Groomer Has It Page 3

  Being back felt like I was walking into the same trap all too willingly.

  I took a deep breath before slipping the key into the lock. The door creaked open and I was instantly hit by my late aunt’s gardenia perfume. Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them. “Ok Kitty,” I whispered. “I’m here now.”

  I rolled my bags into the threshold and took a look around. The apartment was small but held two bedrooms in the back. The main space was open with the little green-tiled kitchen to the right and original hardwood floors spanned the living space and led the eye toward a wall of windows facing the water.

  Kitty’s things were everywhere, as I knew they would be, and everything was covered in a soft layer of dust that she must have never had the time to remove. Yellow fluffy couches covered in floral throw pillows sat in the center of the room facing a small brick fireplace and a flat screen tv mounted above it. Her coffee table was a sheet of glass sitting on a stone elephant and beneath it lay a huge blue rag rug.

  There were clocks everywhere.

  Vintage starburst, framed, and cat clocks on the walls, their tails swinging as the seconds passed. Little pink, blue, and silver alarm clocks sat on the side tables and mantle. It was sadly ironic. The woman had so many clocks, but so little time.

  Among the clocks on the wall hung family photos and framed paintings of flowers and cats. All my mother’s work and symbolic, she would say, of she and her sister’s relationship.

  Instead of a dining table she had a vintage silver-edged formica table with yellow and red flowers on the top and two red chairs. I imagined her drinking coffee there in the mornings and a glass of wine at night.

  I used to come out sometimes, rubbing my eyes, to find her watching the water and smiling. She was always smiling. I’d climb onto her lap and she’d rock me and hum and tickle my sides and say, “I was waiting for the sunshine, and here you are.” Then she’d let me sneak sips of her coffee while we watched the sunrise together.

  “How’s the sun going to come up now, Kitty?”

  I decided that a shower was in order, so I made my way to the single bathroom with my bag of toiletries. Kitty was a drugstore shampoo kind of girl, but my hair lived in the moringa oil products my stylist recommended. I’d brought two bottles for my pilgrimage and prayed they would last.

  Cleaned, conditioned, and moisturized I finally sat on the couch and pulled out my phone to search for take-out.

  “No way! Still?” Every search came up empty. There was absolutely no restaurant delivery anywhere near Glaney.

  My stomach growled.

  “Guess I’m going for a walk,” I complained to myself.

  Changing back out of my pajamas, I squeezed myself into a pair of vintage high-waist jeans and a soft pink mohair sweater. I pulled on a pair of dark brown boots and threw my hair into a loose bun before stomping down the stairs toward the water-soaked cobblestones of main street.

  I passed a few romantic steak and seafood cafes that looked perfect for a date. I kept right on walking. I was not about to be that girl.

  The Glaney Theatre, the location of my first kiss, looked freshly updated. Its brick façade was painted white and lights twinkled over the ticket window as the sun began to set. I passed by slowly and admired the vintage movie posters hung in pretty little poster boxes.

  Two movies were being shown at alternating times on the theatre’s one screen that week.

  Singing in the Rain with Gene Kelly, Donald O’Connor, and Debbie Reynolds and Tammy and the Bachelor, another Debbie Reynolds fifties classic. I made a mental note to stop in for a showing of each.

  I passed an art supply store, a bookstore with huge flat-faced Persian cat mewing from the window, and a bakery that looked interesting. Some clothing shops that screamed ‘street fair chic’ and a small market. A chubby little silver poodle barked at me from a small black SUV parked street side and seemed to be giving me the stink eye. I glared right back at it and laughed to myself. Now that’s a face.

  Finally, I came to a Neapolitan pizza shop that had been a run-down diner ten years earlier. The smell of yeasty crust, garlic, and cheese wafted out as a few patrons exited.

  “Carbs shmarbs,” I hummed and went inside.

  The dining room was a very small hallway-like rectangle with a few tables stacked nearly on top of one another. Every table was full, and people crowded in front of the bar to eat or pick up to-go orders. The kitchen was in full view of the dining room, and I saw several employees tossing dough and pulling delicious looking pizzas from a big brick oven. My mouth watered.

