by Beth Ciotta
The cool breeze chilled him to another ironic realization. He’d forgotten to use a condom.
He recalled a night two months ago when Marc had needlessly reminded him to be sure to practice safe sex. Half-sloshed and in the middle of a make-out session with Barbie, he’d slurred a reply that had now become a haunting jinx: “I’ve gotten drunk off my ass and done a lot of stupid things. But I’ve never done anything as stupid as to forget to slap a slicker on Peter.” Last night he’d not only forgotten, he’d been dead sober.
Love struck a man stupid. He’d known that. He’d witnessed it with his own parents. Witnessed it with Marc’s declining mental state since he’d fallen for Daisy.
Trouble was, he couldn’t ask the woman of his dreams to marry him. Not that he necessarily wanted to get married. Not at this moment. He wondered if he’d purposely fallen for someone he couldn’t have. His mother had warned him that he wasn’t immune to love. That he, too, would “get stupid” someday. The thought of losing himself so completely had terrified him. But if that were true, would he have forgotten the condom?
What if Grace was pregnant?
He bolted upright, damp sheets tangled about his legs. Bookman’s voice yapped in his ears. The professor had warned him about messing around, altering the past, affecting the future. If Grace was pregnant, what effect would their baby have on the future? How could he have a child before he was technically even born?
“Do I look like the mother of the future?” He suddenly had a vision of Grace LaRue as Sarah Connor in The Terminator. Fired up and not at all happy about having her life tossed by a man from the future.
He kicked away the sheets and shot to his feet. He had to talk to Bookman. His brain nearly short-circuited as he jammed his legs into his trousers. Bookman had to tell James the ghost to tell Jonas the ghost to somehow contact Newborne the angel. They had to convince Newborne not to send him back to his own time. He needed to stay here in 1923.
It had nothing to do with his feelings for Grace. Well, maybe a little. A lot. But mostly it had to do with the prospect that she might be pregnant. He couldn’t leave until he knew for sure. What did that mean? A month? Two? Surely, an angel could bend the rules, not that Rufus knew what the rules even were, much less if, when, and by whom they could be bent.
As for helping Izzy the ghost cross over, the way he saw it, she wasn’t so keen on making the journey. Why force the issue? Besides, if Rufus had to point out her mistake, how was that helping? Didn’t she need to recognize and own up to her regret in order to make spiritual amends? That’s how it had worked with Jonas.
So why the hell was he here?
He pulled on his shirt, ignoring the buttons, and padded to the bathroom. He splashed his face with water, then studied his reflection in the mirror above the small porcelain sink. He looked different this morning: his skin bronzed from spending two long afternoons in the hot sun, fierce five o’clock shadow, hair in need of a trim. Different yet . . . familiar.
He dragged wet fingers through his hair, combing it straight back.
The man in the photo.
Bookman was right. He looked like the man in the damned photo. The drifter.
Yesterday Izzy had taken his picture with Grace, alongside the Jenny. A shot that mirrored the one Bookman had found in Izzy-the-ghost’s trunk.
“Do you believe in reincarnation?”
Jesus. Was it really possible? Was he the drifter reincarnated? Had he been here before? Loved Grace before? It would explain why he’d fallen so hard, so fast. It also meant he had no control over his situation. How foolish to think he ever had.
“He was in and out of their lives in a flash.”
Had the drifter hit the road after hitting the sheets with Grace?
“Grace married Mick and moved to California.”
In June of 1923, right after the drifter disappeared. Had she learned she was pregnant and married Mick to avoid the stigma of becoming an unwed mother? Or, worse, to avoid the humiliation of the infamous tomboy-virgin-aviatrix getting knocked up by a stranger who had left her a fool, high and dry?
Had he—or the drifter—ruined her reputation so badly that she’d had to move across the country?
Dazed, he stumbled back and sat on the edge of the claw-footed tub. He recalled pieces of Bookman’s second time-travel theory: Alternate Universe. “Travel back in time . . . return to your own time to find nothing has changed. You succeeded only in changing an alternate reality.”
