Gentleman Takes a Chance (51 page)

And then, half frozen, he swam back, and walked home.

After a shower, after rinsing his mouth with mouthwash, again and again, and again, Tom put his robe on and went to the kitchen, where he put paid to two packages of sandwich ham while the dozen eggs they had just bought boiled enough to not be repulsive.

When the craving for protein abated, still feeling chilled, Tom opened the door to Kyrie's room and called, softly, "Kyrie?"

She opened her eyes, and Notty's head shot up. "Yes?"

"Do you mind if I sleep here? Just sleep? I mean . . . I just . . . want to be with you."

Kyrie sat up in bed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just . . . I'm very cold."

"Are you coming down with something?"

"I don't think so. I'm just . . . I just need company."

She shifted to one side of the double bed, taking Notty with her, leaving him space. Tom climbed in, and curled up on the mattress, looking at Kyrie and Notty, who was now parading back and forth between the two of them and purring, the contented purr of a cat with two body servants.

"Kyrie," Tom said, wanting to talk, wanting to explain this feeling that wasn't regret or guilt, but had shades of both. He'd taken a life. He'd killed someone who'd lived thousands of years. He'd had to do it. None of them would be safe till he was dead. So why was it that this thing he'd done made him feel so cut off from the rest of humanity?

He moved fractionally towards Kyrie. "Listen," he said.

Notty jumped up, back arched and hissed towards Tom. His pose was so possessive of Kyrie that Tom laughed aloud. "Yes, yes, your girl cat, Notty. I'll behave."

He petted the ruffled kitten till Kyrie said, softly, "What is it?"

He looked at her. Her eyes were half closed. He smiled. The talk would wait. Tonight was not the night to try to explain what he'd done or how he felt. He wanted more than anything to hold Kyrie, to love her. But tonight was not the night for that, either.

Let the night close itself upon its horror. Let wonders unfold another time. "Nothing," he said quietly.

He petted Notty till he passed from wakefulness into a dream where he was holding Kyrie in the midst of a field of snow. And it was very warm.

When they got into The George, in the evening, they found Conan and Anthony sitting at the back booth, in front of what looked like a veritable mound of bread. Sitting across from them was a young woman with brown hair, hazel eyes and a blade of a nose. She looked towards them and extended a hand and spoke, in a pleasant contralto, "Hi. I'm Laura Miller. You must think I'm the most unreliable person alive, but I simply couldn't come in before. I had to take care of some family matters . . . But I'm here now, and I'm free to interview for the job, if you still want to consider me. And I brought some samples of my baking with me."

"Consider her," Anthony said. He picked a roll from the confusion of bread. "She makes this Italian bread . . . My mom would weep, I tell you."

Tom, grinning, turned towards her. "Well, as you can see, I have to consider you. And we were taking care of family matters, too. I have no idea how to interview you, just now, my mind is still in a whirl. So . . . is there anything you want to tell me?"

The woman blinked at him, then looked toward Kyrie, then, perhaps having decided that if they were crazy they weren't, at least, unpleasant, rattled off quickly, "I can do gourmet cooking, but really, I don't like it as much as a variety of good plain cooking. I truly do need to bake, though. Cookies, biscuits, breads, muffins, scones, pies, fancy pastries, whatever. I like making breads and pies and biscuits and muffins most of all, though. Cornbread's fun to make, both Northern and Southern. So's gingerbread. With or without rum sauce. Fresh pitas are like a miracle, puffing themselves up like little balloons. Stews and soups and prep cooking are satisfying, too. But not as good as baking. But I can get the bucket of scrams ready for morning rush, and get the onions and peppers for morning and lunch rush, and chop the salad, and mix up the tsatsiki.

