by Tamara Gill
“Whichever is right, I guess. In my time, nice girls didn't paint at all.”
“Now I'd just say nice girls don't overdo it. Let's see,” Annette went on, looking around her, “where would Kathy keep her makeup? Ah! Here it is. I'll bet she's feeling naked in 1825 without it.” She bit her lip and Catherine suspected she was missing her friend.
“It is probably just as well,” Catherine said as briskly as she could. “She would be much more out of place wearing face paint there than I am without it here. My mother would likely throw her out of the house. I certainly hope she doesn't let on that she has been an actress!”
“Well, it was only in college, actually, but . . . I get your point. Here, smooth this lightly over your face—” she handed Catherine a small bottle “—while I tell you as much as I can about this day and age. The most important thing you need to know about for today is money. Let's see what Kathy has in her purse.” She picked up the small bag from its place by the bed.
At first, Catherine objected to spending Kathryn's money—it seemed almost like stealing—but Annette managed to persuade her that she had no choice.
“Besides, when you switch back, Kathy will still have anything you buy,” she pointed out. “Now, I'll bet you've never seen one of these before.” She handed her a small card that was as shiny as metal but felt more like polished wood. “It's a credit card,” she explained as Catherine rubbed her fingers over the raised numbers on its surface. “It can be used just like money. Here, why don't you practice forging Kathy's signature?”
Catherine did so, since it was easier than arguing, and Annette quickly told her how a credit card worked. “You'll have to use it, too, since Kathy doesn't have much cash.”
“And the mall? What is that?”
Annette rolled her eyes. “We really are starting from scratch, aren't we? And I don't have time right now to tell you even a fraction of what you need to know. Are you sure you want to do this? There's still time to back out, you know.”
But Catherine shook her head firmly. If she spent the day holed up indoors, she would never learn anything about this new world she'd landed in—or about Logan Thorne. And she might switch back at any time. “Please, just tell me all you can before you must leave.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, armed with a bewildering jumble of information ranging from which stores to patronize to what subjects to avoid talking about with Logan, Catherine followed Annette from her room. Catherine wore a neutral shade of foundation, a tiny bit of blush and some mascara. She had balked at the idea of color on her eyelids.
“I'll see you this afternoon,” Annette promised, still looking more than a little worried. “If I can, I'll run by the post library and pick up some books to help fill in the gaps. And believe me, I've left plenty of them!”
Unfortunately, Catherine did not doubt her word for a moment. Still, nervousness could not quite dampen her excitement at the thought of spending time alone in Logan's company. He was waiting for Catherine as she and Annette came down the stairs, and he looked even handsomer than he had last night. His shirt was open at the throat and his trousers, in the same faded blue as the shirt, were as tight as the buckskins worn by some men of her own time. But for some reason, no other man in snug-fitting nether garments had ever affected her so.
Logan cleared his throat and Catherine suddenly realized that she had been staring. She looked away quickly, willing herself not to blush.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
The trace of amusement in his voice told her he had noticed the improper direction of her eyes. Drawing on all of her Aunt Sykes's social training, she lifted her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. A lady never admits to doing, or thinking, anything improper. Not one of her favorite lessons, but it stood her in good stead now.
“Certainly, sir,” she replied with a slight, condescending tilt of her head.
He raised one eyebrow at her phrasing but turned away to open the front door for her. “I assume you want me to drive.”
Again, she had the feeling that he was mocking her. Perhaps Kathryn was a terrible driver, but Catherine was not, and she resented the implication. She could drive anything from a farmer's gig to a high-perch phaeton, as she had once proved in London, to her aunt's horror. She smiled at the memory.
“Indeed, if you would prefer, I—” she began loftily, but broke off in amazement at the sight of a silver metallic contraption on fat black wheels in the driveway before them. Not a horse was in sight. Wildly, she glanced at Annette, who shrugged and smiled sheepishly. Gaps, indeed!
