Sunday's Child(11)
“An excellent idea,” he said before she changed her mind. Something warned him—a flicker in her eye, the twitch of her eyebrow maybe—this was more than just another alternative to dinner out on a Friday night; it was a test of some sort.
Andor mentally shrugged. So what. A dinner, a hanging; he was fine with whatever she planned. He’d either end up helping her wash dishes or saving her from the noose. He was quite capable of doing both. “I’ll bring the food. Just tell me the time and what you two want to eat.” He waited, hoping she wouldn’t rescind the offer.
She uncurled her fingers from around the purse strap—a good sign. “How about 7:30? Don’t worry about Jake. He’s a picky eater. I’ll have something for him at home.”
They pulled into the employee parking lot. Andor found a parking spot but kept the car running a moment longer. “What should I bring for you?”
“Surprise me.” Claire smiled, opened her door and unfurled her tall frame from the seat. Andor unapologetically admired the view for a moment before killing the engine and joining her on the walk back to the building.
He escorted her to her cube, greeted a slyly grinning Delilah—he’d never think of her as Dee—who had peeked around the corner of the wall separating her cube from Claire and left with a brief promise to see Claire the next evening. His sensitive ears caught the follow-up conversation between the two women.
“Sooo, how was lunch?” Delilah’s voice rang sing-song down the hall, followed by Claire’s more exasperated “Not another interrogation.”
“I just asked how lunch was.”
“Yeah, and then you ask me how he licks his spoon and if I’ve seen him naked yet.”
Andor held in his laughter until he made it to the loading dock, certain Claire wouldn’t appreciate his amusement.
He spent the following day, thinking of Claire’s fleeting smile while he and two other preparators wrapped and packed the fragile ceramics that would be shipped to another museum for exhibition in New Mexico. Evening couldn’t come fast enough, and after a quick text message from her at the end of the day assuring him they were still on for dinner, Andor bolted from the museum.
Now, at 7:30 on the dot, he stood at the door of a small home fronted by a modest porch with a swing on one side and potted plants on the other. Claire answered the door on his second knock. Dressed in a black blouse and jeans that highlighted the length of her legs, she stood within the golden corona cast by the porch light, as beautiful and luminescent as any ljósálfar woman under moonlight.
“Sunday’s Child,” Andor said softly.
Her eyebrows rose. “Pardon?”
He held up two bags of fragrant take-out. “You said surprise you. I brought Indian.”
She gave a delicate sniff, and her eyes widened. “That smells marvelous. Come in!” She directed him to a modest table set in a part of a main room designated as a dining area. The table was set for three. A votive candle sat in the middle alongside a bud vase holding two carnations.
Andor set his packages down and turned to survey the room. Small and modest, the living room/dining room combination reflected Claire’s muted tastes. The colors, the lighting and the furniture gave a sense of peace and calm, along with an unspoken invitation to have a seat, prop your feet up and stay for a while. Even the music, played low, and piped softly through speakers against one wall added to the home’s cozy ambience.
Claire’s gaze rested heavily on him. “Welcome to the manor. Not grand, but it’s home.”
He’d lived in soaring palaces built of starlight and gemstones, where moonbeams striking the water spilling from fountains resonated like the chime of exquisitely tuned bells. He preferred this. “I like it. It feels like a sanctuary from a hard day.”
Her entire demeanor eased, and her wide smile deepened the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. “Thanks. That’s a lovely thing to say.” She gazed at him a moment longer before giving a start. “I’ll get Jake. I told him we were having company tonight.” She disappeared for a moment into a short hallway, returning with a young boy who clutched a tablet in one hand.
Dark-haired where his mother was blonde, Jake had inherited her refined bone structure and arched eyebrows. His gaze was focused on the tablet screen, and he didn’t look up when Claire nudged him closer to Andor. “Jake, this is my friend Andor. Say hello.”
“He-wo.” Jake’s gaze flickered briefly to his mother, but he still didn’t look at Andor, and his greeting sounded ...young, the vowels broad and the consonants blunt as if spoken by a toddler instead of a ten-year-old.
Andor crouched down to eye level with the boy. He didn’t hold out his hand to shake, suspecting he’d get no response. “Good to meet you, Jake. I work with your mom at the museum. She’s amazing, but I bet you already know that.” He glanced at Claire, whose cheeks had gone rosy at his compliment, and winked.
She patted Jake on the back. “Go sit at the table, please. We’re about to eat.” He did as she instructed without protest or any verbal response at all. Claire’s eyes were shadowed, the wariness returned full force in both her gaze and her posture as she turned to Andor. “Jake’s autistic,” she said softly. “So don’t be too weirded out if he does odd things at the table while we’re eating. You’re a stranger, and having someone over for dinner who isn’t the babysitter is out of routine. He might act out.”