Page 77 of Partnering with the Artist

Panicked, I check for my phone, my wallet, mykeys. Keys. Need those. Grabbing them, I clutch them tight and repeatkeys, keys, keysin my head. Having to call a locksmith to bail me out would decimate my already failing chances of proving myself aworthy companion for Maelin.

Her father opens my door.

I donotsqueak.

Offering his hand, he says, “It’s wonderful to meet you, Zakery. Mae’s told us so much about you. I’m her father, if that wasn’t obvious. You can call me Hank.”

She’s told her parents about me? How much? What has she said? Do I need to live up to any glorified propaganda?

Gripping his hand, I do my very best to have a firm, but not aggressive, but not wimpy, but not overcompensating grip. Never minding that it was only a trap.

Pulling me out of my nice safe car, he balances the massive umbrella in order to clap a hand around my back. Then, arm thrust over my shoulder, he whirls me toward the front door and guides me into a narrow foyer. If the square of linoleum that opens into a pale yellow hall counts as a foyer.

“Boy, it really started coming down,” Hank calls as he beats the rain off the umbrella, pulls it in, and leans it up in the corner.

Slender fingers present themselves, and I follow the arm up to Maelin’s mother, who has my princess cemented to her side. “Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

Expecting more foul play, I take her hand, unable to soak in the relief when she does not pull me in for a hug because her husband has thrown his arm around my shoulders again and is practically shaking me as he booms, “Well! The food’s all ready, so let’s not let it get cold. We can get to know each other over lunch.”

“I’ll get the beans and meat off the stove,” Taylor says, nuzzling Maelin a second before heading down the hall, taking a turn, and disappearing into the confines of this home. It is very small. Very covered in photos. Photos of…

I go very, very still as my eyes lock on a picture of Maelin and Morana. They’re sharing a plastic trike. Morana’s scowling whileMaelin’s hands are planted atop Morana’s dark hair, pushing herself up to squint over her sister’s head at the camera beneath the brim of a wide, wide hat. No sunglasses. Barely visible slits of her green eyes.

So…cute…

“You like that, huh?” Hank chuckles.

My body locks. No, sir. I don’t. I do not like looking at pictures of children. I promise. Ipromise. It’s just. It’s justMaelin. LittleMaelin.

He nudges me, completely at ease. “I’ve got a whole album to show you later.”

“Dad, no. We talked about this,” Maelin says.

“It’s classic,” he protests.

“It’sembarrassing.”

“Classic.”

An entire album of Maelin pictures? I’d very much like to soothe the hammering in my chest with that.

Maelinshovesher father after her mother. “Go help Mom with the beans and give us a second.”

He sighs. “Fine, fine.” He flicks his finger at us. “No necking while my back is turned.”

“Dad!”

He takes a step away, whips back around.

Maelin covers her face. “Father, why?”

Chuckling, he heads off, taking the same turn as his wife and disappearing.

Gentle, Maelin’s hand finds mine, and I shift my attention to her, to her pale fingers against my skin. “Are you okay?” she asks.

Silent, I dip my chin.

Worry clouds her perfect green eyes. “Are you…sure?”

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