Enchanting Lily (6 page)

I sense Lily flinching at the words “dead people.” “Jennifer Garner wore vintage Valentino to the Oscars. So did Julia Roberts. Reese Witherspoon wore nineteen-fifties Dior.”

“Awesome. You know that shop across the street, The
Newest Thing? They don’t have any old stuff. Totally different smell in there.”

“Oh, what kind of smell?” Lily’s voice is dripping acid.

“I dunno—like new and flowery. This place is more like a museum. A messy museum.”

“Great, a museum. Um, I’ll be right back.” Lily hurries into the hall. I can hear her rummaging around, cans clacking in distant cabinets. There are no lingering smells from cooking, so she must subsist on prepared food.

While Lily is gone, the girl’s red sneakers move around the shop. I hear papers shifting, clothes coming off hangers. She disappears into the fitting room and returns in high-heeled red shoes and pants with bright green cuffs. When Lily returns, she gasps. “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just dress up—”

“Why not? It’s fun. You need chairs in here.” I hear a clicking sound, like a cell phone camera taking a picture. “How do I look? Totally awesome or what? Do I look like I’m from the olden days?” The girl’s high heels tap across the floor.

“Be careful with the hat. The detail is Aurora Borealis rhinestone. Jack McConnell was a premier New York milliner.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m putting it back. You know what? I know what a milliner is. Someone who designs hats.”

“That’s great. Be careful, though. I haven’t finished setting up that display—”

“The Newest Thing has an awesome window display. Did you see?”

“I’m trying not to.”

“I want to show you something.” The girl’s shoes totter to the counter, more paper rustling. “You circled this. Estate sale. Everything Must Go. Furniture, silverware, antiques. No early birds. Up in West Harbor.”

“I’m not planning to go. I would have to close the shop.”

“Nobody’s even coming in here. You need more lights.”

“Oh, is that what I need?”

“Plus, you need a Facebook page, if you don’t have one. I could model the clothes and post the pictures.”

“Is that what The Newest Thing does?”

“It’s what I would do.”

“Is it?” Lily pops open the can of tuna, dumps the fish onto a plate.

“You need more mirrors. You have only this one.”

“One’s not enough for you?” Lily puts the plate on the floor, and I scarf down all the tuna in a couple of bites, not sure I tasted anything.

“The kitty came out. I told you!” the girl says. “It’s like she hasn’t eaten in days.”

Not days, exactly. Well, maybe, but so what?

The girl points at me and giggles. “Her tongue is sticking out.”

I pull in my tongue. Meant to do that. Sometimes a tongue needs a little air.

Lily glances at me, then sets about moving clothes from one place to another while the girl returns to the dressing room. All the changing that humans do, a waste of time.

I’m sitting on a rug now, spacing out while Lily runs around “tidying up.”

When the girl emerges in her street clothes, she plunks me into a box before I can protest. What just happened? “Oh, kitty, quiet down. You’ll be okay. What’s your name? She needs a name.”

“Someone already gave her one, I’m sure,” Lily says.

I did have a name, but I can’t remember, and it doesn’t matter now.

“But you have to give her one. We all have names. You have a name, don’t you?”

“Lily. And you?”

“Bish. It’s not short for anything. Just Bish. You could call her Cottonpuff or Snowball or…What’s white? Dandruff?”

“I don’t want to name the cat.”

“Snowflake then.”

“She’s more of a Blanche. Kind of crazy. But forget it—”

“Blanche, I like that!” Bish says.

“It’s from
A Streetcar Named Desire
.”

“A streetcar named what?”

Someone’s taping the box, poking airholes. I’m in a fix, but I’ll make it through this—I’ve experienced worse. I sense Lily’s worry swirling through the air, and through a peephole, I see her frowning out the window toward the shop across the street, her eyes full of doubt.

Lily

Lily carried the box, with the cat inside, across the street to The Newest Thing, a storybook boutique in a rectangular redbrick building. Whimsical wind chimes hung from the eaves, and the latest fashions and handbags were carefully arranged in the large bay window. She felt some trepidation about going inside, but she had tried the Island Creamery and the Apothecary Shop, but they had not claimed the cat.