  Suddenly, a shrill shriek came from a woman sitting alone near the back of the dining area. The woman then slammed her fork on the table and barked, “Sofia!”

  A few people turned to look at the angry patron. A clang came from the kitchen. I watched as a tall, dark haired man threw his hands in the air and spoke angrily to a small woman with dark red curls next to him. She rubbed his arm and seemed to encourage him to sit down before she came out of the kitchen, wiped her hands on her rose-colored apron and wove through the rest of the diners to the perturbed woman’s table.

  I waited in line to put in my order and casually watched the interaction. I couldn’t hear much because music filtered through from the bar area in the back. Karaoke, I guessed, based on the drunken slurred rendition of Madonna’s Like a Virgin.

  The shrieker was probably in her late sixties with silver hair piled, poodle-like, on top of her head. Her oval face scowled causing her jowls to droop and a turtleneck attempted to hide a long, veiny neck. Her hands kept flying up into the air as she spoke and the red-haired woman whom I guessed was Sofia dodged them effortlessly as she listened. The woman pointed angrily toward the kitchen and then at her meal before Sofia scooped it up and wove back through the crowd. When she made it to the kitchen, she whispered something to the tall man. Shocked, I watched as she was then shuffled backward several steps as she tried to keep him confined to the space. Eventually his rage seemed to subside, and my heart stopped beating in my rear end.

  He ran his hands through his hair and spat on the ground. I was too hungry to worry if it hit any of the cooking spaces.

  Finally, I made it to the front of the line. Ordering a medium basil, tomato, and mozzarella pizza I watched as Sofia kissed the man on the cheek.

  “That one’s on me,” A man sitting at the pizza bar next to me grabbed my bill before I could. Great. Another guy that thought I might need a sugar daddy. I mean, I did, but I wasn’t ready to go down that path just yet.

  “That’s ok, I’ve got it.” I said, digging into my purse.

  “No, no. Here.” The man handed the clerk a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change, son.”

  The clerk smiled and busied himself making change to stuff in his apron pocket. Annoyed at the man’s persistence, I moved aside.

  “You really didn’t have to…” I was ready to lay into him when I recognized the slicked back dark hair and the silver beard. “Mayor Trull?”

  “Kit Davis,” the long-time mayor smiled. “It’s the least I could do. I was so sorry to learn about your aunt’s passing. She was a wonderful woman.”

  “That she was,” I smiled. I’d always liked Glaney’s mayor, even if he had fathered my high school nemesis, Ashley Trull.

  Head cheerleader and head pain in my butt.

  “I know you’ll do Kitty proud. We would all hate to see such a wonderful business close its doors.” He took a sip of something brown then leaned in a little closer. Whiskey was on his breath. “Glaney’s tourism numbers have been falling a bit,” the mayor laid a big hand on my shoulder. “As I’m sure you’ve heard,” he sort of whispered. “We need all the help we can get!”

  I had no idea Glaney was doing poorly and I definitely didn’t see why he thought that I would. “Well, maybe a Starbucks or two would help,” I winked at him.

  He looked at me quizzically for a moment then laughed and pointed a meaty finger toward my face. “You know, you might be
right.”

  A song started in the bar that caught my attention. It started slow and the voice was stunning. As the singer moved into the chorus of Wrecking Ball by Miley Cyrus I was convinced to wait on my order in the bar and watch the show. I thanked Mayor Trull and told the waiter I was headed to the bar.

  The crowd grew even thicker as I moved in. I was impressed by the deep-toned wood of the bar and soft backlighting. It nearly could have fit in to the L.A. scene had it not been for the sloppy, tackily dressed patrons. Yuck.

  On the other end of the room the singer continued, and the air was filled with praise for her talent. The energy was palpable. Too many people stood near the small stage for me to see so I ordered a gin and tonic. Then with my glass in my hand I worked my way forward, keeping my head dipped to avoid being recognized by anyone I might have gone to school with, and simultaneously rolling my hips to the music. No need to go completely unnoticed.

