I laugh because I can’t help it and admit, “You’re not wrong. I’m very attracted to her. She’s beautiful and so smart.”
“She also works hard. She’s not lazy.”
“Don’t I know it. I’ve been here a couple of weeks now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her actually rest,” I say, thinking about working on the song. That might have been the closest she’s come to taking a breather in a while.
“Does no good to be so busy that you let life pass you by. Sometimes you need someone—” she says, pointing her finger at me again, “that’d be you, dumbass—to point out that there are other things than work.”
“You know how to make a person feel all warm and fuzzy inside, Mrs. Bridgelock.”
Her look could freeze the nads off a bison, so I put my hands up and confess, “Truth be told, I may have needed to hear that for myself as well.”
“Maybe you can both stop being so damn stubborn.”
“I’ll think on it, Mrs. Bridgelock.”
“Okay, but think fast. She’s a good woman, and somebody’s gonna snatch her up from under your nose.”
Something about the certainty in her voice gives me pause. “Is there already somebody interested in her?”
“You didn’t lose your eyesight in that mini-stroke episode, did you?”
“No.”
“IQ points, maybe?”
“Possibly.”
“That might explain why you’re asking a stupid question like that. Just look at her. She’s amazing. Every single person with a pulse wants to snap her up. I can promise you that. Hell, if I were thirty years younger, I’d go after her myself.”
Mrs. Bridgelock looks about ninety, and I don’t doubt her for a second.
“You don’t think she’d reject my advances?”
“Man, you are dumb. Her eyes have hardly left you this whole time.”
I bite my bottom lip. “Well, okay then. I’ve been hesitating, but maybe I shouldn’t assume for her.”
“That’s the smartest damn thing you’ve said all day.”
“She’s been helping me with a song.”
“See, that’s how you do it. She enjoys singing and playing. Nothing like you, of course, but it brings her real joy. Everyone has to have an art, and I think music is hers.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bridgelock. I think you might be right.” I then ask a question I immediately live to regret. “Tell me, what’s your art?”
Grinning broadly, she points to a bookcase I somehow overlooked when we walked in. It’s filled with stuffed birds. Not, like, bird-shaped stuffies. These are actual birds that’ve been taxidermied. Taxidermized? Whatever.
While the idea is creepy, even creepy art can be beautiful, given the right execution. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bridgelock is about as skilled with bird taxidermy as she is with baking cookies. The raven on her top shelf—I’m assuming that’s what’s left of a raven—has an eyeball half-popped out like maybe someone squeezed it a little too tight.
“You’re right,” I say, clearing my throat. “It is important to have some kind of creative mission.”
“And now you have anin. Try not to mess it up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kinley walks in from the kitchen, and not a second too soon. Now that I’ve seen the birds, I can’t unsee them, and I’ve got to get the hell out of this house. Kinley glances between me and the nightmare bird display, amusement and understanding lighting her eyes.
“Okay, Mrs. Bridgelock. I’ve gotta get my patient back home. I’ve already had her out half the day.”
