12
By the time Jules reached Vicky, the gorgeous fur baby had taken off.
“Where’d he go?” Vicky wondered, searching for her new feline friend. “He was here a second ago.”
“Was this one particularly cute?” Jules asked. They looked like regular cats to her.
“He looked like Kit, but with an extra toe.”
“I think Kit is perfect as he is.”
“There he goes!”
The orange cat raced down the stone path, rounded a corner, and vanished. To Jules, these cats, famous only for their additional
digits, were overrated. The guide had praised them for their personable demeanor. Accustomed to the endless parade of visitors,
they didn’t mind the tourists who photographed them or the kids who pet them. But from Babe Ruth to the countless nameless
ones, none had wanted anything to do with them. Some seemed spooked, others downright hostile. “I think they hate us,” she
said.
“Nah.”
“Or maybe they’re a bunch of prima donnas,” Jules said.
“If that’s your attitude, they’ll hate us for sure.”
“If you’ve got nothing else, I’ll be going.”
“Am I keeping you from someone special?” Vicky teased.
Jules paused, measured her words. “He’s good company. It’s not that deep.”
“I hope it’s that deep, or even deeper,” Vicky said. “You two look good together.”
Feeling the weight of a stare, Jules looked up and a green-eyed cat was peering down at her from the branch of a tree. She
shuddered and moved out of its line of vision.
“Well, you and Matty look good, too.”
“Yeah, but what future do we have?”
“Since when do you care about that?”
“Gotta start sometime.” Vicky fidgeted with the claw clip that kept her thick hair off her shoulders. “If I tell you something,
promise you won’t laugh?”
“Not to your face. Later, certainly.”
Vicky pushed past the snark. “Abuela Maria made me promise at a young age that I wouldn’t marry for love alone.”
“Really? How young are we talking about?”
“Thirteen,” Vicky replied. “She also made me promise to wear sunscreen, but that had more to do with colorism than anything
else.”
Jules struggled to understand how Maria’s marriage principle applied to this bizarro scenario. “What’s love got to do with
you and Matty?” she asked, laughing outright. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him. Seriously, don’t you dare.”
Jules’s first impression of Matty still held. He was easygoing. He balanced Vicky out well. Even so, she couldn’t have fallen
in love with him in two tequila-soaked days. Jules’s laughter curdled in her throat. A black cat, hiding in the hedges, opened
wide eyes at her and bared his teeth, issuing a silent don’t fuck with me warning.
Jules went still. They don’t hate us, she realized. They hate me.
What had she done to piss off Hemingway’s cats?
Had the famous author’s spirit somehow picked up that she considered his work overrated and his legacy overblown?
Earlier, their guide showed them a framed photograph of a young Ernest in a hospital bed in Italy.
His injuries were severe. Doctors gave him only a slight chance to ever walk again, but he defied those odds.
Once on his feet, the pretty nurse he’d fallen in love with essentially told him to kick rocks.
The author wrote their story and killed off her character in A Farewell to Arms. That was a level of pettiness Jules could get behind.
She could do without all the hunting, boating, boxing, womanizing,
and warmongering.
“The more time I spend with Matty, the more I like him,” Vicky admitted. “Do you know how rare that is? As far back as I can
remember, I’ve dated assholes, all attitude and ego, big net worth but nothing to give. Do you think any of those guys cared
about my career? None of them saw me as an artist. Some were embarrassed to tell their friends what I did for a living. But
last night, Matty and I stayed up talking—just talking. He said my lecture had moved him and made him realize how his best
stories were retellings of his childhood fears. I felt heard for once.”
If anything, this trip revealed how deeply Vicky yearned for the respect of her peers, whereas Jules never gave it a thought.
She didn’t worry about reviews, either, beyond their impact on sales. The one person she’d wanted to impress was gone. Her
mother would never get the chance to hold her books or read the dedication. For my Ruby, my jewel . . .
If she hadn’t been determined to play it cool, she and Leo might have had a similar conversation. Earlier, when he professed
to love her books, she could’ve asked what he thought of the world she’d built and the characters she’d created. Now it was
too late. The moment had passed.
“What’s the issue, then?” Jules asked. “You’re obviously into each other. What more do you need?”
“You heard Daphne,” Vicky said. “The man is fundamentally incapable of figuring out life.”
“Careful!” Jules chastised her. “That’s the father of your future children and my future godchildren you’re talking about.”
Vicky swatted her away like a giant bug. “Shut up!”
