Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

The Arrival

"So, what colour is your cat?" Holyoake asked, throwing Varya a quick glance over his shoulder.

He drove confidently, but definitely too fast to Anya's taste. She held on to the handle on the door, and her knuckles were white.

"She's black, but her left ear has a white tip," Varya answered readily. "It's gotten frost-bitten because her old owners had left her outside. We took her in from the cat shelter."

"And I thought Slavic women are superstitious," he murmured and looked at Anya from the corner of his eye.

"How many Slavic women have you known?" Anya bit back.

He chuckled. Anya had always found men like him most attractive - large, strong, authoritative, with rough-hewn, rugged features. He was dressed in a military style jumper, a black one with leather patches on his shoulders. Judging by his car and his clothes and his unkempt beard and messy hair, he was probably a man of simple tastes. A simple man. She often wondered if her choice of men was some sort of a reaction to the trauma of giving up her old life. After all, what other kind could she be with these days - but a working bloke, with rough dirty hands, zero intellectual pursuits, and persistent love for a lager in front of the telly in the evening?

"Quite a few. We have a large Serbian community in Fleckney," he answered with another cheeky side glance. "And before you say anything, I know you aren't Serbian. Different accent."

"I was born in Russia," Anya said, her usual defensiveness rising. "But I've lived here for a while. The accent is hard to get rid of, though."

She suppressed the anxious insecurity that always rose in her during such conversations. She often heard 'But your accent is so fit' or 'I fancy how you pronounce it' - but it never helped her unease.

"It's nice to know that immigrants are welcome here," she added in a tense tone.

"You aren't an immigrant," he said. "You're a Ferguson."

Anya cringed. She strongly doubted her brother-in-law and his wife felt this way.

Holyoake drove through open gates, crossed a small field, and parked his truck in front of a large brick cottage.

"Here you are," he said.

Varya started moving in the back seat, and Anya inhaled, preparing to profoundly thank the man, when he laughed.

"And don't bother. You're welcome," he said, opened his door, and jumped out of his car.

Anya huffed and followed.

***

The truck revved up and leaped away from them along the driveway, when the front door of the house opened, and a woman stuck her head outside.

"Was that Rhys Holyoake who drove you here?" she asked in surprise.

Anya tensed. She'd only seen the photos of Sally Ferguson before, but it seemed Anya's first impression of the woman was proving correct. The blonde had a capricious, mannerly voice, and she looked Anya and Varya over with disdain - though, somewhat tempered. Possibly due to Anya's possible association with a Holyoake.

"Yes, it was," Anya said nonchalantly. "Evening, Sally."

"Evening, Aunt Sally," Varya said, giving the woman a polite but fake smile.

The woman glanced at the girl, said nothing, and went back inside. Anya gave Varya an encouraging look, and they followed Sally.

Once they took off their coats, and Anya tucked their suitcases under a row of mismatched jacket hooks, they came through to the kitchen.