Christmas Eve at Friday Harbor (Friday Harbor #1)(20)

What had happened during the weekend? She’d been with her family. Had there been an argument? A problem?

“You don’t want any of that stuff,” he said, with a nod toward the array of glassed-in junk food.

“Why not?”

“Not one item in that vending machine has an expiration date.”

Maggie scrutinized the display as if to verify his claim. “It’s a myth that Twinkies last forever,” she said. “They have a shelf life of twenty-five days.”

“At my house they have a shelf life of about three minutes.” He looked into her dark eyes. “Can I take you to lunch? We’ve got at least two hours, according to the ferry agent.”

A long hesitation followed. “You want to eat here?” she asked.

Mark shook his head. “There’s a restaurant down the road. A two-minute walk. We’ll stow your bag in my car.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having lunch,” Maggie said, as if she needed to reassure herself of something.

“I do it nearly every day.” Mark reached for her overnight bag. “Let me carry that for you.”

She followed him from the terminal building. “I meant, the two of us having lunch. Together. At the same table.”

“If you want, we could sit at separate tables.”

He heard a laugh stir in her throat. “We’ll sit at the same table,” she said decisively, “but no talking.”

As they walked along the side of the road, the mist thickened into a drizzle, the air white and wet. “It’s like walking through a cloud,” Maggie said, drawing in deep breaths. “When I was little, I used to think that clouds must have the most wonderful taste. One day I asked for a bowl of cloud for dessert. My mother put some whipped cream in a dish.” She smiled. “And it was just as wonderful as I had imagined it would be.”

“But did you know at the time that it was only whipped cream?” Mark asked, fascinated by the way the mist had provoked little wispy curls around her face.

“Oh, yes. That didn’t matter, though…the idea of it was the point.”

“I have problems trying to figure out where to draw the line for Holly,” Mark said. “In the same classroom where she’s learning that dinosaurs were real, they’re also writing letters to Santa. What am I supposed to tell Holly about what’s real and what’s not?”

“Has she asked about Santa yet?”

“Yes.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I said I hadn’t decided one way or the other, but a lot of people believe in him, so it was okay if she wanted to.”

“That was perfect,” Maggie said. “Fantasy and make-believe are important for children. The ones who are allowed to use their imaginations are actually better at drawing the line between fantasy and reality than those who aren’t.”

“Who told you that? The fairy who lives in your wall?”

Maggie grinned. “Smart-ass,” she said. “No, Clover wasn’t the one who told me. I read a lot. I’m interested in anything having to do with children.”

“I need to learn more.” His voice turned quietly rueful. “I’m trying like hell to avoid ruining what’s left of Holly’s childhood.”

“From what I can tell, you’re doing fine.” On impulse she caught at his hand, her fingers squeezing lightly in a gesture meant to reassure and offer comfort. Mark was pretty sure that was the way he was supposed to interpret it. Except that his hand closed over hers and turned the spontaneous clasp into something else. Something intimate. Possessive.

Maggie’s grip loosened. Mark felt her indecisiveness as if it were his own, her unwilling pleasure in the way their hands fit together.

The press of skin to skin, such an ordinary thing. But it had set the axis of the entire earth off-kilter. He couldn’t seem to assess how much of his reaction to her was physical and how much was…other. It was all tangled together in a way that was new and visceral.

Maggie tugged free.

But he still felt the imprint, the shape of her fingers, as if his pores had begun to absorb her.

Neither of them spoke as they went into the restaurant, the interior fitted with polished dark wood, ancient scarred furniture, and wallpaper of indeterminate design. The air was scented with food, liquor, and slightly mildewed carpet. It was one of those restaurants that had undoubtedly been established with good intentions, but had gradually succumbed to the inevitability of a certain amount of tourist business, and had relaxed its standards. Still, it was a decent enough place to pass the time, and it offered a view of the strait.

An indifferent waitress came to take their drink orders. Although Mark usually drank beer, he ordered a whiskey. Maggie ordered a glass of house red, and then changed her mind. “No, wait,” she said. “I’ll have whiskey, too.”

“Straight?” the waitress asked.

Maggie gave Mark a questioning glance.

“She’ll have a whiskey sour,” he said, and the waitress nodded and left. By this time Maggie’s damp hair had renewed itself into buoyant zigzagging curls. He could easily become obsessed with them. Clearly any attempt to ignore his attraction to her was doomed. It seemed that everything he had ever liked in a woman, including things he hadn’t even been aware of liking before, had been arranged in one perfect bouquet.