Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Iris
When I get home, no more newspapers. No more antics. My apartment is nice and quiet.
My brain, however, is not.
The absence of magic only raises more questions, and while it was nice to tell Liz and Brooke what happened, romanticized speculation doesn’t really help.
The only person who might be able to help . . . won’t. That thought sparks annoyance all over again.
Twice, I’ve marched down the hall and stood outside Matteo’s apartment, almost knocking, almost ready to demand answers. Twice, I’ve decided against it, turned abruptly, and marched right back to my apartment without going through with it.
Mad at him and mad at myself.
Once, I trekked up to the fourth floor after locating Winnie’s apartment number via the mailboxes near the stairway on the first floor.
I didn’t knock on her door either.
I don’t know her. What would I say? “Hey, Winnie, a magical newspaper told me you might be feeling lonely. Here’s a cat I rescued for you.”
I need a plan.
Once again, I don’t fall asleep until pretty late, and in the morning I’m met with a?—
* THWAP *
“What the?—”
I fumble around for a second, disoriented, and rub my eyes open just in time to see a disappearing golden wisp.
The newspaper hit me again.
“Oh. Oh! Oh, yeah? That’s how it’s going to be now?”
I can’t be sure, but I think I hear a soft tinkle of wind chimes, maybe from outside. I immediately sit up and look around for another newspaper.
There are none.
I hop up and look in my drawers, under the bed, but nothing. It’s weird, but I’m a little disappointed.
That feeling of disappointment is quickly replaced by the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. The article said something needed to happen by Thursday.
That’s today.
A weird pit forms in my stomach. Time is running out.
I’ve imagined every worst-case scenario my overly active imagination could conjure, and by the time I’ve made my morning coffee, I’m so worked up I almost call the school and take a personal day.
I mean, not to be overly dramatic here, but was the newspaper suggesting that without some sort of intervention Winnie might die?
It’s the “ Before it’s too late ” bit at the end of the article that gets me.
Menacing? Macabre? Or just an added punch at the end to show it’s serious, but not to be taken verbatim ?
I’m not going to chance it either way. I have to figure out how to help her.
I spend most of the day hiding out in the art room, eating lunch in my car, and calling all the animal shelters one more time on the off chance that a random, black and white cat came in last night.
“We have an orange tabby that would love a new home,” one woman tells me on the phone. I tell her, “No, I really do need a black one with white booties.”
“That’s a very specific request,” she says.
And I agree, then hang up questioning whether I’m being too literal. I truly have no idea why the cat needs to look like her old cat, but would the newspaper have mentioned that detail if it wasn’t important?
My brain is in run-on sentence mode.
I head home after work, planless, cat-less, hopeless. Even so, I’m determined to knock on Winnie’s door and at least say hello. I’ll just check in and make sure she’s okay. Tell her I’m new(ish) in the building, trying to meet all my neighbors, casual-like.
I will not mention magic.
As plans go, it’s pretty basic, but it’s the best I’ve got. The newspaper seemed to want more to happen, but I’m just not sure what.
I pull into the parking garage and navigate my way to my dedicated space but slam on the brakes when I see it. There, sitting right at the center of my parking spot, is a small, black cat with white feet. He even has a circle around one eye. I stare at it and blink.
It doesn’t disappear.
I stare longer, like my mind conjured it from thin air.
It stares back, unmoving.
You’ve got to be kidding .
I put my car in park, get out, and walk over to the cat. As a rule, I’m not a cat person. I think they’re weird and possibly demon-possessed. But I kneel down to inspect it, wondering if it’s a figment of my imagination.
It makes a squeaking “meow” sound.
Okay, fine, that was sort of cute—for a little satanic animal.
Satanimal? I absently think, chuckling at the portmanteau, and I reach out to pet its head, then drag my hand along its back. It arches as I do this, squeaking adorably, and I think maybe I was wrong to judge cats so harshly.
This one, at least, doesn’t seem to warrant a priest and a bucket of water.
First Shandy, now this cat . . . I understand Darla’s comment about animals being such a better comfort than people. Still, I tried everything to find a cat for Winnie, and now one just appears?
Feels a lot like magic.
The unwanted thought sends a strange tingle down my spine.
The cat moves toward me, purring and brushing up against my leg. I pick it up, unsure how to hold it. Its claws dig into my coat, and I cradle it in my arms, petting its head as I check to make sure it doesn’t have a collar. “Where did you come from, cat?” I say out loud. “Are you magic?” Then, I switch to baby talk, which I’m not proud to admit, and say, “Are you a magical kitty cat?” while continuing to pet it and— oh, great —now I have become its best friend.
