Tonight and Always

by Linda Lael Miller

  "What's the matter?" Daisy asked quickly, full of concern. "Kris, what is it?"

  Kristina struggled to compose herself, but the effort was a failure. "The most awful thing has happened," she wailed. "I've met a wonderful man, and I think I'm falling in love with him!"

  Daisy raised her eyebrows in mock horror. "That is terrible," she teased. Then she went to the water cooler, filled a paper cup, and brought it back to the table for Kristina. "Drink up, kiddo," she said. "There's no 'I think' about it. You're crazy about the guy, whoever he is. And all I can say is, it's about time."

  * * *

  CHAPTER 5

  « ^ »

  Max surveyed his varsity football squad with pride as they finished their daily laps and trotted off the field toward the locker rooms. None of them would ever play college ball, let alone get a crack at the pros, but they were good kids who knew how to set goals, think on their feet, and work as a team. To Max, implanting those qualities in his students was the most important part of his job. Winning was a secondary consideration, as far as he was concerned, but because the boys were so focused and so dedicated, they took their share of games.

  Max himself had been preoccupied for much of that day—once he'd gotten Eliette and Bree off to school and play group respectively, he'd found his thoughts continually turning to Kristina Holbrook. Although he loved his children more than his own life, he found himself wishing they weren't invited to that night's dinner.

  It wasn't that he was ashamed of his daughters or afraid they would misbehave. It was pure selfishness on his part; he wanted Kristina to himself, wanted to concentrate on getting to know her, with no distractions.

  Inside the locker room, Max ignored the noise, towel-snapping, and good-natured bickering—it was standard adolescent stuff—and walked through to his office. A pink message slip lay on his desk amid the general clutter of diagrams of potential plays, evaluation forms, magazines and mail.

  Max picked it up, feeling a small tremor of fear as he did so. Since the accident, and Sandy's instantaneous death, he had been well aware of the fragility of human life. On some level he was always braced for disaster, and knew it could come from any direction. Even a simple telephone message could sometimes shake him up.

  "Dr. Kwo called," one of the clerks in the high school's reception office had written in a neat, loopy hand. "Don't forget your appointment."

  Max realized that he had forgotten, probably because he'd been thinking about Kristina all day. He glanced at his watch and considered foregoing the visit to his chiropractor because he still had to pick the girls up and get them ready to go out again. Then he thought of the pain he might suffer in his neck and shoulders—residual effects of the wreck, after which he had spent more than a month in the hospital—and rummaged for the telephone.

  Fortunately his mother, who was in her third year of law school at the University of Washington, happened to be at home. She agreed to collect Bree and Eliette, take them to Max's place, and wait with them until he arrived.

  He thanked her with genuine sincerity—if it hadn't been for his mother and Gweneth and Elaine, Sandy's sister, the transition to single parent would have been even more difficult and wrenching than it was.

  When he arrived at his chiropractor's professional building, Stan Kwo was ready for him. They were old friends, having gone to college together, and Max had been visiting Stan's office ever since the accident. Kwo's treatments, which he called adjustments, had enabled Max to recover without an undue dependence on drugs. He had begun with three adjustments per week and was now down to a couple of sessions a month.

  "You seem to be doing well," Stan observed, watching Max through the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. "The last few years have been rough, but maybe now you are coming out on the other side of your grief?''

  Max sighed, remembering the way Bree's inquiry about faxing Santa Claus had broadsided him the night before. "Sometimes I think so," he agreed. "Other times?" He shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe you never get over it completely."

  "Maybe not," Stan allowed. "But I see something new in you, old buddy. There's a light in the back of your eyes that hasn't been there since before Sandy died."

  Because of Kristina, Max thought, but he wasn't ready to talk about her yet, even with a close friend. Things were still delicate, and he sensed in Kristina a reluctance to let down her guard that was equal to, or even greater than, his own trepidation. "One day at a time, allowing for a step back every once in a while, things get better," he said.

  Stan slapped him on the shoulder. "See you again in two weeks. I'll have Doreen call with a reminder. And how about a game of racquetball one of these evenings?"

