness and then he simply listened. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I like a man who knows how to listen.

I like a man that knows how to listen a lot.

“So here’s the plan,” I said. “I managed to sneak upstairs without them getting a good look at me. So now you go down and tell them I had a phone call or something. Meanwhile I’ll hide the evidence, take a hot shower, and be right down like nothing ever happened.”

He stood up, “Okay, let’s reconnoiter downstairs. Ten-four, Agent 99, over and out.”

He saluted and then stuck his hand out for a handshake. I swatted it away. “Very funny.”

As soon as he was gone I was out of my clothes and in the shower in less than ten seconds. I’m a champion shower-taker. I can stand there until all the hot water runs out and my fingertips look like little wrinkled babies’ butts, or I can be in and out in under three minutes, as efficient as a pit crew at the Indy 500. This time, I didn’t exactly empty the hot water tank, but I let the water run over my neck and shoulders long enough for a few muscles to relax back to their normal spots.

I toweled off quickly and slipped on my nicest pair of long slacks, which is what you wear to lounge around in when your work uniform is shorts and a T-shirt, and then a pale yellow linen blouse with little blue cornflowers embroidered on the cuffs that I bought at an Indian shop downtown years ago. I wear it whenever I want to feel extra clean and carefree, which is exactly how you want to feel after you’ve spent a few hours covered in somebody else’s blood.

On my way out, I paused in the kitchen. There was an envelope in the basket at the end of the counter where we put the mail. For a second, I just stared at it. My eyes were working fine, but my brain was having a little trouble processing the name in the return address.

It read J. P. Guidry.