Page 3 of Foxer Upper (Harmony Glen #8)

MAGGIE

When I get home, there’s a basket on my front porch.

It’s full of all sorts of things: snacks, bottled water, fresh flowers, a bag of coffee, French bread, coupons to local businesses.

The card says it’s from the Harmony Glen Welcome Wagon.

I wonder if that’s a real thing or if Laney had something to do with this.

My best friend is stoked that I’m back, and I remember her mentioning something about the orc who owns the local bakery.

She could have easily put this together.

Though, if she had, she probably would have told me.

And Harmony Glen is the sort of town that would have a welcome wagon.

I bring it all in and set it in the wreck that is my kitchen.

A quick look through the coupons tells me that they’ll be useful: I can get ten percent off a purchase at Harmony Hardware; a discount on pet prescriptions at The Lion’s Paw, the local vet clinic; and a BOGO item under five dollars at Nifty Thrifty, which I have to assume is a thrift store.

But all of that can wait. First, I have a mission.

I grab a plastic plate out of the cabinet and scoop a can of cat food onto it. “Here’s hoping he likes ocean whitefish,” I mutter, heading out into the tangle of my backyard. I ease toward the tree line, trying not to make too much noise. The last thing I want to do is scare the cat into hiding.

I set the plate near the last tree I saw him at and back away slowly. I go far enough to seem unthreatening—I hope—but not so far as to lose sight of him if he appears. It takes about twenty minutes, but eventually he emerges from a small bush, nose in the air, sniffing intently.

The scent of the cat food draws him right in, and he crouches in front of the plate, licking away. Apparently, seafood is acceptable to him, at least for now. I’ve dealt with enough cats to know that they can turn picky on a dime.

I wait until he’s licked the plate clean and is busy smacking and bathing before I pst pst at him. “Here, kitty kitty,” I call softly.

I expect him to turn tail and scamper away, but instead he shifts slowly and stares at me with huge golden eyes. I waggle my fingers against the grass. “Come here, kitty. Let’s be friends.”

Slowly, and with what can only be described as regal posture, he stands, sticks his tail straight into the air, and marches right up to me. When he reaches me, he sits down in front of me, his paws together and his giant, fluffy tail wrapped around his lower body like a scarf.

I reach out a tentative hand to pet him and he gives an encouraging bonk. A few scritches later, and he’s actually purring.

Holy cow, this little dude is friendly. Like, super friendly. It’s amazing what a can of ocean whitefish can get you these days.

I pat my thigh, inviting him onto my lap, and he climbs aboard, still purring and bonking. After a few minutes, he settles comfortably, seemingly content to hang out with me. When I talk to him, he looks up at me with his unsettling eyes, staring intently.

“I’m Maggie,” I tell him. “Would you like to come inside and live with me? We could be friends.”

He continues to stare, but makes a few gentle biscuits on my leg. I take it as a good sign. “Okay, cool, I think you like that idea.”

“First off, we need to get you a name,” I say, tapping my lip. I study his fluff, which is more cow pattern than tabby stripe. “You’re mostly orange. How do you feel about…Pumpkin? Or Spice?”

He stares at me without blinking.

“Hmm, okay, I’ll take that as a no. What about a traditional cat name? Fluffy?”

Stare.

“Garfield?”

Stare.

“All right, you aspire to something more unique. What about a literary name? Something from T.S. Eliot, maybe?” I close my eyes and try to think of names from Cats . “How do you feel about Skimbleshanks or Rumpleteazer?”

Stare.

I sigh. “What about a human name?” He flicks his tail ever so slightly, which I take as a sign of encouragement. “Oliver? Rupert? Everett? Jimmy Joe?”

Stare.

“Jasper?”

He slow-blinks twice, and I grin, blinking back. “Jasper it is.”

As he snuggles, I pull out my phone and make a quick appointment for tomorrow at the Lion’s Paw. As far as I can tell, Jasper seems perfectly healthy for a stray cat—he’s certainly not feral, as I first believed—but making sure he’s okay and up to date on shots is always a good idea.

MAGGIE

The Lion’s Paw is homey for a medical clinic, not that I’d expect anything less in Harmony Glen.

With two stories of honey-colored wood, big windows, a wraparound porch, and a hand-carved sign with a paw print, it looks more like a home than a clinic.