  Max grinned. "Sounds good," he said and took his leave.

  Traffic was thick, since it was the height of the rush hour, but Max was in no hurry. He'd called the house on his cell phone as soon as he climbed into the Blazer, and the kids were home, having milk and fruit with their grandmother, Alison Kilcarragh, future attorney.

  When Max pulled into the driveway, Bree burst out of the house to hurl herself toward him, her little face bright with joy. He swept her up in his arms and swung her around once, before planting a smacking kiss on her forehead. "Hi, Monkey," he said. "How's my girl?"

  Bree wrapped her arms around Max's neck and held on tightly. "I'm being really good," she said. "Because Santa Claus is coming to this very house!"

  Max hoped they weren't going to have a discussion like the one the night before; he wasn't sure he could handle explaining again that Santa couldn't bring Sandy back. "I'd say it's a safe bet that he'll show up," he answered. "But Christmas is still a ways off. Why don't we think about Thanksgiving first? Aren't you painting turkeys or pilgrims at play group?''

  They had reached the gaping front door, where Eliette stood, reticent and serious. Max suspected his elder daughter was already wise to the Santa gambit and hoped she wouldn't spill the beans to her little sister. Kids had to give up believing in magic all too soon, he reflected, saddened by the thought. Maybe he'd go to the video store, a week or two after Thanksgiving, and rent a copy of Miracle on 34th Street...

  "Can we go out for pizza tonight?'' Eliette asked as they went inside.

  Max ruffled her mop of curly brown hair. "Sorry, sweetnik," he replied. "We're invited to have dinner with a friend of mine."

  Eliette wrinkled her freckled nose. "Who?"

  Max's mom appeared in the doorway that led to the dining room, chin-length silver hair sleekly cut, clad in a beige wool skirt, a long maroon sweater, and high boots. Her arms were folded and her brown eyes were twinkling.

  "Yeah," she said with an inquisitive smile. "Who?"

  "Her name is Kristina Holbrook," Max replied, setting Bree down and getting out of his jacket. He met Eliette's piercing gaze. "You met her the other night at the Halloween party. She was dressed as a witch."

  "The green lady!" Bree crowed, obviously delighted.

  Eliette said nothing, but merely looked thoughtful. She was a very bright kid, and damnably perceptive at times. Max suspected there was a wicked-stepmother scenario going on in that little head.

  "I take it she's only green when she's dressed as a witch?" Alison inquired of her son, putting an arm around Eliette and holding the child close against her side for a moment. Perception ran in the family, at least on the female side.

  Max gave his mother a look in reply and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. Again he wished he'd hired a sitter, or arranged for the girls to spend the evening with Gweneth or Elaine. Alison had class that night, had probably brought her textbooks along, so that she could go straight to school.

  "I don't want to go," Eliette announced. "To dinner, I mean."

  Here was a convenient out, but Max's instincts told him not to take it. In his experience, things that seemed easy in the beginning often turned into major snags later on. He stifled Bree's rising protest by laying a gentle hand on top of her head and addressed the eldest of his daughters.
/>
  "Why not?"

  "Because my stomach hurts."

  Max glanced at Alison, but her expression said, You're on your own with this one.

  "Is that really true," he began, "or are you just trying to get out of going to dinner at Ms. Holbrook's place?"

  Eliette lowered her gaze for a moment. She was an honest child, and Max could usually get to the bottom of whatever happened to be bugging her by simply asking a few direct questions. He sat down on the lower part of the curved stairway and made room beside him for Eliette. Alison took Bree by the hand and led her back toward the kitchen.

  "It's really true," Eliette said in a very small voice.

  Max put an arm around his daughter. "Are you just nervous, or do you figure you're coming down with something?"

  Eliette scooted a little closer to her father and looked up at him with wide, worried eyes. "I don't know," she confessed.

  Max gave her a gentle squeeze. "Fair enough," he said. "Ms. Holbrook is a very nice person, you know. There's no need to be afraid of her."

  "She's not Mommy," Eliette pointed out.

  Another stab of mingled pain and guilt struck Max's heart and splintered into shards. "No," he said gruffly. "Mommy's gone, and there's never going to be anybody just like her."

