Chapter Five
I wave goodbye to Sky, grab my folders and purse, and hurry out to my car. “Hello?”
“Emily, it’s Jonathan Silver. I hope I’m not interrupting you.”
“Not at all Jonathan,” I say as I plug in my Bluetooth. “What can I do for you?”
“Something came up at work tomorrow afternoon and I can’t make our meeting. I was wondering if we might be able to get together tonight after I get home from the airport.”
“Tonight?” I practically squeak. There’s no way I can have a presentation ready for him so quickly.
“Where do you live?” he asks. He wants to come to my house?
“I’m on Burton Way in Beverly Hills. Where are you?”
“I’m in Beverly Hills, as well. Would you mind if I stopped by around nine o’clock? I know it’s late, but I don’t want to put off our meeting for too long.”
“I guess that would be okay,” I say while turning around on Sunset Boulevard and heading in the direction of Los Feliz.
After I give him my address, he says, “I’ll see you then.” He hangs up before I have a chance to respond.
I never let clients come to my house, not that anyone has ever asked to before. I mean, why would they? I either meet them at their place or some public location. I wonder if I should call Jonathan back. I don’t have a chance though because my phone rings again and I’m on a call with a client all the way to my destination.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity and I don’t get home until eight o’clock. Dim lighting will have to hide the fact that I haven’t dusted in two weeks. I hurry to take a shower and blow-dry my hair before popping open a bottle of wine and uncovering the small charcuterie platter I bought at Bristol Farms on my way home.
By the time the clock strikes nine, the lights are dimmed and there’s a fire crackling in the fireplace. I suddenly realize that my goal to cover up my lack of housekeeping skills has made things appear too romantic, but I don’t have a chance to change anything because the doorbell rings.
I hurry to straighten my top. Shoot, maybe I should have worn a suit instead of a vintage INXS t-shirt and jeans. This is why you shouldn’t let clients into your home. The whole situation is unnatural and is throwing a major curve ball into my normally chill game.
I pull open the door and say, “Hey.” It’s not Jonathan, though. It’s my neighbor, Mrs. Feldman, all four feet nine of her. She’s wearing a housecoat and is carrying a flashlight. She announces, “Mr. Knuckles got out again and he went straight for the tree. Can you help me, dear?”
“The magnolia tree again?” I ask while grabbing my tennis shoes from under the bench in the entryway.
She nods her graying head. “That kitty is going to get himself killed if he’s not more careful.” She looks like she could have played a hobbit in the Lord of the Rings franchise.
“I’m expecting company,” I tell my neighbor, “but I should have enough time to get Mr. Knuckles for you.” I hurry outside and ask her to point to the area where her cat is. Then I clasp my hands around the lowest branch and throw my leg over it to get enough leverage to climb up.
Mr. Knuckles is the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen. He looks like the offspring of an orange calico and black and gray longhair. His temperament matches his appearance, but Mrs. Feldman doesn’t care. She loves the mangy thing.
“To the left!” she calls out. “No, your other left!”
“Mrs. Feldman, I’ll follow the light. Keep the light on Mr. Knuckles and I’ll find him.”
I hear a loud hiss and a screech, and I stop moving along the branch I’m standing on. There’s more than one wild animal in this tree and I briefly worry it might be a raccoon. I sure as heck don’t want to mess with one of those.
“Mrs. Feldman,” I call down, “I’m going to throw my shoes in Mr. Knuckles’ direction and try to get him to come down on his own. There’s something else up here.”
“Don’t hurt him!”
I’d like to bean the little turd right on the head for having me up a tree for the third time this week, but I promise, “I’ll throw it next to him, not at him.” I toss my New Balance sneaker to the right of my nemesis and all he does is hiss at me.
So, I slip off my other shoe and throw it closer to him. His back arches before jumping to the ground. Mrs. Feldman scoops him up and scolds, “You’re a bad boy and I’m not giving you any catnip tonight.”
That’ll show Mr. Knuckles.
Mrs. Feldman and her demon pet head back into her townhouse without another word to me. I’ve never tried to climb in or out of a tree without shoes on and the bottom of my bare feet aren’t very happy at the thought of it.
Stepping on a knotty spot on the branch, I let out a cry of agony. I mumble something about good for nothing pain in the butt hairy rodents trying to pass for cats when I hear a deep voice call out, “Are you okay up there?”
I didn’t hear anyone coming or I would have kept my rant to myself. “Yeah, I’m good, thanks.”
“Do you need a hand?”
“If you wouldn’t mind standing there while I try to figure out how to get down, I’d appreciate it.” I might need someone to call the fire department to rescue me.
The bottoms of my feet can’t handle climbing down the same way I climbed up, so I squat down and sit in the fork between the branch and trunk. The voice below yells out, “Why don’t you just jump?”
“I don’t have my shoes on,” I answer. I can’t see what my rescuer looks like because Mrs. Feldman took her flashlight with her, but I see the shadow of him. “I don’t want to rip my feet up,” I explain.
“Maybe that’s something you should have thought about before climbing a tree barefoot at nine o’clock at night.”
“Yeah, I’ve definitely learned my lesson,” I reply sarcastically. What kind of Good Samaritan scolds the person he’s offering to help? “Do you see where I’m sitting?” I ask.
“I do,” comes his quick reply.
“I’m going to scoot down. Maybe you could try to catch me?”
“How much do you weigh?” he calls up.
Is he kidding me? I’m not going to tell him how much I weigh. I answer, “A hundred and five pounds.” Won’t he be in for a shock when that extra thirty-five pounds hits him?
“One, two …” I launch myself at the same time I shout three, catching my knight in shining armor unaware. We both slam into the ground with zero amount of grace. The good news is he softens my landing.
While pushing me off him, he admonishes, “It’s three and then the jump. Not three on the jump.”
“Says who?” I demand while averting my gaze. I feel the tiniest bit embarrassed by my less-than-elegant descent.
“Says everyone who’s ever correctly participated in a countdown,” he counters. “When NASA counts down a launch, it’s five, four, three, two, one, blastoff. Not five, four, three, two, blastoff.”
After standing up and dusting myself off, I start to hunt for my shoes. Once I have them, I say, “I beg your forgiveness. Thanks for your help.” I don’t sound in the least sincere. I just turn around and walk back to my townhouse, leaving the know-it-all behind.
Distracting myself from my pained feet, I wonder, “Where the heck is Jonathan Silver, anyway?” I want to hurry up and get this meeting over with so I can go to bed. Once I get to my porch, I open the door and throw my shoes in ahead of me. I nearly plotz when I realize I’m not alone. My would-be helper is standing right next to me. OMG, is he a criminal or something?
I’m about to open my mouth and scream when he says, “You’re Emily Hargrove?”
“Jonathan Silver?” I demand. I should have recognized his voice, or you know, opened my eyes when I landed on him, but I was too busy being annoyed.