Scaredy Cat

Chapter One

A man's hand, large and knuckly, reached for the doorknob and slowly turned it. A blade of light from within sliced across his face, and he inclined toward the latch as if to muffle the sound of its opening with his ear. Inside, a beautiful young woman undressed, unaware. Stepping out of a black skirt and high heels, she lifted her slip to reveal long shapely legs, and undid the garters from her stockings. Then she sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled one stocking down along her thigh, over her knee, and past a provocatively arched foot. Some tiny noise, a catch in his breath perhaps, reached her ear, and she stopped for a moment, motionless.

Dear God, thought Everly. Get out of there before it's too late! He's practically in the room with you and he's got a knife and hey, do women actually wear slips and garter belts anymore or is that just wishful thinking by the movie director? Or maybe they do, all the glamorous ones, and I'm just one of the ones they forgot to tell, walking around in nylon knee highs. She pulled her blanket tighter. It was Friday night, about an hour into her movie, and as usual, she was cursing her choice of entertainment. Stiff with tension, cold with fear, her rational brain knew that she was alone, and safe, in her apartment. Her irrational brain, however, was less certain. 

Cautiously, she fingered the remote underneath the blanket, taking the volume down another notch. There would be screaming on the TV soon, and the quieter the better. Her ears were wide open, protruding from her head, she imagined, scanning like radar dishes for the smallest disturbance from inside the apartment. So far, so good. No unfamiliar noises, no creaks, no thumps, no shuffles. She ventured a hand up to rub her neck.

In the next room, unbeknownst to Everly, another pair of eyes watched the movie, and glanced occasionally at the tall redhead cowering on the couch. It was Sergeant, a surly grey tomcat that had been foisted on Everly a few weeks earlier by her brother Devon, heading to Europe for an undetermined length of time. From his observation point on the shelving unit that separated the dining room from the living room, Sergeant noted that Everly was wrapped in a blanket – his favourite blanket, in fact – and occupying the choicest spot on the couch. He narrowed his eyes and tapped his tail, not enough to be seen, but just enough to further annoy him. He flattened his ears and moved forward.

On the television screen, flickering in distorted and disturbing close-ups, the doomed beauty was finishing her shower to an ominous soundtrack. Eyes closed, she reached blindly around the shower curtain, groping for a towel. The music swelled. Everly's heart pounded in an irregular rhythm. She coughed, to keep it from stopping altogether, and to give her ears something normal to listen to. Then she hummed a little until her throat convulsed. This was unbearable. The music was louder now, sucking energy from her, so her limbs felt empty and inert. Her body was sinking into the couch like it was quicksand and her breathing was ragged. She couldn't have moved to save her life.

And then she heard the noise. Not in the movie, but in the apartment. A whispery soft nearby noise that sent a streak of sensation up her back, like biting on tinfoil. And as the intruder attacked and the music blared and the towel fell and the cat pounced, Everly flailed her arms and screamed, the louder the better. And then, missing entirely the heroic entrance of the handsome leading man, but realizing (too late) the identity of her own furry attacker, she fainted.

***

The faraway roar in a bottle grew nearer and louder, and settled into distinguishable sounds: her heartbeat, the television, and a dull pounding in her temples. The cold familiar clamminess of her skin told Everly she had fainted – her frequent reaction to crisis or low blood sugar – and was now returning to the real world. She collected the moments that had preceded her faint. The movie... the noise... and of course the wretched cat. Even in her semi-conscious state, Everly was able to feel a flush of embarrassment. Ah well, at least she had been alone when it happened.

The dull pounding was not going away. Apparently it was not a headache, but someone at the door. Everly pulled herself to her hands and knees, massaging her forehead where it had struck the coffee table on the way down. "Just a minute," she called weakly. But too late, for the person making the commotion was now throwing something, a body perhaps, at the door and then – crash! – it flew open and a police officer, gun drawn, burst into the room.

Everly screamed – it seemed like the thing to do – but had the presence of mind to remain conscious and put her hands in the air.

"Where is he, miss? Did you see where he went?"

"Who?" She lowered her hands.

"The perpetrator! The guy who did this to you!"

"Oh. The perpetrator."