  "Are you going to marry Ms. Holbrook?"

  Max frowned. Kristina certainly wasn't the first woman he'd dated, and yet Eliette had never asked that particular question before. "I don't know," he replied presently. "Why?"

  "Marcy Hilcrest's dad got married last summer. Now Marcy doesn't get to visit him as much as before, because he's always busy. She says he doesn't love her anymore—that he only cares about his new wife."

  "Ah," Max said, understanding at last. "You must be worried that I wouldn't love you and your sister as much if I got married."

  Eliette swallowed hard, then nodded.

  "That isn't going to happen, sweetheart. Whether I get married or not."

  The child smiled tentatively. "Marcy's dad is a jerk," she said.

  "Yeah," Max agreed. "I think you're probably right about that. But don't quote me, okay? That would only make Marcy feel worse."

  Eliette leaned close and whispered. "I won't tell."

  Max kissed her forehead. "I'll give you a dollar," he whispered back, "if you can persuade your sister to take a bath and put on a dress."

  Delighted to be a part of the conspiracy, Eliette nodded again and bounced to her feet. "Bree!" she shouted, hurrying into the kitchen.

  Both his daughters were upstairs when Alison got into her coat, with Max's help, then gathered her purse, notebook, and books.

  "You are a good father, Max Kilcarragh," she declared, pausing beside the kitchen door.

  Max thrust a hand through his hair and sighed. "Thanks."

  "Gweneth showed me the mirror you gave her," Alison said, grinning as she reached for the doorknob. "It truly is ugly. I think you should know your sister has sworn revenge."

  He chuckled. "Has she found anybody to palm the thing off on yet?"

  Alison shook her head. "That little rule about the other person having to want the item is getting in her way," she answered. "Have a good evening, Max."

  He went to her and kissed her forehead. "Thanks, Mom. For everything."

  She patted his cheek. "I think it would be wonderful if you fell in love with the mysterious Green Lady," she said. With that, she left, carrying her books. Max watched through the kitchen window until he saw her get into her silver Volvo and back out of the driveway.

  For perhaps the thousandth time that day, Kristina's image took shape in Max's mind. He could hardly wait to see her again.

  The last customer of the day entered the shop at 4:45, just fifteen minutes before closing time. Kristina, anxious to get to the Pike Place Market for fresh pasta, vegetables, and a bouquet of fresh flowers, wished she'd put the Closed sign in the window of the front door at 4:30, as she'd been tempted to do.

  The woman was well dressed, perhaps forty years old, with graying blond hair and dark, inquisitive eyes. Kristina did not need her magic to guess that the visitor was related to Max; despite the difference in hair color and her diminutive size, the resemblance was marked.

  "May I help you?" Kristina asked. Family relationships and resemblances had always fascinated her. As the only child of supernatural parents, she had been lonely for much of her life, even though Maeve and Calder had given her all the love and guidance anyone could want.

  "My name is Gweneth Peterson,"' the woman said, holding out a gloved hand. Her cloth coat was beautifully made, and her general appearance implied an upscale profession, such as medicine, academics, or law. "I'm Max Kilcarragh's sister. I believe he bought that terrible mirror from you?"

  Kristina couldn't help smiling a little, though she suspected Ms. Peterson was about to ask for an exchange, if not a refund. "Yes," she said. "He told me you would hate it."

  Gweneth laughed. "And of course he was right."

  "Perhaps you'd like to choose something else," Kristina offered, gesturing toward her large and varied stock of antiques.

  Gweneth sighed, but her eyes were still sparkling. "Alas, that's against the rules. I came here seeking something equally hideous—a present for my dear brother, naturally. What do you have?"

  Kristina was amused; Max had this coming, after inflicting that monstrosity of a mirror on his own sister. "Believe it or not, Ms. Peterson, I don't specialize in horrendous merchandise. But if you look around—"

  "Please—call me Gwen," she said.

  "And I'm Kristina."