Was he in an alternate universe?
If so, then what? Did it mean that no matter what he did, the future, his future as he knew it, would go unchanged? That his child, if there was a child, would only exist in an alternate universe? If so, then why the hell couldn’t he go on existing in an alternate universe?
Blood pounded in his ears.
He stumbled back to the medicine cabinet in search of an aspirin, realizing then that the pounding in his ears echoed the roar of an engine. Grace had fired up the Jenny.
What the hell? She’d said repairs would take her two days.
He sailed out of the bathroom, forgoing socks and shoes, and devoured the stairs two at a time. He’d be damned if he’d let her fly up, up, and away before they had a chance to talk. He had no idea if she’d considered the reality of their unprotected sex. He imagined she was too damn naïve. But if she had thought about it, if she felt as confused and shaken as he, then she had no business going up in that plane.
He cleared the back door and hurried across the pasture, damp earth squishing between his toes. He breathed deeply, energized by the country air and the warm morning sun beating down on his exposed chest and stomach. His purpose intensified with every barefooted stride. He didn’t know a hell of a lot for sure, such as his exact purpose for being here or the amount of time he had left. But he knew Grace cared for him. He’d seen it in her eyes. Felt it in her touch. He understood she was scared. Hell, so was he. He’d never been so crazy for someone. Couldn’t imagine it happening a second time.
Pop Pop was right. Life was short.
He cleared the barn doors, contemplating the man’s advice. “Grab it and never let go.”
GRACE SAT IN her plane, staring straight ahead. If she couldn’t fly, at least she could sit in the cockpit, wheels blocked, engine running. The roar hummed through her veins. She wished she was high in the sky. That was always where she thought best. Where she felt most free. She didn’t want to think about how free, and how trapped, Rufus had made her feel last night.
No, she didn’t want to think about last night. This morning was bad enough.
She had woken before dawn, with Rufus wrapped tightly around her, holding her. She’d never been held that way. She’d felt . . . safe. It was something she’d never thought about, feeling safe in someone’s arms. When she’d moved, he made a noise in his throat. With his muscled thighs pressed against hers, his hard body against her backside, she couldn’t shift without his noticing. She’d had to slowly disentangle herself from him. Inch by inch.
She’d done just fine by herself the past year. She didn’t want to need Rufus. Didn’t want to get used to him. He hadn’t promised her forever. She’d promised only one night.
Only one problem. Now she knew what she’d be missing.
Stomach churning, she’d walked away, tramped outside in her knickers and an undershirt to dump a bucket of freezing well water over her head. She hadn’t wanted to wake him by taking a bath. She’d needed some time alone. Some time to move around, work, and get her thoughts together. Her thoughts hadn’t come together, so, with her wing three-quarters fixed, she’d started the engine. Just to warm it up. But it was really to warm her up. She knew she was trying to go back to her pre-Rufus self. She liked, knew, and understood that self.
She didn’t understand the woman she’d become last night at all.
The woman who craved a man—a stranger—as much as she craved her Jenny. If not more.
Having sex with Rufus hadn’t diluted the attraction. It had made it worse.
“What are you doing?”
Her breath caught at the sound of his voice. Lost in her thoughts and the blissful, deafening roar of the propeller, she hadn’t seen or heard him enter the barn. She slowly turned, dreading yet eager to see the man who’d sent her soaring beyond the stratosphere. She swallowed hard at the sight of his open shirt, bare chest exposed. Don’t think about last night. She forced her gaze upward. He looked different this morning, half dressed with an unshaven jaw and ruffled hair. Dark. Dangerous. The ornery twinkle she’d gotten used to seeing in his eyes was gone. She wasn’t sure what she read in its place. Urgency. Concern. She preferred ornery. She knew how to handle ornery.
He climbed onto the wing, reached over, and pushed her goggles up onto her damp curls. He repeated his question, only louder. “What are you doing, Grace?”
She gulped, cut the engine. Silence.
