Chapter 6

Celeste was in the shower, and Jamie found himself rummaging through his closet and drawers, looking for something that might fit her. The best he could come up with a pair of black silk pajama bottoms and a sleeveless t-shirt he usually wore to the gym. He added a pair of thick wool socks to the pile and knocked on the bathroom door.

"Celeste?" There was no answer from inside, just the splash of falling water. Frowning, he tapped the door again. "Celeste, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she finally called over the rush of water. He raised his eyebrows, but pushed the door open. The shower stall was fogged with steam, reducing Celeste to a misty shadow behind the water-streaked glass, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His Galahad intentions could only be pushed so far.

"I brought you some clothes," he said over his shoulder as he arranged the pile on the back of the toilet tank. "I thought you might want something clean to put on. We can throw your stuff in the laundry." Or the trash.

"Thanks." Celeste's voice, close behind his shoulder, made him turn slowly. She was wrapped in one of his thick burgundy towels from armpit to knees, her hair slicked down her back with water. She looked older without the riot of curls, as delicate and vulnerable as a wounded bird.

"Uh... you're welcome." His voice sounded thick and tight in his throat. She smiled at him sweetly, her head tilting curiously to the side.

"You're red again."

"Dammit Celeste!" He shoved past her to the door, slamming it closed behind him. Didn't she realize that he was old, not dead? Well, not yet, the nasty, sarcastic voice in his head reminded him. He dropped down on the edge of the bed, cradling his head in his hands with frustration.

"What did I say wrong this time?"

He opened his eyes to find Celeste kneeling on the floor in front of him, her blue eyes shaded almost black with worry. She had gotten dressed and wrapped her dripping hair in the towel, turban-style. He dropped his hands and groaned in frustration, throwing himself back across the bed.

"Celeste, how old are you?"

"What year is it?"

He sat up and looked at her in disbelief. "You're kidding right?"

"No. I don't know what year it is." She drew her lower lip into her mouth, small, even white teeth worrying at it. "I don't know much of anything, I suppose."

"It's 2006." He watched her face as she did the mental calculations.

"Then I'm 22."

"And I'm 49. And in case you didn't notice, Celeste, I'm old enough to be your father. That doesn't mean I'm dead yet." She stood stoically, eyes downcast, under the harsh tone of his voice, and he softened. "You're a pretty girl. Walking around half-naked doesn't help me forget that. I'm trying to treat you like a daughter, or a favorite niece."