  As the final chorus began, the crowd parted enough for me to see the stage area and my jaw dropped.

  With her curly hair whipping wildly back and forth and her sequin covered body swaying, was my little sister, Carlie.

  The song ended and the crowd erupted in applause and cat calls. My mouth still hung open as Carlie nearly tumbled from the stage and danced her way toward me. I just kept staring. Carlie took the drink from my hand and took a sip before handing it back.

  “What?” she finally demanded and I somehow managed to close my mouth.

  “You can sing.” I told her.

  Carlie grabbed my arm and drug me a few feet over to the bar where a bartender with a shaved head and an arm full of tattoos handed her a drink, winked at us both, and licked his lips. Carlie giggled and I squished up my face in disgust.

  Carlie turned her back to the bar and leaned against it with her elbows, sipping her drink and shaking her hips to the music playing while the DJ took more karaoke requests.

  “What’s with the sweater?” she asked without looking at me.

  I leaned back next to her and adjusted the top of my jeans. “It’s vintage.”

  “It’s weird,” she eyed me up and down. “Gawd, do you even eat anymore?”

  I smiled. Carlie and I had always been curvy, taking after our aunt rather than our mother, but I’d worked very hard to tame my frame to what I considered a manageable level.

  “Thank you,” I smiled.

  “You look sick,” Carlie shrugged.

  I huffed. “Well, I’m not.”

  “Uh, ok,” she rolled her eyes.

  I sighed. “So, how’s the shop?”

  A man took the stage and began to sing Mustang Sally.

  “Let’s dance!” Carlie moved so quickly I had to jump forward to follow, stepping on someone’s toes. I heard a yowl and some grumbling but made my way without apology to where Carlie stood with a look of disapproval on her round face.

  I smirked. “Well, who wears flip flops to a bar?”

  Carlie just shook her head, and her hips.

  “So how is Kitty’s? You’ve been working there, right?” I practically yelled.

  “Can’t you just enjoy the music for a second?”

  I looked up at the man gyrating to Mustang Sally and shook my head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  Carlie rolled her eyes dramatically, grabbed my arm and pulled me through the patio door to a deck where people stood around smoking and laughing. The volume was dulled, and the moon was just beginning to shine across the water.

  “Carlie?” I demanded an answer once we’d finally stopped.

  “Kitty?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Fine.”

  At last Carlie smiled at me and we both laughed until I felt tears threatening my mascara. After a hug, Carlie lit up a cigarette.

  “Gross, don’t do that! You’ll ruin your voice.”

  “Ruin it for what?”

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. I decided to focus on Kitty’s Laundromutt instead of my little sister’s obvious wasted talent. “So…”

  “Pretty good, I guess. I mean, it’s been a little rough.”

  “I’m sure it has. But everything’s still ok right? There are customers and the bills are getting paid.”

  “I guess so. I mean the bills are all handled by some guy named Chuck that Kitty hired but the customers…”

  “What about them?”

  “I hate them.” Carlie pouted.

  “You don’t hate them,” I glanced around hoping no one heard her.

  “Well the ones that stayed are cool…”

  “What do you mean, stayed? Kitty’s was always swamped.”

  “Yeah but she’s gone, and Beverly isn’t exactly speedy. All I can do is baths and blow dries. A lot of people are taking their dogs to a shop in Freeland now.”

  I waved off her concern. The customers would come back as soon as we had a groomer. I would step in on Tuesday. Eventually, I’d have to hire a groomer to keep it open. That I expected. Maybe I could entice someone from the mainland if the job came with an apartment, though the thought of a stranger living in Kitty’s home gave me the chills.

  Carlie took a drag. “Plus, there was the review in the paper. We lost a lot of customers after that bomb.”

  Bomb? “The paper does business reviews now?”

  “Well it was more of a letter to the editor.”

  “A letter claiming what?”

