The two women passed through hallways of closed office doors and file rooms until they reached the loading docks. Two large trucks were parked in the bays, one with its trailer doors open and a parade of people carting out containers on dollies and palletjacks.
Dee raised her hand and waved at someone in the crowd. “Andor!”
Claire looked to where Dee waved and spotted a tall man with a blond ponytail checking off something on a clipboard. He turned and waved atDee.
“Wait until he gets closer,” Dee said. “It’s almost criminal that a man can be that goodlooking.”
Claire gave her a dubious look. Were it anyone other than the reserved, serious Dee who made such a remark, she would have rolled her eyes. This guy must be something for her friend to wax so girlish over someone’s looks. “Blonds aren’t my type,” shesaid.
“You’ll be a convert afterthis.”
Dee didn’t exaggerate. As Andor narrowed the distance between them, Claire tried not to let her jaw bang on the floor. There were many types and interpretations of beauty; she saw all aspects of it in her job at the museum. That which was earthy and coarse could be as pleasing as that which was refined and classical. Ugly was beautiful to some and beautiful, flat and boring to others. It truly was all in the eye of the beholder. Sometimes though, universal appeal reigned, and in this man’s face resided the manifestation of perfect geometry and aesthetic appeal. Had this Andor lived a few hundred years earlier, Da Vinci would have paintedhim.
Claire’s objective admiration for him gave way to a strange unease when he stopped before them and shook Dee’s hand. “Good evening,Delilah.”
His voice, warm and faintly accented, triggered vague recollections for Claire. Or maybe dreams. She frowned, her mind reaching for will-o’-the-wisp memories of a hazy figure bathed in shimmering light that asked her a question.“What do yousee?”
“Hey, Andor. I don’t think you’ve met Claire, one of our archivists. Claire, Andor Hjalmarson. Andor, ClaireSummerlad.”
Claire held out her hand, still distracted by the odd notion she’d once heard Hjalmarson’s voice a long time ago. Her distraction evaporated, chased away by the pleasant tingle that raced up her arm when he clasped her fingers and gave them asqueeze.
She withdrew her hand from his. His fingertips lingered on her palm before he let her go. She cleared her throat. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Hjalmarson. We can definitely use the help.” She silently congratulated herself on the normal pitch of hervoice.
“A pleasure, Claire, and please call me Andor.” He smiled, and Claire swore she heard Deesigh.
He had the bluest eyes. Not lapis or sapphire or cerulean. More like deep winter ocean with a starburst of yellow and amber surrounding his pupils. Dark brown eyebrows and eyelashes contrasted with his much lighter hair. She might have compared him to an angel, but there was an earthiness to him that ruined theethereal.
Dee knocked her in the side with an elbow. “You’re staring,” she murmured. She offered Andor a bright smile and rubbed her palms together. “So where’s this crate you called meabout?”
A heat wave scaled up Claire’s chest, over her neck and flooded into her cheeks. She was staring, and by Andor’s knowing half-smile, it was as obvious as the blush threatening to set her face and scalp on fire. The smile she gave him felt thin and stiff. “It’s nice meeting you. I’m sure we’ll see each other againsoon.”
He nodded, his blue eyes flaring hot as a star. “I look forward toit.”
Dee’s faint gasp mirrored her wide-eyed expression. Claire pretended not to notice her friend’s speculative look as she glanced back and forth between her and Andor. “I gotta go. I’m already twenty minutes late getting out of here. Elise is going to have my head on a plate. See youtomorrow.”
She gave a casual wave and fled, Andor Hjalmarson’s gaze heavy on her back. If anyone later asked, Claire would lie through her teeth and say her jog out of the loading docks was because she had to relieve her son’s caregiver. Nothing more. Nothing less. And nothing at all to do with the striking preparator who mesmerized her with only a handshake and an evocativevoice.
Houston’s typical evening gridlock was in full swing by the time she got on the road. After thirty minutes and an apology-laced phone call to the babysitter, she pulled into the driveway of her tiny rent house and burst through thedoor.
“I’m so sorry, Elise,” she said for the twenty-seventh time since leaving the museum parkinglot.
The babysitter gave her a casual wave. “No worries. Nothing planned for tonight, and I’m sick of studying.” She placed a bowl of pasta with pesto in front of the small, dark-haired boy seated at the dinner table. “He finished shredding the chicken tenders I fixed him, so we’re on to thepasta.”
She glanced at Claire. “I’ll stay until you can change, run to the bathroom, all that before I head out. Jake and I are going to work on table manners.” She pulled up a chair next to Jake and coaxed him to take a plastic spoon from her. “Come on, little dude. You can’t be eating with your fingers all thetime.”
Claire skirted around the table and dropped a kiss on the boy’s head. “Sorry I’m late, kiddo. I’ll be right back.” He didn’t look up from the tablet Claire had bought him a year earlier. His favorite children’s video played in a loop, the same three minute scene playing over and over while he held his spoon in a half-hearted grip and tucked pasta into hismouth.
Claire tossed her purse on the couch and disappeared into her bedroom to change into her favorite evening wear—sweats and a T-shirt. She’d wash away her makeup later. Elise was already well past her usualtime.
She didn’t know what she would do without Elise. The college kid looked after her son for the few hours after his bus dropped him off and Claire got home from work. Tattooed, pierced and impressively tall in a pair of heeled combat boots, the girl possessed endless patience and a sixth sense for knowing how to deal with an autistic child. Claire considered her a blessing for Jake andherself.
After Elise left for the evening, Claire sat down next to Jake and finished off the remainder of the lukewarm pasta and pesto. Jake pushed his half-eaten portion aside and turned his full attention to his video. He made odd noises, some Claire could translate, others she couldn’t; high-pitched yips combined with snatches of songs and the odd line or two from other movies. They almost never made sense in context, but the words he uttered were clear and well-articulated. Claire tried to think of those noises as progress. Two years ago, Jake was completelysilent.
After their dinner, she tucked him into his favorite corner of the couch and sat next to him, sharing a blanket. Except for the TV’s low volume and Jake’s movie on his tablet, the house wasquiet.
Most every evening was like this, even the weekend. Claire didn’t mind the lack of a social life too much. She’d always been introverted. Even when she was in school, single and Jake not even a gleam in her eye, she’d found nothing appealing about hanging out in bars and pubs packed with people and virtually bulging the walls with a cacophony of too-loud music and couples shouting at each other to be heard over the din. Sometimes though, she missed a night out with friends, talking over dinner or spending an hour at the local coffeeshop.
Andor Hjalmarson’s handsome features rose in her mind’s eye. Claire didn’t try to suppress the image. Dee was right. One brief meeting, and he’d made her a convert to liking blonds. He’d been a perfect gentleman during their introduction, but Claire still felt the residual tingle in her arm from when he’d shaken her hand and the heaviness of his gaze on her back when she’d left the loading dock. And she still couldn’t shake the strange sense that he was somehow connected to the hazy childhood memory of shimmering light and a beguilingvoice.