Now here she was, inside a rival dress shop that breathed freshness and light. Bish had been right. Everything smelled
new. The owner had taken care to arrange the clothes in beautiful, well-lit configurations. Lily spotted six customers browsing the carousels of silk and chiffon, wool and rayon, not counting the women in the fitting rooms.

She had an urge to run back to the cottage, pack up all her things, and leave. Why even bother? She could never compete. She would never be able to wash out the smells of dust and smoke and sweat from the wrinkled old garments in her shop.

But she reminded herself that the clothes weren’t “old,” they were classics. Each one told its own story.

Still, how could she transform the messy rooms into anything to match this beauty? Josh had always been the interior decorator with the aesthetic eye. Lily had been the one to choose quirky clothes on impulse, to learn the history of each piece, to make adjustments, to keep the books, to keep Vilmont Designs in the black. But now she had no real idea how to attract buyers.

Behind the counter, a young woman, trim and close-cropped in every way, sat on a stool with her head bent over a smartphone, her thumbs tapping away, texting someone. The soft rustle of fabrics blended with pop music emanating from a hidden stereo system, but she didn’t seem to notice the world around her, including her customers.

The cat remained quiet as Lily wound her way to the
counter, sidestepping displays and taking note of the artful layout, the cabinet of imported French soaps. The woman looked up only when Lily was standing right in front of her. “Can I help you?” Her eyes flickered with annoyance. Her name tag read “Chris.”

“I wonder if you know anything about this cat,” Lily began in a low voice, and then quickly told her story.

Chris shrugged, frowning slightly at the box, as if it were a burr that Lily had carried inside on her coat. “I don’t know. Don’t have a clue. I don’t think Florence has any cats. She would have a fit if anyone brought a cat in here. She’s the owner, not me.”

Not me.
So this Florence could afford to hire at least one employee. She’d probably been in business a while. Lily could see that her clothes were overpriced. “Is she here? I’d like to ask her directly.”

“Oh, hell no. Flo’s hardly ever here.” Chris laughed softly. Her silver hoop earrings and small silver nose ring glinted in the light.

Hardly ever here
, and yet her shop thrived. Or did it? A woman headed for the door empty-handed, and Chris watched with a standard brand of indifference. Did she not have an investment in the shop’s success?

“Could you call Flo?” Lily said. “Just in case. I would hate to take the cat to the shelter and then find out—”

“She doesn’t have a cat,” Chris said, her face becoming closed and guarded. “I would know. I work here, like, five days a week.”

Five days a week? What did Flo do all that time? Did she have another shop? “Could the cat belong to someone else around here? I’m pretty new in town. Maybe you have an idea?”

“Nobody has a cat like that.” Chris made as if to return to her texting, when a chunky woman, with a mountain of permed white hair, came up and draped a flowing pink shirt across the counter. “I love this but do I have to dry clean it? It says dry clean only. What alternative do I have to all those chemicals?”

Chris read the label inside the collar. “It says dry clean only.”

“I realize that. It’s a beautiful shirt, but—”

“Dry clean only. I would follow the directions.”

“You can use a mild detergent and hand wash,” Lily said. “Dry cleaning chemicals can be harsh—”

“That’s what I think!” The woman looked at Lily and smiled. “For this shirt, though?”

“You want to protect the shape of the fabric, so use cold water and don’t wring or twist.”

“How do you know all this?”

The cat mewled pitifully, and Lily’s arms were beginning
to hurt from holding the box. “I have some experience with rayon. I just opened my shop across the street, Past Perfect. Vintage clothing.”

“Rayon is vintage?” The woman glanced out the window.

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Well, I’ll be. You’re in the old Candy Cottage? I’ve got to stop in there.”

Chris frowned. “You can’t return the shirt after you wash it, if you’re not following directions.”

Lily touched the shirt. It looked like rayon, felt like rayon, and the label—yes, it read “rayon.” She had learned to identify the textures of various fabrics. “In my shop, you can return a shirt like this even if you’ve washed it. I guarantee my clothes have already been washed anyway, some of them multiple times. Vintage fabrics are hardier than today’s fragile—”

“Do you want the shirt or not?” Chris cut in, tapping the counter.

The woman hesitated, then sighed and dug into her purse. “I do love the rose print on the front.” She smiled at Lily again. “Thanks, dear, for all your help. You are…?”

