Sunday's Child(5)
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 at Dee.
“Wait until he gets closer,” Dee said. “It’s almost criminal that a man can be that good looking.”
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,” she said.
“You’ll be a convert after this.”
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 painted him.
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 you see?”
“Hey, Andor. I don’t think you’ve met Claire, one of our archivists. Claire, Andor Hjalmarson. Andor, Claire Summerlad.”
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 a squeeze.
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 her voice.
“A pleasure, Claire, and please call me Andor.” He smiled, and Claire swore she heard Dee sigh.
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 the ethereal.
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 me about?”
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 again soon.”
He nodded, his blue eyes flaring hot as a star. “I look forward to it.”
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 you tomorrow.”
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 evocative voice.
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 the door.
“I’m so sorry, Elise,” she said for the twenty-seventh time since leaving the museum parking lot.
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 the pasta.”
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 the time.”
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 his mouth.
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 usual time.