Might as well go for the whole enchilada. "Hang out for another minute, Gilly," I say.
I hurry up the stairs and gather the men's clothes I found in the closet. When I return, I set them on the counter.
"Are these Tom's?"
She looks sad again. "Yes. His favorite trousers and shirts. They went missing from the house the same day I found the note telling me he was leaving me. I don't recognize the robe, though."
There's silence for a while, then I finally break it. "I'm sorry, Gilly."
"Don't be. Tom and I were young. A few years after he disappeared, I divorced him and got on with life. I had my Martin, as you know, until he passed four years ago. I never forgot Tom—you don't forget your first—but in Martin, I met someone wonderful who gave me all the love I could possibly handle. I just couldn't help brawling with Eunice about it once in a while."
"Marty was a great guy." I put a hand on her shoulder. "And Tom? That's what those fights were about? The ones that always stopped so suddenly when I walked into the room?"
"Yes, dear. Not a fit topic for a young girl to overhear."
"Gilly, I have to tell you this...a few nights ago—well, really, I thought I'd just lost my mind from the stress—Tom was a dead kitten one minute and a live, naked man the next. I freaked. I shoved him out the door, and then he was kitten Tom again. He's the one who brought me that picture. And that was him, the man I saw was the man in the picture. I guess I should let him out of the cage?"
"Yes. Yes, I think you should. Although I haven't an inkling how we'd go about finding out if it's true."
I open the cage and Tom hurries out, wending his way between us, rubbing against our legs.
Gillian leans down and says, "So, what do you think we should do with you?"
Tom doesn't answer as he rubs his face against her outstretched hand over and over and over.
When Tom settles into the small of my back for the night, I move him onto the bedside chair. He looks a little put out before he curls up with his tail tucked in.
"Sorry, Tom. But I don't feel comfortable snuggling up with you. Because, wow, you're freaking hot for a kitten." I laugh at myself now, because I'm totally bonkers.
I swear he nods just like all the crazy talk about him being a man is true. Then he curls up for the night. I curl up, too, trying to ignore that I just moved a cat off the bed because I'm afraid he'll turn into a pinup boy from my steamiest fantasies. The temporary psychosis I apparently share with Gillian is obviously working on becoming permanent.
I wake up to a sound downstairs, just a slight shuffling, but the recent spooky stuff has me waking at every noise. I look to the chair, but Tom is gone. It must be him I hear, prowling around below. I lay back down, but now I'm alert and vigilant, and every creak as the house adjusts to the wind and temperature sounds suspicious. Alright, I'm getting up. I'm not going to be able to sleep until I satisfy myself there's nothing there.
I go to the closet and get my old summer-league softball bat and move down the stairs, trying not to hyperventilate. I'm going for stealth. Definitely not a good time to pass out from anxiety. As I enter the shop and look around, I see movement in the short hall that leads to the storerooms. And then I hear Tom hissing, followed by a sudden, piercing yowl.
Someone's back there, and he's hurting Tom; I'm sure of it. My hand tightens on the bat as my legs tense and I move forward.
I run past the counter, bat raised, screaming, "Get the hell out of my shop!"
There's no one there, no one that I can see as I scan the dark room. But I know I'm not alone. It stinks of nervous sweat in here. I rushed to Tom's defense, but where is he? I don't see him anywhere. Then there's a squeal, and I see Tom in the gloom by the far storeroom door, lying on his side, not moving.
I move toward him and someone pushes me back, but I still don't see anyone. It's dark but not that dark. Where is he? I bring the
I hurry up the stairs and gather the men's clothes I found in the closet. When I return, I set them on the counter.
"Are these Tom's?"
She looks sad again. "Yes. His favorite trousers and shirts. They went missing from the house the same day I found the note telling me he was leaving me. I don't recognize the robe, though."
There's silence for a while, then I finally break it. "I'm sorry, Gilly."
"Don't be. Tom and I were young. A few years after he disappeared, I divorced him and got on with life. I had my Martin, as you know, until he passed four years ago. I never forgot Tom—you don't forget your first—but in Martin, I met someone wonderful who gave me all the love I could possibly handle. I just couldn't help brawling with Eunice about it once in a while."
"Marty was a great guy." I put a hand on her shoulder. "And Tom? That's what those fights were about? The ones that always stopped so suddenly when I walked into the room?"
"Yes, dear. Not a fit topic for a young girl to overhear."
"Gilly, I have to tell you this...a few nights ago—well, really, I thought I'd just lost my mind from the stress—Tom was a dead kitten one minute and a live, naked man the next. I freaked. I shoved him out the door, and then he was kitten Tom again. He's the one who brought me that picture. And that was him, the man I saw was the man in the picture. I guess I should let him out of the cage?"
"Yes. Yes, I think you should. Although I haven't an inkling how we'd go about finding out if it's true."
I open the cage and Tom hurries out, wending his way between us, rubbing against our legs.
Gillian leans down and says, "So, what do you think we should do with you?"
Tom doesn't answer as he rubs his face against her outstretched hand over and over and over.
When Tom settles into the small of my back for the night, I move him onto the bedside chair. He looks a little put out before he curls up with his tail tucked in.
"Sorry, Tom. But I don't feel comfortable snuggling up with you. Because, wow, you're freaking hot for a kitten." I laugh at myself now, because I'm totally bonkers.
I swear he nods just like all the crazy talk about him being a man is true. Then he curls up for the night. I curl up, too, trying to ignore that I just moved a cat off the bed because I'm afraid he'll turn into a pinup boy from my steamiest fantasies. The temporary psychosis I apparently share with Gillian is obviously working on becoming permanent.
I wake up to a sound downstairs, just a slight shuffling, but the recent spooky stuff has me waking at every noise. I look to the chair, but Tom is gone. It must be him I hear, prowling around below. I lay back down, but now I'm alert and vigilant, and every creak as the house adjusts to the wind and temperature sounds suspicious. Alright, I'm getting up. I'm not going to be able to sleep until I satisfy myself there's nothing there.
I go to the closet and get my old summer-league softball bat and move down the stairs, trying not to hyperventilate. I'm going for stealth. Definitely not a good time to pass out from anxiety. As I enter the shop and look around, I see movement in the short hall that leads to the storerooms. And then I hear Tom hissing, followed by a sudden, piercing yowl.
Someone's back there, and he's hurting Tom; I'm sure of it. My hand tightens on the bat as my legs tense and I move forward.
I run past the counter, bat raised, screaming, "Get the hell out of my shop!"
There's no one there, no one that I can see as I scan the dark room. But I know I'm not alone. It stinks of nervous sweat in here. I rushed to Tom's defense, but where is he? I don't see him anywhere. Then there's a squeal, and I see Tom in the gloom by the far storeroom door, lying on his side, not moving.
I move toward him and someone pushes me back, but I still don't see anyone. It's dark but not that dark. Where is he? I bring the
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