"I can do a lot of prep cooking. I can do quantity cooking. I can run an industrial dishwasher. But I really love baking. Just don't ask me to do gourmet dinners where everything needs to be perfectly plated. My idea of decorative plating is to put the juice with the cherries and onions over the pork loin rather than beside it. And maybe to have carrots and green beans by the pork loin instead of potatoes and corn. But fancy plating with everything all pointing in perfect directions and swirled sauces? It all tastes the same in the mouth, anyway. And unless it's someone's birthday, I don't frost cakes fancy. Just tasty. I like to do one-offs, but that's why I don't like fancy frosting every day. Special should be special. And pies are either lattice, pierced, open, or have a couple of shapes out with tart cutters. If The George wants Martha Stewart, you can hire her. But I do use my grandma's pie crust recipe. And she won blue ribbons." She stopped, giving the impression that she'd run out of breath.

And Kyrie looked at Tom and found him looking at her. And she wondered how the woman would do with shifters and madness, but, hell, Anthony seemed to do well enough even while being totally clueless. And frankly, the list of breads was enough to make her want to drool.

She winked at Tom. He winked back and they said at the same time, "You're hired."

Just at that moment, she thought she smelled a vague shifter's scent beneath the smell of all the baking. Was their new employee a shifter?

But Tom was saying, "We'll discuss terms, okay? But we're flexible, since one of the really important qualities I wanted was someone who could bake." He'd somehow got hold of a little curlicue of a roll sprinkled with what looked like cheese, and was eating it, merrily. "And you certainly can do that."

Laura smiled, and at that moment the bell behind the front door tinkled. Edward Ormson, whom Kyrie always thought looked like an older and better-dressed version of Tom, came in. He was pulling a flight bag, and looked up at the group of them with a quizzical smile. "Oh, good," he said, to no one in particular. He looked at Tom, "I assume everything is well and you still haven't eaten anyone?"

Did Laura's eyes widen just a little? Kyrie couldn't tell, and Tom was laughing. "No, Dad. I haven't. And yeah, everything is fine."

"First day they opened the passes, so first day I could get here. I will go and check in at the hotel later, but I thought I'd come and see how you were doing, and make sure everything was okay."

Tom felt . . . oddly amused and tender. His father had driven here, as soon as the snow stopped for two days and the mountain passes opened, to make sure everything was okay. He could have called. He could have asked someone else to check on them. But no. Edward Ormson, who hated making himself uncomfortable, had driven a mountain road that would still have patches of ice and which was probably crowded with long-delayed travelers, to come here and check on his son.

They'd all come a long way.

But Tom still had no idea whatsoever how to express his affection for his father. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He stepped behind the counter, and took off his jacket, putting it on the shelf under there. Then he put on his apron and his bandana, and said, "Okay, Dad. I'll make you dinner before you go to your hotel. What would you like?"

His dad grinned. "Noah's boy."

"We don't eat people," Tom said. "I thought we'd established that."

"No, no. See, you have all the diner slang in the menu, so I went and studied it, on-line. 'Noah's boy' is ham. You know. Ham. In the Bible."

Kyrie giggled, and Tom gave her an indulgent smile. "Um . . . I don't think we have that in the menu, but sure. I'll make it. One Noah's boy, coming up. And then I'll discuss your pay and hours, Laura."

A look over his shoulder showed him that Laura was made of uncommonly resilient stuff. She was smiling a little and had sat down at the booth.

The front door tinkled, to let in the dinner rush hour, and Kyrie put her apron on, ready to go attend to the tables.

The Poet came in and sat at his table, with his notebook. Tom wondered if the Poet truly was a member of the Rodent Liberation Front, and, if so, if he was the squirrel that shifted to the size of a German shepherd and smoked cigarettes. Anything was possible, he guessed. But he hoped the Rodent Liberation Front would be still now for a while, and let them have at least a little peace.

Kyrie was still behind the counter. Before going back out, she touched his shoulder with her warm hand. It wasn't even a public display of affection. But it was enough.

And The George's neon signs shone softly, while a fresh snowfall started—big, fluffy flakes, blanketing Goldport in quietness and cold.