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“Well, shit,” Liam said in his deep radio announcer’s voice (not that he talked on the radio, but everyone in town told him he could). He went outside and checked the barn. No, all the barn cats looked perky, too, dammit. Cripes, how hard was it to get a sick cat when a guy needed one?
What was that?! One of the barn cats sneezed. Excellent! Could be a cold. Or pneumonia. Or cat flu. Or rabies. He scooped up the startled animal and hurried out of the barn.
WHEN Sophie returned to her office, she wasn’t surprised to see Liam Thompson waiting for her with what appeared to be a perfectly healthy cat. The cat’s ears were back and she looked resigned, as did all Liam’s pets when dragged to her examining room.
“What is it, Liam?” she asked, smiling. “Distemper? Swine flu? Mad cat disease?”
“She’s been sneezing and sneezing,” Liam told her. He was a fine-looking man, about six feet tall, with prematurely gray hair cut to Army regulation shortness and eyes the exact color of the faded blue jeans he wore. He appeared to have laugh lines, except no one in town could recall hearing him laugh, and his mouth was firm, his nose long and straight. His tan work shirt was rolled to the elbows, and, as always, he gave off the delightful scent of cotton and soap. She vastly enjoyed his company, even though he wasn’t much of a talker. That was all right. Neither was she.
“Well, bring her in,” Sophie said. “Let’s take a look.” It would be, she knew, a rather large waste of her time. Liam’s pets were hardly ever sick; she suspected he was a hypochondriac on their behalf. Still, it warmed her to see a man so concerned about animals. The few times one of his cats had been genuinely ill, she had caught it in plenty of time. The only thing Liam Thompson’s cats ever died of was old age.
“So…” Liam said.
“Yes,” Sophie replied. She quickly examined the cat, a pretty little mouse-colored shorthair, felis domestica, and found her to be in sound health, if…
“Well, you’re going to have kittens again.”
“Great,” he said. “I guess you’ll be around when her time comes, then.”
“I guess I will.” Liam always insisted she attend when his cats birthed. It wasn’t necessary, because one of the many things a cat could do well was have kittens, but he seemed to appreciate her presence. He always paid his bills promptly, too. He even paid them in person; he did not trust the mail.
“You know the drill,” she said. “I guess I will see you in about thirty days.”
“Yeah,” he replied, and scooped up the cat, and left.
“Good night,” she called after him, and he waved a blocky hand back in reply.
HE had to lean against the door of his truck for a minute before putting the cat inside and climbing in. God! God! God! She got prettier every time he saw her. Well, that wasn’t true; she looked exactly the same every time he saw her. Which was utterly, totally, completely beautiful.
Those velvety brown eyes! Those soft, red lips! Even the way she talked charmed the shit out of him. “You know zee drill.” And the way she said his name: “LEE-um.” Well, okay, everybody pronounced it like that, but Sophie gave it a special accented spin. He had been waiting twenty years—since he had become a legal adult—to declare his intentions, but he was as tongue-tied around her at thirty-eight as he had been when he was fifteen.
The thirty days stretched ahead of him like an endless tunnel.
He started the pickup and smiled down at the cat, which was busily grooming herself. “Good work,” he told her. “Thanks for getting knocked up.”
The cat, naturally, ignored him.
3
THIRTY DAYS LATER…
“THAT makes four,” Sophie said. “And now I think she’s done.” Smiling, she looked down at the blind, squealing creatures. They were various shades of white, gray, and brown, all pink noses and gaping maws and wee claws, clambering all over each other in search of food. “And your cat…er…?”
“Fred.”
Sophie didn’t miss a beat. Liam gave all his cats odd, thought-up-at-the-last-second names. “Fred seems fine. Call me, of course, if she seems to have any trouble.”
“Yeah.” Liam took a deep breath. “Would you…d’ you want to come into the house? For something to drink?”
Sophie nearly winced. Although the blood and various mess of Fred’s birthing hadn’t tempted her, the way the pulse was beating quickly at Liam’s throat—almost as if he were nervous—did. She had to, had to find a solution to this problem. Driving down to the Cities and preying on various muggers and panhandlers simply would not do. For one thing, her car couldn’t take the extra mileage. She knew she should have bought a Ford.
“I guess you don’t,” Liam said, incorrectly reading her long silence.
“Oh. Oh! No, I would like to have a drink. Very much.” Very, very, very, very, very much. “Please, lead the way.”
She followed him inside the neatly kept farmhouse and stood admiring the large kitchen, done in blue and white, and smelling like bread. It reminded her of some of the country houses back home. Liam wasn’t a farmer, though he lived on a farm. He had inherited the place, along with quite a bit of money, from his father, who had invented pocket calendars.
“Lemmee see,” Liam said, bending into the open refrigerator. “I’ve got milk…two percent, whole, and skim. Diet Coke. Regular Pepsi. Lemonade. Cherry Kool-Aid. Ginger ale. Orange juice. Grape juice. Oh, and I can make chocolate milk,” he added, straightening and showing her the bottle of Hershey’s syrup. “If you want.”
Her eyebrows arched in surprise…she’d expected water, or maybe a beer. He saw her expression and said, “I know you like to drink.”
He had no idea, the silly man. But she had to smile. She supposed if a person only accepted drinks, and never food, over a period of four decades, a reputation was built. “I would love some orange juice,” she said. “Low pulp, yes?”
“Yeah.”
While he busied himself getting glasses, she wandered around the kitchen, finally thumbing the ON button for the small television in the corner. She supposed it was rude, but the heavy silence in the kitchen was beginning to make her nervous. The local news had just started. That would give them something to talk about, thank goodness. “I wonder if we’ll find out when there’ll be an end to this vile cold snap,” she mused aloud.
“So, um, you going to the meeting next week?”
“No,” she replied, scratching his husky, Gladiator, between the ears. Gladiator was a less-than-admirable guard dog, getting up briefly to smell her skirt when she entered, then flopping down on the rug with a groan and going back to sleep. “I must work.” In truth, the meeting was being held at the church. So, naturally, she couldn’t attend. Too bad. She had plenty to say on the issue of tearing down the schoolhouse that had been on the edge of town for over a hundred years. So there were some rats? The thing was a historical monument! Americans. They only wanted what was new.
“Oh. That’s too bad. Because I thought that we…um…I…you know, the meeting…if you needed a ride or whatever…. Here’s your juice.”
She took the glass and sipped, and smiled at him. He didn’t smile back, merely gulped his own juice thirstily.
He was nervous. She couldn’t imagine why. She’d known him almost his entire life. He’d grown into a fine man, too. Tall…strong…responsible…if he was teased about being the quietest man in the state, what did she care? He was a good man. He took excellent care of his pets. As she got older, she realized the simple things really were the most important.
“It was kind of you to invite me inside,” she said. And it was. Although she had been accepted by the townspeople years ago, she rarely received social invitations of any kind. She was sure that, deep down, the population of Embarrass, Minnesota, knew exactly what she was.
Accepting a vampire on her own terms and allowing her to take care of the pets and livestock was one thing. Inviting a creature of the night into your own home where you lived and slept and were vulnerable all the time was something else.
“I’ve, uh, been wanting…I mean, it’s no big deal. You know, since you came out. To take care of Fred and all. It’s, you know, the least I could do.” He stared longingly at the bottle of vodka perched on top of the refrigerator. She wanted to suggest he pour himself a stiff shot, but felt that would be inappropriate.
