Chapter 17: The Unexpected Client
The scent of turned earth and damp compost lingered in the air, a rich, pungent perfume that seeped through the closed kitchen window. After three weeks, the garden was set and ready. The poor soil by the back fence had been excavated, amended, and raked into neat, dark rectangles awaiting life. Travis’s lower back still twinged pleasantly at the memory of the work. Mavis had been a relentless foreman, directing from the fence-post, his tail twitching with fervent opinion on soil density and drainage.
Now, the plan was simple. Travis would finalize a logo revision for a local bakery—a last-minute client request—and then they would drive to the nursery to look at seedlings. Tomatoes, surely. Peppers. Maybe something absurd, like artichokes, just to see if they could.
Travis sat in his office armchair, the leather sighing under him. The late afternoon sun cut across the room, illuminating swirling dust above his desk. On his large monitor, a stylized croissant vector wavered under his cursor. Mavis was a warm, barely perceptible weight nestled in the hood of his grey sweatshirt, having declared the nest of Travis’s hair “too turbulent” for serious concentration. The quiet was punctuated only by the soft tap of keys and the rhythmic, gentle thump of Mavis’s tail against his shoulder blade.
“The butter highlight on the upper curve is still too sharp,” Mavis murmured, his voice a vibration against Travis’s neck. “It looks laminated, not baked.”
“It’s a vector graphic, not a pastry,” Travis grumbled, but he adjusted the gradient anyway. He could feel the tiny claws kneading absently at the fabric near his collarbone. “Happy?”
“Marginally.”
Travis saved the file, attaching it to an email. “Done. Seedling time.”
As if summoned by the closing of one task, another announced itself. The doorbell rang—a sharp, two-toned chime that never sounded for anything good. Deliveries went to the side porch; friends didn’t exist in that capacity. Travis stiffened. Mavis went utterly still, his tail freezing mid-thump.
“Ignore it,” Mavis whispered.
“Can’t. Might be the post with sample plaques.” Travis heaved himself up, the chair rolling backward. Mavis shifted, climbing from the hood up the back of Travis’s neck, a skittering cascade of tiny feet that made Travis gasp and squirm, and nestled down into the human’s hair.
Travis took a breath, smoothed his sweatshirt, and walked to the front door.
The woman on the porch was not a postal worker. She was perhaps fifty, dressed in an asymmetrical linen tunic and bold, geometric jewelry. She held a tablet folio against her chest like a shield. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took in Travis’s lanky frame, his tousled hair, his bare feet.
“Travis Reed? I’m Elenor Vance. From the Vance Gallery on Lyman Street.” Her voice was cool, polished. “I’ve seen your branding work for the historic society. And the plaque for the botanical garden. It’s exceptional.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Travis leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, a futile attempt to look professional while dressed for digging. “Come in?”
She stepped into the cool dim of the foyer, her gaze sweeping over the clean lines and muted colors. “Your home is your studio. I admire that. It speaks to integration.” It sounded like a line she used often.
He led her to the office. She didn’t sit, instead wandering to the window that overlooked the newly prepared garden beds. “A blank canvas outside as well,” she mused.
“Something like that,” Travis said, settling back into his desk chair, its warmth already gone. “What can I do for you, Ms. Vance?”
She turned, her business demeanor snapping back into place. “We’re launching a new series. Interstitial artists working with reclaimed industrial materials. The messaging needs to be… brutal, but elegant. Modern, but with a trace of decay. I think your sensibility is a perfect match.” She opened her folio, extracting a sheet of dense text and mood images. “I’d like to discuss a full suite: identity, promotional catalogue, digital campaign.”
It was a big job. A local job, and with a budget that would eclipse six months of corporate logo tweaks. Travis felt a thrum of professional excitement, quickly tempered by the memory of dark soil and the promise of seedlings.
As he took the sheet, scanning the text, he felt it. A slight disturbance in the air behind his right ear. Then, the faintest, most delicate touch. The silken tip of Mavis’s tail, emerging from the safety of Travis’s tousled hair, began to stroke the sensitive skin just behind his earlobe. A slow, deliberate caress. An anchor.
Travis’s breath caught, a microscopic hitch he hoped Elenor didn’t notice. The sensation was a bolt of pure, grounding electricity. It was a reminder, a tease, a claim. I’m here. This is just noise.
He cleared his throat, forcing his focus onto the words. “The thematic contrast is strong. You want the typography to embody that? Something clean being… corroded?”
