The Nine Lives of Christmas (15 page)

At least the questions were multiple choice. She went to work, trying to boil down her interests, needs, and insecurities into the short sentences listed under A, B, C, and D.

Your idea of a great date is:

A.
   Dinner for two at a nice restaurant

B.
   Watching a sporting event

C.
   Going dancing at a club

D.
   Doing something outdoors

Playing Clue with Zach
. Merilee frowned and checked D.

How long has it been since you were in a relationship?

A.
   Less than a month

B.
   A month

C.
   Six months

D.
   Longer than six months

Did Queenie count? Merilee sighed and checked D.

When entertaining do you prefer to

A.
   Have a large party with simple refreshments

B.
   Host a small dinner party

C.
   Play games

D.
   Host a movie night

Have Zach over to play Clue
. Oh, stop, Merilee told herself and selected B.

The questions seemed endless. Did she believe in love at first sight? How many books had she read in the last year? Did she shout or pout when she was angry? How important was it to her to have a pet?—very important; somewhat important; she’d be okay without one now but wanted one eventually; or wasn’t fond of animals. At least that one was easy to answer.

She came to the final page which displayed a little box.
Add something personal
.

Personal? She’d just filled out four pages worth of “personal.” She stared at the screen and gnawed her lower lip. Finally she typed,
I like cats.

“Oh, real sexy, Merilee,” she muttered. “At least add something else.”
I’m going to be a veterinarian
. She smiled. Positive affirmation was good.

Finally, she was done. Then it was time to post a picture of herself. A picture? She didn’t have one she wanted to look at, let alone show some stranger.

Oh, no, you’re not going to let a little thing like a picture stop you from getting on with your life,
she told herself sternly. She snagged her cell phone and snapped a head shot, then uploaded it. Not perfect, but then neither was she.

Finally she was done.
Congratulations,
read her computer screen.
You are now on your way to finding your other half.

She’d thought that when she first met Zach in the grocery store. “We’ll see,” she said cynically.

While she was waiting she downloaded all the forms for veterinary college. At least she knew something positive would come out of filling out that form.

*   *   *

“Hey, if you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” Ray said, as the next level in their Halo game came up. “I’d do that little cutie in a heartbeat. Give me her phone number.”

“I don’t know it, and if I did I wouldn’t give it to you. She’s not some hook-up. She’s…”
My hook-up
.

Except Merilee wasn’t the kind of woman who would be out to just have a good time. She was the kind of girl a man gave his heart to. Zach had been there, done that. He didn’t want to go there again. The songwriters had it right. Love hurt. Look at the mess it made of people’s lives. Look at how his family had turned out.

“She’s what?” prompted Ray.

“She’s too good for you, numb nuts,” said Zach, and started picking off Ray’s guys.

“You know, you’re falling for this chick.”

“I am not,” Zach insisted. “I just needed help with Tom.”

“And a new Clue game?” Ray taunted.

Zach blew away another one of Ray’s guys.

“If you don’t want her for yourself you ought to quit leading her on and let somebody else have a chance. She’s better off with someone like me anyway since, at the rate you’re going, you’re gonna turn out like old man Turner.”

“The hell I am,” growled Zach.

Hank Turner had been a grizzled, retired construction worker who lived alone in a ramshackle farmhouse at the edge of town. He had a penchant for muscle cars and Camel cigarettes, and practically every kid within a twenty-five-mile radius had bought his first car from Hank, including Zach. Hank also had been famous for his misogynistic lifestyle. “Women are trouble,” he’d been known to say. “A man’s better on his own.”

Except Hank hadn’t been better on his own. He was haggard and unkempt. He finally smoked in bed one too many times and burned to death. By the time someone had reported the fire, the house had been too far gone to save, and Hank had suffocated from the smoke long before the flames devoured his body. There’d been no funeral for Hank. He’d had no family around to organize one. Zach heard that his poker cronies got together at the the Fallen Angel Tavern to drink a beer in memory of him, but that was it.

