“Okay, Mom.”
Gwen squeezed the girl’s shoulder and went into the kitchen.
Maria stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on my cheek. “Come back soon, okay? When it’s not just for grown-ups.”
“I will. But you listen to your mom now.”
She nodded, said good night to Kane and her dad, and climbed the stairs.
“Who wants a drink?” Nick asked.
Nick poured me my usual club soda. Kane had a Scotch. (His werewolf metabolism would burn off that, plus any wine served with dinner, long before it was time to drive home.) Gwen returned and announced that dinner would be on the table in fifteen minutes.
Conversation flowed easily. Kane asked Nick about his work in a downtown Boston investment firm and talked knowledgeably with Gwen about the novel her book club was reading. Once we moved into the dining room, he admired the table and complimented the food. She caught my eye and touched her chin as she tucked her hair behind her right ear, a signal we’d developed in high school. It meant, “This guy’s a good one.”
Halfway through dinner, the conversation slowed down for a minute. During the pause, Kane turned to Gwen.
“I enjoyed meeting your aunt last month,” he said.
Gwen stiffened, but Kane didn’t notice.
Oh, no. Don’t bring up Mab. Not when everything was going so well. I tried to kick him under the table and missed.
“I don’t think—” I began, but he talked over me.
“Wales is such a beautiful country, and her home is magnificent. I know Vicky used to visit Mab every summer. Did you also spend a lot of time with your aunt when you were growing up?”
Gwen’s face was ghost white. She bit her lip, and I could almost hear her mentally count to ten. Very precisely, she laid her fork on the edge of her plate. “We do not mention that woman’s name in this house.”
Kane froze. Then he glanced at me, perplexed.
Damn it, I should’ve warned him. I’d been so caught up in thoughts of Pryce and the Morfran and the South End Reaper that it hadn’t occurred to me to tell Kane to leave Mab out of the conversation. My aunt had trained me as a demon fighter; I’d been her apprentice for seven years. She was tough and strict and rarely showed her emotions, but I loved her like a second mother. Kane had liked Mab, too, during his brief visit to Wales. He’d never have suspected how much my sister hated her.
There was no way I could explain it now.
Kane’s eyes darted back and forth between me and Gwen. Nick reached over and put his hand on Gwen’s, but my sister stared at her plate like she was trying to set it on fire with her eyes. The silence extended, then graduated to a whole new level of awkward. I flailed around for a safe topic.
“Gwen,” I said, reaching for the bread basket, “this bread is delicious. Did you get it from that new Italian bakery near the train station?”
She looked at the basket in my hand as if she’d never seen such a thing before, then blinked and nodded. “Yes, I did. And the tiramisu we’re having for dessert, too.”
“Ooh, yum. I love tiramisu,” I said, so heartily I almost peeked into the demon plane to see if any stray wisps of Gluttony clung to me. But of course Gluttony wasn’t the problem.
Nick came to the rescue—or tried to. “So,” he asked Kane, “do you think the Celtics are going to make it to the playoffs this year?”
Kane is a workaholic who doesn’t know the meaning of the phrase “spare time”—he’s too busy crusading for paranormal rights. It would never occur to him to go to a basketball game or other sporting event for fun. But sports sometimes tied in to his work, and he kept up enough to discuss whatever sport was in season when he was schmoozing with influential people. Just last week he’d taken a couple of congressmen to a Celtics game, courtside seats and everything.
Kane and Nick talked about basketball for several minutes. Nick was enthusiastic, certain the Celts would go all the way this year. Kane made some informed comments, but mostly he listened to Nick, who glowed with pleasure as he reeled off statistics.
Gwen, on the other hand, seemed to have lost her appetite, pushing food around her plate. Kane kept glancing her way. He wrapped up the conversation with Nick by inviting him to a game—courtside seats again—in a couple of weeks.
Whoa. Courtside seats. My brother-in-law rated as highly as a senator. That must mean Kane . . . My commitment-shy brain dug in its heels and refused to go down that path.
Kane turned to Gwen. “Do your kids like sports? Any budding basketball stars in the family?” Smart move, bringing Gwen back into the conversation by asking about her kids. It was a topic my sister and her husband could discuss for hours.
“Not basketball.” Gwen looked up slowly. “Not yet, anyway. Nick promised Zachary he’d teach him to shoot baskets when he gets a little taller. But Zack is only six, so he’s got quite a bit of growing to do.”
“He’s a pretty good shot with that kid-sized basketball hoop we got him,” Nick pointed out.
“Oh, and you should see him when Nick lifts him up and lets him shoot at the hoop over the garage.” The image made Gwen smile. “He’s so cute when you do that.” She turned back to Kane, her face softened with pride in her kids. “Zack and Maria both play soccer, although I think Maria is going to give up soccer for ballet. She’s crazy about dance. She says she still wants to play softball this spring, though. She’s a good shortstop.”
“She’s a terrific shortstop,” Nick corrected. “You would not believe this one play she made last season . . .” He launched into a description, Gwen jumping in here and there with more details.
Kane listened, asking the right questions in the right places. Soon, the stiffness had melted from Gwen’s shoulders and she was laughing and enjoying the conversation again. Crisis averted. No wonder Kane was so good at his job. He was a master at getting people to relax and open up.
In my peripheral vision, the kitchen door cracked open and Maria peered through. I pointed at Gwen to ask whether she wanted me to get her mom’s attention, but Maria’s eyes widened and she shook her head vigorously. She pointed at me, and then crooked her finger.
I stood and picked up my plate. Gwen pushed back her chair, but I put a hand on her shoulder. “You sit and talk,” I said. “I’ll clear the table. Everyone want coffee? I’ll get that started, too.”
“The tiramisu—”
“I’ll take care of it. You worked hard putting together a great dinner. I can handle dessert.”
Balancing the stack of dirty dishes, I shouldered open the swinging door into the kitchen. Maria sat at the table in her PJs. She slumped in her chair, one bare foot swinging back and forth.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” She glanced at me, then examined her hands.
“So what did you want to talk about?”
She shrugged and chewed at a thumbnail.
Okay. Maybe she didn’t know how to broach the topic, whatever it was. I’d let her get to it in her own time. I slid the plates onto Gwen’s spotless counter. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
“But . . .” A faint smile curled her lips, then faded away. “I couldn’t sleep.” She murmured her next words so softly I almost missed them. “I’m scared to.”
I turned on the water at the sink. “How about you rinse, and I’ll load the dishwasher?”
“Okay.” She got up and padded over to where I stood. Her small feet looked cold on the tile floor, so I moved over to make room on the rug in front of the sink. We worked for a minute or two in silence, Maria squinting at each plate with concentration.