  “That we suck, and that we’re going out of business, so it doesn’t matter how much we suck, basically.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I shook my head indignantly. “I can’t believe they even printed that. Kitty’s has been open for thirty years! We’re not just going to disappear.”

  Carlie shrugged. “A lot of people believed her. They always do.”

  “Believed who?”

  “Vicki Perring. This awful old lady. She used to be a customer, she has a fat toy poodle named Picklepuss and she complained about everything Kitty ever tried to do with her. She does it everywhere she goes though so it’s not just us. She’s awful.”

  I thought back to my pizza that was surely getting cold.

  “Grey hair, long face and a turtleneck?”

  “Yes! That’s her!”

  “I figured. I saw her complaining in the restaurant and I’m pretty sure I saw Picklepuss in her car outside.” Picklepuss. Seriously? Though the name did match her face.

  Carlie groaned. “She’s awful. Stay out of her way, Kit. If you see her coming just turn the other way.”

  Another karaoke singer took the stage and started in on a drunken rendition of Redneck Woman. I took that as my cue to leave, hugged my sister and moved toward the restaurant where a month’s worth of carbs and calories were waiting for me.

  The lines had disappeared along with the diners in the dining room. In fact, only one table remained, and it was filled by Sofia and the man whom I guessed was the chef. He sat staring into a napkin with a glass of white wine by his hand. Sofia patted him on the shoulder and then noticed me standing awkwardly by the register.

  As I paid for my meal, I tried to cut the awkwardness with small talk. “It really cleared out in here,” I commented which caused the man to erupt into a loud sob.

  Sofia handed me my change and smiled politely. Whatever had happened, I wasn’t going to get any details. She merely thanked me for my business and ushered me out the door. I glanced through the front windows as I passed and saw her kneeling by his side, consoling him.

  With a sickening feeling in my stomach, I began to walk toward Kitty’s place in the misty rain with the pizza box over my head. I passed a few people on my way including the cat in a bookstore window and its owner, a young man with a beanie and beard scruff, who stared at me as he turned the sign from open to closed.

  I averted my eyes and glanced at the theatre across the street. Now that’s more like it.

  A slim and might I add well-dressed man was in the ticket booth flipping through paperwork. He lo
oked up and gave me a wave and a dazzling smile.

  I waved back, balancing the pizza with one hand. I kept walking but made sure to add a little sashay to my steps.

  By the time I made it back to Kitty’s I was starving. I’d wolfed down two slices of pizza before I even managed to pull off my jeans. I stuffed my sweater amongst the others in the guest room closet and put on a t-shirt and pajama bottoms before getting back to my pizza and pulling up the local newspaper on my tablet.

  I did a quick search for letters to the editor and there it was, three weeks prior. Kitty had barely been gone a week and Vicki Perring sunk her teeth into my aunt’s business and gave it a good shake. I sighed heavily and got to reading.

  The letter was atrocious. Besides being full of lies where she adamantly claimed to have been personally insulted and berated by the incompetent employees, she claimed her little Picklepuss had been injured. Her nails had been taken too short and she had walked with a limp ever sense…allegedly. Now she said, the horrid business was going under as it was to be ran by an even more incompetent owner, Kitty’s troublemaking niece from L.A.

  Furious, I dug through Kitty’s cupboards until I found a bottle of wine. I tore off the holiday gift label, clients often tipped in wine, and searched for a glass for about three seconds before giving up.

  Needing the wine more than I needed to be proper about drinking it, I perused the dusty open shelves, poured my wine into a ‘show me your kitties’ coffee mug and seethed.

  “First of all,” I said to the empty room, “Kitty would never have insulted her. There wasn’t a mean bone in that woman’s body and Carlie didn’t even work there when this woman was a client as far as I know. And second, those nails would have had to be practically removed for it to cause permanent injury. Kitty never would have been so negligent, so that’s a lie. And third. Third! I am not incompetent. Sure, I was a little rough around the edges as a teenager but who isn’t? Especially when you grow up trapped on an island. What else was there to do?”