Christmas Moon

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.

He smiled at me in a way that few men have ever smiled at me: knowingly, lovingly, comfortably, happily, sexily.

Finally, he said, "The client, Sam, was you."