“Yes?” Logan prodded.
She gulped hastily. “I . . . it was nothing.”
He nodded with a maddeningly knowing air and she knew he thought she had lost her nerve. It rankled, but what could she do? If she attempted to drive one of these futuristic carriages she would expose herself instantly.
Preceding her to the silver coach, Logan opened one door. “Don't worry. I promise not to drive too fast,” he said kindly.
Catherine stared. Had he figured out her secret? But he was smiling as though nothing were amiss. “You may drive as fast as you wish,” she told him. She had never been one to creep along, whether driving or riding, and it seemed hypocritical to expect Logan to do so for her sake.
“Oh, so you've overcome that little phobia of yours?” he asked in surprise.
“Phobia?” Catherine had never heard the word before and glanced over at Annette, but she was already out of earshot, climbing into another horseless coach, a brown one, a short distance away. She caught Catherine's eye and waved cheerily before closing the door.
“Your fear of driving—and being driven,” explained Logan. “I'd rather drive at a snail's pace than have you clutching the door handle every time I turn a corner.” He gestured for her to get inside. “It was hard not to notice.”
“Oh. I . . . I'll be fine.” So it was Kathryn he meant after all, she thought. Catherine slid into the seat of the silver coach. It was certainly easier to get into than a carriage, she had to admit. Indeed, one had required a small ladder to reach the seat of the high-perch phaetons in London.
Logan climbed in beside her, sitting behind a small wheel that she guessed must steer the coach, though she couldn't imagine how. He pulled a ring of odd-looking keys from his pocket and fitted one into a hole near the wheel. Catherine almost jumped out of her skin at the roar the vehicle produced when he turned the key.
“So cars do still bother you,” said Logan, glancing at her. “Actually, it's sort of nice to see that some things haven't changed.”
Catherine pondered that cryptic remark as he backed the “car”—short for “carriage,” she supposed—and headed down the drive toward the street. Suddenly, she choked back a laugh. To think that before breakfast she had wondered whether women still rode sidesaddle!
In a moment they were traveling as quickly as Xerxes's fastest gallop, even though they were in the middle of the city. Catherine watched everything around her, the other cars, which were moving just as quickly, the tall buildings, and the red, yellow and green lights at the intersections. She managed to figure out for herself that the red lights meant that the cars were to stop and the green ones meant they could proceed. She was unsure about the yellow one in the middle, as it once caused Logan to slow and twice to increase his speed.
Once past Harden Street, going east on Taylor, they were beyond the Columbia that had existed in Catherine's time. Why had Annette still referred to it as a small city?
A few minutes later, Logan turned off the road and slowed down. Catherine's mouth nearly dropped open in astonishment. “Whatever is this place? It is enormous!” she cried without thinking.
“Richland Mall. It can't be any bigger than the ones around Washington, D.C.?”
Quickly, she tried to cover her mistake. “No, of . . . of course not. But I did not expect Columbia to have such a large . . . mall.” She supplied the word at the last moment.
L
ogan jockeyed the car into what Catherine considered an impossibly small space and turned off the engine. She couldn't help staring at her surroundings as she climbed out of the car, and though Logan regarded her curiously, he did not look suspicious. “I guess you have been busy in D.C., if you haven't had time to shop,” he said. “It used to be your life, as I recall. Well, enjoy!”
She certainly would, Catherine thought as they passed through one of the many glass doors. What an incredible place! It seemed to be a pink-and-gray tiled street with shops on either side, but it was all under one vast roof. There were indoor gardens of flowers and shrubbery and spectacular fountains. The most intriguing of these had a dozen or more of what appeared to be permanent bubbles composed of flowing water that glistened and quivered, casting back rainbows from the bright lights overhead.
“I need some stuff at an auto parts place just down the street. Was there a particular store you had in mind?” Logan asked her. “I'll help you find it if you'd like before I go.”