“What exactly are your grandmother’s views on marriage?” Jules asked.
Vicky shared that her grandmother had cautioned her never to marry for love or lust. No matter how handsome a young man was,
no matter how skilled in bed, he’d eventually grow old and the attraction would fade. “Marry for intelligence, integrity,
ingenuity, and access.”
Maria might know a thing or two about marrying well, but what did she know about the emotionally bankrupt men of today?
“Far from me to contradict your esteemed grandmother,” Jules said. “But if you like Matty as much as you say, if you feel
something real, I don’t think you can afford to throw it away.” As for marriage, the workaround was glaringly obvious. “Have
you considered not getting married? It’s the twenty-first century. Maria may have needed a man to get ahead in life or to get a line of credit,
but you don’t. Thanks in large part to her.”
Vicky hugged her. “You’re better and cheaper than a therapist.”
The moment was ruined by the combined stares of the green-eyed cat, the black cat, and another gray one bundled in a remote
corner of the garden. All three eyed Jules. “You’re a cat lady,” she whispered into Vicky’s hair. “Do they have a sixth sense?”
“Next you’ll ask if they really have nine lives.”
“Seriously,” Jules said. “They’d know if someone was in contact with a ghost or spirit. They’d sense it somehow. Wouldn’t
they?”
“You mean the ghost that blew out the candle in the museum cellar?” Vicky asked. “I think we’re good. That was a flameless
candle with remote control. Elvira got us!”
“These cats creep me out,” she admitted.
“There’s nothing to be creeped out about. I’ll show you.” Vicky led her to the ash-gray cat curled up in the corner, which
at closer inspection was a beauty. “Go on,” she said, as if speaking to a timid child. “Say hi.”
The cat fixed Jules in a steely blue gaze. He didn’t hiss like the other one, which she took as an encouraging sign. She crouched down to pet him, but with a swift bat of a fat paw, he let her know it would be a cold day in the Florida Keys before he’d let her touch him.
Vicky let out a cry. “Are you okay?”
Jules rubbed her hand. “It stings, but it’s fine.”
“That’s enough exposure therapy. Let’s leave this feisty one alone.”
“They’re all feisty!”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Vicky said. “How about you tell me what’s going on with you. So much for a girls’ trip! We hardly ever
get a chance to talk.”
“Nothing’s going on.”
Vicky wasn’t satisfied with that answer, but what could Jules say? I’ll tell you what’s going on. My mother appeared in the garden last night. Crazy, right?
This morning, Jules had woken up frustrated. She recalled the moment Ruby had appeared. How many nights had she prayed for
one more day with her mother? To see her again, young, old, or however unrecognizable, was a gift. She may never get this
opportunity again. Something good had to come of it. Her mother had been so worried about her future on her deathbed. The
least Jules could have done was ease her mind, let her know she was doing well, share all the wonderful things that she’d
missed out on. Jules could have told her that she loved her, and not one day went by that she wasn’t missed. The encounter
was a blessing, a cosmic gift, a chance to heal old wounds. Instead, she’d squandered the opportunity, focusing on handsome
Leo in his stupid tower. She was at a crossroads and would do better to focus on the signs the universe was sending her way.
She could fall for the guy anytime.
But why did it feel like the damn cats knew something she didn’t?
“And Leo?” Vicky asked.
“What about him?” Jules snapped.
“You really like him. I can tell.”
“I like him fine, but—”
“Don’t do that,” Vicky said.
“I’m not doing anything!” Jules protested.
“You’re allowed to feel your feelings,” Vicky said, a touch exasperated. “You don’t have to downplay everything. If you like
him, go ahead and like him.”
Jules was feeling something now: annoyance. How could Vicky possibly understand? She came from a toxic but otherwise large
and loving family. She expressed her feelings freely. Jules, however, no longer had access to her full range of emotions,
not since her mother died.
Ruby passed away in a sterile hospital room. Moments later Jules lost consciousness in the hall. “The shock,” the nurses said.
“The emotional toll.” They revived her with fluids, but the real work began when she was left alone to rest. People claimed
to fall apart over life’s ups and downs—a traffic ticket, a late fee, an eviction notice, or termination letter. What was
financial hardship in the face of irrevocable loss? When you’ve lost the most important person in your life, and you only
had one person to start with, the weight of that loss crushes you, reduces you to powder, and no amount of IV fluids was going
to help. That night, she was certain to have lost all the love that she’d been allotted in this lifetime. Numbing herself
was the only way to cope.