In fact, it is essentially a converted house that’s been turned into a vet’s office, with a cozy sitting area in front and exam rooms down the hall.

Everything has been designed to make the patients—or their owners, I suppose—feel comfortable.

The waiting room houses big, soft chairs in warm earth tones.

The walls are decorated with wildlife paintings, and a burbling aquarium full of vibrant fish gurgles in one corner.

It even smells comforting; the aroma of cedar and herbs fills the air, cutting the stinging scent of antiseptic.

I ring the bell on the front desk and the town veterinarian appears.

He’s a lion-man named Roarke Khoran, and he immediately escorts us to Exam Room 2.

I have no idea how Jasper will react to being poked and prodded, but he seems to trust the vet.

And I have to say, seeing the big cat tend to my little cat is completely adorable.

Dr. Khoran is patient and takes his time, giving Jasper the full inspection.

“He looks good,” Roarke finally proclaims. “I don’t see any sign of injury or disease, but I want to run blood tests to be sure. He’s not neutered, so you’ll want to get that taken care of.”

I nod. “Definitely. Any chance you can do that today?”

“Sure, if you’re willing to leave him here for a few hours. I can get him vaccinated, too.”

“Sounds good.” I give Jasper a cuddle, tell him I’ll be back soon, and leave my phone number with the front desk, asking that they call as soon as he’s ready.

While I wait, I head over to Cool Beans, the little café not far from my house. When I enter, a little string of bells along the doors tinkles merrily. The rich, nutty scent of coffee immediately fills my nostrils, while soft jazz piano fills the air.

Most of the indoor tables are taken, but there’s only one person in line ahead of me, a pretty brunette in paint-spattered clothes, not unlike my work overalls.

The barista calls out “caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream, for Lila” and the woman scoops it up and heads out.

I order my own drink—a lavender lemonade—along with a sandwich and a side of chips.

I take the beverage—it’s delicious—out to the back deck, which is situated along the river.

I can get some admin work done while I wait, which is good.

I need to plan some new content, and maybe head over to the thrift store to see what I can find.

Thrift flip videos tend to do well for me.

I pull out my planner and try not to be overwhelmed.

I can’t believe it’s almost September. My goal is to have my house mostly done by the end of the year, and I’m not sure that’s feasible.

I don’t mind tackling the small stuff, like décor and touch-ups, in January, but I’d like the major work like construction, tiling, and painting to be finished before Christmas.

Maybe I need to contact Gabe at the hardware store and see if I can hire him to help me after all.

But…that sort of defeats the entire purpose of this whole endeavor.

The point is to do it myself. To prove to my subscribers that we can do anything we put our minds to.

If I bring in help, I’ll undermine my whole message.

But if I don’t, I might not be able to finish the project at all.

Either option could disappoint my viewers, which I definitely don’t want. I guess it’s a matter of which is worse—making them wait longer for final reveals or admitting that I had to bring in some help.

Then again, maybe this whole internal debate is dumb.

Maybe I should stop doubting myself and just do the damn thing.

And if I come across something I can’t tackle on my own, then there’s no shame in asking for help.

Right? Viewers would surely be understanding, wouldn’t they?

I mean, I’ve built up a great community online.

They’re all super supportive. I don’t think they’d bail on me if I brought in a pro for a few things or if I took longer than predicted to finish.

So maybe it’s just a matter of me deciding what I prefer.

Ugh. What’s wrong with me? I’m not usually so indecisive.

Really, the thing to do is just talk to Gabe and see what he was really offering. After all, he might have just been being friendly, not assuming I’d ever reach out. Yeah, I need to check with him. That’s where I should start.

After a few minutes, the barista brings me my food.

She’s an unusual-looking woman; from what I can tell, she seems to be half peacock.

I try to study her unobtrusively as she walks my way.

She looks like she’s in her mid-30s, with royal blue hair that transitions into peacock feathers around her shoulders.

Her face is fascinating: her nose is human, but her lips protrude slightly in the middle and her eyes are teal at the iris and gold in the sclera.

Her arms are feathered, too, and most impressive are her hands: They start out human, but end in gentle talons.

They aren’t the scary claws of a raptor, but still, the fact that she can make food and mix drinks is pretty amazing.

“Sandwich for Maggie?” she asks, and I nod.

“That’s me.”

She smiles a gorgeous smile as she slides me my plate. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before. New to town?”