The policeman was like a dog on a leash, bouncing and starting in every direction, heaving in his excitement. He was short for a policeman, and muscular, and his blond buzz cut was standing on end. Constable Olsen, said the badge.

"Did I actually call 9-1-1…?"

"Your neighbour heard the disturbance and called it in. I was just a block away on bike patrol." He holstered his gun and eyed her scratched arms and bruised forehead. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Everly winced. Humiliate herself with the truth, or perjure herself with a concocted story? "It was nothing, really; I just heard a noise..."

He pulled out a blue spiral-bound notebook, sat in the nearest chair, and began to write.

"And then… well, I guess I fainted. Silly, really."

"About how tall was he, miss, uh...?"

"Rowan. Everly Rowan. Really he was just... small. Very small."

"Colour of hair?"

"Grey. Probably."

"Grey! That narrows it down. Looks like we're dealing with a seasoned professional." He wrote the word grey and underlined it.

"Or else Sergeant..." she sighed.

He paused in his writing, then looked at her. "It's Constable. Constable Olsen."

"No, I mean the cat. It's not mine. I'm looking after it, but I don't think it likes me. It sneaks up on me sometimes..."

Constable Olsen stared at his notes. Possible cat phobia, he wrote. He looked at Sergeant, who was placid and dignified on the couch, and back at Everly, who was picking cat hairs off her sweater and avoiding his eye. 

"I'll just have a quick look around, to put your mind at ease," he said. He flipped the notebook closed and slid it into his chest pocket, buttoning the flap over it. Then he walked through the apartment, peering behind doors, and using his nightstick to part the coats that hung in the front hall closet. Everly followed, blushing.

"Nice shoes," he said, picking up a black high heel on the end of his stick. "Sexy." 

Everly snatched it and flung it to the back of the closet. "Too high," she said. 

"No such thing," he replied.

In fact, she had never worn them. Way too high for a woman as tall as she was, and way too sexy with their plunging pointy toes. 

Now the constable was perusing the bathroom, opening the door to the medicine cabinet. Everly cleared her throat and he closed the door.

"I'm fine now, really," she said. "And I'm sure it was just the cat. I'm a little nervous sometimes, that's all."

"That's understandable. Good-looking woman like yourself. This the bedroom?" 

Really, this was outrageous. Everly was reluctant to follow him into her bedroom, but afraid of what he and his impudent nightstick might get into if they were left unattended. She settled for waiting in the doorway, fidgeting with the buttons on her cardigan as he looked behind the curtains and under the bed.

Finally he rose, and patted one of the pillows meaningfully. "Any old boyfriends might be wanting to give you a scare?"

"Certainly not, and besides, I'm engaged," she said, illogically. "Listen, I'm fine now, and I'm very sorry for the inconvenience."

"Well for now then, I'll just leave the file open. You can call the station if you remember anything else about the incident." 

She nodded gratefully and walked him toward the door.

"And I'd put some ice on that forehead, miss. Keep the swelling down." He nodded courteously and left.

Outside, in the hallway, Everly's landlord was waiting for him, sniffing around for excitement and peering avidly into the apartment. Everly closed the door and sank against the wall. She was woozy from the faint and embarrassed by the fuss, and although her conscious mind refused to acknowledge it, she was also slightly excited.

***

Everly's sister was an authority on child rearing, having had none of her own yet. Currently the Managing Editor of Mom & Me, a magazine loved by thousands but which she herself found tediously chirpy and upbeat, she had her ambitions set for Expression, the country's leading fashion magazine, whose slightly sardonic tone and more sophisticated perqs were much more to her liking.

Three years older than Everly, Marlene was also six inches shorter, with a blonde rinse and hair extensions. Expensive clothing sat well on her trim body, and her shoes were impeccable. At the moment, having finished eating lunch and shaking her head in amusement at Everly's cat story, she was examining her porcelain nails, applied to her fingertips and finished with a tasteful French manicure for just $46 every two weeks at Studio Lafontaine.

"Everly," she said, admiring the fingernail on the ring finger of her left hand, and the large chunk of change – represented by two engagement rings and a wedding band – that glittered below it. "Now that you're engaged, you've got to start paying more attention to your manicure. People will be noticing your ring, when you point it out to them, and you want to make a nice impression."

