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Not constantly. That would be annoying—
Okay. It is constantly, and it is kind of annoying, but I’m also starting to understand something I didn’t last night because I was too stunned that the man in front of me was claiming to be my cat.
He’s enjoying himself.
For six weeks, Mr. Whiskers sat in the corner of the shop while I worked. He watched me roll crusts and pipe whipped cream. He watched customers come and go. Sometimes I talked to him, and sometimes he slept, but he was always there.
Today, Vincent can answer me. He can carry a box when my hands are full. He can steal a piece of apple when I turn my back, then deny it despite still chewing. He can tell me that my pumpkin pie needs more cinnamon, then look offended when I remind him that he ate cat food yesterday and therefore I’m not inclined to accept his culinary opinion as fact.
And then, when the first costumed kiddie comes in, he’s in charge of handing out candy.
I almost regret giving him that task immediately after what happens with the first one.
It’s a little boy dressed as a vampire who is holding his plastic pumpkin out to Vincent. Holding tightly to the bowl I filled with a mix of treats just for the occasion, he drops a miniature chocolate bar inside of the boy’s Halloween pail.
The kid beams up at him. “Thank you!”
Quicker than humanly possible, Vincent reaches in and takes it back.
The boy gasps. The father standing directly behind him gapes at Vincent before frowning.
I nearly drop the pie box I was about to hand to a paying customer.
Oblivious to everyone’s reactions, Vincent studies the candy bar. “Actually, I’ve decided this is mine.”
“Vincent,” I hiss while the little vampire looks utterly betrayed.
Then Vincent reaches into the bowl again, takes out three pieces, and drops them all into the pumpkin.
The boy’s eyes go huge.
“There,” Vincent says. “Those are yours. I’m pretty sure they’re better, too.”
The kid grins. “Cool!”
And I let out a breath of relief because, while that was also something very cat-like—deciding at the last minute that a piece of food was preferable and claiming it for himself—I’m glad he knew better than to upset the trick-or-treater.
In fact, every child that comes into The Pie Chart ends up leaving with a smile.
The next kid gets two pieces because Vincent likes the magic wand that goes with her Glinda dress. Another gets an extra peanut butter cup because he compliments Vincent’s strange tattoo. By the fifth group, kids are deliberately coming to his side of the counter when we don’t have any other customers because word has apparently spread that the blond guy gives out more candy than the pie lady.
“You’re going to bankrupt me,” I tell him.
He drops another handful into a tiny ghost’s bucket. “I’ll buy us more if we need it.”
“You have money?”
Vincent flashes a grin at me. “I did back in 1987. It was in a warlock-run bank with high interest rates. I haven’t spent much since I’ve been cursed. Trust me, dear Kate, we’ll have plenty.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
Think about how easily he says ‘we’, and how he winks at me in a way that I’m really hoping is teasing as he hails over the next trick-or-treater, telling him that he loves the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle costume the boy is wearing… and I grin to myself, knowing that he would’ve been around when the Turtles were having their initial heyday.
The grin falters a little when I remember that Vincent only gets to celebrate one day a year as a human, and it’s this one. No wonder he gets such a kick out of Halloween.
And you know what?
Maybe spending Halloween morning with a cursed cat-warlock isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me after all.
