Nora Robets - Key of Light

Malory thought of her dream, of the child she'd held in her arms. Of the light filling her world, her heart. "Even if you really, really want something, there are lines."

"Well, murder and a certain amount of mayhem are discouraged. I'm talking about making important choices, then going the distance and dealing with the results. What about you, Zoe? Would you do it again? The raise-a-kid-on-your-own part?" Dana asked.

"I don't think I'd set out to do it again. It's hard. There's nobody to share the load with, and sometimes the load seems impossible for one person. But more, there's nobody who looks at the child and feels what you feel. Nobody to share that love and pride and, I don't know, surprise with."

"Were you scared?" Malory asked her.

"Yeah. Oh, yeah. I still get scared. I think it's supposed to be scary because it's so important. Do you want babies, Mal?"

"I do." She rubbed the stone gently between her fingers. "More than I realized."

By three, Dana and Zoe were sleeping in her bed, and Malory was picking up the worst of the debris, too restless to settle in on the sofa. There were too many thoughts, too many images flitting around in her mind.

She studied the little blue stone again. Maybe it would work. She'd accepted bigger things than having a piece of rock under her pillow as the cure for the insomnia that was plaguing her.

Or maybe she hadn't. Maybe she really hadn't accepted any of it, not in that deep-down way Dana spoke of. She was exhausted, yet she wasn't putting the stone under her pillow and letting herself try.

She claimed to love Flynn, yet she was waiting, tucking a small part of herself safely away and waiting for the feeling to pass. And at the same time, she was annoyed and hurt that he didn't simply fall over in love with her and even things out.

After all, how could she keep her balance, outline plans, and keep it all tidy if everything between them wasn't equal?

Everything belongs in its place, doesn't it? Everything has its slot. And if it doesn't fit just right, well, you're not the one who's going to change. That's up to the other guy."

With a sigh, she dropped down on the couch. She'd pursued a career in art like a demon because while fate hadn't cooperated by giving her talent, she wasn't about to admit that all those years of study and work had been wasted.

She made it fit.

She'd stayed at The Gallery because it was comfortable, because it was sensible and convenient. She'd made noise about striking out on her own one day. But she hadn't meant it. Too big a risk, too messy. If Pamela hadn't come along, she would still be at The Gallery.

And why did she resent Pamela with every fiber of her being? All right, the woman was pushy and had all the taste of overcooked trout, but a more flexible woman than Malory Price would've found a way around that. She resented Pamela primarily because she'd shifted the balance, she'd changed the lines.

She just hadn't fit.

Now there was the business she and Dana and Zoe were starting. She'd been the one to drag her feet on that. Oh, she'd come through in the end, but how many times had she questioned that decision since? How many times had she considered backing out because it was too hard to see how it could all be neatly done?

And she hadn't moved forward on it. Hadn't gone back to the property or made any plans, put out any feelers for artists and craftspeople.

Hell, she hadn't even mailed off the application for her business license. Because once she did, she was committed.

She was using the key as an excuse not to take the final step. Oh, she was looking for it, giving the quest her time and her energy. One thing she took seriously was responsibility.

But here and now, alone and awake at three in the morning, it was time to admit one undeniable fact. Her life may have changed in a dozen strange and fascinating ways in three weeks' time, but she hadn't changed at all.

She put the stone under her pillow. "There's still time," she murmured, and curled up to sleep.

When she woke, the apartment was silent as a tomb. She lay still a moment, studying the lance of light that sneaked through the chink in the patio drapes and onto her floor.

Morning, she thought. Full morning. She didn't remember falling asleep. Better, much, much better, she didn't remember tossing and turning and worrying about sleep.

Slowly, she slid a hand under her pillow, feeling for the stone. She frowned, groping now, then sat up to lift the pillow. There was no stone under it. She searched under the cushions, on the floor, under the couch, before sitting down again with a huff of confusion.

Stones didn't just disappear.

Or maybe they did. When they'd served their purpose. She'd slept and slept well, hadn't she? Just as promised. In fact, she felt wonderful. As if she'd had a nice, relaxing vacation.

"Okay, thanks, Rowena."

She stretched out her arms, took a deep breath. And drew in the unmistakable scent of coffee.

Unless the gift included morning coffee, someone else was up.

She walked into the kitchen and found a pleasant surprise.

Zoe's coffee cake was on the counter, set on a pretty plate and protected with Saran Wrap. The coffeepot was on warm and was three-quarters full, and the morning paper was neatly folded and placed between.

Malory picked up the note tucked under the cake plate and read Zoe's somewhat exotic mix of cursive and printing.

Good morning! Had to get going—have a teacher's conference at ten.

Ten, Malory thought with an absent glance at the kitchen clock. Her mouth fell open when she saw that it was nearly eleven.

"That can't be right. Can it?"

Didn't want to wake either of you, tried to be quiet.

"You must move like a ghost," Malory said aloud.

Dana's got to be at work at two. Just in case, I set the alarm clock in your room for her. Set it for noon so she wouldn't have to rush and would have time for breakfast.

I had thebest time. Just wanted to tell you, both of you, that whatever happens I'm so glad I found you. Or we found each other. However it worked, I'm just really grateful you're my friends .

