Page 41 of Enemies to French Kisses
“Here we are,”I say turning the key for the fourth time in the lock. The intense door locking functions in this building sure outstrip the deadbolt on our apartment.
Then again, if the marble floors and brass railings are any sign, people who live here spend more time trying to keep people out than worrying about the time it takes them to get in.
“I’m feeling very tired.” Marc leans against the side of a crushed velour sofa as a black cat hops onto the sofa’s edge. “Delia, ma chérie.Tu m’as manqué.” Horror suddenly crosses his face. “How long have I been in the hospital?”
“A day.”
He lets out a long sigh as he pets the kitty. “I was worried perhaps Delia hadn’t eaten, poor thing. Would you mind feeding her? I really need to lie down.”
I find an alcove for my handbag and a brass hook that looks ten times more expensive than the coat I just hung on it. “Of course I’ll feed her. Just—um—where’s her food?” I don’t know how much this whole marriage thing has messed with his sense of reality.
“Where it always is. Basket in the kitchen.”
“Kitchen, got it.”
Don’t got it.
This kitchen is twice as big as the apartment I share with five other girls. The cabinetry alone uses enough hardwood to build a ship and the granite counters disappear into the horizon, which is only a mild exaggeration. I open cupboards and drawers—is that a fake moustache? Weird—but nothing resembles cat food. Plus everything is impeccable. Ultimately, that’s my only saving grace, as the woven basket is the only item on the sprawling stretch of countertop.
The cat food is in jars. Mason jars. As in, it’s homemade cat food.
“How much do I give her?”
“A whole jar. I will make more next week.”
“Youmake it?”
“I want her to eat as well as I do.”
How is a self-absorbed chauvinist emotionally capable of preparing homemade organic food for his kitty?
This is the moment when the pillars of what I thought I knew about Marc start to crack for real.
A glass bowl—no, wait—crystalbowl is set beside the basket, which I fill and then place on the floor. The sound of crystal on marble echoes like being in a museum.
“Laura?”
“Yes?”
“Why aren’t you feeding Delia in her room? My head is pounding so badly.”
I’m not sure how to answer this question since I have never set foot in this apartment, much less ever would have believed that the cat has her own room. But I don’t want to upset him, so I poke around. Since I’m going to be staying here tonight, I might as well get to know the place.
Easier said than done. I’ve found one full bathroom, a powder room, Delia’s room (full of toys and scratchers from floor to ceiling), an office, a guest room, and a hallway that must lead to the master bedroom.
“There you go, little girl.”
Delia purrs and asks for back scratches as she eats. I get the sense that what Delia wants, Delia gets.
“Maybe you should think about getting into bed—” I start but Marc is asleep on the sofa, a too-small throw haphazardly pulled up to his chin.
“Marc?” I say it gentle, like when I used to rouse Brian from a nap, but he doesn’t stir.
A gray and white shag rug cushions my knees as I kneel beside him.
“Marc?”
I rest my hand on his arm, not wanting to wake him suddenly, but still nothing. Is he breathing? I put my hand by his nose to feel for air, just like I did with Brian. Yes, he’s breathing. His chest rises and falls in steady succession, thank the Lord above.
