The Nine Lives of Christmas (4 page)

This bit of sharing produced a disapproving little frown. “They do like to go outside, but not in the cold and rain.”

“Hey, who does?” Zach cracked, trying to make light of his heartless behavior of the night before.

“I do,” she said brightly, then looked like she was reconsidering her confession. “I like to hike,” she explained.

“Yeah?” He liked to hike. Most women he dated didn’t, though. They were always worried about their hair or their clothes getting dirty.

“I think walking in the rain is romantic,” she confessed. This brought another deeper blush, and she kept her gaze riveted on her cash register.

“You’re the first woman I’ve met who actually thinks that,” Zach said. “You don’t worry about your hair?”

She gave a handful of curls a self-conscious tug. “It’s hopeless.”

“Naw, it’s cute.” It was. He wasn’t flirting, just making an honest observation.
Dude. What are you thinking? No more “honest observations.”

She cleared her throat and got busy ringing up his purchases. “You’re smart to keep your cat inside.”

Zach almost reminded her,
He’s not really my cat. He’s just staying with me for a while
. Instead, he said, “Oh? Why?”

“It’s safer for them,” she said, her voice taking on authority. “They can contract diseases like feline leukemia or get hit by cars. So inside is best. Credit or debit?” she added after telling him his total.

That much just so the animal could shit indoors? “Uh, debit,” Zach said, fishing out his card. The cost of being a Good Samaritan was starting to climb.

“Thanks for coming in,” she said when they’d finished the transaction. “If you need any help with your cat, I’m here.”

She may as well have said, ‘Call me.’ With those big green eyes and that hot little bod he could have been tempted. If she’d given him any sign she wasn’t looking for something that led to the church altar and then divorce court, if he wasn’t already with someone who had no dreams of white wedding gowns.

I’m here
.

Which meant that from now on, he would have to make sure he was … there.

*   *   *

Merilee poked her head outside her second-floor apartment door. Good. The coast was clear. She slipped outside, her garbage bag in tow, and hurried for the Dumpsters out back. When she got to the ground floor she did a quick bolt past Mrs. Winnamucker’s unit, her heart beating an anxious tattoo. Fortunately, no curler-clad head poked out the door to ask where she was going.

Thank God. That had been known to happen. Mrs. Winnamucker, manager of the Angel Arms Apartments, took her job seriously and kept a careful eye on all the residents. (Which was why most of them were over fifty and sedately settled. No one with a girl-gone-wild kind of social life stayed for long.)

Mrs. Winnamucker especially kept an eye on Merilee, even though she was a quiet renter—never a wild party or a TV turned up too loud. But Merilee worked in a pet store, and in Mrs. Winnamucker’s mind that made her suspect. She was a resident who might just fraternize with the enemy: animals. The Angel Arms Apartments didn’t allow pets (a new policy they adopted right after Merilee moved in) and Mrs. Winnamucker took her job as a guardian of the complex’s carpets seriously. Living on the ground floor just two apartments away from her was, well, dangerous. At least it was dangerous these days because Merilee was harboring a cat.

But what could she do? Queenie had been one of several kitties the animal shelter had brought to Pet Palace, hoping to find families for them. All had gotten homes but poor Queenie. For some reason she had gone beyond her expiration date. The thought of the little white cat being destroyed had been more than Merilee could bear, so she’d done something very un-Merilee. She’d broken the rules and smuggled Queenie into her apartment. And she wasn’t sorry. Not one bit!

She was, however, nervous. If Mrs. Winnamucker got wind of this, if someone heard Queenie meowing, they’d both be cast out of the Angel Arms and into the cold sans damage deposit. She could always go home to her parents but because Merilee’s mother was allergic to cat dander Queenie would be homeless. Merilee couldn’t do that to the poor cat. If only she could afford a nice, snug rental house with pet-friendly landlords. Sigh.

The best way out of this was to find a home for her furry houseguest soon, before she got caught. Queenie was such a sweet cat. Surely someone would want her. Merilee had put a picture up on the bulletin board at the library and placed an ad on Petfinder.com but no response so far. She’d tried to convince both of her sisters that they needed an animal, but they’d turned her down with flimsy excuses like allergies and busy schedules. Her younger sister, Liz, had even quipped that she was already engaged to an animal and one was enough. Ha, ha.