Okay, so Zach didn’t have a wife, but he had family, friends. He’d have people at his funeral. He didn’t need to get married. So what did he care if Merilee ended up with Ray? Ray was a nice guy. And he was even willing to walk the plank into marital waters again, which was surely what Merilee wanted.

“So you think you’re not gonna wind up like Turner? Look at you, man,” said Ray. “You get a nice chick interested in you and what do you do? Nothin’. She’ll get tired of waiting for you to come to your senses. And when she does, old Uncle Ray will be happy to show her what it’s like to be with a real man.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

That ended the discussion. And the game. “I’m going home,” Ray decided.

Zach didn’t ask him to stick around.

*   *   *

Ambrose sat and regarded his human, who was sprawled on his big leather couch, frowning at the fire. Ambrose knew that mood. It was one humans referred to as grumpy.

Unless it directly affected dinnertime or getting petted, a human’s mood wasn’t of much interest to a cat. Humans had so many. Who could keep track? But this mood, well, Ambrose suspected it had something to do with Merilee. And if it had something to do with Merilee, that concerned Ambrose.

So, much as he disliked leaving the warmth of the fireplace, he made his way to the couch and then to Zach’s lap to see if he could figure out what was going on. Well, okay, to get petted, also. That was the least Zach could do to show appreciation for Ambrose’s concern.

Once on Zach’s lap, he let out a questioning meow.

No response.

He tried again and butted Zach’s hand with his head. Zach got the message and petted Ambrose, but he said nothing. This was hardly surprising. Human males weren’t good at communicating—not like women, who told a cat more than he could ever want to hear. (Adelaide had been especially prone to that, confiding in Ambrose her every ache and pain. And he heard even more about her disappointment with her children, enough to confirm what he already knew: cats were a superior species.) Ambrose didn’t need to know everything Zach was thinking. He just wanted to know what was going on with Merilee.

“Meow?”
What, in the name of catnip, are you doing?

Zach heaved a sigh.

“Meow?”
Why did you treat your friend like a rival and hiss at him if you’re not going to mate with Merilee?
“Meow, meow?”
Would you hurry up and get it together, dude? Some of us are trying to do a good deed here and you’re not making it easy.
“Meow.”
And what the heck are ‘numb nuts’?

*   *   *

It wasn’t long before Merilee had two messages waiting from the friendly folks at Myotherhalf.com. Both said the same thing.
Someone wants to chat with you. This could be your other half. Interested? Give him a nod.
Both of the men’s profiles looked interesting. “Well, you’ve got nothing to lose,” she told herself and logged on to the site to give Candidate Number One, Gary O, a nod.

Gary O lived one town over. Vocation: construction. Favorite pastimes: hiking, watching movies, hanging out with friends.
Hey Merilee, I like cats, too,
Gary O messaged.

See?
she told herself.
There are other men out there who like cats.

My mother has three.

Oookay. What did that mean? Did he live with his mother?
That’s nice,
she typed back diplomatically. Surely someone who was a construction worker didn’t live with his mother.

Things are slow right now,
Gary O continued,
and I’ve got lots of time. Want to meet at Hot Wing Heaven? Dutch treat.

Dutch treat? Wait a minute, didn’t that mean separate checks? Merilee frowned. Tacky.

She sent a message to Gary O thanking him for his invite and telling him she was busy. Then she checked out the next candidate, Chuck.

Chuck was a P.E. teacher who liked to be active. Good. She could be active.
Likes football,
said his profile. She liked Super Bowl Parties.

I’ve got a cockapoo and a cat,
he wrote.

An animal lover. Perfect.

Unbidden, a vision of Zach holding his orange cat came to mind. She booted it out and began to message Chuck back.
You sound like a super guy …

Super? Compared to a man who ran into burning buildings to save people?

She deleted the word “super” and typed in “nice.”

Nice. She was settling for nice.

There’s nothing wrong with nice,
she lectured herself.

Chuck was back in less than a minute.
I’m free tomorrow night. Want to meet for dinner?