Everly mmhmmed. She was rather pleased with the whole engagement ring thing – her hands were lovely, even she acknowledged that, and Simon had chosen wisely. The diamond was modest and elegant, and apart from snagging on her wool sweaters was perfectly suited to her.

Marlene chuckled. "Did I ever tell you how Bobby proposed?"

"Um, I think so. Something about a – "

"Oh, you'd remember! He tied the ring to the pull string on the light bulb in the laundry room. Then he waited for me to come down, in the dark, and turn on the light.” She snickered. 

"It took me a while to notice the ring though, because I was so busy screaming at the man in the loincloth! What a nut he was. So boyish and vulnerable, and yet a little dangerous at the same time. An irresistible combination."

Everly nodded. What a nut, is right. What a deranged wacko bordering on psychopath nut. Marlene was well rid of that one, even if it had cost her the light bulb, the laundry room, and the rest of the house as well.

She thought of Simon. There was definitely a certain vulnerability to him, too. Almost a helplessness, actually. But dangerous? She smiled as she thought of their first romantic tryst. "Don't worry," he had said, taking off his glasses. "I'm only dangerous when I take off my glasses." Then he had wiggled his eyebrows devilishly, blinked myopically, and lunged at Everly's lips. Or at least the general vicinity of her lips. Yes, he was a dear, sweet man, but dangerous? Well, no. Far too well adjusted and mature to be considered dangerous. Thank goodness.

Marlene sighed. "Yes, irresistible to a 22-year-old with no common sense. What a difference between him and Emmett. Now there's a man – true blue, afraid of nothing – and the way he proposed just says it all..." She closed her eyes for a moment of privacy.

Everly closed her eyes respectfully and thought of Simon. He, too, was true blue, loyal to a fault, really. He had stuck with the same law firm for twelve years now, despite never having been given the high-profile cases he longed for. You had to admire loyalty like that. And afraid of nothing. Well, not afraid of nothing, but afraid of just the usual things – the things it was sensible to be afraid of. Heights, crowds, needles, that sort of thing. But not afraid of commitment like some men; she had to give him that. Vulnerable, helpless, loyal to a fault, yes that was Simon alright. She was suddenly feeling just the teensiest bit irritable.

"Well go on, Marlene." 

This newest proposal story she hadn't yet heard, the happy event having just occurred a few days ago. Marlene had been teasing her with hints and tidbits all morning and was apparently now ready to share the exciting climax.

"Alright, here goes. You remember I told you how Emmett always calls me his little angel bear?" Marlene pinked up becomingly. "Well, we were at La Grenouille that evening, and we had just ordered dessert. Emmett ordered the crème caramel, and I ordered the low-fat fruit flan. When the waiter arrived, Emmett leaned forward and took my hand and said, "I love you little angel bear," and the waiter gave me an exquisite little dark brown bear, with cherub wings and outstretched paws. I was a little provoked, actually, because Emmett knows I can't eat chocolate, and besides, did he expect me to pick it up and start gnawing on one of its limbs like a kid with an Easter bunny? But then I noticed a little glimmer between the bear's paws, and I realized that in fact, the angel bear was ceramic, and it was holding out a two-carat marquise-cut centre diamond with channel-set baguettes!" Marlene thrust her hand out to display the ring and inhaled loudly with emotion. "I'd show you the bear, but I'm sorry to say it was broken in all the excitement. When I flung out my arms to embrace Emmett, the waiter wasn't quick enough to save it."

Everly was deeply moved by her sister's story. But she was cross, too. At the waiter, for failing to catch the treasured angel bear. At Marlene, for recklessly flinging her arms around. But most of all, at Simon, who could no more muster up a romantic gesture than walk naked down Rideau Street. Simon, who had proposed while watching a hockey game on television. Simon, whose idea of a pet name was calling her his little string bean, a term of endearment that made the muscles at the back of her neck cramp. Wonderful, perfect Simon, whom she was scheduled to marry in just two months.

Everly lowered her shoulders and pressed two fingers into the bridge of her nose to delay the inevitable tension headache. 

"Marlene, you two are perfect together. I'm very happy for you." And it's true, she was.

