Chronicles Of The Keeper - Summon The Keeper Part 60

"I doubt it." The song ended and Elvis thanked his audience before she could actually do anything.

"There is a bright side, you know. If Augustus Smythe hadn't been a sufficient monitor for all the years he was here, he would have been replaced. Since you're here now, obviously there's a better chance than there's ever been that something will go wrong."

Claire turned just enough to glare at the cat. "And I'm supposed to feel good about that?" But she reached out to see that the power loop remained secure.

YOU WERE DISAPPOINTED!.

Get out of my head. She ate another three cookies so fast she almost took the end off a finger.

"You should cheer up," Austin told her.

"I don't want to cheer up."

"Then you should answer the door."

"There's n.o.body..." A tentative knocking cut her off. She glared at the cat as she called out, "What?"

"It's Dean. You haven't eaten yet today, so I made you some breakfast."

"It's almost noon."

"It's an omelet."

Names have power. Claire could smell it now: b.u.t.ter, eggs, mushrooms, cheese. All of a sudden she was ravenous. Half a bag of cookies hadn't even blunted the edge. When she opened the door, she found he'd brought a thermal carafe of coffee and a gla.s.s of orange juice as well. She held out her hands, but he didn't seem to want to relinquish the tray.

"You've, um, probably forgotten, but it's Thanksgiving today."

She hadn't so much forgotten as hadn't realized. A quick glance over at Miss October did indicate that it was, indeed the second Monday. And that she should replace Augustus Smythe's calendars. "Thank you. I'll call home."

"Yeah. Well, it's just that I was kind of invited to a friend's house for dinner."

"Kind of invited?"

"She's from back home, too, and we all made plans to get together and..." His voice trailed off.

"Go. Be happy. Eat turkey. Watch football." Claire reached over the omelet, grabbed the edge of the tray closest to his body and yanked it toward her, leaving him no choice but to let go or to go with it.

He let go.

"You've certainly earned a night off," she said, smiling tightly up at him. "Thank you for the food. Now go away, I haven't finished wallowing yet." Stepping back, she closed the door in his face.

"That was rude," Austin chided.

"Do you want some of this or not?"

It was enough, as she'd known it would be, for him to keep further opinions to himself.

Out in the office, Dean shook his head, brow creased with concern. "I don't know what I should do," he confessed to Jacques.

"Do what she says," the ghost told him. "Be with your friends. Eat the turkey, watch the football. There is nothing you can do here. She will come out when she is come to terms with this."

"Has come to terms with this. You could go in."

"I think not. What was it you said?" He started to fade and by the time he finished talking his words hung in the air by themselves. "I am pretty smart for a dead guy."

The interior of the refrigerator was as spotless as the rest of the kitchen. In Claire's experience, most crispers held two moldy tomatoes and a head of mushy lettuce but not Dean's. The vegetables were not only fresh, they'd been cleaned. She thought about making a salad and decided not to bother. Considered making a sandwich from the leftover pot roast and decided it was too much work. Reached for a plastic container of stroganoff to reheat and let her hand fall back by her side.

In the end, she stepped away from the fridge empty-handed.

The familiar clomp of work boots turned her around.

"You're back early."

"It's almost nine. Not that early." Dean set a bulging bag down on the table and began removing foil wrapped packages. "We ate, did the dishes, had a cuffer, swapped stories," he explained as her brows went up. "And here I am, all chuffed out." Carefully lifting out a small margarine tub, he shot her a tentative smile. "Are you feeling better?"

"I spent the afternoon watching tabloid talk shows." She crossed the kitchen to stand by the table. "Now I feel slightly nauseated but better about my life."

"I think that's the idea."

Rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands, Claire snorted. "I certainly hope so. My mother send her regards, and my sister wants to know how you feel about European trawlers depleting the Grand Banks, but since she's only trying to start a political argument, you don't actually have to answer her." She picked up a package that smelted unmistakably of turkey. "What's this?"

"Thanksgiving dinner. I packed up some of the leftovers. The potatoes are cooked to a chuff, but you can't tell under the gravy."

When he got a plate and began arranging food on it, Claire folded her arms and shook her head. Only a young man could eat a full meal, then sit down and eat another. "I thought you were... How did it go ...all chuffed out?"

"I am. This is for you." The feel of the answering silence drew his attention up off the food. "That is, if you haven't eaten. I mean, I don't even know if you like turkey. It's just that this was my first Thanksgiving away from home and I know how lonely I would've been without my friends and I thought that, well, that you should have some Thanksgiving dinner." Fl.u.s.tered, unable to read her expression, he spilled the gravy.

The accident and the subsequent wiping and rewiping and polishing gave Claire a chance to swallow the lump in her throat. There were a number of things she wanted to say, but after the day's emotional ups and downs, she didn't think she could manage any of them without bursting into tears-and Keepers never cried in front of bystanders. With the table restored to a pristine state, she reached out and touched Dean lightly on the arm. "Thang you," she said. "Thang you vera much."

THAT BOY IS SO NICE HE'S NAUSEATING. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WE CAN TEMPT HIM WITH. WE'VE TRIED. HE DOESN'T LISTEN. ISN'T THAT JUST LIKE A MAN. NOT WHERE WE'RE CONCERNED, h.e.l.l told itself tartly.

The next morning, Claire found a pair of Dean's underwear hanging off the doork.n.o.b as she left her suite. The imp must've spent the entire night dragging them, up from the laundry room in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"I hope you gave yourself a hernia," Claire muttered, pulling them free.

Briefs, not boxers. Navy blue with white elastic.

"Boss?"

They wouldn't mash down into a small enough ball to hide. Keeping her right hand and its contents behind her, Claire turned. "What?"

"We've got lots of eggs, and I have to use them. I wondered if you wanted me to make you some for breakfast."

"Fine."

"How do you want them?"

"I don't care." He was wearing one of his brilliant white T-shirts and jeans, totally unaware of how good he looked. Briefs not boxers. Given how tightly his jeans fit, she should have been able to figure that out on her own.