“Lily Byrne. I would give you a business card, but I don’t have any yet.”

“That’s okay. I’ll stop in.”

Chris pursed her lips as she rang up the shirt, and Lily hurried out into the cool, spitting rain. She’d just helped a rival shop make a sale, when the owner wasn’t even there and her employee couldn’t care less about the business. And all that Lily got in return was a homeless, mewling cat in a box and her own messy, empty shop. But still, her spirits rose a little. She had an advantage—something that just might make a difference. She genuinely loved the clothing in her shop. She and Josh had chosen each piece. She wouldn’t hire someone like Chris, even if she could afford an employee. She would stay in her boutique to answer questions in person, to impart her knowledge of fabrics and how to care for them, if only the customers would come inside.

Kitty

We’re in a car, and cars never lead anywhere good. The drone of the engine sears my eardrums, and the stink of exhaust nauseates me. Through holes in the box, I can see Lily staring ahead with glazed eyes. I get mesmerized sometimes, too—by clouds or birds, but never by windshield wipers.

“I shouldn’t be driving you. Josh would be the one doing this…”

The shapeless spirit? I didn’t know ghosts could drive. He’s not here, anyway. Through another airhole in the box,
I see Lily’s white-knuckled fingers gripping the steering wheel. I’ve held on that tightly before with my claws, when I was up a tree. I meant to be there. I was merely taking precautions.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. You’re turning me into an emotional wreck. Can’t you quiet down?”

I suppose I’m making noise. But who wouldn’t, in my situation? How would she like to be stuck in a box in a roaring killing machine?

“He once picked up a dead chickadee from the condo balcony. It hit the window and broke its neck. Why do birds do that? Fly to their doom?”

Who cares why? A dead bird is a dead bird and a tasty one if it’s fresh.

“Made me sad to see that little thing lying there. When I called the Audubon Society for advice, a volunteer suggested keeping the windows dirty so birds wouldn’t see their reflections. So I haven’t washed the cottage windows yet, but I should, if I want to compete with The Newest Thing. The windows are clean there, clean and shiny.”

People often do this, talk to themselves under the pretense of talking to me.

“Josh would’ve probably kept you, but he was allergic. He said, ‘If our kid wants a pet, I’ll try those allergy injections.’ But did he want a girl or a boy? Or both? We never
had a chance to talk about it. Not that we could’ve chosen. We didn’t even get to say good-bye.”

So her mate departed in a sudden way. No wonder she talks to herself. No wonder he hangs around. Perhaps he doesn’t even realize he’s dead.

Now she’s pulling out a loose collar from beneath her shirt—or what humans call a “necklace.” She touches a ring that hangs from the necklace. The gold metal glints in the light. Something else, too—a tiny glass vial. I know what’s inside. Human ashes give off a dull odor, different from wood ash and barely detectable, which is probably why I didn’t smell them before.

She tucks the necklace back under her shirt, and I sense the clinic ahead. I shudder as she parks the car beneath a fir tree. “What if I leave you on the porch with a note? Okay, quiet down. I was only thinking aloud.”

I wish she would do less of that. My voice is going hoarse as she carries me inside, still in the box. Then all sounds disappear from me. We’re in hell—a crowded waiting room that reeks of dog and disinfectant. A tall man holds a trembling, yapping poodle in his lap; a woman sits next to a giant golden retriever, its tongue hanging out; a tiny man holds a cat carrier in his lap. I smell a depressed black tomcat with a damaged leg.

Lily props the box on the countertop. Through the
pathetic airholes, I glimpse the girl at the desk. She looks up at us and smiles. “You’re Lily, and this is the kitty you found.”

The girl speaks with a slight accent. No wrinkles, but her eyes look old. Pulled back into a tight ponytail, each strand of hair is exactly the same shade of solid yellow.

“Your earrings are vintage,” Lily says.

The girl touches her right ear. “They’re begonias. My sister found them at a garage sale for two dollars.”

“They’re worth about fifty.”

“Then she got a good deal!”

“She did.” Lily glances at her watch. “So I’ll leave the cat with you?”

“You have to see the doctor.”

“But—”

“Please fill this out.” As the girl stands to hand Lily a clipboard, I glimpse her large belly. She’s about to pop a litter; actually, only one.