“A pet is a huge responsibility.” My dad’s voice carried outside, and Max and I stilled so we could eavesdrop. “At the end of the day, the work will fall on us.”
“I’m fine with that,” Mom said, irritation making her pitch rise.
“Of course you’re fine with it, Amy, you’ll be running around the hotel while I’m taking care of—”
“We’re talking about a cat, Richard. We play with it, we feed it, we scoop its shit. It’s not that complicated.”
“I don’t want a cat right now.”
“What about what I want? Or what our Daisygirl wants?”
They hadn’t had a blowup like this since Dad moved back in a few weeks ago. I couldn’t bear for them to split again over this.
“Maybe…” I handed the wriggling animal to Max, not wanting to get too attached. “Would your parents let you keep him if mine say no?”
“You said your mom and dad had talked about getting a pet.”
“Yeah, like a fish or a gerbil.” My shoulders slumped. “Maybe Dad’s right that a cat is too much trouble.”
Max’s face turned sour. He held the cat inches from my nose, crowding my personal space, as the feline reached out to paw me. “You owe kitty an apology.”
“Stop,” I said through a halfhearted laugh.
I wished Max didn’t have to overhear Mom and Dad fighting, but I was so glad he was here to brighten my mood. He had a knack for that. I put on as much of a smile as I could while the cat made circles in my lap and laid down into a croissant shape. Peaceful, content. The little thing purred, safe perhaps for the first time in its life and comfortable like it had always belonged there.
Chapter Six
Max, Now
My mentor, Eleanor, picks up her wine, swirling the sample in front of her nose. After a sip, she nods to the server. “That’s good.”
I took workshops with Eleanor when she was a visiting scholar at my university. She works at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, one of the most esteemed museums in the US, and we’re having lunch at a high-end restaurant downtown. I’ve had countless business meetings in establishments like this, although this spot has an especially stuffy vibe to it. The whole place looks like a brightly lit, neutral-toned French chateau, complete with luxurious velvet curtains and a sparkling chandelier. Basically, the opposite of grabbing beer last week at Sal’s with Daisy.
“I knew you were from the US,” Eleanor says, “but SoCal?”
“Born and raised. My parents wanted more space and less of the LA crazy influence on their kids.”
“Good for them. Los Angeles is a lot, and I love this city as much as I hate it. Plus, Harlow’s adorable, really quaint.”
“My friend owns a hotel out there,” I say with a glint of pride. “The Mirage.”
“I think I know that one. My wife and I don’t get out there as often as we’d like, but when we do, even for the weekend, we release this breath we didn’t know we were holding. And there’s quite a burgeoning art scene.”
I purse my lips, unsure I heard her correctly.
“I’m serious,” she says, lifting her glass for a sip.
“Who’s it burgeoning for? People who want to drop acid and paint sunsets for souvenir shops?”
“The town’s a hot spot for creatives now. There’s been a lot of fresh blood moving there in the past five years. Harlow’s officially on the map.”
“Are we…” I scratch the back of my neck. “Are we talking about the same Harlow?”
“Don’t be so skeptical. I actually have a friend out there who wants to start an art school for teens. She’s looking for instructors if you’re interested.”
“I never pictured myself teaching.”
“It would just be the summer semester. You might end up loving it.”