“Precisely.” Elenor’s eyes gleamed, and she launched into a detailed explanation of the first featured artist, a welder who made lace from steel scraps. Travis nodded, asking questions, his mind split neatly in two. One half processed typeface choices, ink saturation, paper stock. The other was wholly consumed by the infinitesimal, relentless rhythm behind his ear. The tail traced the shell, dipped teasingly into the canal, making him shudder, before swirling back out.
It was maddening. It was perfect. It kept him rooted in his body, in this room, while the professional part of him floated above, negotiating.
“We have a very tight timeline,” Elenor was saying. “The first event is in eight weeks. I’d need concepts by next Friday.”
Next Friday. The tail paused, then tapped once, twice, against his neck. A signal. Do it.
“That’s feasible,” Travis heard himself say, his voice miraculously steady. “I’ll need full asset lists and copy drafts by tomorrow though—day after at the latest.”
“Of course.” She smiled, a real one this time, and gathered her folio. They discussed retainers, contracts, and communication protocols for another ten minutes. Ten minutes where Mavis never relented. The touch varied—a gentle scratching one moment, a feather-light tracing the next. By the time Elenor Vance shook his hand and left, Travis felt like his nervous system had been individually polished, every nerve ending singing.
The front door closed with a solid thunk.
Silence.
Travis didn’t move. He sat in the sunbeam, listening to the retreating click of heels on the walkway. Then, a soft scramble. Mavis emerged from his hair, leaping onto the desk in a graceful arc. He sat on the tablet, his tail curled neatly around his feet, and looked up at Travis, his head tilted.
“So,” Mavis said, his whiskers twitching. “Artists with decay.”
Travis finally exhaled, a long, shaky laugh escaping him. He reached up and rubbed the side of his neck, the skin there hyper-aware. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m a focusing aid. You negotiated better with my help. Admit it.”
“I admit nothing.” Travis pushed back from the desk. The professional thrum was fading, replaced by the original, simpler anticipation. The garden, the sun, the car ride with Mavis in the dashboard cubby. “But we have a new client. And we were going to get seedlings.”
Mavis stood, stretching his tiny arms. “The nursery closes in an hour and a half. You still have to put on shoes. And possibly pants that don’t declare a lifelong commitment to lethargy.”
Travis looked down at his sweatpants. “They’re comfortable.”
“They’re a public service announcement. Now move.” Mavis dashed across the desk and launched onto Travis’s shoulder, reclaiming his perch. His tiny hand patted Travis’s cheek. “The tomatoes await. And I’ve decided we’re trying okra.”
“Okra? You’ve never mentioned okra.”
“I require new textualural experiences. Now, shoes.”
As Travis walked to the foyer, the setting sun now flooding the hallway with amber light, he felt the balance of his world restored. The contract on the desk was a new thread, a potential stress, a future late night. But here, now, the immediate plan was joyfully mundane. Get shoes. Get keys. Drive.
With Mavis’s tail casually looped around his ear, they headed for the door, the seedling expedition back on track, for the moment.
With Mavis’s tail casually looped around his ear, they headed for the door, the seedling expedition back on track, for the moment.
The ride to Greenhaven Nursery was a short, sun-drenched cruise through neighborhoods waking up to spring. Mavis had taken his customary spot in the shallow dashboard cubby, his small hands braced against the glass as he narrated the passing world. “That hydrangea is poorly pruned,” he stated with grave authority. “Criminal, really.” Travis just smiled, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console where Mavis’s tail occasionally brushed his knuckles.
The nursery was a humid, green-scented paradise of crowded tables and dripping hoses. Travis grabbed a flat black cart. The air was thick with the smell of peat and warm plastic and blooming things. Mavis, now securely zipped into the front pocket of Travis’s sweatshirt with only his head poking out, issued directives like a tiny general. “The tomatoes. The heirlooms, not those bland hybrid globes. Find the ‘Black Krim.’ And the shishito peppers, over there. The okra will be on a rack by the warm wall; it needs the heat.”
They were amassing a collection of tiny green lives when a new voice, tinged with panic, interrupted. “Sir? Excuse me, sir?” A young woman in a fresh, too-large Greenhaven apron stood wringing her hands. A tipped-over flat of petunias bled soil and purple petals at her feet. “I’m so sorry. I’m new. Do you… know where the succulent potting mix is? Or if we even have any? The computer says aisle seven but Mr. Hendricks said aisle four and I’ve looked in both and now this…” She gestured hopelessly at the mess.
Travis saw the sheen of frustrated tears in her eyes. He held up a placating hand. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just dirt.” He righted the flat, salvaging a few plants. “The succulent mix is weird. They keep it on the end cap of aisle five, with the cactus food. It’s never where the system says.”
“Oh,” she breathed, her shoulders slumping with relief. “Thank you. Is there a sku? For the system?”
