Josie’s expression immediately shifted to one of concern. “Is there something wrong?”
“No,” I replied. I definitely didn’t want her to think I’d found fault with the place. “It’s just that I was thinking of calling the shop ‘Once in a Blue Moon,’ and so I’m not sure these red walls are going to work.”
“Oh,” she said, and let out a relieved little chuckle. “I know a very good painter. I can text you his contact information.”
I reflected that it was helpful to have made contact with the one person who seemed to know everyone in Globe. Not that I couldn’t have tackled the painting myself if necessary, but it was probably better to let an expert handle it so I could focus on ordering display items and inventory for the store.
“That would be great.”
She fished an oversized iPhone out of her purse — a brand-new one, from what I could tell, several generations newer and fancier than mine — and typed a quick text. Almost immediately, my own phone pinged from within my purse.
“Brett Woodrow?” I said, inspecting the text after I’d extracted my own iPhone.
Her cheeks flushed a little pinker under the blush she wore. “My nephew. But he really is the best house painter in town. And I know he just finished up a big project at a ranch just over in Miami, so he should be available.”
I’d have to take her word for it. But then, it wasn’t as if I knew anyone else in Globe. I would’ve had to resort to Yelp or Angie’s List to find a painter in town, so I might as well go with Josie’s recommendation.
“Sounds perfect,” I told her, then slid my phone back into my purse. “I’ll get in touch after I’m a bit more settled.”
“I’ll let him know to expect a call from you,” she replied. “And speaking of getting settled in, I’ll leave you to it. If you have any problems or questions, just text or call.”
“I will,” I promised, although I didn’t foresee any issues arising. Everything looked to be in perfect order, and I’d bought a homeowner’s warranty just to cover my butt in case the furnace decided to blow up or something.
Josie shot another smile at me, then went ahead and let herself out. The door to the shop closed behind her with a quiet snick, and I took a deep breath in as I looked around.
For better or worse, I was home.
I’d put what I could in my Beetle — clothes and personal items — but everything else had been shipped directly to the new place. The expense had been pretty cringe-worthy, although I told myself that putting my books and crystals and art and all the other items I couldn’t leave behind in plain brown boxes and sending them via UPS had been really the only way to keep my move on the down-low.
The only person who knew where I was going was my mother. Telling her had been a calculated risk, but it wasn’t as though I could just take off for the wild west without letting my only living relative know where I was going. I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking that Lucien Dumond didn’t know who she was and where she lived — and I wasn’t too happy that his compound in the Encino hills stood only a few miles away from the sprawling house in Sherman Oaks that my mother shared with her husband — and yet I tried to convince myself that Dumond had no reason to go after her. I’d been the main thorn in his side, and since I’d plucked the thorn and removed myself from Southern California, he could live happy in the knowledge that no one would be competing with him when it came to peddling his services to desperate starlets.
My new loft apartment was now littered with boxes. All I had to sleep on was an inflatable mattress I’d ordered from Amazon just so I wouldn’t be lying on the floor while I waited for my new furniture to show up. All that had been ordered online as well, and would be arriving in dribs and drabs over the next few days.
Looking at all those boxes could have been overwhelming, but I’d done a quick reading right before I got out of the car, and the universe still seemed to be telling me that all systems were go. Yes, I had a lot of work in front of me. Still, it wasn’t as if I had any sort of timeline for when everything needed to be in place, so I could feel my way through it and get things done in my own time.
In a way, it was oddly satisfying to think that I didn’t have a schedule ruling my life, that I could completely call my time my own. Oh, I’d loved working with my clients, and had experienced quite a few pangs of guilt as I let all of them know I was closing down my practice, even as I’d done my best to guide them to new practitioners, but it still felt as though an invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I’d brought my teakettle with me and made sure it was in a clearly labeled box. After fetching the pair of kitchen shears I’d left out on the counter, I sliced through the tape holding the box shut and got out the ocean-blue Le Creuset kettle that had been one of my splurges a while back. Soon enough, it was whistling away happily on the stove, and not so long after that, I had my first cup of tea — Assam — in my new home.
The same feeling of peace and harmony that I’d sensed down in the store space filled the loft apartment as well, and I pulled in a deep, calming breath, letting myself relax into my surroundings. I walked through the space, ignoring the chaos of boxes around me and instead doing my best to focus on the way the light tracked along the gleaming wood floors, the way the dust motes danced in the sunlight that filtered through the tall windows on the east side of the living room.
That stillness was abruptly broken by a scratching noise coming from somewhere toward the back of the space, followed by a peremptory meow.
What the…?
I set down my mug of tea and hurried toward the back bedroom — the master bedroom, I supposed, since it was the larger of the two and had its own balcony overlooking a not-so-scenic empty lot.
Standing on the balcony and staring through the French door that opened onto it was a large gray cat. It glared at me with huge yellow eyes and meowed again.
Obviously, it wanted in.
Growing up, I’d had a big black and white kitty. Star Ruby, a name my five-year-old self had thought was just perfect for a male cat. Star had been my constant companion all the way up to my senior year of high school, when he passed away after a long and happy life. I’d wanted to get another cat after I moved out, but a series of overly strict landlords had kept that from happening. Over time, I’d gotten used to my cat-less existence, and yet I’d always secretly hoped that one day I’d be living someplace where I could have a cat again.
Well, it seemed as if a cat had literally just turned up on my doorstep.
It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, I told myself as I went over to the door. This could be a neighbor’s cat just poking around.
Possibly, except I didn’t really have any neighbors. Oh, there were businesses to either side — a furniture store and an antique/junk shop — but Josie had told me that no one lived in the apartments above those stores, that the shop owners used them for storage.
Still, cats could range a good ways if they were in the mood.
I opened the door, and the cat immediately entered the bedroom, tail held high, walking as if he owned the place. Smiling a little, I watched as he strolled toward the doorway that opened onto the hall, then paused to rub up against the frame, getting in a good back scratch, marking it with his scent. Afterward, he continued toward the living room before he stopped in the middle of the chaos, eyes narrowing.