  Gwen scanned the shop, her attractive features narrowed into a speculative frown. Then, as luck would have it, she zeroed in on the brass-monkey doorstop, the one item in the place that Kristina wouldn't have sold.

  "Perfect!" Gwen cried, bending over to hoist the thing from the floor and set it carefully on a table to examine. "It is dreadful, isn't it?" she marveled. "What possesses people to make such atrocious things?''

  Kristina remembered the vicious young man who had broken into her shop, intending to rob, rape, and perhaps even kill her. "You might be surprised," she replied, hovering. Valerian was something of an alarmist, and he enjoyed pondering the unthinkable, but if he was right in maintaining this thing could come back to life unexpectedly…

  "I'm afraid the doorstop isn't for sale. I've—I've promised it to another client."

  The next time Kristina saw Valerian, she would ask him to dispose of the brass monkey, no questions asked.

  Gwen looked disappointed, but took the refusal sportingly. "Do you mean to say there are other people in this world who play the same game Max and I do? Surely no one would actually want to own it."

  "There's no accounting for taste," Kristina answered, carrying the heavy piece into the back room. Was it her imagination, or did the thing feel slightly warm to the touch? When she returned to the shop, Gwen was still there, pondering a vase with the roller coaster at Coney Island painted on one side. After a moment Max's sister shook her head and turned back to Kristina.

  "I can see surpassing that mirror Max bought is going to take some real effort," she said.

  Kristina smiled. "I think you're up to the challenge," she said. "Max told me about the moose head you gave him in the last round. How did this contest get started, anyway?''

  "It was Max's bright idea," Gwen replied, tugging at her gloves and lifting the collar of her coat against the twilight chill outside. Her smile was genuine, full of happy, hilarious memories. "When he was eleven and I was turning fifteen, he gave me a neon beer sign he'd bought at a flea market as a birthday present. I was about to throw it away—or better yet, break the thing over his head—but Mom and Dad wouldn't let me. They said a gift was a gift, and I had to find someone who wanted it. I did, though it wasn't easy. And after that I prowled the thrift shops and souvenir stores, a woman with a mission. I retaliated at Christmas with a bronze statue of a hula dancer with a clock in her belly. Our little competiti
on became a family tradition."

  Once again Kristina felt a whisper of envy, far back in the darkest reaches of her heart. Then she brought herself up short, ashamed. Her own childhood might have been unconventional, to say the least, but she'd been deeply loved, and she'd had everything she needed and most of what she wanted.

  She almost confided that she was having dinner with Max and his daughters that night, but in the end she held her tongue. It was fragile, this thing with Max, and she didn't want to jinx it with too many words, too many expectations.

  Gwen took a card from her handbag and laid it on the polished counter. "Here's my number," she said. "Please call immediately if you get something in that I might be interested in." She glanced wistfully toward the storeroom.

  "Or if that misguided soul who bought the monkey doesn't come back for it."

  Kristina barely suppressed a shudder as she reached for the card. "That particular client is pretty reliable," she lied. "But I will keep an eye out for something that would suit."

  Gwen, according to the card, was a CPA with a highly respected Seattle firm. She smiled and raised one hand in farewell before leaving the shop.

  Kristina glanced at the clock on the shelf behind the cash register—five-fifteen. She still needed to stop at the market, and there was a good chance she would be caught in traffic on her way home. She drew a deep breath and released it slowly, in order to calm herself. It was silly to be so stressed out over a simple dinner.

  Hastily she reversed the Open sign to say Closed, then locked the door. She put the day's cash and checks in her purse, snatched her coat from the peg in the storeroom and almost tripped over the brass monkey as she passed it. Yes, indeed, it was time to get rid of the reprehensible thing once and for all.

  She'd speak to Valerian soon.

  "You're not wearing your green makeup," the smaller of Max's daughters remarked, the moment Kristina opened the front door to her guests. The child sounded somewhat disappointed.

  Kristina exchanged a grin with Max and stepped back to admit the Kilcarragh family to the warmth of her living room. It was chilly out that night, though the sky was clear, with a few determined stars winking through smog and city lights. Once the door was closed, she stooped to offer her hand, careful to speak as she would to an adult.