When they reached the top, Cat swung open a set of oak and glass double doors. They moved in graceful, symmetrical arcs, jungle cats silently taking up position on opposite sides of the entrance, making not a sound when they reached their finish. Julian paused at the last three stairs. She stared at the open room, tall, cream-colored, lit only by candles and tiny, white holiday lights that threw long shadows, soft but scratchy, up the walls and across the ceiling. Jazz was playing from an unseen source.
“C’mon up!” Cat held out her hand to Julian. Symbolic, because those last steps—from her world to here—took three years to climb. One step. One year. She was a woman of action, a woman of the world—but forever solitary, fragile.
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