***

Everly balanced a grocery bag on her knee as she pulled her keys out of her purse and opened the lobby door. She had bought more than she could comfortably carry, and that was on top of a few books she had picked up at Prospero's Books. Now her arms and shoulders were aching, and her neck was verging on spasm.

Inside, the landlord was waiting, lounging in the lobby with a mug of coffee as he often did, keeping tabs on the tenants' comings and goings. His bulk overflowed the club chair he sat in, and he made no pretence of rising to help Everly.

"All recovered from your big scare?" he asked.

Everly smiled thinly. 

"Just a false alarm, as it turned out," she said.

"Yes, well, cats can be very alarming, and they do a lot of damage to apartments too, with their claws, and their litter boxes and such." He nodded knowingly, and his chins appeared and disappeared again.

Everly could feel the book under her arm sliding out of place, working its way down her body until it was held only by her forearm against her hip. She would dearly have liked to stop and rearrange her purchases, but she did not want to encourage the landlord's train of thought, so she hoisted everything up and pinned the book more firmly against her side with her elbow. "It's a very well behaved cat, Mr. Fleming," she said, "and I'm only keeping it for a short while." The book fell to the ground.

"If it was that well behaved, we wouldn't have had a visit from the police, now would we?" Mr. Fleming was smirking as Everly put down a bag and picked up the book. The bag leaned sideways and three apples rolled out. A litre of milk toppled but did not spill. Everly sighed.

A handsome man with a honey brown ponytail came around the corner and into the lobby. Mr. Fleming spotted him and repeated his comment for the newcomer's benefit. "No, we wouldn't have had a visit from the police, would we, eh?"

Everly's cheeks reddened. She put the book and the other bag on the floor, then followed the apples to where they had rolled, trying to think of something to say that would explain the situation to the stranger. Fortunately, though, he appeared not to have heard the landlord's remark, and was stopping to pick up an apple himself. He picked up the book next and glanced at the title before tucking it back into the grocery bag.

"Looks interesting," he said in a gentle voice, and lifted the groceries.

"Oh, it's just light reading. Nothing important." Everly reached for the bags.

"Can I carry these for you?" he offered.

"No, no, thank you so much." Everly smiled at him, flustered, and made for the stairs. 

He watched her go, thoughtfully.

"Well, let's not have any more false alarms, then," called the landlord after her. Everly chose to ignore that.

***

That evening, Everly called Simon, and casually mentioned her embarrassing incident the night before. He responded as she had hoped he would, clicking his tongue sympathetically at the cat's wickedness, and agreeing that the neighbour must be one of those loony old women who make frequent and bothersome calls to the police. He chuckled at the part where Constable Olsen underlined the word 'grey' – Everly managed to tell it so that it sounded almost witty, as though she had been poking fun at the officer with tongue-in-cheek replies to his stodgy interrogation. Dignity thus restored, Everly felt the whole story had become quite entertaining, and resolved to tell it again, even more cleverly, at the next staff meeting at school.

In the meantime, she was feeling very kindly disposed toward Simon, and suggested that he might want to come over and plot the cat's demise over milk and cookies. He accepted and was at her apartment within the hour. Everly met him at the door in a soft grey V-neck pullover and matching jeans. Normally she would have worn a white T-shirt under the sweater, but tonight, daringly, she had left it off. At the right moment – perhaps when she was refilling his glass of milk – she would lean over a little further than necessary and give Simon a peek at her breasts. He was mad about them, and this would certainly ignite a passionate response.

Simon hugged her in greeting and raised his eyebrows appreciatively at her outfit. "You look rather fetching for someone who narrowly escaped death last night," he teased. 

He didn't look too shabby himself. Tall and rangy, with a neat haircut still damp from his shower, he was a man whose face inspired calm and trust. His nose was unassuming, his mouth was pleasant, and his eyebrows tilted upwards in a mildly apologetic look – a look that served him well with juries, who were inclined to think the worst of lawyers, and accepted the apology as only fitting. His eyes were teddy bear brown behind his glasses.

Everly smiled warmly and ran her hand down his arm as she helped him out of his jacket. Hanging it in the closet, she remembered the black shoe, and retrieved it from the back corner. 

