Page 22 of Just Fur Tonight
It is a wonderful arrangement. I’m all smiles and friendliness, while Veronica has talked Billy into throwing tennis balls at me whenever she catches me daydreaming about my girl. After a particularly effective serve, I complained to Gabriella about bruises. To which she reminded me of my werewolf abilities, and claimed that as a fellow member of the Curiosity sewing circle, she had to remain an impartial body.
I responded with a corny pun about being partial to her body. She laughed and kicked me out of the cafe, with a complimentary ice pack.
We do everything together that we can, and not once has she ever shown any fear or hesitancy when it comes to my werewolf aspect—a fact that couldn’t have made me more pleased. She even claims to prefer my shifted form at times, saying that she never had a dog growing up and now she gets a furry companion for free, that is also completely housebroken. For that one, I tackled her to the bed as she cackled loudly, and we did not leave the bedroom for several more hours after that.
Gabriella demands that I accompany her as she runs errands through the town. I love that she insists on bringing me with her anywhere, as often as she can. We walk hand in hand down the sidewalk, and before long she is pulling me into an antique store, excitement bursting from the bounce of her step.
“I forgot, I still need to grab something for Carolyn’s birthday,” she offers, by way of explanation.
Giving a small wave to Mrs. Fogharty, the hag that runs the shop, we venture inside. The semi-permanent layer of dust threatens my nose, but watching Gabriella discover something new about the town is worth the irritation. We meander through the shop, taking in all the various baubles that no one would otherwise have any interest in.
“Oh! What do you think of this? I think this would be perfect for when she has company come over,” Gabriella explains, holding up the ceramic tea set.
It’s in pristine condition, all white enamel with red and yellow roses, and gold embossing. “Well, it is designed to contain warm liquid,” I offer helpfully. “So that will be a hit with her family.”
Gabriella’s face falls. “No good then?” I shoot a glance over at Mrs. Fogharty, who is grinding some dark, sticky substance into her pestle and mortar. She doesn’t bother to look up, yet gives a small, but telling shake of her head.
“Maybe something less flowery,” I hedge. “Carolyn isn’t exactly the type to host tea parties, at any rate.”
“That’s fair, I suppose. Hmm,” Gabriella hums thoughtfully as she explores the store, sifting through various objects. “What about this?” she asks, pointing to an overly ornate grandfather clock, carved from distressed wood.
Another discreet peek shows a frown of disapproval from Mrs. Fogharty. “It might be too big for her place. Maybe something a little more economical?”
“Clocks are plenty useful,” Gabriella grumbles, but she continues her search. A set of knives, and a rather intricate umbrella, all turn up no, before she is able to find the perfect present. It’s an old record player, or at least an amalgamation of one, that some poor sound engineer constructed from a phonograph, and antique radio parts.
Mrs. Fogharty’s nod of acceptance seals the deal, and assures us of the quality of sound. She rings us up silently while smearing her mysterious paste across a crude doll, and I politely introduce the two women. Gabriella is all her usual smiles and charm, tactfully ignoring the doll, but she falters when Mrs. Fogharty holds out her gnarled hand expectantly after the purchase is made.
Gabriella turns to me in confusion, and I hasten to explain. “Mrs. Fogharty here is the Hag of the Bog, and hags don’t take traditional forms of payment. The money you gave her is for tax purposes, so she can operate a business, but she requires an additional payment worth the value of the object, for the exchange to be complete.”
“An exchange of equivalent value? I don’t know if I have something that’s as valuable as an antique phonograph,” Gabriella replies. “I didn’t even think there was a bog around here anyway.”
Mrs. Fogharty’s eyes narrow in dangerous warning. “Eh, not really the point, my love,” I suggest diplomatically. “What that means essentially, is that she has provided you with a necessary gift, and now you must offer a gift of your own in exchange.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t have much on me at the moment,” she thinks for a moment, then suddenly begins digging through her bright red handbag. “But I do have some leftover snacks from Lilah’s!”
She fishes through, and pulls out a small box with Lilah’s signature script. Opening it draws Mrs. Fogharty’s eyes wide, to reveal three eclairs, all topped with unusual colored icing- in shades of fuzzy moss, purple goop, and oozing boils. Nodding vigorously, Mrs. Fogharty accepts the eclairs with a twisted smile of cracked teeth, along with Gabriella’s promise to stop by later with a batch of grave-soil cupcakes.
It’s only after we leave the shop with our purchase, that Gabriella tells me she never intended to eat the eclairs anyway, but just couldn’t tell Lilah ‘no’, after the baker was so excited to show off her latest creations. “Maybe the moss-colored one, but I suspect that she used actual moss,” Gabriella concedes.
I continue to work closely with her as she acclimates to our unique little town, in little ways, and she learns to adjust. Gabriella is positively stupefied when she discovers how the town residents were just as nervous at her arrival, being one of the few ‘normies’ to grace the streets of Curiosity, and the only true outsider.
She starts to incorporate more changes to her cafe, and makes more of an effort to get to know some of our town’s more colorful individuals. For example, when Dylan complained of a crick in his neck one day while visiting the cafe with Carolyn, Gabriella actually offered to check the bolts at his collarbone.
Carolyn told me later she was positively floored when Gabriella examined the lug-nuts and stitching with clinical professionalism, and confidently declared that one of the bolts was indeed loose, then proceeded to tighten it correctly, right there on the spot. Now Dylan—who was entirely suspicious of Ms. Perez as soon as she crossed the town limits—now insists on stopping by the cafe at least once a day for coffee, and to say ‘hi’ to the owner.
For me, watching Gabriella flourish here in Curiosity is a magnificent sight. Watching her grow in confidence with each passing day, fills me with more pride and joy than I ever expected. She’s even taken to some of the residents’ suggestions on her cafe, and it has quickly turned into the bustling business Gabriella had always hoped for, even if it isn’t the one she exactly envisioned.
Like when Mrs. Murphy generously offered her taxidermy collection, to give the cafe a more natural, homely feel. Back at our place, Gabriella positively balked at the idea of putting dead animals next to her food, until I pointed out that plenty of steakhouses keep steer heads mounted for decoration. Now, she pets Tycho the Squirrel every morning before she opensfor luck, she claims, as he guards her cash register faithfully.
Besides half of Mrs. Murphy’s stuffed menagerie – apparently the entire collection wouldn’t fit in the cafe, much to Mr. Murphy’s chagrin – Gabriella has allowed Twila to hang her bone talismans in the rose trellis to ward off evil spirits, has given Sybil’s nephew Mauricio his own private table to practice crystal ball readings with; and has even installed a cupboard filled with board games, for the ghost residents who can’t eat, but still want to enjoy the company that stops by.
But it’s Alecto Connors suggestion of a planted sapling at the cafe that piques my interest. The greenery owner is a naturalist as well as a non-binary leprechaun, and we have always gotten along well, both being nature lovers. When they suggested planting a tree to mark the rebirth of the cafe, and to crown its new ownership, I saw Gabriella’s eyes positively sparkle with delight, and she seemed to glow as she clapped her hands and spun.
“Oh that’s an absolutely wonderful idea, Alecto! But where would we plant it?” she wondered, looking out toward the sidewalk.
From my bar-stool at the counter, I watch as she looks out the window and discusses plans with Alecto animatedly. I’m reminded of the first time we met, when the cafe was still shuttered and shadowed, but her smile was still as bright as the sun. Much like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day, suddenly an idea pops into my head, more like an epiphany, or a long-drawn conclusion.
“Don’t worry about it, Gabriella,” I say smoothly, cutting into the conversation. “Just leave the planning to Alecto and me. We’ll get it done.”