by Nancy Moser
“I rest my case.” Wriggens stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Mac let himself out.
This wasn’t over. Somehow. Some way.
Santa Monica, California
Randy turned toward Brandy but pointed at the TV. “I hate the press. Hate them. Why can’t they leave Lane alone?”
“This whole thing is a mess.” Brandy pulled her feet onto the couch and tucked an afghan around them.
The phone rang and she picked up. It was a reporter. “As Ms. Holloway’s personal assistant, what do you think about the latest news that she went back to give up her fame? How long has she been feeling this way?”
“No comment.”
“But certainly she told you and those close to her of her true intention?”
“None of this is anybody’s business. When I bought her the ticket—” Oops.
“You bought her the Time Lottery ticket?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you think she needed a ticket?”
“I…” She looked to Randy. He mimed for her to hang up the phone. She was within a few seconds of doing so when she had the thought that maybe she could be of some help. After all, who knew Lane better than she? If she could word things right… “I bought the ticket for her wanting her to take another look at a past man in her life—and it wasn’t Toby Bjornson.”
“Who then?”
She saw a dark crevasse open before her. Never mind She’d already said too much. So much for helping. “Uh-uh. I’ve changed my mind. You’re not getting me to say who. No comment.”
“Then how about this question: Is it true that your life will be ruined if Lane doesn’t come back? You’ve lived off her for seventeen years. You depend on her for your livelihood.”
Brandy tossed the afghan aside, plenty warm now. “I’ve been her best friend since high school. I’ve been happy to work as her personal assistant—and be her friend—ever since she left Dawson. If she chooses not to come back, I will miss her terribly, but my life will not be ruined.” She looked at Randy, who was shaking his head no, making a turn-the-key motion in front of his mouth. “I just so happen to be married to a wonderful man who—”
“Is it true your mother was a drunk and beat you?”
All breath left her. She hung up.
Vipers. All of them.
Long Island, New York
Millie watched the reporter on TV. Her name wasn’t Millie anymore. Hadn’t been for forty-six years. But suddenly, that name had come to life. And it scared her to death.
The TV reporter sat next to her father, Ray Reynolds, in a nursing home, holding a microphone toward the elderly man. Her father looked so frail… “Yes, it’s true my daughter, Millie, was headstrong. But no one loved her more than David. He would have made the perfect husband. He was so attentive and caring.”
“She sounds like a handful. Hardly the perfect wife?” said the reporter.
“My Millie was strong-willed, and it often took both David and myself to make her see how things should be.”
“Such as?”
Millie’s mother, Rhonda Reynolds Grayson, pointed a craggy finger at the screen. “How can you tolerate that, Tracy? It’s a bunch of lies!”
Millie—who’d changed her name to Tracy a lifetime ago— shrugged, but in truth, it was starting to get to her. It had not been easy seeing David again as the winner of the Time Lottery, and it had almost made her skin crawl when he’d told the world he was going back to 1958 to stop the crash that had killed her.
Killed Millie Reynolds.
The crash that had borne Tracy Osgood Cummins.
She was shocked to discover that he had never married and was still pining for her. Yet it was proof that her initial desire to escape from David’s obsessive, all-encompassing domain had been a wise one.
“They’re making him out to be a legend,” Millie’s mother said. “It’s sickening.”
“He was a good man,” Millie said. “He had the makings of a great businessman. That was never the issue.”
“Freedom was the issue. For you—and for me.”
Millie moved to her mother and hugged her from behind. She never could have pulled off her “death” had it not been for her mother’s cooperation. Rhonda was the perfect coconspirator, because back in 1958 no one ever would have suspected Rhonda Reynolds of having a rebellious bone in her body. In public she’d appeared to be the obedient, complacent fifties wife. June Cleaver had nothing on Rhonda. Even Millie had believed the image—until her father and David had teamed up to make Millie his wife.
At first she had loved David—or at least been interested in him, though now, in hindsight, she realized her interest initially had stemmed from his. David had been intently responsive to all that encompassed Millie’s life. He was different from any man she’d known. She’d been flattered, until she recognized his interest for what it truly was: controlling interference. The organizational, detail-oriented, totalitarian attributes that made David such an asset at Mariner Construction made him unbearable as a fiancé and future spouse. But to be fair, now Millie blamed part of her suffocation on the times. Being a woman of independent nature did not suit the complacent role of a woman in 1958.
And her father had to take his share of the blame. He and David had all but conspired to make her David’s wife. They didn’t care about her feelings as much as they cared about the business. It was as close to an arranged marriage as one could have in the twentieth century. And Millie would have rather died than go through with it.
Hence, her “death.”
It had been quite a thrill when she’d pushed David’s brand-new 1958 Pontiac Bonneville Sport Coupe with the “Wonder-bar” a.m. radio; a sliding Plexiglas sun visor; a “Memo-Matic” power memory seat; Rochester “TriPower” triple, two-barrel carbure—
Why do I remember those details?