What was wrong with people, anyway? Didn’t they get how dependent animals were on them? It was too bad there weren’t more people out there like the man she’d met in the grocery store.

Envisioning his smile heated Merilee to the point that it made her coat unnecessary. If only she could have said something clever to him when he came into Pet Palace maybe she’d have had a date with him instead of her TV tonight. If only she’d thought to toss her hair, or run her tongue across her teeth or do any number of things that worked for women in the movies. Except she didn’t have enough hair to toss. (
You should never have cut it. Fool!)
And doing the tongue-tooth thing when talking about feline leukemia would have made her look demented. Anyway, it was too late now, so there was no point in even thinking about it.

Merilee made it to the Dumpster and threw away the bag with the damning litter box contents. Mrs. Winnamucker had been known to poke around the Dumpster for telltale signs of excessive partying or drug use but luckily for Merilee it was winter. Even Mrs. Winnamucker had her limits. Anyway, who here did she think was going to go wild?

Merilee, of course. If only.

The evidence of her criminal behavior ditched, she pulled her jacket close and hurried back toward her apartment. She was ten feet from Mrs. Winnamucker’s door when the manager stepped out, her plump body encased in a long, red quilted coat, her gray curls hidden under a jaunty red hat.

With her round face, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a button nose, and sweet granny smile, one could almost mistake the woman for Mrs. Claus. Looks were deceiving. Mrs. Winnamucker could sprout fangs at a moment’s notice. Merilee knew. She’d seen it happen.

“Hello, Miss White,” she greeted Merilee in the deceptively sweet voice she favored.

Merilee’s steps faltered, but she pulled herself together and smiled at the manager like a woman who had nothing to hide. “Hi, Mrs. Winnamucker. Nasty night, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is,” said the woman. “I’m surprised you’re out in it, my dear.” She added a cocked eyebrow to the smile. Every time Mrs. Winnamucker cocked an eyebrow Merilee felt as if she was in one of those police interrogation rooms you saw on TV shows, getting the old good cop–bad cop routine. Except in Mrs. Winnamucker’s case there would never be a good cop. Him she’d have devoured for breakfast right along with a box of donuts.

“I’m just dumping some garbage,” Merilee stammered. “I’ve been cleaning my refrigerator.”

Mrs. Winnamucker nodded but now her mouth had turned down. “Velma Tuttle thought she heard a cat the other day.”

Velma Tuttle, the old bat on the other side of Merilee, couldn’t hear a Rottweiler barking in her ear even with her hearing aid turned up.

“Have you heard anything, Miss White?” asked Mrs. Winnamucker.

“No, but we are surrounded by houses and there are several cats in the neighborhood.”

“Yes, well, I suppose. Have a nice night.” Mrs. Winnamucker heaved her bag over her shoulder, locked her door, and marched toward the parking lot.

Merilee watched her go with a frown. The woman didn’t need to bother with a car. She could probably manage fine with a broom.

*   *   *

Ambrose was still vague on the specifics of what he had to do to keep his ninth life, but the reason he was here with this particular human came to him in a blinding flash of clarity when the man was dishing up his food.

“Hang in there, guy,” he had said while Ambrose brushed against his legs to remind his new human that he was starving to death.

Hang in there, guy. Hang in there!

The words hurled Ambrose into the past. It was the Christmas of his second life. Big white trucks with the letters FedEx printed on their side were rushing everywhere. He’d been minding his own business, just getting ready to cross the street when one of them rushed right into him, adding a new word to his vocabulary:
splat.

Out of nowhere a stranger had appeared, picked Ambrose up, laid him on a car seat, and rushed off to the animal hospital.
Hang in there, guy. Hang in there!

So that was where he’d seen this man before. No wonder his face had seemed familiar. It was the same face that had looked at him with such concern in that car all those lives ago. The man had grown older—bigger, too—but he and that noble youth were one in the same. Once upon a life, back when Ambrose was still innocent and trusting, this man had tried to save him.

