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“Micki. Did you know that Sam is harassing her?”
“Kind of.” Cress bites her lip. “She won’t really talk about it.”
The bell rings again and I carry my glass as I open the door. Speak of the devil. Micki stands on the steps with Erik and Amy. I usher them in, noticing that in the half hour since JL arrived, the temperature has fallen and ice films the pavement.
One thing I’ve learned about living in Chicago is that March can produce the worst winter weather. I take Micki’s orange quilted coat, Erik’s army surplus parka, and Amy’s motorcycle jacket. “Go through while I hang these up.”
As I finish, the bell rings again. Jarvis and Metin walk in.
“You came together?” I ask.
Metin hands me her coat.“No. Burak is parking the car. I ran into Jarvis on the sidewalk.”
Jarvis pushes past me, strips off his trench coat. He isn’t carrying anything.
“Where’s your stuff?”
“My duffle is in the trunk.” He moves toward the lounge. “I need to say hi to the cats.”
A chorus of voices greet him as he rushes forward, calling to the felines, who stare unwaveringly from under the console table.
I take Metin’s coat, and we stand by the door, watching Burak limp up the icy steps, holding onto the metal railing, itself coated with ice. He was shot in the ankle a few years ago during an op and it never healed properly. Metin’s intake of breath turns into a sigh of relief when he crosses the threshold, none the worse for wear.
Metin is stylish in a calf-length dress, swirled in black and gray. She toes off her boots and pulls out black flats from the plastic grocery bag dangling from her arm. Then she balls up the bag and slips it into the top of one boot. Burak pulls off the rubber overshoes encasing his black loafers.
Burak is about my height with thick gray hair, cut short. Clean shaven, he is unlike most Turkish men, who tend to have mustaches or the newly popular hipster beard. A blue Oxford shirt matches his eyes and the subtle stripe in his Harris tweed sport coat. Gray gabardine slacks complete his ensemble, while all the rest of us dressed in jeans. His bearing screams retired military.
Metin casts an eye around the lounge. “Aren’t Clay and Kath coming?”
“They’re on their way to Wisconsin to visit her family,” I say. By my reckoning, the grandparents should drive down here.
“Should be a fun four-hour drive with three little kids,” Jarvis says.
A thoughtful expression crosses Cress’ face. “I’m sure they love getting away from the city. The Wisconsin woods give them a chance to unwind and the kids a place to run around.”
JL breaks in. “C’est dommage, ça. C’est la meilleure partie de parler en français.”
We all crack up. Twitting Clay with foreign languages is always good value.
Cress brings in the charcuterie platter and small plates and flutes are juggled. Jarvis sits on the floor, with Dorothy and Thorfinn, more interested in the cats than the food. He truly is an animal whisperer. I hide my grin, popping a piece of bruschetta into my mouth. Jarvis needs a pet of his own.
Cress narrows her eyes as she gazes at him. “Are you sure this will be okay? You don’t mind staying here for at least a month?”
Jarvis glances at her, then turns his attention back to the cats as Thorfinn assaults him with head butts. “It will be fine. I can mostly work from here. And if something comes up where I have to be away for a day or two, my sister agreed to help.” Jarvis pulls Dorothy close and rubs his face against her soft fur. She purrs so loudly that we can feel the vibrations all over the room. Jarvis croons. “I loooove animals.”
“We’ve noticed.” I sip my drink.
Micki is usually Cress’ cat sitter, but she will join us in Paris for the award ceremony. “Why is Jarvis cat sitting?” she asks. “What about Arlette?”
I remember my housekeeper’s expression when Cress and her tiny menagerie moved in. “Nothing will change. She doesn’t have to do anything differently. In fact, she has become quite fond of them in the last few months.” At least she hasn’t quit.
Cress purses her lips but says nothing. She’s still not convinced that Arlette really likes the cats.
We’ve moved several chairs into the room, including a second oversized armchair that Amy and Erik have been sharing. They barely fit. Erik is a bear, his long reddish hair pulled into a man bun. He sports one of his trademark lumberjack shirts, his way of proclaiming that he grew up in Siberia.
JL chirps at him. “Planning to move to Oregon?”
As always, Erik rises to the taunt. “Why do you ask that? I love Chicago.”