It mews a soft reply, and I carry it back to my car, letting it sit in my lap while I park, doing my best to go with this weird turn of events.
It’s perfectly content, curled up on me.
I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation that the exact cat I’ve been looking for would appear in my parking space at the exact time I was planning to show up at Winnie’s door. Winnie, the old woman who has a special affection for black cats with white feet and who is probably going to be very concerned that she has a stalker when I pop in and gift her a live animal . I cradle the kitten, walk into the building, and go straight to the elevator.
“I hope she wants you, cat,” I say out loud as the doors open and I step out onto Winnie’s floor. “Otherwise, this is going to look utterly bizarre.”
I reach Winnie’s apartment and knock, petting the cat absently while I wait for her to answer the door.
In the pause, it occurs to me that I might be too late. Winnie may already be?—
But then the door opens, and a tall, wispy woman stands on the opposite side. Her gray hair is pulled up in a loose bun with escaped strands framing her face, a lavender scarf tied up into it like a headband. Her long, billowy dress matches the scarf, and she’s got on a full face of makeup.
Winnie St. George is beautiful. And regal. And elegant.
“Uh, hi,” I say. “I’m?—”
Her gaze drops to the cat in my arms, and she cuts me off. “Well, aren’t you the cutest little thing?” With crooked fingers, she reaches out and pets the cat. “Is he yours?”
“Actually,” I say. “I found him. He’s, uh, looking for a good home.”
“Oh, my goodness, really?” The trail of bracelets on her arm jingle as she motions for me to hand him over, which I do, watching as her face brightens the second he’s in her arms. “He’s homeless?”
“I found him in the parking garage,” I say. “I took a chance knocking on?—”
But Winnie doesn’t need my lame explanation, which is good because I actually have no idea what I was about to say. She doesn’t even seem confused by the fact that I happened to find this cat and then I happened to bring it straight to her, a woman I’ve never met.
Instead, she beams at me, then looks back to the cat. “I used to have one that looked just like him.” She cradles the cat. “I miss my Lenny so much. I’ll take him if you’re sure he’s homeless.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “I’m pretty sure he is.”
As most magic cats are . . .
“Oh, he’s darling ,” she coos. “Let’s call him Squiggy. Like in Laverne and Shirley ?” She looks at me, but I only stare. I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Are you a cat person?”
I grimace. “Honestly? Not really.”
“Well, you should be,” she says. “There’s no more wonderful companion. They love you unconditionally. They’re always there for you.” She gives the cat a slight squeeze. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep him?”
“Oh, I’m sure.” I feel awkward, like I want to disappear. Is it enough to give her the cat and leave? “I’m not quite ready for the commitment.”
At that, she laughs. “You young people. Always afraid to commit. Oh, here, come in! Can you stay a minute?” There’s hopefulness in her eyes, and I unconsciously think about how easy it would be to become a lonely person. After all, you can be surrounded by people and still be lonely.
Winnie moves out of the way, and as I step inside her apartment, I’m struck by the overwhelming and delicious smell of garlic and tomato, and the overwhelming, equally delicious sight of Matteo Morgan.
Here. In Winnie’s kitchen.
If my mouth is agape, I’m not fixing it because what is he doing here ?
When he sees me, he stops moving, a sort-of-but-not-quite “caught” look on his face.
I narrow my eyes .
He makes a weird face, then goes back to what he was doing.
So, I was wrong about him not helping . . . but right about him knowing more than he let on. Would it have killed you to clue me in!? I think at him, loudly.
“I’m Winnie,” she says. “And this is Matteo.” She giggles to herself. “I don’t even know your name. I just saw the cat and thought you must be a good person.” Her brow knits. “Oh, wait. You are a good person, aren’t you?”
“I’m an elementary school art teacher,” I say, as if that’s proof of my goodness.
She laughs and says, “Ah, well, to deal with children, you must have a good bit of patience and kindness in there somewhere.”
I like her immediately.
The guy in the kitchen? Jury’s still out.
“I have a good feeling about you.” She leans in closer. “But I would like to know your name.”
The newspaper gave the impression that Winnie St. George was depressed and lonely, but this woman doesn’t seem to be either. She seems full of life, like someone it would be impossible to be sad around.
“I’m Iris. I live, uh—” I stop short of saying down the hall from the hot chef as my eyes snag on Matteo’s dark gaze. He watches me with a quiet curiosity that simultaneously makes me want to shut down and spill all my secrets.
“Iris,” Winnie says. “Goodness, what a beautiful name.” She regards me for a moment. “It suits you. Have you met Matteo?”
He looks away.
