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Max laughs but there is no joy in it. “Are you kidding?”
I turn toward the building. “If we aren’t looking at furniture, why are we here.”
“You’ll see.” He puts his hand against the small of my back, and steers me into the 200-year-old furniture emporium. We stop near the entrance to drink in the ambiance.
I crane my neck to see his face. His gray eyes have darkened, hunger rolling off him in waves as he deepens his already deep voice, the words rolling off his tongue like honey. “They’re still known for their fine handmade mattresses. I have one on the bed here.”
His feral expression makes me wonder. Is he thinking about the bed? Of us on that bed? Of pillows tossed in all directions and tangled, sweaty sheets? I try to picture the bed in his flat. Is it like the one in Chicago, which has a great mattress? His next statement brings me back to earth.
“Unfortunately, we’re not here to test mattresses, even though that would be fun. We’re here for the cat.”
I can’t help yelping. “A shop cat. Let’s see. Let’s see. Take me now.”
“We need to climb Cecil Brewer’s spiral staircase.” He makes everything sound mysterious. Is there a gallery of cats? Is Heal’s a purveyor of cats as part of the proper accouterments for a home? What a kick that would be.
After threading through many displays of home goods, we’ve reached the back of the store where an enormous staircase with amazing hanging lights rises up into the ether.
I stare at him in horror as it comes into view. He knows I hate heights. I’m barely been listening, focusing more on how high the top of the staircase is as I near the dizzying spiral. “Climb? That staircase?”
“You’re not climbing Everest. I’ll hang onto you.” He leads me over. “I could have taken you to the O2 to climb over the arc.”
I swallow, then put my foot on the first step and grasp the banister, my knuckles whitening immediately. As I slowly put one foot in front of the other, Max has one hand resting on the small of my back. He murmurs in my ear, “I’ve got you, la mia stellina.”
Not willing to turn, I keep going. “What if I fall backwards? Won’t you just tumble with me?”
He huffs. “I’ll be your soft landing.”
Puffing, I reach the landing that houses a large bronze cat sculpture. When I take a closer look, I realize it’s a serval, an African wildcat, but most people would label it as a cat. The figure is sleek, and I want to stroke it. Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and lean against Max as if he’s a retaining wall. “Tell me the story.” I sound both shaky and demanding.
“In the 1920s, Dodie Smith, the author of101 Dalmatians, worked here. A failed actress, she ran the toy department until she had success as a playwright.”
“Really? Dodie Smith?” I lift my chin and admire a sliver of his face. “I Capture the Castleis one of my favorite books.”
“She was quite a character, our Dodie. She was one mistress of the owner, Ambrose Heal. He was quite the player. Married and had another mistress already when Dodie made her play for him.” He pulls me against his chest. Over his shoulder, I a his grin reflecting from the window.
“She went after what she wanted. Good for her. Not that I condone stealing another woman’s husband. Although it sounds like Ambrose was an easy mark.”
“He was. After all, he already had another mistress.” His tone is nonjudgemental. “But the best-known Heal’s story about her is that she sold this, the store mascot!”
I stare at the patina on the sleek figure. “I guess she preferred dogs. Maybe she wouldn’t have sold it if this was a Dalmatian.”
Instead of applauding my feeble attempt at a joke, Max groans. “It was for sale, so even though she saw it as embodying the spirit of the store, and told the staff that it granted magic wishes, when a customer wanted to purchase it, she really had no choice.”
“Is this a replacement?”
“No. The staff protested to an appalled Ambrose. He contacted the buyer and canceled the sale. The customer didn’t protest.” He continues with a chuckle. “To make sure it never happened again, he had a sign made—Heal’s Mascot: Not for sale.”
There’s nothing attached to the bottom of the plinth where the cat perches. “What happened to the sign?”
“Probably not needed now.” Max shrugs and pulls an antique postcard out of his pocket. Grasping it between his thumb and forefinger, he presents it to me. It’s dated 1933. On it is a picture of the cat with the captionThe Cat on the Stairs. Mascot of Heal’s Shop.
I clutch it against my chest, then reach up to give him a kiss. “What a great story. Thanks for bringing me.” I grab his hand and hold it all the way down.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Max
By the time we travel from Heal’s to St. John, we are barely on time for our eight p.m. reservation. We walk in to find the place buzzing as usual.
