Just in Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

understatement of the year, because if he’d ever seen an old-lady apartment, this was it. The couch was flowered. The chair was flowered—with different flowers. It was like a bloody garden in here, though a fairly musty-smelling one. There were cushions everywhere, most of them with little tufts or big, hard buttons, looking like nothing he’d want to lean his head against. Framed prints on the wall, the most loathsome one, over the couch, featuring a cottage in the middle of a garden, with brightly lit windows glowing cozily in the twilight. A painting he was already placing on his personal Most-Hated list, and he’d only been looking at it for a minute. Every little table, and there were heaps of little tables, was wearing a skirt, like God hated a naked table. And there were flowers on the skirted tables, because apparently you could never have too many flowers. He fingered a petal. Silk flowers, he guessed. And ceramic statues of cats. Even the dining-room table had a skirt, with a glass top over it. And fake flowers on it, with some cats posed around the vase in a circle. Crouching cats. Stretching cats. Cats curled in sleep. Cats with kittens. Many, many too many cats.
    “Her son didn’t want the cats?” he asked. “Or the flowers?”
    “Ah…no. But I’ll get rid of them,” she promised. “And anything else you don’t want around, if you decide to take the place. I should’ve donated them already. But let me show you the kitchen.”
    She led the way into it, and as always, he enjoyed following her. There weren’t flowers in here, at least. Looked like a kitchen. Except for the canisters, which were in the shape of cats. He lifted the head off a Siamese and peered inside. Tea.
    “Still some basic staples in here,” she said encouragingly. “So you wouldn’t have to do so much shopping. As long as you like, you know, tea and cookies.”
    “I’m from New Zealand. I have to like tea and bikkies. It’s required.”
    The bedroom was more of the same, and he eyed the pink-canopied bed with a jaundiced eye. Canopied? This lady had clearly been the last of the true romantics. But the worst was the bathroom. Painted pink. “Why is there a Barbie on the toilet?” he asked. “Case I get bored?”
    “Not a Barbie.” Faith lifted the plastic doll, revealing what was under the flounced white crocheted skirt. “Look at this! Your new apartment comes equipped with an extra roll of toilet paper!”
    “Brilliant. Well, it’s got a bathroom and a kitchen, anyway. Bigger than one of those extended-stay places by the airport, and the price is better, too. One thing you can say about this—it isn’t sterile.” He spent enough of his life in hotel rooms. He didn’t need to spend his holiday in another one. If he’d been in New Zealand, he’d have been in a bach, somebody’s holiday home, with all their bits and bobs about. It was comfier that way, even if you didn’t much care for their bits and bobs. And it was an excuse to get closer to Faith. That, most of all. “But if it’s all right with you, I’ll bung that doll into a drawer somewhere, along with a few other things. That thing is going to give me nightmares, staring at me while I’m on the loo.”
    “I’ll take it.” No smile this time, and she tucked it into her arm a bit protectively.
    “Sorry. No accounting for my bad taste, I guess.”
    “No, it’s terrible, you’re right, and so are the cats. It’s just…I liked Mrs. Ferguson. I wouldn’t use this, but I’ll…I don’t know.” She fingered the doll’s flounced skirt. “She’d crocheted me an afghan for Christmas. I opened it after she was gone. Her arthritis was bad, but she still did it, just because she needed to do things for people. She was that sort of person.” Her voice wasn’t quite steady now. “I miss her.”
    He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. He knew about missing people, though. About the ache that settled low in your chest, the tears that