Because David had repeated them so many times. He was always well versed on all the details of his possessions.
Including me.
She shivered and forced her thoughts back to the car. Her revenge. Her escape. She’d taken great pleasure in pushing the car off the cliff, into the ocean. The fact they’d never found her body was a detail that was more easily accepted in the unsuspicious aura of that innocent time. And getting a new identity had been fairly simple without the added security of photo IDs and computers.
Her mother zapped the TV picture to oblivion and turned to face her. “You can’t let them get away with this. You can’t.”
Millie looked at the blackened television. “Is this because of what’s being said about me, or the fact that you saw Father again?”
Her mother also looked at the television, as if Ray’s face were still on the screen. “Divorcing him was the best thing I ever did. I had thirty-two good years with Connor.”
Her stepfather had died two years previous, but her mother still wore his picture in a locket. Theirs had been a sacrificial, giving love.
“I’m not sure what it will prove if I come forward,” Millie said.
“It will prove that you were a strong woman who was willing to give up everything to escape a bad relationship. A huge step, considering the era. You’ll be an inspiration to woman all over the world.”
“I don’t want to encourage other women to fake their deaths.”
She shrugged. “It was the only way out. We both knew that.”
“But what will David say if he comes back and hears the truth?” Millie asked.
“He’s not coming back, honey. He jumped into 1958 to prevent your crash. Unless you managed to pull it off at a later date, he’s thrilled and happy there.”
“And I’m miserable. As his wife.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “It’s his Alternity, not yours. You’ve
had a wonderful life with Deke. And I wouldn’t trade my redheaded grandchildren for anything.”
Millie and Deke Cummins had two sons and a daughter, and now three granddaughters. Which reminded her… She looked at the clock. Deke and her son-in-law would be back any minute from golfing. It took snow or ice to keep those two from the course. And New York had plenty of both in January.
Her mother started to get up from the chair and Millie hurried to help her. “I’m going down for a nap, honey. You think about coming forward, all right?”
How could she do anything else?
Peachtree City
Yardley Pruitt shut off the television and threw the remote on the floor. “That’s it! I can’t take any more.”
Vanessa’s husband, Dudley, returned the remote to the coffee table. “It’s best not to overreact. The press exaggerates.”
Yardley began to pace in the Caldwell living room. “Any minute now, my dear ex-wife will get the Nobel Peace Prize. I think they’ve set a record in finding her past students and colleagues. I even saw the requisite neighbor ‘She was such a nice person’ interview.”
His granddaughter, Rachel, looked up from the book she was reading on the outskirts of the room. “My grandmother sounds like a very nice person.”
Yardley turned toward her. Honestly, he’d forgotten she was there. “The press can make anybody sound better than they were. Like that David Stancowsky. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’s up for some award, too.”
She cocked her head. “They were pretty hard on Lane Holloway’s ex. And one of the Time Lottery higher-ups is in trouble for having an affair with last year’s winner.”
She was missing the point. “Yes, yes. The press can do that, too. They can do whatever they want, create their own form of the truth. But I could tell them a thing or two about Dorian—and even David Stancowsky.”
Dudley straightened a pile of magazines. “You know him?”
“Mariner Construction built a bank building for me back in the seventies. At first I didn’t get the connection, I was so wrapped up in the fact that Vanessa had won.”
“Small world.”
“Cruel world.” Yardley resumed his pacing. “David Stancowsky is not the king of the business world. If I remember correctly, he didn’t do that great a job. In fact, I don’t think we even paid him in full because of it. The world should hear that. That would balance out the Saint David talk. I’m just as good a businessman as he is.”
“Are you thinking about giving an interview?”
Yardley stopped near the phone. “I was thinking about it.”
“You’d better be careful, Yardley. It’s hard to be interviewed and have things come out as you plan. And afterward, the interviewer can put a spin on things and make—”
“Yes, yes. Are you implying they’re smarter than I am?”
Yardley saw his son-in-law and granddaughter exchange a look. Then Dudley said, “Just be careful. And don’t let them rile you.”
“I assure you, I’ll be the essence of restraint.”
Rachel Caldwell retreated to her bedroom, glad to escape the presence of her father and grandfather. She could hardly wait until semester break was over and she could return to college. To independence. To away.
Usually dinners with Grandfather were a non-event. She’d gotten the meek-and-mild routine down so well that they rarely asked her a question and most of the time truly forgot she was even there. But tonight, she’d been forced out of her cocoon by her grandfather’s stupid ranting about the press. She didn’t care about his connection with David Stancowsky, but for him to disparage the good press her grandmother was getting was petty.
She sprawled on the bed, getting comfortable on the blue-and-green comforter. When Rachel had first heard the glowing accounts of her grandmother’s life she’d been skeptical. The new information was a complete one-eighty to everything she’d heard about Dorian Pruitt. Surely the press was wrong. But when the reports continued and intensified… her grandmother seemed like a cool lady. A woman of spunk and independence, brains and creativity. And people liked her, genuinely liked her. Rachel would have liked to meet her.