"That awful policeman had his nose into everything last night. He actually picked up my shoe with his baton!", Everly said.

"Whoa – I haven't seen you wear those before!"

"No, I never wear them, really, they're – "

"Too high," he supplied.

"Well, I suppose so, although a lot of women wear heels higher than – "

"Too high for you," he amended.

"Not too high, just a little uncomfortable," she protested. It's not like she would hit her head on the doorframe if she wore them, for heaven's sake.

"And a bit too sexy for my little string bean," Simon added lovingly, oblivious to the increasing stiffness of her back.

"Simon, I've asked you not to call me that," she murmured.

"Everly. Sorry. Now, where are those cookies somebody promised me?" 

They moved into the kitchen, where a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies waited on the counter, but by now Everly felt cold and deflated. She excused herself and went to the bedroom.

"So, tell me again why you even have that cat?" Simon called. Sound of fridge opening, splash of milk.

"Nobody else would take it. Father's allergic and Marlene hates cat hair. Anyway, I'm just looking after it until Devon gets back from Europe."

"And when is he coming back?"

"Not soon enough."

Everly returned to the kitchen. "Listen, Simon, I've been meaning to talk to you about something."

"Oh – you changed."

"It's a bit chilly in here. Simon, sometimes I think our relationship is a bit – I mean, we're just – I think we could stand a little heat, a little fire. It just seems too... comfortable already."

Simon shook his head, confused. "How can a relationship be too comfortable? Isn't that a good thing?"

"Of course it is, but – don't you want to be carried away with passion, Simon? Don't you want to lose control and do something outrageous for a change?"

"No." He blinked. "Everly, you know I love you."

"I know. And I love you too."

"But...?"

"But I need some excitement, I need a romantic gesture. Simon – can you ever see yourself making a crazy, spontaneous romantic gesture?"

He stared at her, baffled. Then he slowly lifted his fingertips to his lips, kissed them, and blew lightly in Everly's direction. He smiled hopefully.

Everly sighed and smiled and leaned forward to embrace him. It was hopeless. She was doomed.

***

Dare to be Great!  The Morris Method of Creative Risk-taking by Lana B. Morris, Ph.D.

Have you ever noticed that the women we truly admire are not afraid to take risks? Think of Amelia Earhart, Margaret Thatcher, Mother Theresa, or Grandma Moses... hardly Amazons, any of them, and yet none of these women could have achieved greatness without taking a risk – the risk of injury, the risk of ridicule, the risk of failing to accomplish what she had set out to do. This willingness to take risks, to dare, can be a creative force for change in your life, too. Just follow the easy 10-step Morris Method of Creative Risk-taking and dare to enjoy all the same rewards these women have earned: fame, fortune, and fulfilment!

As a woman, you begin life with only modest amounts of testosterone, and you are conditioned from birth to be more cautious, less aggressive in play. You develop a higher need for approval than your brothers, and a less-assertive social style. As you mature, your smaller, weaker body hits you with the double whammy of breasts and menstruation. Later, pregnancy and childbirth further decrease your derring-do. Motherhood can positively undo you – what used to be harmless fun now seems fraught with danger, and very often, a woman accustomed to giving constant warnings to her young children will unconsciously translate that caution into her own life as well. The result? A middle-aged woman who takes fewer risks, lives a careful, more conservative lifestyle, and senses, too late, that she is missing out on life!

All of this is natural and understandable; nevertheless, it is the worst thing you can let happen! That creeping sense of carefulness will deprive you of many of life's pleasures, and ultimately cause you to become less of an individual, less of a woman, than you yearn to be. In the coming pages, you will discover just how easy it is to become a bolder, brighter, more daring woman.