“Just grab a bag and bring it up. They’ll know.” He spent another few minutes patiently answering her questions about vermiculite versus perlite, his voice a low, calm murmur. All the while, he could feel Mavis shaking with silent laughter in his pocket, could imagine the expertly sardonic commentary being stifled against his chest.
They finally checked out, their cart laden with future salads and stir-fries. The new girl waved shyly from where she was now diligently labeling a stack of bags. Travis waved back, a gentle smile on his face. He loaded the plants into the passenger footwell with care.
The car door sealed them in a quiet, private capsule.
Travis turned the key. The engine purred.
He met the glittering gaze of Mavis, who had scrambled back to the dashboard. For a second, there was only the hum of the AC. Then Mavis spoke, his voice a perfect, pitch-perfect mimicry of the girl’s trembling confusion. “‘Do you know where the succulent potting mix is? Or if we even have any?’” He clutched his tiny head in his hands. “The existential dread in that question! ‘Or if we even have any?’ As if the universe itself might be fresh out!”
A snort escaped Travis. Then another. He tried to hold it, the kind patient mask finally cracking. Mavis fell onto his back on the dash, his tiny feet kicking in the air. “And your face!” Mavis squeaked between gasps. “The benevolent sage of soil amendments! ‘It’s just dirt, child.’ You looked like a gardening monk!”
That did it. Travis’s laughter burst out, loud and unfettered, his head falling back against the headrest. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. They fed off each other, the release of the earlier professional tension and the sheer, ridiculous reality of the afternoon coalescing into this shared, breathless hilarity in the parked car. Travis’s stomach hurt. Mavis was wheezing, rolling from side to side.
It took minutes to subside into hiccuping giggles and sighs. Travis wiped his eyes, finally putting the car in reverse. “We were terrible,” he said, but his voice was warm with affection.
“We were merciful,” Mavis corrected, righting himself and clutching the dashboard as they pulled onto the road. “You gave her actionable intelligence. I simply provided the necessary emotional decompression. A vital service.”
2 HOURS LATER, TRAVIS IS WALKING THROUGH HIS FRONT DOOR —THE NON-CLIENT ONE— GIGGLING AT MAVIS’S ON-GOING COMMENTARY ON HIS SHOULDER ABOUT THE CLUELESSNESS OF A FIRST-DAY STAFF WORKER THAT WAS HELPING THEM, OR TRYING TO. TRAVIS WAS KINDA AND PATIENT WITH THE POOR GIRL, EXPLAINING WHAT HE COULD, WHERE HE COULD. ONCE THEY WERE IN HIS CAR, THOUGH, NEITHER HE OR MAVIS —WHO HAD BEEN HIDING IN HIS HOOD FOR THE DURATION OF THE INTERACTION—COULD HOLD BACK THE LAUGHTER.
“And the way she pointed at the spilled petunias,” Travis said, kicking the door closed with his heel, his arms full of seedling trays. “Like she’d committed a war crime.”
Mavis, perched on his shoulder, tugged a lock of Travis’s hair. “A horticultural atrocity. The petunia massacre of aisle three. We witnessed history.” He leaped down, a soft brown arc, and landed on the kitchen table. “Now, the real work. These need watering in before the roots realize they’ve been traumatized.”
The gentle domesticity of the evening took over. Travis filled a watering can, and Mavis supervised each pot, ensuring no seedling was drowned or neglected. The phone buzzed once with an email—Elenor Vance, sending the promised asset lists. Travis read the subject line, felt the faint weight of the coming work, and then dismissed it. That was for later. For now, the scent of water on warm soil was enough.
Later, as dusk painted the room in deep blues, Travis sat in his desk chair, scrolling through the gallery’s stark mood images on his monitor. Mavis was a compact sphere of warmth in the center of his chest, having burrowed under the soft fabric of Travis’s t-shirt. His breathing was a slow, metronomic tick against Travis’s sternum, a living, breathing watch. Travis’s hand rested over him, feeling that gentle rise and fall.
The work was good. Challenging. It would require nights. But here, in the quiet dark of his office, with the memory of shared laughter still echoing in his ribs and the weight of his friend safe against his heart, the challenge felt less like a burden and more like a part of the same, strange, expanding tapestry. He saved a few reference images, closed the laptop, and simply sat, listening to the house settle around them, and to the soft, sleeping click of a tiny pulse.
He saved a few reference images, closed the laptop, and simply sat, listening to the house settle around them, and to the soft, sleeping click of a tiny pulse.The warmth under his shirt shifted. A small head butted against his palm.“Your stomach is articulate,” Mavis murmured, his voice muffled by cotton. “It’s composing a symphony of neglect.”
