12 Birdie
BIRDIE
I wake up Saturday morning with a pounding headache to see a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring at me.
Pickles sits crouched on the corner of the bed, kneading the comforter with his paws, each scratch against the fabric a not-so-subtle reminder of his sharp claws.
I keep my face nestled against the pillow.
“Is it my job to feed you or something?”
He just stares.
“I know I locked the door last night, tricky kitty. How did you get in?”
Ignoring me, he turns himself in a circle, plops down, and starts to purr. The motion causes my gaze to catch on the thin strip of green leather around his neck. The collar has a little gold charm. On reflex, I reach out a hand. His eyes narrow at me.
“Can I read your collar?”
When he makes no move to bite me, I angle the charm with my thumb and forefinger. The front says “Pickles Prescott,” while the back lists the shop’s address in tiny font.
“I was told you like to wander. Like making your own rules, hmm?”
He just keeps purring, letting his eyes close in kitty bliss.
“Yeah, me too.” I scratch him behind the ears. “I think Phoebe would call you an island too.” Remembering her call to action, I sit up, jostling the cat. “Hey, wanna go with me while I run a few errands today?”
One eye peeks open as he scowls at me. I doubt this is what Phoebe had in mind when she said to do something spontaneous every day, but spending a couple hours walking around town with a cat seems like a good use of my Saturday.
Plus, it will help me work off this hangover. God, how many bottles of wine did we drink last night? Phoebe didn’t drop me off here until after two in the morning. She spent the night at Jasper’s and was catching the eight o’clock ferry back to the mainland this morning.
I check my phone.
Shit, it’s already after nine.
“Come on.” I scoot out of bed. “You’re less likely to get in trouble if you wander with me.”
The cat yawns, stretching as he stands.
I make quick work of throwing on a pair of jean shorts and a black tank top.
Pulling my long hair up in a ponytail, I stuff it under a worn WU ball cap.
Once my teeth are brushed, I slip on a pair of laceless white tennies and scoop a growling Pickles off the bed, stuffing him inside a little wicker picnic basket I found on top of the fridge.
He glares at me, claws clinging to the wicker.
“Huff all you want,” I tease. “Just know, if you do, I won’t share my salmon with you.”
I swear he sighs.
Laughing, I toss the Jeep keys and my wallet down next to him in the basket. “Okay, Olives, let’s go.”
This earns me a hiss, which only makes me laugh harder. At this point, I’m just begging to get scratched.
“Will you wait five seconds, please?”
Pickles mews again, eyes locked like lasers on the cod fillet I’m prepping for dinner.
Salmon was too expensive once I factored in all the other groceries.
Even cod is a luxury, but I felt like celebrating tonight.
Birdie’s first night of summer freedom. The windows are open, music is playing, and I’ve got all Phoebe’s eclectic lamps on, setting a cozy mood.
My pantry will be pretty sparse until I get paid on Friday, but I’m used to that.
I’ve been living hand-to-mouth for the last eight years.
I love to cook but a tight budget means you have to get creative.
Luckily, good food doesn’t have to be expensive.
Tonight’s feast will be grilled cod, canned peas and carrots, and a microwave box of instant mashed potatoes.
Move over, Ina. There’s a new chef in town.
But first, I pay the cat tax.
Cutting a thin sliver from the cod fillet, I dice it up into tartar. Then I slide it off the cutting board with the blade of my knife and tap it into a little bowl, setting it in front of Pickles. “Here, you greedy thing.”
He pounces, tail in the air, devouring the fish.
“This means we’re friends now, right? No leaving dead stuff in my bed. And no watching me sleep, weirdo.”
He finishes his snack and hops off the counter. Slinking around my legs once, he trots over to the loveseat and stretches out, ready for an evening nap.
I only manage two cracks of the pepper grinder over my cod fillet when there’s a heavy knock at the door. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Jasper’s frame silhouetted against the fogged glass.
“Hold on!” I glance around at the chaos of the tiny kitchen.
Half my groceries are still scattered on the table.
My shoes were left kicked off by the door.
I plugged in all my electronics this afternoon so the cords criss and cross the small space.
My laptop sits open on the table, and my camera is perched on a chair between me and the door.
Jasper knocks again, this time with what sounds like his booted foot.
“Jeez, I’m coming!” Setting aside the pepper grinder, I hurry over to the door, carefully hopping the camera cord. Unlocking the deadbolt, I pull the door open.
Jasper stands there, swallowing the doorframe with his broad shoulders.
The light from the landing casts long shadows over his face and body.
He’s dressed casual in a faded ’80’s metal band T-shirt and jeans.
Now the aggressive boot knock makes sense.
His arms are full of a large basket, fit to burst with goodies.
“Hey,” I say on a breath, keeping one hand on the door.
“Have you seen Pickles?”
“Umm . . .”
A soft mew behind me has me opening the door a little wider. Pickles is now sitting on the kitchen table, flicking his skinny black tail.
Jasper’s eyes narrow on the cat. “Traitor.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” I rush to explain. “I sort of cat-napped him earlier today.”
“Oh, I know.”
“You do? How?”
“Hazel Greenwood sent me a picture of the two of you shopping together in the produce aisle. Then Lester Case said he saw you sharing an ice cream over by the post office. Mercy Bartlett said you went window shopping at the Carousel. You two had quite the busy day.”
I huff, letting the door hit my shoulder as I cross my arms. “Well, if you already knew Pickles was with me, why did you ask?”
“Because I didn’t. That was all hours ago.”
“And why is everyone reporting my movements to you? That’s just creepy.”
“Welcome to Burr Island,” he says for the second time in as many days. “Outsiders tend to get watched pretty closely around here.”