Follow the 10 easy steps outlined in the Morris Method of Creative Risk-taking, and here's what you'll learn: Step 1: Make the commitment. Throw away your security blanket and wake up your spirit of adventure! Step 2: Identify the insecurities. Do a little soul-searching and find out what's stopping you from daring to be great. Step 3: Eliminate the obstacles. Get rid of your insecurities and replace them with focus. Step 4: Level I risks. Warm up your derring-do with these non-threatening mini-risks. Step 5: Look the part. Greatness does not come easily to mousy little women dressed in beige. Let your appearance kick-start your courage! Step 6: Cover the angles. Even the most daring woman needs a safety zone. Find a secret place and a special person for moral support. Step 7: Level II risks. Crank up the level of risk... and the level of reward. Step 8: Play the odds. Risk does not equal reckless! Analyze what can go wrong, and what will happen if it does. Step 9: Level III risks. You're as ready as you'll ever be. Go big or go home with the high-adrenalin Level III risk – a matter of life or death! Step 10: Set your goals. Is it love you're after? Fortune? Fame? Find out what your heart desires and go after it!

Courage isn't a special quality given only to a few; it can grow and thrive in anyone. All it takes is desire – I know, because I've been there. So take a breath, turn the page, and plunge right in. Nurture your courage and set free your sense of adventure... so you, too, can dare to be great!

Lana B. Morris, Ph.D.

***

Everly lowered the book thoughtfully and stared at the wall. A tiny red spider was moving slowly toward the ceiling. Yes, she mused, this was her whole problem. A creeping sense of carefulness. Except that in her case it had been creeping not since motherhood, which hadn't happened yet, but since her own childhood, when the first bouts of growth had elongated her legs and tangled her feet; and her mother's every caution to "Be careful, Everly, you'll fall", was followed by an obedient tumble and a skinned knee or bruised shin. And as she continued to grow, until she towered over her sister, until she inched past her mother, until she looked her father and brother in the eye, she also continued to fall, and scrape, and skin, and bruise, never quite careful enough, it seemed.

Puberty, at 12, was unthinkable. That the long and fearsome body could become even more unmanageable, with sudden breasts pointing every which way, and sudden hips knocking her centre of gravity further askew, did not bear remembering. But when the whole calamitous process finally came to a standstill, Everly stood still at 6 feet tall, 5'10" if she slouched. Her flash of gingersnap hair only added to her misery, illuminating her height like a beacon on a mountaintop. 

The falls stopped after that. Everly moved with deliberation, ran only when necessary, and danced not at all. With whom would she dance, in any case? Certainly none of the lithe, shorter-by-a-head boys who moved in a herd at school, grazing and gazing near the pretty blonde girls, and bolting in unison when spooked. Certainly not the only boy tall enough to be linked to her in the wretched school newspaper – a boy with feet so large he had to wear leather moccasins specially sewn for him by an upholsterer in town. She had quite liked that boy, but the prospect of the two of them swaying giraffe-like through the halls together was too horrible to contemplate. And so she had sat out the dances, sat them out at home, longing a little after this boy or that, but very careful not to fall.

Well, it's a long time and far away from high school, thought Everly. I know how to walk gracefully now, even when somebody's looking at me. I'm one of the best history teachers in the city. I've travelled – to Toronto and Quebec City, and even Florida – and I've dated my share of men. And now I'm engaged to wonderful, perfect Simon McCallum. My life is good. Except for the cat, and a creeping sense of carefulness, my life is extremely good. And this is just the book to make it better.

She rose from the couch and took off her shoe. Mentally apologizing to the spider, she pressed the shoe against it into the wall, taking care not to leave a smear. She pulled a tissue from the cuff of her sweater and dabbed up the remains. Then she folded the tissue in on itself several times and put it into the garbage can, wedging it between a candy wrapper and an envelope to prevent it from unfolding. She washed her hands and returned to the couch.

This would not be like the other self-help books she had purchased, read with a growing sense of impossibility, followed half-heartedly for a day or two, and then discarded in the pile marked 'Neighbourhood Services'. This would be different. Everly could feel her spine straightening, her neck tightening, her lungs filling with the bigness of her resolve. She was going to do something drastic, something rash and exhilarating, something that would give wonderful, perfect Simon a glimpse of the dynamic woman his future bride would be.

And before Everly had finished even the first chapter of her book, she had fulfilled that resolve, though not, perhaps, in the manner Lana B. Morris PhD. might have recommended. Ignoring the doctor's suggestion to start with small, carefully orchestrated acts of courage and then work up to the big ones – that's what skipping ahead in a book will do to you – Everly began with a large act of courage, or perhaps madness, that was entirely unexpected by all parties concerned.