Her skin heated under his burning gaze. “What I always do,” she finally answered. “Warming up my engine.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “I thought I warmed it up pretty well last night.”
“I don’t want to talk about last night. It’s done.”
“Is it?”
“I told you. One night. That’s it.” He touched her hand and she pulled away. So different from last night, when she couldn’t get enough of him. Don’t think about last night.
“Grace, we need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.”
“We forgot something.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I can’t imagine what.”
“Protection.”
“What?”
“A baby.”
She stood so fast, she nearly tumbled out of the cockpit. She needed space. He made her feel crowded. Pressured. She shooed him off the wing, then followed him down.
“It was only my first time,” she said. “My only time.”
“It only takes one time.”
Just what she needed—to appear the silly little farm girl once again. She knew it only took one time. She’d simply forgotten. It wasn’t as though she’d read about “protection,” though Izzy had talked about it. The way Izzy slept around, she knew all the tricks. Grace had never really paid attention, since she hated that kind of talk and hadn’t been interested in sex, anyway. What had she cared about birth control?
Birth control.
Oh, God. What the hell had she done? Birth control? She cringed at the recent unwanted growth in her vocabulary. “I am not pregnant.”
“I’m sorry, Grace. When I was with you . . . you were so . . . I just . . . I never forget.” He shoved a hand through his hair. He looked genuinely upset. “I’m not sorry we made love,” he said. “I’m just sorry I forgot to protect you.”
She wanted to punch something. One time. One time. And she’d screwed it up. “I don’t need protecting. How many times do I have to tell you that? And we didn’t make love. We . . . we . . . had sex. That’s all. Just . . . sex.”
She rounded the plane and started gluing more linen onto the damaged wing. If she focused, repairs would be complete by this afternoon. She could take Billy up for his evening ride. Life could go back to normal.
Rufus came up behind her, relieved her of her tools, and calmly set them aside. “Grace. Look at me.” He touched her chin and lifted her face.
She felt like a panicked colt, ready to bolt. Her heart hammered as she looked into his eyes. His intense gaze quickened her already lightning-fast pulse.
“I love you, Grace.”
A metallic click rent the energy-charged air. The sound of a gun being cocked. “The hell you do.”
Grace turned, instinctively shielding Rufus from Mick.
“The hell I don’t,” Rufus said, tugging her out of the line of fire.
Sweat beaded her brow. Her best friend, her oldest friend, stood two feet away, his gun trained on the man who’d stolen her heart. Rufus loved her. Not the way Mick did, as a friend loves a friend. But the way a man loves a woman. The way Robin loved Marion. If she hadn’t felt the crushing weight of his sincerity, she would have laughed. Instead, she felt a bubble of panic lodge in her throat.
Mick glared at Rufus’s bare chest and feet. “Doesn’t take a genius to know why you skipped Roy’s party, Grace. You missed Joystick. The investors.” He spoke so calmly, seemed so altogether composed, it scared the daylights out of her. “Guess you found something you like better than flying.”
Fighting for control, she folded her arms over her chest. She didn’t look at Rufus. She couldn’t. “Nothing’s better than flying.”
“You missed your opportunity, short stuff.”
“Rufus and I had . . . business.”
He took a step closer. “I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure. Always said it was dangerous. Deadly.”
“It got complicated.”
He took another step. “You didn’t have to sleep with him to convince me you don’t want to get married.”
“What I do is none of your affair.”
“You’re my friend, Grace. My best friend. Your well-being is my affair.”
“I’m not a little girl, Mick. I can take care of myself.”
“So I’ve heard a hundred times.” He laughed, a sad, hollow sound that twisted her heart. “Well, isn’t this a sorry state? Izzy wanted Zippy. He denied her. I wanted you. You denied me.”
She licked dry lips, swallowed. “I didn’t deny you. You’re my friend. Just like you said.”
Rufus edged sideways, drawing Mick’s attention away from Grace. “You’re both great friends. That hasn’t changed,” he said.
Mick adjusted his aim. “No, but one thing has.” His eyes narrowed. “I told you to keep your hands off her.”