“I have,” I say with a pointed look in his direction.
And I thought he was the worst.
“We live on the same floor,” I say .
“Oh!” Winnie lights up. “So, you’re neighbors!”
“Yes,” I say with a put-on smile.
“Matteo’s a chef,” Winnie says, almost mom-proud. “He’s testing out new recipes, and—oh! This is perfect! You’ll stay and eat with us.” She looks at Matteo. “Table for three , Mr. Morgan.”
He holds up a finger as if to answer her, but she doesn’t wait for a reply. “Odd time to eat, I know, but Matteo runs that adorable little Italian bistro down the block, and he only has a couple of hours off between lunch and dinner.”
I stop listening because my brain snagged on the fact that he has only a couple of hours off between what I assume are two busy and stressful times of day . . . and he’s spending them here?
Cooking for Winnie?
The icy feelings inside me start to thaw. But only a little.
“So, how long have you two known each other?” I say, trying to figure out if maybe Matteo was rude because he felt protective of Winnie.
“Not long. We’re new friends.” Winnie smiles as she takes the cat over and sets it on a tall, carpeted structure, something I assume belonged to the aforementioned Lenny. After a brief exploration, orienting himself to the cat tree, the kitten leaps around it like it was born there.
“Look! Squiggy already loves it!”
Which is a relief, because I really didn’t want to bring that cat home with me.
She continues. “Matteo and I have just been getting to know each other the past couple of days. We met in the lobby, and he asked if I’d be willing to sample some new recipes he’s been trying out.”
The past couple of days?
As in, the days since I gave him that first newspaper ?
Winnie glances over at him. “He really lucked out because I have impeccable taste. Isn’t that right, Chef?” She looks at him, so I look at him. Because how can I not?
Also because—is he serious right now?
Why was he so stand-offish and secretive? He let me think that some poor old woman was going to kick the bucket if I didn’t bring her a cat, and he’s in here, looking all . . . whatever . . . casually trying out new recipes?
What else is he keeping to himself?
“You do have good taste,” he says, moving around the kitchen with decisiveness. It’s hard to stop looking.
Winnie must notice I’m gawking because she leans in closer and says, “Oh, I know, Iris. I’m old, but I’m not dead.”
I spit out a shocked laugh, and she nudges me with her arm.
I look at her, still surprised, and she winks.
The cat hops from the bottom to the top of the tree, and Winnie watches, a sad smile on her face. “I just lost Lenny last month. I didn’t have the heart to get rid of his things. Now I’m glad I kept them.”
I can tell by her expression that bringing the cat here was the right move, and my argument that this is all one big coincidence gets thinner and thinner.
“Maybe I’ll let you two eat in peace?” Matteo says, but Winnie dashes the idea away with a scoff.
“Nonsense,” she says. “You need fuel before you go back to work.”
“I’ll be okay, really,” he says, clearly angling for an escape. “I can grab something at the restaurant.”
“Young man, you sit down right this instant. You’ll break my heart if you don’t stay.” Winnie paints an innocent expression on her face that makes it hard to call her manipulation what it is. “Besides, I want to hear more about this grandpa of yours. ”
At that, Matteo’s eyes drift to mine, and I quirk a brow, certain that my presence is what’s making him uncomfortable.
What I don’t know is why.
He holds up his hands in surrender and says, “Okay, okay, but the dish I’m making gets cold quick. You’ll have to eat it before it’s too late .”
The words stop my breath for a second. I whip my eyes in his direction and see him subtly shake his head at me, as if to silently tell me something.
He clearly read the newspaper—and more than that, he understood well before I did what to do with the information found inside.
My insides are vaulting over one another.
Winnie puts a hand on my arm. “And of course, I want to know everything about you, dear Iris.”
It’s such a simple, warm thing to say, and it instantly calms me, pulling my brain from WHAT DOES THIS MAN KNOW?! to seeing that Winnie genuinely wants to hear about me.
It’s been a long time since anyone cared to know anything about me. The comment lodges itself squarely in my chest, and I have to look away.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. It’s been a long time since I’ve completely spilled my emotional guts out to someone, thinking it was forever, only to find out it was fleeting.
New town. New me. New boundaries—like not leaping then looking.
Winnie ushers me over to the table and motions for me to sit while she fetches another place setting.
By all logic, I shouldn’t be hungry yet—it’s only been a few hours since lunch—but even if my mouth wasn’t watering, I would still want to eat whatever Matteo is making over there. It smells like heaven .