Surely it was no coincidence that their paths had crossed. Twice now. It was payback time.

So how could Ambrose repay him? The man had to need rescuing, but what, exactly, did he need rescuing from? He seemed to be doing fine.

Ambrose carefully observed his new human, checking him out from many different vantage points: the top of the dresser, the foot of the bed, the fireplace mantel, the floor, and, of course, the man’s lap. Like all the other humans Ambrose had known in his past lives, this one dedicated a great deal of time to sleeping, grooming, and playing with his food—all good uses of one’s time, as any cat could attest. But he also wasted much time and energy ripping out and replacing parts of his house. And talking on his cell phone.

Ambrose didn’t care for those objects. A female human using one had robbed him of a life.

She’d been in a car, talking into it and looking the other way, and before Ambrose could scat out of the way it was
Thump, thump, good-bye Life Number Six
. Those things were dangerous toys, if you asked Ambrose. Didn’t humans talk to each other enough as it was? Why did they have to carry their phones with them everywhere?

Still, much as he hated them, Ambrose understood that he could learn a lot listening when a human played with one. So he hung around and eaves dropped while the man talked into his, mostly to females.

One was Mom. Ambrose knew what a mom was. In all his dealings with families he had found that she was most often the person who fed him. She prepared food for the other humans, too, and kept their house clean. (Sometimes the males helped, but usually the females did most of the work.) Moms fussed over the small ones and mated with the large male frequently. In spite of all that mating, moms rarely produced a litter. The few who did wound up appearing on television or in magazines. The rest managed to occasionally produce one small human called a baby, and when that happened, oh, the fussing that went on. Human babies took forever to grow into children. And children … ugh. They could be torture. They did everything from pulling a guy’s tail to stuffing him into doll clothes. Very humiliating. Moms still loved their children in spite of what the little monsters did to their cats, and children all gravitated to their moms. Whatever their age, they would often seek out those moms for long conversations about things like school projects and boys or work or how to cook a turkey.

For some unknown reason, this man didn’t call his, but she called him and he didn’t seem very happy about it. He said things to her like “Yeah, the remodel is going fine.”

Remodel. Was that what you called the mess the guy was making?

He also said things like “I don’t think I can come” and “Sorry, Mom. I’ve got plans.”

Tonight’s plans appeared to be with someone called Baby, obviously not the small, diapered version since this particular baby knew how to operate a phone. When the man talked with her he said things like “I can hardly wait to see you in it, Baby” and “Come on over. I’ll get takeout.”

Baby was obviously someone important, Ambrose decided, as he and the man sat on the big leather couch, the man petting Ambrose as he talked.

It didn’t sound like Ambrose was going to meet Mom anytime soon, but he would see Baby tonight. Ambrose licked his paw and began to slick back the fur on his head. A guy wanted to look his best when he met someone important in his human’s life.

*   *   *

Ambrose stared in horror as Baby stepped through the door. He knew this woman, this taker of lives, this callous creature who talked on her cell phone when she drove and ran over helpless cats who had so much to live for. His tail quivered at the memory of her standing over him, still talking on her cell phone.

“What do I do? Pick it up? Are you crazy? It might bite me. Oh, God, I’m going to be sick.”

Her? What about him? He was the one who was dying.

She hadn’t cared. It had been all about her. Still crying and babbling, she’d returned to her fancy car and roared off, leaving Ambrose alone and in pain. Heartless creature. For all she knew he could have been on his last life.

And now, here she was again, back like a bad dream. She still had the same long, yellow fur on her head and her mouth was painted bloodred. She was wearing shoes designed to make her look almost as tall as the man and pants that stuck to her skinny legs. Over them she wore a long coat trimmed with … fur! If there’d been any doubt before there couldn’t be now. The woman was an animal hater.

Why would this kind-hearted guy want to be around such a person? Was she even young enough to produce offspring? Like Ambrose, she’d seen a few lives since their last encounter. Ambrose could tell by the small cracks around her eyes.

Well, this was simply further proof that the man wasn’t too bright and needed help from someone wiser, someone who had the kind of wisdom that could only come from having several lives under your collar.