Her breath quickened. She moved forward and placed a hand on Mick’s arm. “Don’t waste your bullets. It was one night. It was my choice. Now we’re back to business. Let it alone.”
“Business? What has he done for you but get you into bed?”
Rufus’s face burned red, but he managed to keep his tone even. “I’m writing a press release and delivering it to local reporters today. They’ll wire the national tabloids. Grace and I are giving an exhibition tomorrow. She’ll not only gain redemption, she’ll win over the public and the press. With the media in her pocket, the sky’s the limit.”
Mick’s aim didn’t waver, but his gaze shot straight to Grace. For the first time in their lives, she couldn’t read him. “Do you love him?” he asked.
She blinked. Her heart thundered in her ears like the roar of three Jennys. “Hurt him, Mick, and I’ll never forgive you.”
They stood in strained silence, the three of them locked in place, until Mick finally holstered his gun. He kept staring at Rufus as he backed out the door. “I’d die for her, Sinclair. That’s how much I love her. What about you?” He opened the door of his Caddy. “That better be one hell of an exhibition.”
Grace waited until she heard the Caddy eating gravel, then whirled on Rufus. “Never say that again.”
He was bent over, hands braced on his knees, sweat dripping down his chest. “Jesus, he scared the hell out of me.” He looked up at her with a tenderness that made her fidget. “It just came out, Grace. I didn’t plan it, didn’t expect it. But it’s the truth.” He stood and wiped an arm across his forehead. “It’s scary. I know. Scares me about as much as Mick’s gun.”
“I don’t want the truth. I don’t want to know any more about you. You can’t promise me forever, and I don’t want it. We’ll fly that exhibition tomorrow, then I want you to go.”
He moved faster than she could back aw
ay. He wrapped his arms around her and dropped his forehead to hers. “You don’t want me to go, Grace. Deep down . . . dig deep down. You know it. Unfortunately, I don’t have control of my life right now.” His voice sounded husky and tight. “I need to call someone. Speak to some people. I’m going to try to make this right. You have to believe me, Grace. I don’t want to leave.”
She held herself rigid, fighting the urge to melt against his hard, strong body. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because you love me.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s in your eyes. Mick saw it. That’s why he’ll leave us alone.”
She felt herself mentally backing away. Suddenly one foot dangled off a cliff, nothing beneath but thousands of feet of swirling air. “You’re screwy.” She felt her other foot leave the ground. She felt herself plummet, and she clutched his sleeves. “I’m screwy.”
“Maybe.” He smiled down at her, and her breath left her lungs. “I’m going to go make that call. When I come back, we’ll talk about the exhibition. Then I’ll write the press release.”
“But we haven’t practiced yet. You’ve never wing-walked.”
“I’ve done it a hundred times in my dreams. You get that wing fixed. I can write a press release in a snap. Then we’ll have all day to practice.”
“When did you come up with this plan?”
“Let’s just say I was inspired.” He brushed a tender kiss across her lips and gave her a solid squeeze before turning to leave. “We’re a team, Grace. I won’t let you down. We’ll win back your name.” He paused in the open doorway. “Mick pointed a gun at me. He asked if I’d die for you.” He turned and looked straight at her. “Just for the record,” he said, the zap shooting all the way down to her soul, “in a heartbeat.”
Chapter Eighteen
THE HOUSE WAS empty. It was the first time Rufus had ever been alone in Laguna Vista. No Marc or Daisy. No Izzy, James, or Jonas, dead or alive. He was completely alone.
He imagined the mansion in the future, after the ghosts earned redemption and Newborne escorted them to the other side. He imagined Marc and Daisy arranging their clutter of antique furniture, selecting paint colors and curtains. He envisioned Marc struggling with sticky shelf paper as Daisy giggled and peeled the crumbled mess from his hands. He imagined Daisy swelling with Marc’s child, their eyes soft with wonder as they felt their baby kick. He wondered if they’d miss the cantankerous spirits. If they’d feel a hole where once had bloomed familial chaos and caring.