“Yeah, I sort of picked up on that.”
“You gonna let me in?” He holds up the large basket. “This shit is heavy.”
“Well, I—” I glance over my shoulder. “It’s sort of a mess in here . . .”
“I don’t care.”
Sighing, I step back.
He crowds the space as he steps in. “Wanna make some room?”
“What? Oh—” Ducking around him, I sweep aside some of the stuff on the table so he can set down the heavy basket.
I see a crusty baguette, apples, cucumbers, at least two bottles of wine, a box of toffee.
Each item is so thoughtfully displayed. My heart sinks a little as I step back.
“Jasper . . . look, this is really sweet of you. But I think it’s best for our working relationship if—”
“Stop.” He holds up a hand. “This wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Hey, I’m a total asshole, remember? I don’t put together thoughtful gift baskets for my new employees. I pay you. That’s me being thoughtful. Isn’t that enough?”
My sigh of relief wasn’t meant to be audible, but here we are. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”
“Good.”
“Well . . . then what’s all this?” I gesture to the basket with a wave of my hand.
“It’s called a welcome basket.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I’d actually worked that out myself. But who would give me a welcome basket?”
“The island.”
“What?”
“Ruby Dent dropped it off just before the shop closed. Told me to bring it up to you because some of this is perishable.”
Tears spring to my eyes. At dinner last night, several of them mentioned bringing me things but I never expected something this grand.
When I make no move to accept the basket, Jasper starts pulling out jars, reading the labels.
“Blackberry preserves from Dent Farms.” He sets the jar on the table with a soft clink, pulling out two more jars.
“Homemade vegetable soup . . . and this one looks like chili, probably from Alora Poole. The toffee is from Mercy Bartlett. You sure made friends fast last night.” He pulls out a few more items, frowning at the labels.
“Why did Saito give you so much cheese?”
My fingers brush over the braided basket handle as I fight a smile. “I think this all says more about their love for you and Phoebe. They don’t even know me.”
“Not yet,” he concedes. “But you must have done something right to earn such a show of hospitality.”
“I said I was happy to be here,” I offer with a shrug.
He nods. “That’ll do it.”
I drop my hand to my side. “Are you mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“For taking Pickles with me today . . . for not clearing it with you first. I didn’t mean to make trouble for you or go parading around town, stirring up gossip.”
It’s his turn to shrug. “Pickles is his own cat. I’m just surprised he’s taken to you so quickly. He usually doesn’t like anyone.”
“Yeah, Phoebe told me.” Reaching out, I scratch the cat’s head.
The naughty thing is still sitting on the table.
“She warned me he might leave dead stuff in my bed if I didn’t play nice.
And you told me he didn’t get to wander much without upsetting the other shop owners.
So, I figured, what’s cuter than a kitty in a basket? ”
Pickles tips his head back, pushing against my hand, his purr getting louder.
I reach around to scratch under his chin. “That’s right, you are,” I coo. “Such a pretty kitty in your basket. And who could be mad at that? We had a fun day, didn’t we?”
Jasper just shakes his head at our antics.
Clearing my throat, I drop my hand away from the cat.
“As to your other worry,” he goes on. “People were always gonna be curious about you. I should have warned you. On Monday, I would have.”
“Warned me? Why?”
“Because I’ve never hired someone from off island before.”
“What, like . . . never?”
“Never.”
Honestly, I’m not all that surprised.
“Phoebe must have blabbed it around town that you’re here. I had no less than ten people come through today wanting to meet my new shop girl.”
I wince, thinking of how many people Phoebe told last night. First at the Fig Leaf, then the bookstore, then the movie theater. We basically did a grand tour of downtown announcing her departure and my arrival. “Yeah, she definitely blabbed. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He shuffles a few more items from the basket to the table. “Who would have thought something as simple as an outside hire could mean good business for the store? Debbie Douglas bought four candles and a bottle of hand lotion waiting to see if you’d show up today.”
I smile. “We’ll, I’m glad to know I’m already earning my keep. Should I . . .” I pause, not sure if this is crossing some kind of line. I don’t know all the island rules of nicety.
“What?”
“Well, I already met several of the locals last night but maybe you could make me a list of who else contributed to this basket? Then Pickles and I could work our way down the list and I could thank them. You know, in person.”
He searches my face, his gaze softening. For the first time, I see a little of Phoebe’s warmth in his eyes. “You would do that?”
“Why not? If they’re nice enough to welcome me here, the least I can do is thank them. That’s how island life works, right? Lots of mutual backscratching?” Glancing down at Pickles I add, “Or in his case, butt-scratching.”
Jasper smirks and I feel a bloom of warmth inside me. I did that. It’s not quite a smile. I’m not sure Jasper Prescott actually does that. But it’s not not a smile either. “I would appreciate that.”
“Well . . . good. It’s a plan.” I start walking towards the door, my intention clear. We just made it through a whole conversation without me calling him an asshole once. It’s a new record, and I don’t want to jinx it.
I mean, he called himself one, but that doesn’t count, right?
I pull the door open and Pickles darts out first, slinking off into the night. “You’re welcome for the awesome day,” I call after him.
Jasper follows him to the door, passing me with a curt nod.
“Hey,” I say, making him turn on the landing.
He waits, saying nothing.
God, this is such a mistake. “Maybe we could do it together . . . you know, thank people for the welcome basket?”
His eyes narrow on me. Then his gaze drops lower. Heart racing, I wait as he lets himself look at my tattoos. He traces them up my arms and across my chest. “Is that what you want, Birdie? You wanna do it together?”
Huffing, I shut the door in his face. His laughter coils inside me as I stay by the door, one hand pressed against the painted wood, listening to him walk away.