Home-cooked meals weren’t really a part of my childhood. After Dad left and before she met her new husband, Richard, my mom went back to work, and “trying to make ends meet” took priority over “family dinners.” We existed on quick meals. Cereal for dinner. Pop-Tarts. Peanut butter and jelly. It wasn’t fancy, but it kept me alive, and I suppose that was the goal back then.
As a result, I don’t have high-end tastes when it comes to food. I still bring PB&J to school every day.
But the way it smells in this apartment? Sweet mamma mia .
Matteo goes back to cooking, cleaning each utensil as he goes. When he’s finished, I get the distinct impression there will be no sign he was ever here.
“Tell me about you, Iris.” The cat jumps off of the carpeted tree and starts off toward the living room as Winnie turns her attention to me.
Matteo doesn’t turn around, but he’s right there , so whatever I tell Winnie, I’m telling him too. It’s a good thing I’m trying out my new skill of sharing without really sharing. Nobody needs your whole life’s story, Iris. It’s too much.
“Oh, there’s really not much to tell,” I say. “I grew up near Boston and moved here at the start of the school year.”
“To foster the imaginations of children through art . . . what important work.” Winnie is so earnest when she says this, I take the compliment as genuine.
I smile at the sentiment because I do think it’s important work, but I’m aware that most people don’t think so. Even in elementary school, the arts are the first things to go.
Winnie goes on. “You get to inspire kids to use their creative gifts. I don’t think enough people recognize the importance of that these days.”
I nod again. “I completely agree!”
“You get to be the teacher who tells a child they aren’t wasting their time if they spend it learning to draw or paint. You get to help them see the world in a different way.” She squeezes my hand, looking proudly at me for a moment. “That’s important .”
I smile. “Tell that to the public school system,” I nod ruefully, trying not to think about all the people who have belittled my own love of art over the years. How I always felt like a disappointment—just a little—because I didn’t pursue something practical.
Winnie leans back and studies me. “Did you move here with friends? I don’t see a ring, so I assume you’re not married.”
My cheeks flush, and I wince a caught me look. “Ah! Yeah. Well.” I wiggle the fingers of my left hand at her. “No, not married. And no friends. I moved here alone.”
Winnie claps her hands together in front of her face. “An independent woman! I love to see it. It must be nice to have a blank slate!” She leans in, eyes narrowing. “Were you just looking for a fresh start? Or did some scandal force you to look for a new life?” Her eyes flicker, and she reminds me of Brooke—always searching for the drama, regardless of whether there is any.
I glance up in time to see Matteo pause as he’s stirring whatever is in the pot, pretending not to listen.
My laugh sounds nervous in my own ears. “Ha! Nothing so podcast-y as that, Winnie. I’m not running away. Just came for the job.” It’s not entirely true, but the truth is almost as boring.
I can practically see the disappointment in her face. “How’s it going so far?”
I shrug and say, “Eh.” I know I’m giving her nothing of interest, but what am I supposed to do, blurt out the myriad reasons why I left? The endless cycle of carbon-copy relationships where I fell for guys who needed fixing, whether they were good for me or not? Do I explain that I never got used to randomly bumping in to my father’s new family, or the fact that I still, after all these years of trying, haven’t found a place where I fit?
“I’m working on changing. You know, holding back a little instead of throwing myself into every—” My eyes dart over to the kitchen, then back to Winnie. I lower my voice, as if that’s going to prevent Matteo from hearing me. “I’m just trying to stop getting my heart broken.”
“Ah. Say no more.” She cocks her head and smiles at me. It’s like she’s sliding the pieces of a puzzle into place, and I don’t have to explain it. We’ve just met, and I feel like I could tell this woman anything.
Plus, it’s a well-documented fact that having a big heart and big feelings only leads to big hurt. Because people leave.
Winnie reaches across the table and covers my hand with her own. “Iris. Our world has enough cynics. Having a big, open heart when you meet someone new is never a bad thing.”
The words have an unexpected weight to them, and I’m suddenly looking at her through clouded eyes. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know me. That big, open heart has gotten me hurt. A lot , actually.
I want to tell her all the ways life has proven she’s wrong. All the ways being super open and going all in causes big, messy problems.
“I think . . .” I pause.
I think I’m too much.
“You think . . .?” Winnie’s eyes are expectant.
“I think dinner is served.” Matteo spins around and sets two plates in front of us. When I catch his eye, I see a hint of knowing, almost like he’s intentionally rescued me but is trying to pretend he didn’t.
My stomach swoops at the thought, even though it’s completely unproven .
People show you who they are. Plain and simple. And Matteo showed me plenty.
Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that?
But as he sits down next to Winnie, across the table from me, I start to wonder if Matteo didn’t show me who he really is at all.