She named one of the stores Annette had recommended and he nodded. “There's a directory.” He led her to a multicolored panel that she realized was a map of the mall and located the store for her. “It's down here on our left.”
Pulling her attention away from the map with its staggering array of shops, Catherine followed him, nearly as fascinated by her surroundings as by the man at her side.
Logan noticed her rapt expression and frowned. No, it hadn't been his imagination. Something about Kathy was definitely different. And whatever it was, it did something to him that he wasn't sure he wanted to examine too closely.
“Oh!” she exclaimed then, half pointing before quickly dropping her arm to her side. He followed her gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just a group of shoppers, most of them black, probably local high school or college students. The girls were whispering and giggling, trailing behind the boys. One of the girls had feathers woven into her hair and another sported inch-long, jeweled fingernails. Nothing she wouldn't have seen in D.C. Nor did he notice anything remarkable in the store windows behind them.
“Did you forget something?” he asked. To his amazement, the color in her cheeks deepened slightly. He remembered now that she had blushed once last night, too. Even when she was in her teens he couldn't ever remember Kathy blushing. Could she be feeling that same strange pull of attraction that he was?
“No, I . . . oh, there's the store.” She seemed almost anxious to get away from him now, which was more in line with her usual attitude toward Logan. He knew she had always lumped him in with her parents—an authority figure. When he was younger, it had amused him. It didn't anymore.
“I'll leave you to it, then,” he said, oddly reluctant to go. It was foolish to think Kathy, of all women, might need any help from him. Even as a child, she'd been stubbornly independent. “How many hours do you think you'll need?”
Her blue eyes widened with something like alarm. “I, ah . . . perhaps two hours?”
“Fine. Text me when you’re done and I'll meet you in the food court for lunch.”
“Text?”
He shrugged. “Or call me, if you'd rather.”
“Call you what?” she asked, her eyes still wide and guileless—not that he was buying the innocent act for a moment.
“Cute. See you in a couple of hours.”
She opened, then closed her mouth, but finally said, “All . . . all right. Thank you, Mr. Thorne.” She went into the store, leaving him to stare after her.
Finally he turned away, feeling immeasurably older than twenty-eight. As he walked away, Logan tried to put his finger on just what it was about her that had changed. She looked the same, with the heart-shaped face she'd had since childhood, now matured into startling beauty. Why hadn't he noticed that before? Two days ago, he'd still seen her as a little sister who'd grown up to be a bit of a disappointment. It was also apparent that she hadn't forgiven him yet for his criticism of her friends and lifestyle two years earlier.
Mr. Thorne. Did she really see him that way—on the other side of the generation gap? Or had she just said it to needle him, to show him that she hadn't forgotten his judgmental attitude? She'd been right, of course. He'd had no right to lecture her, then or ever. But it had been such a shock to find her at that party, with drugs in the back room and drinking in the front, kissing and fondling everywhere. And that jerk with the earring, with his hands all over her—!
Logan snorted now at his own hypocrisy. He'd done pretty much the same stuff in college. In fact, no one but Kathy would dare call him conservative—the architects and developers he'd worked with sure didn't see him that way.
It was true he'd always been protective of Kathy, feeling that he owed it to Mr. Monroe to keep an eye on her. In fact he'd offered to bring her to the mall in an attempt to mend his fences with the one member of his adopted family he was on the outs with. But now, suddenly, she didn't feel so much like family anymore.
Had she changed? Or had he?
***
Catherine, meanwhile, was finding the boutique far different from any store of her experience. The elegant little shop turned out to be bigger than it looked, built narrow but deep, and it held racks upon racks of ready-made dresses, hundreds of them, sure to fit any figure or taste imaginable. But then—“Eighty-three dollars?” she gasped aloud at the first price tag she examined. It wasn't even a ball gown!
“Actually, that's quite a bargain for a Liz Claiborne,” commented a hovering saleswoman, startling her. “And that classic styling will last you for years.”
