Sunday's Child(10)
6
Nearly a thousand years living in Midgard had not dulled Andor’s fascination with humanity. The basic behaviors didn’t change much over the centuries, a reason he believed history tended to repeat itself. Humans, however, were a curious, restless lot. The ljósálfar lived countless years, content to let one day, one year, one century remain the same as the many before it. Sometimes there were battles with the d?kkalfar, sometimes with a j?tunn bent on mischief, but the long lives of both light and dark elves were but ripples on the surface of a still pond compared to humans. Short-lived, contentious, often chaotic, humanity raced and lurched by turns through time, desperate to experience everything it dreamed before a Norn cut short its existence.
When he began his exile with Nicholas and moved among the men of Midgard, Andor had disliked the frenetic ignorance that seemed woven into the very fabric of the human spirit. His opinion changed over time. His kin would say he’d been corrupted or tainted by his long exile. Their verdict might be true. With his glamour in place and generations of experience behind him, he could easily be mistaken for a human—except for one small unconquerable puzzle. He’d never understand the minds and hearts of human women. Then again, from all the moaning and groaning he’d heard across centuries and countries from human males, that complaint was hardly a singular ljósálfar failure.
Andor smiled to himself. Claire Summerlad, the Sunday’s Child who had captured his memory and forgotten her magic, proved to be exceptionally confusing. He didn’t think he’d ever met a more guarded woman, human or ljósálfar, and he’d courted many of both during his life.
Their lunch dates, initiated by him to satisfy his long-standing curiosity about her, had become something far more. He watched the clock for the noon hour, his eagerness to see her palpable in the rising beat of his heart and the restlessness in his limbs. The job at the museum kept him interested and busy, but always, always, Claire’s elegant features and rare smile lingered in the back of his mind.
Reserved and business-like during their first lunch meeting, she had slowly opened to him as he helped her translate documents from Armenian to English and joked that some of the commentary in the margins of a few manuscripts she’d researched were anything but religious.
She didn’t bring her laptop for lunch date number three, and he didn’t ask. They spent a too-short hour chatting of inconsequential things—favorite movies, favorite food, favorite songs. She was far more fascinating than research notes on medieval hymnals. During lunch number four she spoke briefly about her son Jake.
Andor recalled that part of their conversation, short as it was.
“I overheard you tell Delilah yesterday you had to pick up Jake. Your son?” He crossed his fingers in his lap and hoped Jake wasn’t a boyfriend or even worse, a husband.
Claire nodded, a softness entering her eyes along with an odd wariness. “He’s ten. I have a babysitter look after him once school is out and until I get home.”
She said nothing else about her son after that. No stories of childhood antics, sports events or personality quirks. No bragging of grades or tales of trips to friends’ houses. Just his name, his age and the fact he had a babysitter who watched him after school. Andor wanted to ask more, but the look in her eyes warned him he’d get nothing else. He smoothly switched subjects and watched, confounded, as she visibly relaxed.
He thought a few meetings and a few conversations would satisfy his wonderings about Claire. His interest would wane, and he’d move on to his next flight of fancy before Nicholas called him to his annual duties. Instead, his interest had deepened to fascination then to enchantment as he came to know the woman who’d first captured his attention one Christmas past.
When he invited her to dinner, Andor had been sure she’d say yes. Cautious and reserved she might be, but she had expressive eyes, and he hadn’t mistaken her attraction to him. She accepted every invitation to lunch. So when she declined his invitation to dinner, Andor felt like he’d been sucker-punched. He’d grown overconfident, seen an interest that wasn’t there and made wrong assumptions.
He was good at hiding his emotions, but it took effort to relax his hands on the steering wheel as he drove back to the museum after lunch. “May I ask why?”
Claire fiddled with her purse strap, her gaze alighting briefly on his face before flitting away. “I won’t be able to get a babysitter for Jake on that short of a notice.”
Was that it? Not an insurmountable obstacle, and the tightness in his chest eased. “You can bring him with you,” he said. He wanted more time with Claire, and if that included her son, so be it. Her child was a part of who she was. Besides, after ten centuries of acting as Santa’s bodyguard, delivery boy and overall helper, he’d grown to like human children. They saw magic in everything. “I’d like to meet him. He can even pick the restaurant.”
Claire’s shoulders sagged a little, her faint smile rueful. “Thanks, but that won’t work. Jake’s not...” She trailed off, her gaze drifting to some point in a middle distance he couldn’t see. A frown creased her brow for a moment before smoothing away, and her back straightened. Andor didn’t miss the sudden death grip she held on her purse strap. “We can have dinner at my house if you want.”
Judging by the look of dread on her face, he was sure he’d misheard her. She looked like she just invited him to a public hanging, and she was the condemned.