Maybe next time we can get together at my place.

Love, Zoe. "Looks like it's a day for gifts." Smiling, Malory set the note down where Dana would find it, too. Hoping to extend her good mood, she cut a sliver of cake, poured the coffee. She arranged

them on a tray, added the paper and a small glass of juice, then carried it all out to her patio.

Fall was teasing the air. She'd always enjoyed the faint, smoky scent that autumn brought with it when the leaves began to take on hints of the vibrant colors to come.

She needed to pick up some potted mums, she noted as she broke off a piece of coffee cake. She was behind schedule on that. And some pumpkins and gourds for festive arrangements. She would gather some leaves, the maple ones once they'd turned scarlet.

She could pick up some extra things and do something fun for Flynn's front porch.

She sipped coffee while she skimmed the front page. Reading the morning paper was a different experience now that she'd met Flynn. She liked wondering how he decided what went where and how he juggled it all— stories, ads, pictures, typeface, tone—and made it one cohesive whole.

She nibbled and sipped her way through, then felt her heart give a quick jolt when she came to his column.

Odd, wasn't it, that she'd seen it before. Week after week. What had she thought? she wondered. Cute guy, nice eyes, or something just that casual and forgettable. She'd read his column, had either agreed or disagreed. She hadn't taken any notice of the work and effort he put into it, what turned his mind to whatever subject he wrote about that week.

It was different now that she knew him, now that she could hear his voice speaking the words she read. She could envision his face, its expressions. And have some insight into the workings of his very flexible mind.

What defines the artist? she read.

By the time she'd finished the column and was going back to read it through a second time, she'd fallen in love with him all over again.

Flynn sat on the corner of a desk and listened while one of his reporters pitched him an idea for an article about a local man who collected clowns.

Stuffed clown dolls, clown statues, clown pictures. Porcelain clowns, plastic clowns, clowns with dogs. Clowns that danced or sang or drove little clown cars.

"He's got more than five thousand clowns, not including clown memorabilia."

Flynn tuned out for a moment, as the very idea of five thousand clowns in one place at one time was slightly terrifying. He imagined them banding together in a clown army and waging war with seltzer bottles and rubber bats.

All those big red noses, all that maniacal laughter. All those huge, scary smiles.

"Why?" Flynn asked.

"Why?"

"Why does he have five thousand clowns?"

"Oh." Tim, a young reporter who habitually wore suspenders and too much hair gel, creaked back in his chair. "See, his father started the collection back in the twenties or something. It's like this generational deal. He started adding to it himself, you know, like in the fifties, then the whole bunch of them got passed to him when his father died. Some of his collection is like museum quality. This stuff goes for real bucks on eBay."

"Okay, give it a run. Take a photographer. I want a shot of the whole collection with the guy in it. And him with a couple of the more interesting pieces. Get him to give you the history or significance of specific pieces. Play up the father-son connection, but lead off with the numbers and a couple of pieces from each end of the money scale. It could work for the Weekender section. And Tim, try to edit out the 'you knows' and 'likes' when you interview him."

"Got it."

Flynn looked over to see Malory standing between the desks holding an enormous pot of rustcolored mums. Something about the sparkle in her eye made the rest of the room fade away.

"Hi. Doing some gardening?"

"Maybe. Is this a bad time?"

"No. Come on back. How do you feel about clowns?"

"Wrathful when they're painted on black velvet."

"Good one. Tim?" he called back. "Get some shots of any clown paintings on black velvet. Sublime to ridiculous and back again," Flynn added. "It could be good."

She stepped into the office ahead of him, continuing on to set the flowers on his window ledge. "I wanted to—"

"Wait." He held up a finger while he tuned in to the call coming out of his police scanner. "Hold that thought," he told her, and poked his head back out the door. "Shelly, there's a TA, five hundred block of Crescent. Local PD and EMTs responding. Take Mark."

"TA?" Malory repeated when he turned back to her. "Traffic accident."

"Oh. I was thinking just this morning how much you have to juggle and weigh and shape to put out the paper every day." She bent down to pat the snoring Moe. "And you manage to have a life at the same time."

"In a manner of speaking."

"No, you have a very good life. Friends, family, work that satisfies you, a house, a silly dog. I admire that." She straightened. "I admire you."

"Wow. You must've had a really good time last night."

"I did. I'll tell you about that, but I don't want to— what is it—smother my lead."

"Bury the lead."

"Right." She stepped over the dog, laid her hands on Flynn's shoulders. And leaning in, kissed him. Long, long and warm. "Thank you."

His skin had started to hum. "What for? Because if it was really good, maybe you should thank me again."

"Okay." This time she linked her hands behind his head and added a bit of heat to the warmth.

Outside the office, applause broke out.

"Jesus, I've got to get blinds for this place." He tried the psychological angle of shutting the door. "I don't mind being the hero, but maybe you should tell me what dragon I slayed."

"I read your column this morning."

"Yeah? Usually if somebody likes my column they just say 'Nice job, Hennessy.' I like your way better."

" 'It isn't only the artist holding brush and vision who paints the picture,' " she quoted. " 'It's those who look and see the power and the beauty, the strength and the passion, who bring brushstroke and color to life.' Thank you."