Now it was too late. She was dead. And Rachel would never know her.
But her mother would.
It wasn’t fair. Right this minute her mother was back in the past, back to the time when she was twenty-one, Rachel’s age. She was getting to spend time with Dorian.
Which meant there was no way Rachel’s mother would come back to the future. No way she’d come back to this life, with her boring volunteer activities, and her boring family, with their boring dinners.
Mother and daughter were spending time together in the past.
Mother and daughter were not spending time together here in the present.
Never had.
Rachel turned onto her side. She couldn’t remember the last time she and her mother had actually talked about anything important. Though, in truth, it was more her fault than her mother’s. Rachel had embraced the frumpy, silent wallflower persona years ago. As her mother got more and more frenzied in her quest to become the matriarch of the volunteer-fundraiser set—or at the very least Saint Vanessa, doer of all good things—Rachel had vowed never to need anything, including any attention. Whatever people needed, her mother was intent on supplying. In response, Rachel became the opposite: a reverse-doer. Whatever her family wanted, she gave them the opposite. She wouldn’t sacrifice any part of her life for them. It was her life.
What her family didn’t know was that her wallflower image was only put on for their benefit—and their discomfort. Rachel knew how to wear makeup to perfection, had a stash of stylish clothes in the car, and had dozens of friends at school. She even had a boyfriend, though she was far from being to the point of wanting him to meet her family. Maybe, if the time became right, they’d elope. That would send her family into a proper tizzy. Like mother, like daughter.
Rachel suddenly noticed the pile of letters on her dresser, all nicely strapped with a rubber band. She’d found them the day her mom had left for her Alternity but had been so angry at her for leaving that she’d never looked at them. The fact her mother had wanted her to look was a sure way to make her not look.
But things had changed. As the positive information about her grandmother had come to light, Rachel’s anger had been redirected at her grandfather. And since there were only a few more days before her mother came home—or didn’t come home…
Rachel retrieved the letters and sat on the bed.
Atlanta
Yardley was impressed at how quickly the interview was arranged. After all his elusive “no comment” statements, he assumed the media was ripe, ready to be squeezed into a wine of his own creation. And there had to be an advantage to being interviewed after the crowd of wannabes, knowing what everyone else had said, getting the chance to counter it.
He was disappointed that the interviewer and the cameraman didn’t take his suggestion of having the interview in front of the fireplace in his home, but moved him to a chair in his den—one he never sat in, near the window. But he was willing to let them have their way on that detail. As long as he could control the rest of the interview.
They were just about to start when Yardley heard the front door open and heard Rachel’s voice: “Grandfather?”
Great. He did not need his dowdy granddaughter to be seen by the news crew. If for some bizarre reason they wanted to interview her, he’d be mortified and humiliated. Rachel had the personality and presence of a chair. An old, threadbare chair.
She came into the den. At least he assumed it was Rachel. Her hair was styled, she was wearing makeup, and she sported a black blazer over a black turtleneck and slacks. “Rachel? What have you done to yourself?”
She ignored his question. “I see you didn’t waste any tim
e setting up your rebuttal.”
The reporter—Jack Shamblin or Shandren?—looked up from his last-minute preparations. “And who is this?”
“This is my grand—”
“I’m Rachel Caldwell. I’m Vanessa Caldwell’s daughter and Dorian Pruitt Cleese’s granddaughter.” She looked right at Yardley. “Though I never had the pleasure of knowing her,” she lifted a pack of letters, “until recently.”
What does she mean by that?
Jack looked from Rachel to Yardley, then back. “Perhaps we should include you in the interview with your grandfather.”
“No!” Yardley found himself standing and calmed himself. “No, thank you. I’d rather do this solo.”
Jack looked at his watch. “I understand that, but we would like to hear from the daughter, and in the interest of time…” He motioned to a crew hand to bring another chair over. Within seconds, Rachel was ensconced next to her grandfather. She set the stack of envelopes she’d been carrying on the floor beside her.
The way she was smiling so smugly… Yardley wanted to call a time-out. Something wasn’t right. Something was up. Every instinct told him it wasn’t good. But he couldn’t back out now, not when he’d made such a fuss to get this interview.
“Well then,” Jack said, settling into the chair near Yardley. “Why don’t we begin?” He turned to the camera, gave a signal, then smiled. “We’re here today with Yardley Pruitt, the father of Time Lottery winner Vanessa Caldwell, and Rachel Caldwell, her daughter.”
Yardley tried to ignore Rachel’s presence and smiled into the camera. “I’m also the president of Fidelity Mutual Bank, a very successful regional institution. Perhaps you’ve heard our slogan: ‘Fidelity Mutual Bank: We’ve Got Your Number.’ We have a dozen branch—”
“Thank you, Mr. Pruitt. Your standing in the business community is well known. But today, what we’d really like to know is, when did you first realize you knew David Stancowsky?”
How rude. “When I kept hearing the name of his company over and over,” he sighed, “and over on the news.”