Catherine remembered that in London, where style was everything, some ball gowns had cost upward of 300 pounds, once trimming was taken into account, though she herself had never spent nearly that much. But these dresses seemed so . . . so tiny!
“Can I help you to find something?” the woman asked then.
Catherine thought for a minute. “A nightgown, I suppose, and some underthings.” It hadn't looked as though Kathryn had brought much. “And perhaps a dress or two.”
The next hour and a half passed quickly for Catherine. She tried to keep her actual purchases to a minimum, unable to shake the feeling that she was stealing from the real Kathryn, but the totals still mounted alarmingly. Leaving the shop with a large bag, she looked around, eager to explore the mall until it was time to meet Logan.
Rounding one corner, Catherine was assailed by a burst of loud music resembling some of the rhythmic chants she had heard in the slave quarters. It had a strong, almost primal beat that both attracted and repelled her.
“Whatever do you sell in here?” she asked the longhaired young man at the counter, raising her voice to be heard over the din.
“Vinyl, CDs, tapes, too. It's a music store,” he said slowly, treating her as though she didn't understand English very well. Catherine nodded and smiled to hide her confusion at his answer. How could anyone sell music?
Leaving the raucous shop, Catherine's attention was diverted by the sight of a moving metal staircase. People were riding up and down, being carried, as if by magic, from one floor to another without moving their feet. That was something she had to try!
She watched a few other shoppers step onto the bottom stairs as they appeared out of the floor before imitating them gingerly. She held the rail, which moved with her, and delightedly watched the ground floor recede. At the top, though, she tripped as the step she was on disappeared.
“Careful there!” Logan materialized out of nowhere to steady her before she could fall. “I was just coming to look for you, since you hadn’t texted. Ready for some lunch?”
His hand on her arm sent a tingling sensation through Catherine that was unlike anything she'd ever felt. She had to concentrate to reply lightly to his question. “Certainly. I have completed my shopping.” She wished she dared ask what “texting” was, but clearly Kathryn would already know.
Logan released her then, and she was conscious of a sense of disappointment.
“Food court's
this way,” he said. He did not offer her his arm, as a gentleman of her own time would have done, but she had already noticed that such was apparently no longer the custom. A pity.
“I hope you won't read me the riot act if I have a burger,” he said as they came to a wide area filled with tables. “That stir-fry place has a vegetable plate, I think. I assume that's what you want.”
“Just vegetables?” Catherine asked in surprise.
“That's part of ARF's line, isn't it? Don't tell me their spokeswoman doesn't abide by it?” He sounded cynical now. “Or didn't you know I'd been following your career?”
Catherine blinked in confusion, all too aware of the charade she was playing. He glanced curiously at her and she tried to smile, torn between the necessity of acting like the girl she appeared to be and the desire to let him know who she really was. And what on earth was arf, or its vegetable line? “I'll eat whatever you're having,” she said finally.
His brows went up. “Even if it's a cheeseburger?” She nodded. “Okay. I guess I can restrain myself from taking it to the papers. Or are you moving on to a worthier cause?”
She just smiled noncommittally and followed him to a counter. Despite the delicious aromas assailing her from all sides, Catherine suddenly longed for her own time. It became more apparent with every word Logan spoke that she didn't belong here. She hated to lie to him, but she didn't seem to have any other option.
“Diet Coke okay?” he asked. At her nod, he relayed the order to the strangely uniformed girl behind the counter.
To her amazement, by the time Logan received his change, their entire meal had been assembled by another server. They sat at a nearby table and she watched him carefully to be certain that she did everything correctly, from removing the paper from the clear flexible tubes they drank through to dipping the thin strips of potato into a tangy red sauce before eating them. Logan didn't appear to notice that she was copying his every move. He chatted easily during the meal and she nodded and murmured in response, using a full mouth as an excuse to avoid speaking too much.