Christmas Moon

I continued down the aisle. I didn’t often shop at the dollar store, but when I did, I made the most of it. And the kids, I knew, had been waiting all week for this trip.

It was, after all, a Christmas tradition with us. Each year about this time, the kids were given an empty basket and told to fill them with Christmas decorations. At a dollar a pop, no one was going to break the bank, and once home, together we hung or displayed the decorations. Usually with cookies baking in the oven. Of course, this was the first year we were doing it without Danny, but so far, neither of the kids had mentioned the exclusion of their father, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything.

Seven months ago, just after a rare disease nearly cost my son his life, I had filed for divorce. Just last month, the divorce had been finalized. I was technically single, although my relationship with Kingsley Fulcrum had taken on legs. Or teeth. We had grown closer and more comfortable with each other, and for that I was grateful to him.

The famed defense attorney – never known for his moral compass, nor morals of any type – had suddenly developed a conscience. Now, he was a little more selective with his defense cases, a little more discerning. He winnowed out the obvious slimeballs. Of late, he seemed to choose his clients with some care.

He did this, I knew, for me.

After all, I had found it nearly impossible to get too close to a man who actively defended murderers and cutthroats, rapists and all-around jerk-offs. He got it. If he wanted me in the picture, he was going to have to change.

And he did.

Yeah, I’m still amazed and a little in shock.

But we were taking things slowly. I had to move slowly. Anything faster, and I would have seriously freaked out. So I only saw the big lug a few times a week, sometimes only once a week. He never stayed over…and only rarely did I stay over at his palatial estate. Half the time, he took me out. The other half, I cooked for him. It took me months before I formally introduced my kids to him. And even then, I only did so as my "friend."

I knew the friend comment hurt him, but he went with it. Anthony, I knew, had never seen a man this big in his life, and Kingsley was immediately the designated jungle gym. I couldn’t help but laugh every time Kingsley showed up, especially in his two-thousand-dollar Armani suits, only to watch Anthony climb all over him.

I chuckled at the recent image of Kingsley sighing resignedly as Anthony used the defense attorney’s massive bicep as a pull-up bar. To Kingsley’s credit, he always let Anthony play, and never once did he mention his clothes. I figured that someday he would wise up and show up in jeans and a tee shirt.

We’ll see.

I had just spotted an end-cap stacked with organic soup. Granted, I couldn’t eat organic soup, but my kids could. And at a dollar a pop, I eagerly started scooping them up.

As I did so, I sensed someone behind me and paused and turned.

And gasped.

Okay, a small gasp. After all, I wasn’t expecting to see such a beautiful man there, leaning casually against a shelf full of cheap spatulas, and smiling warmly at me. His eyes even twinkled, and I couldn’t help but notice the soft, silvery aura that surrounded him. Never before had I seen a silver aura, and never an aura so alive and vibrant.

Who the hell was this guy?

I didn’t know, but one thing was for sure: I was especially not expecting him to say my name, but that’s exactly what he did.

He crossed his arms over his massive chest, and said, "Hello, Samantha. How are you?"

This time, I definitely gasped.

Chapter Three

A peaceful calm radiated from the tall man.

His silver aura shimmered around him like a halo. His warm smile put me immediately at ease. My inner alarm system, too, since it was as silent as could be. He wore a red cashmere turtleneck sweater, very Christmassy looking, with relaxed fit jeans and hiking shoes. His shoes looked new. His fingers, which curled around his biceps, were long and whitish, capped by pinkish, thick nails.

"Do I know you?" I asked.

"Not directly," he said.

"Indirectly?"

"You could say that."

I wracked my brain. Had he been a client? A high school boyfriend? A friend of a high school boyfriend? Was he the boy I kissed behind the backstop in the fourth grade? Or the boy I kissed at the bus stop? Other than realizing that I showed a predisposition for love triangles at an early age, my mind remained maddeningly blank, although something nagged at me distantly.

"You got me," I said. "How do you know me?"

He continued leaning against the shelf, watching me. "Through my work."

"Your work?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"And what kind of work is that?"

"I’m a…bodyguard of sorts."

Technically, so was I. As a licensed private investigator in the State of California, I could legally work as a bodyguard, too. Granted, at five-foot three inches tall, I couldn’t cover much of anyone’s body. Still, I bring other…skill sets to the table.

Despite sensing no danger, my guard was up. I instinctively looked over at my kids, who were presently fighting over a huge Styrofoam candy cane, apparently the only one in the store. The candy cane promptly snapped in half like a wish bone. Anthony let out a wail. Tammy gave him her broken piece and slinked away. I would deal with her later. The kids, at least, were fine.

"I’m sorry," I said to him, "but I don’t remember you."

"I wouldn’t expect you to."

He spoke calmly, assuredly, with no judgment in his voice. If anything, there was a hint of humor. He watched me closely, his blazing eyes almost never leaving me. Whoever he was, I had his full attention. I nearly just wished him a merry Christmas and turned and left, but something made me stick around.

"So, what’s your name?" I asked.

"Ishmael."

I almost made a Moby Dick joke, but held back. Truth be known, I was a little freaked out that this guy knew me, and I hadn’t a clue who he was.

"Where do you know me from, Ishmael? And give it to me straight. No more double speak."

"I’m afraid you wouldn’t remember me, Samantha. But I can say this: you know my client."

Ishmael was an unusual-looking man. He seemed both comfortably relaxed and oddly uncomfortable. He often didn’t know what to do with his hands, which sometimes hung straight down, or crossed over his chest. He radiated serenity, but every now and then, perplexingly, a black streak of darkness, like a worm, would weave through his beautiful, silver aura. Amazingly, my inner alarm system remained silent.

"And who’s your client?" I asked.

He continued to watch me. Now, he held his hands together loosely at his waist. I think the guy would have been better off utilizing his pants pockets. Another streak of blackness flashed through his aura, so fast that I nearly didn’t see it. Then another.