Page 2 of Fish and Chip

Speaking of the stars of the show, Fish, the sleek black-and-white tabby currently holding court in the pumpkin carriage, technically belongs to Ree’s daughter Bizzy. Fun fact: I’m living at the inn Bizzy owns and runs in the next town over of Cider Cove, which means Fish and Chip have become reluctant roommates. Fish tolerates him. Mostly.

Chip, on the other hand, has been with me for years. My ball of orange feline fluff helped me escape my cheating ex-husband, the one who left me for a yoga instructor half my age and called it his healing journey. Clyde’s spiritual awakening cost me a marriage, but I got Chip, a job managing this theme park, and eventually the entire property when the previous owners sold it to me for a dollar and retired to Florida.

I’d call that trading up. Clyde would call it a hostile takeover. One of us is right, and it’s the one holding the deed.

“I’m on the hunt for a herd of hunks,” Georgie announces. “I’ll even take a celebrity or two. In fact, I spy one now, a shirtless vampire, and he’s sparkling in the moonlight. Those are my favorite kind of neck biters. I think I’ll snap up one or ten for the night. ‘Tis the season for a little hunka-hunka burning love.”

“Georgie, that’s a cardboard cutout,” I say.

“And my point stands.”

“Speaking of celebrity sightings.” Ree elbows me. “The line for photos with our furry little mascots is longer than the one for the restrooms, and that’s impressive on a night when hot cider is in demand.”

She’s not wrong. The queue is even longer than the line for the smoked turkey legs, and that’s no small feat considering people have been known to elbow small children out of the way for those.

“Ooh.” Georgie grabs Ree’s arm and points toward the cider stand. “That vampire has a cape and shoulders. Come be my wingwoman before someone else snaps him up.” She tows Ree into the crowd before either of us can vote on it.

This is my calling, Fish mewls from her pumpkin carriage throne with her cape draped just so, her hat tipped over one eye like she meant it. Finally, an audience worthy of my time.

It’s the best night ever! Chip (stuffed into a pumpkin costume that makes him look like an overinflated decoration) buzzes as if he’s about to float off into the night like an orange helium balloon as a woman in a mermaid costume leans in for a selfie. Do you see this? Do you see this? They love me! That lady said I’m fluffier than a cloud. A cloud, Fish!

She also tried to yank your tail off, Fish says. She thought it was detachable. I thought you’d handle it with less shrieking.

That’s because I’m irresistible, Chip insists. And that wasn’t shrieking. That was a battle cry. The woman loved me.

A battle you were losing, Fish counters. I stopped her at her third attempt.

“Do I need to comp her a churro?” I ask. Thankfully, cat ears work at a distance no human eavesdropper can match.

You’re rewarding her? Fish sounds personally betrayed. I prevented an incident and she gets pastry?

“What incident?” I mutter.

The one where I introduce her to my claws, she’s quick to mewl my way.

“You’re very intense about his tail,” I say as I nod her way.

I’m very particular about what touches things that belong to me.

Oh wow. Possessive. I like it, Chip says.

Don’t make it weird. Fish swishes her tail at him. You already look like a pumpkin with legs.

She has a point.

The queue to take pictures with the park’s official mascots winds down Bayou Bend Hollow, past the paddleboat dock, and clear out of sight. The end of it might technically be in Canada. At this rate, the people in back will meet the cats sometime around Thanksgiving.

My name is Josie Janglewood, and I can hear what animals think, a talent that arrived courtesy of a tumble down my grandmother’s stairs when I was six. I traded a mild concussion for a lifetime of unsolicited commentary from every creature with fur, feathers, or scales. Some days it’s enlightening. Other days, I’m stuck listening to squirrels debate acorn storage while trying to run a hundred-acre theme park.

I’m fifty, redheaded, with blue-gray eyes, laugh lines I’ve earned honestly, and dimples in my cheeks that make an appearance whether I want them to or not. I’ve also never said no to a donut, which explains why my relationship with carbs is best described as committed and unrepentant. Like very, very committed.

“Where are they?” A shriek cuts through the jazz music and ambient thunder as Delora Drake barrels toward us, her perfectly coiffed gray hair refusing to budge despite her speed and despite the bedazzled witch’s hat standing straight on her head as if she glued it there.

She’s wearing a tailored black dress with orange accents and enough chunky jewelry to qualify as a costume on its own. Her eyes are wild with the same excitement most people save for finding the perfect Halloween costume on clearance or discovering their favorite author is writing a sequel, and considering tonight’s guest list, that may literally be the case.

“Where’s Belladonna Hershey?” Delora pants as she peers into the ever-thickening crowd. “And Felicity Graves? And Eulla Bell Nightwind? And all the others whose books I can’t get enough of.”

Delora is my newly minted boyfriend’s mother, and she tolerates my existence the way most people tolerate a rash—aware it’s there and wishing it wasn’t. Detective Dexter Drake, the aforementioned boyfriend, is obscenely good-looking, wickedly smart, and unfortunately comes with a mother convinced I’m bad luck in lip gloss.