No mention of separate checks. That was a good sign.
Sure
.

How about Angelina’s? Do you like Mexican?

That would be great
. And maybe Chuck would turn out to be great, too.

The following night she showed up at Angelina’s wearing her new jeans and the black sweater she told Chuck she’d have on. The sweater was new, too, with a V-neck that made her mildly self-conscious. You’ve got to advertise, she’d reminded herself. Now she looked sexy and confident. False advertising.

She scanned the group of people waiting to be seated: an elderly couple, two thirty-something women, two men who were nicely dressed and good-looking. Chuck? One of the men gave the other an intimate smile. Okay, no Chuck. Now here came … oh, no. This middle-aged man with a beer belly jigging underneath a Seahawks football jersey couldn’t be him. The Chuck in the picture had been lean and, well, younger.

He grinned at her and held out a hand the size of a ham. “You must be Merilee.”

No, I must be insane
. She smiled weakly and lifted her hand.

“Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” he said and squeezed it in his big, hairy paw, shutting off the blood supply to her fingers.

“You don’t look anything like your picture, either,” she said and tried not to whimper.

He let go of her hand just before it could wither and fall off. “It was the most recent one I had.”

Uh-huh
.

“Chuck, party of two,” called the hostess.

“That’s us.” Chuck rubbed his hands together. “I’m starving.”

Merilee wasn’t. She’d lost her appetite.

“So,” said Chuck when the waitress came to take their drink order, “I bet you like those fancy girlie drinks.” And before she could say whether she did or not he was ordering a margarita for her. “And I’ll have a Corona,” he added. The waitress left and he didn’t waste any time getting the conversation started. “So, you like cats, huh?” he continued before she could answer. “Did I tell you I’ve got a cat? It belonged to my ex. Man, I hate that animal.”

Wait a minute, how had she gotten matched up with someone who didn’t like cats?

It was all downhill from there. Merilee heard about Chuck’s ex, the out-of-shape kids he had to teach, how he could have had a career playing pro ball if he hadn’t blown out his knee his senior year in high school, why he’d lied about his age. (“Women my age, they’re all overweight.”) Meanwhile, Merilee smiled politely and asked herself what horrible thing she could possibly have done to deserve an evening with Chuck.

“So, how about dessert?” he offered after the waitress had removed their empty plates. (Chuck had emptied his and then cleaned up the last of her enchiladas.)

“You know, this has been nice,” Merilee lied, “but I should probably get going.” She started to scoot across the bench.

“Aw, don’t go,” Chuck begged, his voice slightly slurred from his fourth beer. He reached across the table to catch her arm and managed to knock over her untouched margarita, shooting it into her lap and dousing her new clothes.

“Now I really have to go,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry,” he said, grabbing for an napkin. He leaned over to help her mop up and tipped her water glass, further drenching her. “Aw, shit.”

Her thoughts exactly. If Chuck was her perfect match she preferred to stay matchless.

She’d barely gotten home and peeled off her soppy clothes when someone knocked on her door. Who on earth could that be at eight at night?

She opened the door to find Mrs. Winnamucker standing there, wearing her favorite red coat, her gloved hands holding a copy of
Cat Fancy
. “Your magazine got put in my mailbox by mistake, dear,” she began. “I know it’s late, but I thought you might want…”

Her eyes got big and Merilee knew in a flash the woman had caught a glimpse of something she shouldn’t have. She pushed away the furry, white form trying to slip past her, stepped outside and shut the door behind her. “Thanks, Mrs. Winnamucker. It was kind of you to drop by.” She reached for the magazine.

Mrs. Winnamucker snatched it back. “You have a cat in your apartment. I knew it!”

There was no sense denying it. Mrs. Winnamucker wasn’t likely to be convinced that she’d been hallucinating. The way she was looking at Merilee made her feel like a bad little girl about to get sent to stand in a corner.

“It’s only temporary,” said Merilee. “Just until I can find a home for her.”