Travis chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “It’s been a busy day. We dug, we designed, we consoled horticultural crime scenes.” He carefully extracted Mavis, who stretched in his hand, silky fur ruffled. “Dinner is required.”
“A nutritional imperative,” Mavis agreed, leaping to the desk and then to the floor, a tiny scout heading for the kitchen. “I will supervise.”
In the kitchen, the overhead light was too harsh. Travis flicked it off, relying instead on the soft glow above the stove.The twilight through the windows bathed everything in deep indigo. He filled a pot with water, the sound roaring then subsiding as he set it on a burner. The blue gas flame popped to life with a quiet whoosh.
He retrieved a familiar blue box from the cupboard, the cheerful font declaring its simplicity.
Mavis had scaled the countertop and now stood beside the salt shaker, a miniature sentinel. “The instructions are a study in overconfidence,” he observed, tail flicking toward the box.“It presumes a uniform stovetop. A dangerous assumption.”
“I’ll risk it.” Travis tore the box open, the pasta cascading into the bubbling water with a sizzle. The sharp, salty scent of powdered cheese filled the air.“Stir now,” Mavis instructed. “You want to prevent clumping, not merely commemorate it.” Travis obliged, swirling the wooden spoon.“Adequate. Now, the milk measurement.They suggest a quarter cup.This is an aesthetic suggestion, not a chemical one. Your pot has greater surface area. You’ll require thirty percent more milk for proper sauce cohesion.”
Travis paused, the measuring cup in hand. “Are you a pasta scientist now?”
“I am an empiricist. The last time you followed the box, the result was pasty and philosophically disappointing.Add more milk.”
Travis did, pouring a generous slosh. As he stirred in the butter and the radioactive-orange powder, Mavis nodded his approval. “The color is alarmingly correct. Now, the true test: integration.”
Travis vigorously stirred the concoction, the sauce smoothing into a creamy, vibrant blanket over the elbows.He lifted the spoon. “Satisfied, maestro?”
Mavis leaned perilously close to the steaming pot, his whiskers twitching as he assessed.“It has the correct viscosity.No graininess. You may proceed to the bowl.” He seemed to puff out his tiny chest. “I helped by providing reasonable corrections to the process.”
Travis spooned the macaroni into a wide bowl, the steam warming his face. “Yes,” he said, carrying his bowl and a small saucer with a single, butter-coated noodle to the living room.“Because making boxed mac and cheese is extremely difficult and tedious. A true culinary Everest.”
“Sarcasm is the lint trap of conversation,” Mavis stated, leaping from the counter to the arm of the sofa. “It catches nothing useful.” He settled on the sofa back as Travis sank into his usual spot, the cushions conforming to his shape.
They ate in comfortable silence, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. Travis scrolled through the streaming service, the bright tiles of shows and movies painting his face in shifting colors. “Something old,” he mused.“Something with foundations,” Mavis added from his perch. He had finished his noodle and was now meticulously cleaning his paws.
Travis found it: a documentary about the construction of the Roman aqueducts.He clicked play. The solemn narration began, underscored by sweeping shots of ancient, crumbling stonework. Travis set the empty bowl on the coffee table. Mavis wasted no time. He descended the sofa back in a quick, fluid scramble, crossed the terrain of Travis’s chest, and descending the gentle slope of his stomach. He positioned himself centrally, right over the soft cotton covering Travis’s navel, a perfect little paperweight. He leaned back, his tail coiling neatly beside him.
Travis’s own hands came up, clasping together to form a supportive cradle right behind Mavis’s back. It was an instinctual pose, a living armchair forged through years of this quiet ritual.
On screen, engineers explained the precise, deadly gradient required for water to flow. Here, on the couch, a different kind of equilibrium held sway. Travis’s breathing deepened, becoming a slow tide that lifted and lowered his small passenger. Mavis’s head rested against the knitted basket of Travis’s fingers, his eyes half-closed, reflecting the flickering light of monumental human effort.
“The Segovia aqueduct used no mortar,” the narrator intoned. “Just precise stone placement.”
Mavis’s whiskers trembled with a tiny, contented sigh.His hand patted Travis’s stomach once, softly. “Good stone placement,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Travis smiled into the semi-darkness, his thumbs gently stroking the fur on Mavis’s shoulders. The gallery project, the seedlings, the spilled petunias—it all receded, ground down into a fine, peaceful silt under the relentless, magnificent flow of history on the screen, and the absolute, anchoring present of the warm weight on his belly. His hands remained locked, a steadfast arch against the night.