Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Whiskers

At some point—it may have been when I was checking on the cats at the Silverthorn mansion—Ethan had called, and later I reminded myself I needed to listen to my voice mail. Then, after I crossed the bridge at Stickney Point and headed up Tamiami Trail, he called again, but he didn’t leave a message that time.

I felt bad for not picking up, but I told myself I just had too much on my mind. Plus, I was driving. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to give him my full attention. And I had to get a move on or I’d be late for my meeting at the Paxton Gallery. And …

I couldn’t come up with any more excuses.

To be honest, I just didn’t want to talk to him.

Not yet.

I knew it was silly, but I was having trouble. I couldn’t get over what he’d said … about our kids. I’m normally an expert on avoiding things I don’t feel like dealing with, but I knew this time it wouldn’t be so easy, and the fact that he felt the need to apologize was all the proof I needed. Before, it had been a nonissue—or at the very least an unspoken one—but now it was hanging out there in the open between us, like an unresolved note at the end of a song.

Ethan’s a straight shooter. I know that from firsthand experience. He says what he means, he doesn’t play games, and he certainly doesn’t shy away from the truth, so when he said having children wasn’t on his agenda, I believed him. But the problem is, I had an agenda once, too, and I can now say without a doubt in my mind that my so-called “agenda” didn’t exactly line up with reality, or, for that matter, with what was really in my heart.

Life isn’t that simple. Lived at its fullest, life is full of blind turns and unexpected twists and unlimited possibilities. That’s what makes it fun. We should all live our lives not knowing exactly what’s around the corner.

But not me. I’m done with surprises. I see my life laid out before me, and it’s just one straight, narrow road right to the horizon line.

I don’t know if I can do that to Ethan.

He deserves better.

27

You’d think a town as small as Sarasota wouldn’t exactly be a hotbed of culture, but it’s impossible to overestimate the seductive power of our perfect azure skies and crystalline white sand, not to mention our winter temperatures that hover in the mid-seventies. Artists of every shape, size, and color flock here from all over the world. Writers, dancers, painters, singers, musicians … and then there’s the clowns.

Ever since John Ringling set up his winter quarters here in the late twenties, the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus has been as much a symbol of local life as the dolphins that frolic in the waves off Siesta Key Beach. Famous clowns like Emmett Kelly and Lou Jacobs lived and died here, and descendants of the famous Flying Wallendas still call it home (and some are still flying). It’s not unusual to roll up to a stoplight and find a clown in full makeup at the wheel of the car next to you.

Plus, all that circus money went right into the local economy, which means we can afford to keep all those artists hanging around. Our museum is top-notch, our world-class orchestra is in its sixty-fifth season, and our Opera House just got a twenty-million-dollar makeover. It usually makes me feel classy just knowing it’s there, but as I walked along the Opera House on Pineapple Avenue with Mrs. Keller’s package tucked securely under my arm, the only thing I was feeling was … well, I think numb is a good word for it.

The Opera House is a beautiful old hacienda-style building, with rough stucco walls painted the palest shade of pink, topped with a red barrel-tile roof and guarded by three stately palm trees along the curb in front of it. As I walked by the front entrance, I tried to catch a glimpse inside. Supposedly, the big chandelier from Gone with the Wind hangs in the middle of the lobby, but since a ticket to the opera is a little outside my budget, I’ve never actually been inside to confirm it.

Just next door, dwarfed by comparison, is a beautiful old row house that’s been divided into three shops, two stories high and covered in a neatly trimmed blanket of climbing hydrangeas. With its three arched doorways and thick-paneled wooden doors, it looks like something a family of hobbits might live in, or perhaps an illustration from the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.

On the left side is a quaint little bistro. It sells the most delicious panini sandwiches—so delicious that I sometimes dream about them—and as I navigated through the iron café tables on the sidewalk, the smell of fresh-baked bread and grilled cheese tried to lure me in. The middle shop is a boutique real estate office, with photos of fancy homes in the window that normally I stop and drool over, but I knew I’d be late if I didn’t concentrate on the task at hand.

The last door had an oval lead-glass window in the middle, etched with gold lettering that read PAXTON FINE ART & ANTIQUES, and then in smaller letters underneath, MESSRS. A AND R PAXTON, DEALERS. The doorknob was one of those big brass numbers, polished with age, and when I pushed down on its paddle-shaped handle and gave it a nudge, I nearly banged my head on the door. It was locked.

Inside I could see a black metal music stand holding a framed placard that read BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, but then a woman appeared with a ring of keys in her hand. She was wearing a black long-sleeved silk blouse and linen pants with shiny black stiletto heels and a white leather belt around her tiny waist. I stepped back as she opened the door and smiled.

“Miss Hemingway?”

Her hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and there was a tiny dried flower tucked over her ear, a pale pink rose. Her big brown eyes were partly hidden behind a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses, but I recognized her right away. I said, “Oh, I think we met before—at the Sea Breeze?”

She shook her head. “The Sea Breeze?”

“We rode up together in the elevator … remember? I’d forgotten to pick my floor?”

She smiled and shook her head slightly. “I have no idea what you mean.”

I blinked. “Oh. Sorry. I guess I’m mistaken. You look exactly like someone I met there.”

She looked up and down the street and then motioned me in. “No need to apologize. Mr. Paxton’s just upstairs.”

I followed her to a reception desk set inside an alcove on the right, with a low counter and a row of white filing cabinets along the back. As she slipped around the counter, she glanced down at Mrs. Keller’s package in my hands and said, “I’m Daniela, by the way. I’m Mr. Paxton’s assistant.”

I nodded and smiled, trying to look as dumb and agreeable as possible. “It’s so nice to meet you, and what a beautiful gallery.”

There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. She was the same woman—the woman whose necklace I had complimented in Tom Hale’s elevator. It was true she looked different in a ponytail and glasses, but her beauty was unmistakable. I was absolutely certain of it, but I couldn’t very well argue with her. For whatever reason, she didn’t want to admit she’d been there.

Of course, my mind immediately started tossing out all kinds of possible explanations. Maybe she didn’t want her boss to know she’d been away from the gallery in the middle of the day, or perhaps she was having an affair with someone in the building, or perhaps she was embarrassed to admit on her days off she earned extra money at the Sea Breeze as a housemaid … an impeccably beautiful, luxuriously dressed housemaid.

She lifted up a green leather handbag from under her chair, and as she swung it onto the desk it fell open slightly and out slipped a piece of paper printed with what looked like an airline itinerary or maybe a boarding pass. I remembered she’d said the Catholic cross on her necklace was from Peru, her homeland, and I wondered if maybe she was planning a trip home, but I certainly couldn’t ask her about it—especially when she was pretending she’d never met me.