Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Her eyes widen.
“Sir, the 1946.” The waiter arrives with a bottle of wine and proceeds to uncork it.
“I mean it, May.” I squeeze her hand. “I need you to believe me. Do you?”
“I-I…” She licks her lips. “I want to.”
That’ll have to be enough for now. The minute she walked in wearing a sweet little dress, I couldn’t seem to get a grip on any words. But my hands knew what to do. I haven’t been able to stop touching her since we left my condo and headed to the restaurant. Even now, I’m off-kilter, my focus entirely on her when it’s usually on exits, windows, and any possible threats. Soft Christmas music plays in the background, happy tunes that go perfectly with the crisp air out in the city and the warm lighting in here. May looks right out of a holiday ad in her dress, pitch-perfect for the season. She’s almost too good to be true.
I lean closer, taking her in, watching the way her lips part, the way her eyes dazzle even in the low light. “Tell me about you, May. I want to know everything.”
“Everything?” She thanks the waiter for pouring our wine.
The restaurant is warm, the smell of rich food swirling around us. A hidden gem just a few blocks from Central Park on the East Side. But all I can focus on is her.
She takes a deep breath. “Well, I’m from California. My parents are teachers, though they’re both retired now. They joined some sort of old hippie commune and send me beads and weird stuff in the mail from time to time.” She smiles warmly. “I visit every summer and at holidays, and they’re happy, living in a yurt, farming, doing crafts.”
A good home life, then. That pleases me. I don’t want to think she’s ever suffered. “Christmas is only a few weeks away. Are you visiting them this year?”
“That’s the plan.” She nods. “Though I refuse to do the yurt thing.” She laughs. “There’s a nice hotel in the next town I stay at.”
“No commune for you, then?”
“Don’t worry,” she adds hurriedly. “It’s not, like, a religious cult or anything. No Kool-Aid on the menu. It’s just older people who want to lead simple lives and work together. I still live in the house where I grew up, though I’ve made it mine now. And the property beside it was falling into ruin, pretty much. I was able to buy it and repair it, and now it’s an animal shelter.”
“So, you work at the shelter?”
She frowns the slightest bit. “No. I mean, I’m on the board, and I provide all the help I can, but I try not to go inside too much. It’s … complicated.”
“Because you can hear them?” I squeeze her small hand.
She nods. “Yeah.” Her voice is lower now. “I used to go more. But sometimes it’s hard when they’re hurting or when their forever family hasn’t arrived yet. I comfort them as much as I can. It’s just … it can take a toll.”
“It’s all right. I understand.” The last thing I want to do is make her sad.
She clears her throat. “But like I said, I do what I can. I make decent money helping people with their pets, and a lot of that goes back into the shelter. But, I mean, the shelter needs more than I can give. We have other donors, but it’s still a struggle. Getting volunteers isn’t easy either.” She sighs. “It’s just ironic, I guess, that helping animals is my life’s work, but I can’t get too close, you know?”
“You’re doing more good than most people ever dream of doing. Don’t forget that. People are cruel–just as cruel to animals as they are to each other. You’re making a world of difference.”
Her smile returns. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Just take the compliment.”
“I’m not sure that’s my strong suit.”
“It should be. You’re gorgeous, smart, and you give your whole heart to helping others.” I hand her the glass of wine. “Have you always been able to hear the animals?”
She sniffs the red wine, then takes a sip. “Yes. My mom used to think I had lots of imaginary friends when I was a kid. Then she realized I really could hear cats.”
“How?”
“Umm, well, when I was about five or six, our neighbor’s cat went missing. He was an inside cat, but he snuck out when the dad left the back door open to take out the trash. They put up flyers all over the neighborhood, and a lot of us would go out after school or at night with flashlights to try and find him. Everyone knew Frenchie, that was his name. He was a tuxedo cat who’d sit in the front window of the house and watch everyone go by. Anyway, my parents and I were out looking after school about a week later, and I heard him.”