Phoenix Reborn (Woodland Creek)(4)
She opened the door with one hand, running her fingers through her slightly tangled mess of auburn hair with the other. And there he stood; tall, handsome, Hawke.
If she hadn’t known him as a child, she would never have believed that his name could be real. It had always seemed designed for someone who might end up in a hall of fame; you didn’t name your child Hawke unless you expected him to go places.
In so many ways, he looked exactly like the boy that he’d been at sixteen. Except for the stubble and the height, of course. And the newly-developed muscles that Ashling knew were hidden beneath his light sweater and jeans. His shoulders had broadened, his torso tapering to a narrow waist. Clearly, he devoted a certain portion of his life to workouts. And it paid off.
Now that he was as famous as anyone on the planet, well, it seemed odd to be standing face to face with him. Fame made people rise to levels that made them seem untouchable; spectres who walked on another plane of existence. They became fictional creatures, even. Unicorns. The day that Hawke Turner had made his first appearance on a tabloid cover was the day that he’d altered in Ashling’s mind into a person she’d never known, and now she found herself wondering if it was a hologram that stood before her.
But he was really there. He was really in Woodland Creek, if only temporarily. And the young man who’d been wandering across her television screen so recently smiled at her from the other side of the screen door, his teeth gleaming an impossible white against dark stubble.
“Ashling Jones,” he said.
She froze for a moment, unable to utter the name that perched, waiting, on her lips. Somehow, letting it loose would mean acknowledging that he was really standing in front of her. In truth, she was surprised that he remembered her name, as though fame should wipe a person’s memory banks clean.
“Hawke,” the young man continued, gesturing to himself as though speaking to a chimpanzee who hadn’t yet grasped the English language. “My name is Hawke Turner.”
“I know,” Ashling replied at last, laughing. “I know who you are, of course. I remember you.” How could I possibly do anything but?
“Oh, good. I thought I’d become all forgettable,” he said, his smile still intact. Those teeth — how did he get them so white? “I’d hate for you of all people to forget me.”
“What are you doing here?” Ashling asked, even as she registered the significance of his last statement. “I must admit, you’re the last person I expected to see today.”
“Young Mr. Turner is here to collect a necklace that I was repairing for his mother,” said Ranach, who leaned in front of Ashling and pushed the screen door open, glaring silently at his employee for her failure to show their guest a proper welcome.
Hawke stepped inside and Ashling backed away, feeling mortified to be so star-struck in front of a former classmate, let alone a former close friend.
“Is it finished?” asked Hawke, turning to Ranach.
“Absolutely,” said the silversmith, reaching over to a nearby table and extracting a silver chain from a box. He handed it to the young man, saying, “I hope she’ll be happy with it.”
“I’m sure she will be,” said Hawke. “Thanks so much for doing this on short notice.” He turned to Ashling. “So tell me, how are you? What have you been doing with your life for the last eight years?”
“Oh, this and that,” she said. “I work here. In Ranach’s studio downstairs, making trinkets and thingies.” Trinkets? Thingies? Way to impress him, Ashling, you idiot.
“Thingies? That’s great. I’ve always wanted to know how to make a thingie. I took a course in thingie-construction at university, but I’m afraid that I got an F on the doowhacky exam.”
“Well,” replied Ashling, relieved that he seemed to have remained the same old Hawke, “thingies are, of course, not quite up to your level of glamour, but we take what we can get here in Woodland Creek.” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Ranach making himself scarce by heading for the kitchen.
“My life is far from glamorous,” Hawke retorted. “Busy, after all, isn’t a synonym for ‘exciting.’ But it’s an interesting life, to say the least.”
“Well, you’re famous, anyhow,” said Ashling. “The town must be freaking out that you’re here.”
“God, I hope not.” Hawke pushed his fingers through the thick hair at the back of his head. “I have no interest in being fawned over. By strangers, anyhow. I don’t suppose I’d mind being fawned over by you, Ashling. You’re looking awfully good.”
The young woman felt her cheeks go hot and cursed them for it; no doubt Hawke could see the crimson shade that had permeated her flesh. How on earth had he done this to her with only a few words?
“I’ll bet you say that to all the ladies,” she said, attempting to tease him. But the words came out earnestly.
“I really don’t say any such thing to all the ladies. I’m not so smooth as the characters I play,” he replied, laughing. “I used to have such a crush on you, you know. I’m not play-acting. I always knew that you were destined for great things, too.”
Did he really? No. No way. He was being friendly and overly kind, because he felt bad for her. Surely that was all. She chose to change the subject, rather than test his gifts for charm further. “So...are you just in town for a visit? I mean, I haven’t seen you in years. I thought you’d disappeared for good.”