~*~Logan~*~

Everything you are

Falls from the sky like a star

Everything you are

Whatever, whenever you are…

            "Hi, there," the sylphlike blonde woman with stunning blue eyes said when she answered the door. "You must be Logan. Come on in."

            Logan smiled and nodded and quickly entered the foyer of this quaint little white house with red shutters. His single suitcase was in his right hand with his laptop case slung over his shoulder.

            "I'm Priscilla," she said. "Brent's wife. He's told me so much about you." Priscilla extended her hand in greeting and Logan shook it.

            "Good things I hope."

            "Logan! My man!" Brent entered the foyer from a room to the right. He'd really grown up in the past twenty years. The sandy haired kid with a small galaxy of freckles who was usually smeared in mud and scraped his knees riding his moped had metamorphed into a tall man with a golden-brown mane that hung down to the base of his neck in waves. His freckles were now few and far between. He and Logan embraced in a manly hug, patting each other on the back. "Great to see ya."

            "Great to see you, too," Logan grinned, happy he was here, happy he was away from Max.

            "DADDY!" shrieked the voice of a little girl from upstairs. "TELL MARK TO GET OUT OF MY ROOM!"

            Brent exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for ages. "That would be Amy Ann, otherwise known as Loudmouth McGee," he laughed, describing his daughter as if she were his pesky little sister.

            "I'M NOT IN HER ROOM!" hollered a boy's voice.

            "And that's Mark, a.k.a. Sir Shouts A Lot," Priscilla added, joining the name game. "Kids! Come on down! Your father's guest is here!"

            Within seconds after much rumbling from the floor above, a willowy dirty-blond girl, who obviously took more after her mother, wearing a denim jumper over a bright pink T-shirt bounded down to the bottom of the stairs, followed by a little boy with dark brown hair in a bowl cut wearing black corduroy slacks and a blue turtleneck.

            "Amy Ann and Mark, this is Logan Cale," Brent said. "I knew him when I was about your age, Mark."

            "How do you do?" Amy Ann grinned and offered her hand, almost mimicking her mother.

            Logan shook hands with the adorable kid, "I'm very well, thank you," he answered.

            "Hi," Mark said simply, waving to him. "Do you play video games?"

            "Um," Logan laughed. "Yeah, I've played some video games."

            "Logan works with computers for a living," Brent explained to Mark.

            "Cool!"

            Priscilla looked at her watch. "It's getting late. I made dinner and it should be a very special dinner because of the arrival of our company."

            "Do you need any help in the kitchen?" Logan asked, feeling almost useless if he didn't offer his services.

            "I should be all right," Priscilla said. "Everyone sit down. Amy Ann can play hostess for a little bit, can't you, Amy Ann?"

            "Uh-huh," Amy Ann smiled, proud to be left an important job. "This way." She pulled Logan by the hand and led him to the dining room, which was simply to the left of the foyer. Mark and Brent followed Logan being dragged helplessly by a nine year old.

            Once everyone was seated and Priscilla was in the kitchen, making final preparations, Brent and Logan entertained the kids by telling them stories when they were kids.

            "There was the time when Logan decided to tease Mrs. Dean's Doberman pinscher, Fluffy," Brent laughed.

            "Okay, you dared me," Logan pointed out. "You were the one who said 'Hey Logan let's go see what happens when you poke Fluffy with a stick.'"

            "What happens?" Mark asked. Amy Ann's eyes grew wide with anticipation.

            "Fluffy breaks his leash and chases you around the backyard."

            "While loosing your pants in the process!" added Brent.

            "Don't remind me," Logan blushed. Being pursued by a fanged monster in your tightie whities wasn't a memory he wanted to recall. He had buried it in the corner of his mind and Brent had to play Jesus and resurrect it.

            Amy Ann and Mark, however, were in a fit of giggles.

            "Hey, hey, hey," Priscilla emerged from the kitchen, carrying a wooden bowl filled with salad. "Calm down you guys. Brent, I warned you not to get them riled up."

            "Sorry, Lila," Brent apologized, obviously calling his wife by a pet name. "We were just entertaining them."

            "Sure, sure, sure," Priscilla set the bowl on the table and stuck a serving spoon in it. "Logan, I hope you like Greek salad."

            "What's in it?" Logan eyed the bowl suspiciously.

            "Broccoli rhab, farfalle, black olives, feta cheese and tomatoes in an olive oil vinaigrette."

            "Priscilla's studied with some of the most famous chefs in the world," Brent bragged proudly.

            "Well, not exactly," Priscilla smiled modestly as she sat. "But Logan, Brent tells me—Mark, stop playing with the olives—Brent tells me you do some—Mark, what did I tell you?— You do some gourmet cooking of your own. Mark Jeffrey Laszlo, if I have to warn you again about playing with your food, I swear to God…"

            "I wouldn't call it gourmet, but my, ah, girlfriend considers it gourmet. She calls me the culinary genius," Logan referred to Max as lackadaisically as he could.

            "Girlfriend?" Brent turned to his old friend in surprise. "I never knew you had a girlfriend. Whatever happened to Valerie? Or Daphne?"

            "Daphne and I were engaged for five minutes," Logan sighed. "Val and I have been divorced for some time now. What made you bring them up?"

            Brent shrugged. "Just wondering. Who's the new girl?"

            Logan swallowed hard, "Her name's Max Guevara." He winced. He really didn't want to think about her right now. He pictured her at this very moment, her pacing in her apartment, dousing herself in cold water or doing pushups or, God forbid, with Rafer.

            "Max Guevara?" Brent repeated. "There's a new one. Sounds kind of urban."

            "So?"

            "Mark has a girlfriend!" Amy Ann's childish voice piped up.

            "Do not," Mark grumbled as he played hockey with the olives on his plate.

            "Her name's Traaay-seee. Tracy Kehhhnnn-tehhhnnn." Amy Ann continued in sing-song.

            "Tracy Kenton?" Priscilla laughed. She hid her smile behind her hand.

            "She's not my girlfriend," Mark sulked. "Mommy make her stop."

            "Anyway, about this Max," Brent continued. "Where'd you find her?"

             "To tell the truth, I discovered her trying to break into my house."

            "What?" Priscilla's eyes went wide.

            Laughing out loud, Logan continued, making up the lie as he went along. "She had mixed up penthouses and she was trying to open my door with her key. We ah, started up a conversation and I haven't been able to let her go since."

            "How sweet!"

            Logan laughed to himself, If you only knew.