In Death 09 - Loyalty in Death

such a beautiful old place. Why would anyone want to destroy it?"
    "People are so cruel." She ran a fingertip along one of the smoothly sanded boards he had stacked on a worktable. "Sometimes there's no reason for it at all. It just is. I used to go to the Christmas show there every year. My parents would take me." She smiled a little. "Good memories. I suppose that's why I got so upset when I heard the news. Well, I should let you get back to work."
    "I was about to take a break." She was lonely -- and more. He was sure of it. Out of politeness, he avoided looking beyond, scanning her aura. He could see enough in her face. She'd used enhancers carefully, but the faint bruise on her cheek showed, as did the results of weeping.
    He opened his lunch sack, took out his bottle of juice. "Would you like a drink?"
    "No. Yes. Yes, I suppose I would. You don't have to bring your lunch Zeke. The AutoChef is fully stocked."
    "I'm sort of used to my own." Because he sensed she needed it, he smiled. "Got any glasses?"
    "Oh, of course." She walked to a doorway, disappeared through it.
    He tried not to pay close attention. Really, he did. But it was such a pleasure to watch her move. All that nervous energy just under the seamless grace. She was so tiny, so beautiful.
    So sad.
    Everything inside him wanted to comfort her.
    She came back with two tall, clear glasses, then set them down so she could study his work. "You've already done so much. I've never seen the stages of something being built by hand, but I thought it would take much more time."
    "It's just a matter of sticking with it."
    "You love what you do." She looked back at him, her eyes just a little too bright, her smile just a little too wide. "It shows. I fell in love with your work the first time I saw it. With the heart of it."
    She stopped, laughed at herself. "That sounds ridiculous. I'm always saying something ridiculous."
    "No, it's not. It's what matters to me, anyway." He picked up a glass he'd filled, offered it. He didn't feel tongue-tied and miserably shy around her as he often did with women. She needed a friend, and that made all the difference. "My father taught me that whatever you put of yourself in your work, you get back twice over."
    "That's nice." Her smile softened. "It's so important to have family. I miss mine. I lost my parents a dozen years ago and still miss them."
    "I'm sorry."
    "So am I." She sipped the juice, stopped, sipped again. "Why, this is wonderful. What is it?"
    "It's just one of my mother's recipes. Mixed fruit, heavy on the mango."
    "Well, it's marvelous. I drink entirely too much coffee. I'd be better off with this."
    "I'll bring you a jug if you like."
    "That's kind of you, Zeke. You're a kind man." She laid a hand over his. As their eyes met, he felt his heart stumble in his chest, fall flat. Then she slid her hand, and her gaze, aside. "It, ah, smells wonderful in here. The wood."
    All he could smell was her perfume, as soft and delicate as her skin. The back of his hand throbbed where her fingers had skimmed it. "You've hurt yourself, Mrs. Branson."
    She swung around quickly. "What?"
    "There's a bruise on your cheek."
    "Oh." Panic shadowed her eyes as she lifted her hand to the mark. "Oh, it's nothing. I... tripped earlier. I tend to move too fast and not watch where I'm going." She set her glass down, lifted it again. "I thought you were going to call me Clarissa. Mrs. Branson makes me feel so distant."
    "I can make you a salve for the bruise, Clarissa."
    Her eyes filled, threatened to overflow. "It's nothing. But thank you. It's nothing at all. I should go, let you get back to work. B. D. hates it when I interrupt his projects."
    "I like the company." He stepped forward. He could imagine himself reaching out, taking her into his arms. Just holding her there. Nothing more than that. But even that, he understood, was too much. "Would you like to stay?"
    "I..." A single tear spilled over, slipped beautifully down her cheek. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm not myself today. My brother-in-law -- I suppose, the shock. Everything. I haven't been able to... B. D. hates public displays."
    "You're not in public now."
    And he was reaching out, taking her into his arms where she fit as if she'd been designed for him. He held her there, nothing more than that. And it wasn't too much at all.
    She wept quietly, almost silently, her face buried against his chest, her fists clenched against his back. He was tall, strong, innately gentle.