He rubs his head beneath my chin, and I know he feels the same. “Let’s see if you need food.” I leave dry kibble out for him all day, which is probably why he weighs almost twenty pounds, but he’s a big cat to begin with.
Sure. Tell yourself he’s big-boned, Pru.
He is. Truly.
“I’m pooped.” And hungry. After I refill his food and water, I peek my head in the fridge. There’s not much there except for milk and cheese. With a slice of cheddar in hand, I move over to the wall-mounted phone. The message light is blinking. I press play and start looking in the cupboard for something to eat with the cheese. Crackers would be good. Except when I hear his voice, I suddenly lose my appetite.
“Yeah, Prudie, it’s Travis.”
I hate being called “Prudie”. Hate it.
“I wanted to let you know I can’t keep making your car payment––”
I reach out and pause the recording and feel heat rise from my chest into my cheeks. Once again, my sniveling ex-husband is trying to get something out of me. It’s bullcrap. The divorce is done. Settled. I don’t owe him squat. We sold our home, and after the home loan was paid off, we split the profits. It’s how I was able to put a down payment on this place and buy my fancy new bike. But since his attorney is his creepy uncle Mark, the same uncle who’s hit on me at every single Coleman family event since high school, this doesn’t surprise me.
“I hate you,” I hiss at the phone. I don’t hate the phone; I hate the man who left the message.
Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I want to hear what he’s got to say. I press play. “––because money is tight…”
I snort at his words. Money isn’t tight. He’s stingy with his money. Not only that, but the divorce decree states that he’d pay off my car since I paid his tuition while he worked on his MBA.
I continue listening.
“I’ve asked the auto loan company to start sending you the bills for the car.”
“No.” I growl. Heknowshe’s got to pay for my car, except Travis is penny-pinching sniveling jerk. And I’d bet a million bucks that his mother is behind this most recent money grab.
I detest that woman.
Now I’ll have to call my attorney to give her a heads-up. She’ll call Mark, remind him that the car payment is Travis’s responsibility and then she’ll bill me for the trouble.
Otto returns for some love, so I pick him up to do just that. “Travis is a piece of work, Otto.”
Saying “Travis” is enough to get Otto going. I swear, he hisses whenever the name is uttered, sort of like when they said Voldemort in Harry Potter. “He who shall not be named is a jerk-face liar, Otto.”
* * *
Sunday isour short day at the shop, open from noon to three. Even with Oakdale Days winding down, we’re still busy from open to close. The second the last customer leaves the store, Laura flips the locks and announces. “Time for a drink.”
We find a table on the patio of a cute little bar on the square with views of city hall. There are still a number of people milling about from Oakdale Days, but most of the shops are closed now. Laura holds up her gin and tonic. “To Oakdale Days being over.”
I giggle. “To making money.” Which reminds me. “How’d we do?”
“We sold out of your T-shirts, but you know that.”
They were flying off the shelves. “Let’s order more and add some new colors and extended sizes to the mix.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“We did great. We’ll need to do some inventory to see what was stolen, but I’m happy with the results.”
Stolen merchandise is an unsavory part of the retail business, and it sucks. “We need to put some cameras inside the store.” That idea courtesy of Michael, the juvenile delinquent.
“That can be expensive.”
“What about nanny-cams strategically placed through the shop?” I did a little research after the incident with those kids.
“Hm.” Laura turns to face me. “That’s not a bad idea.”
