“Don’t move, scumbag.”
An older woman’s voice from somewhere above me tries to sound menacing.
What the…
I turn my head to look over my shoulder.
“I said don’t move! Are you hard of hearing?”
Seriously. What the actual fuck?
“Abbott sent me. Who the hell are you?”
This time I do turn around, standing in one motion, facing the intruder. A woman is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a large glass vase in one hand, Desdemona tucked protectively under the other.
“Wait a second, are you stealing the damn cat?” I accuse, stepping toward the pair of them to snatch the purring feline.
Little traitor. Of course it’s friendly with a thief.
Is this woman nuts?
She doesn’t look like a nutjob, or a schizo. I’ve certainly never seen her in the building before—though that isn’t saying much because I’d never laid eyes on Abbott until very recently, either.
“Am I stealing the—are you out of your mind?”
“Just give me back the cat and get the hell out of here before I call the police.”
“I beg your pardon?” She is affronted, still holding the vase, still holding Desi.
“I said, give me the cat and I won’t call the—”
“Young man, I’m not hard of hearing. Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my granddaughter’s apartment?”
Granddaughter’s apartment.
It’s then that I really take a good look at the older woman. She’s in her sixties or seventies, wearing an expensive baby blue suit. Striking silver hair that’s been professionally styled. Large diamond rocks in her ears and…
My gaze travels south, to the hand cradling Desdemona.
Larger rock on her ring finger.
Shit. This must be a Margolis.
Maybe even the Margolis.
Fuck.
Shit.
“I’m here to check on the cat. Abbott won’t be home until late.” I root about in my track pants and produce the key. “See? I have a key.”
Her perfectly manicured brows rise to her hairline. “You have a key?”
This information interests her, and she stoops, bending her knees to a near curtsy to release Desi to the floor. The cat, being a snoop and in no rush to hurry off, sets its ass on the tile in front of Abbott’s grandmother and stares at me along with her.
“She needed a favor.”
“A favor?”
Why is she repeating everything in that weird tone—like everything I’ve just said is groundbreaking and intriguing?
You have a keeey?
A favorrrrr?
“Yes, ma’am.”
The vase gets set down on the counter, and the woman leans a bouclé-covered elbow on the cold granite. “What’s your name?”
“Brooks Bennett, ma’am.”
Her regal head gives a nod. “I’m Nan.”
“Nan—the giver of Sunday brunch and eggs Benedict.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Should I have said all that? Shit, what if she gets the wrong idea about what I was doing here Sunday morning? “I met Abbott in the hall the other day—I didn’t spend the night.” That sounds just as bad. “I mean…we just met Sunday. I didn’t know her before that. We ran into each other in the hall and I invited myself in.”
Creepy as fuck—that’s how you sound, Brooks. What the hell? Get a damn grip.
A true interrogator, Nan looks on silently, letting me hang myself with the word vomit spewing from my mouth.
“We talked because I had breakfast here. I ate your food. I didn’t just force myself in—she was going to invite me.”
I think.
“I see.” That’s all Nan says, picking up the vase and disappearing back around the corner from where she came.
I follow and find her in the living room, setting the vase on a hutch, a small bouquet of freshly cut flowers resting on its surface.
Nan goes about arranging them like I’m not in the room, freaking the fuck out.
What’s the big damn deal? Abbott has a grandma and she took you by surprise—so what? Get over it and get the hell out. Text Abbott that Nan took care of the cat and move on with your life.
Over and done.
“Are you going to stand there rudely with your hand down your pants or are you going to grab some of these and help me?”
Hand down my pants?
What the fuck.
Nan is no shrinking violet, nor is she a washed-up socialite.
“Sorry.”
Nan hands me the stem of a daisy and says, “These are Abbott’s favorite. They’re small and white—dainty and petite, like she is. Not like the large Gerbera daisies that are more popular.”
I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but I jam it inside the vase next to a pale, white rose.
Nan tsks, slapping my hand away. “Put some thought into it. Placed in the right spot, this little flower will shine.”
Wait…is she actually talking about flowers? Because if not, that was one hell of a metaphor. For a split second, it occurs to me that she might be talking about her granddaughter. But what the hell do I know about anything?
“Now, tell me again what you’re doing in the apartment, and how long you’ve had a key.”
I’m scared to put the flower into the vase for fear I’m going to get rapped on the knuckles again. “Um.” Tentatively, I fit it snuggly, sliding it in next to the roses. “Like I said, I’m here to check on the cat. Abbott has some dinner thing tonight and…”
“That cat is Satan,” Nan murmurs, interrupting me, and I’m not sure if I’m hearing her quite right.
“Sorry?”
“I said—that cat is a menace. I can’t believe the little terror let me pick it up.” Nana searches the room, locates the cat on the dais, and glares. “I bought her that creature, and look how the little son of a bitch repays me.”
Holy shit.
Whoa—I’ve never heard a grandma cursing this way, let alone one who looks like Grandma Margolis. Nana? Nan? Whatever her name is, she’s one classy broad, and I can’t believe she just called the damn cat a son of a bitch.
I laugh. “That’s putting it mildly. I thought it was going to scratch my balls off the first time I was here.”
“Oh? And when was this?” She’s casual, nonchalant in a way that screams, Give me all the details and don’t leave anything out.
“Last weekend, we bumped into each other for the first time in the hallway, and she had all this food so I weaseled my way into an invitation to eat most of it.” I give Nan the side-eye.
Abbott’s grandma nods and hums, not taking her eyes off the floral arrangement. “Then what?”
“Then…um…” I rack my brain for some details. “Then this morning she texted me to ask if I could come check on the, uh—Pussy of Terror, and I wasn’t busy so here I am.”
There. I said it. I threw down the P word to get a reaction from Nan, and now I wait to see how she responds.
A smile tips the corners of her maroon-lined mouth, and another chuckle escapes her lips. “I like that. Very clever.”
Clever? More like vulgar, but whatever—I’m not going to argue with the matriarch of a powerful American family. I’m a moron sometimes, but I’m not a complete idiot.