by Beth Ciotta
Would he?
Not many days ago he’d have given anything to rid his life of the infamous Van Buren siblings. Of course, that was before he’d spent time with two of them in the flesh. James, despite his aversion to work, showed a great deal of compassion for such a young man. Izzy, though she drove him nuts, had revealed a delicate heart behind those hot, horny hands. Sometimes generous, sometimes selfish, she acted not from maliciousness but from insecurity. She might have boasted countless friends and lovers, but he’d never met a lonelier soul. He imagined her ghostly face as he’d last seen it, tortured and tear-streaked. He wanted her to find peace, wanted her to move on, and yet . . .
He couldn’t think about the future. Couldn’t think about Laguna Vista without the ghosts. Couldn’t think about how Marc or Daisy . . . how he might be left with only memories.
He could only think about not deserting Grace.
He raced up the stairs to the west tower and found his cell phone tucked beneath the mattress. His hands shook as he powered it on. He sank down onto the bed and gazed at the unusual lamp that had fascinated him when he first arrived. He recalled fixating on the colorful glass butterfly, wanting nothing more than to fly away. To escape 1923. Now he’d sell his soul to stay.
He was in love. The words had tumbled from his mouth without thought, but he didn’t regret them.
He might—doubtful, but still maybe a slim chance—even have a baby.
Two days ago he’d drooled over his impending date with Barbie the Chopper Chick. He’d dreamed of nothing but hot thrills in the sack with a big-breasted, long-legged sex machine. If he hadn’t been sent back in time, he would have gotten those thrills, paid off the press to keep the ghosts out of the paper, then left Atlantic City with a grin and a “see you next time.” Then he’d have flown his Cessna back to New York to resume managing Marc’s business affairs.
Not one action that personally involved himself.
No attachment with Barbie. No business of his own. Even the plane had been purchased more for convenience than passion.
He’d merely lingered in his own life. He’d worked hard and taken care of his family, Marc, anyone who’d let him. It had given him an excuse not to focus on his own life, not to get tangled up in the mess and the joy and the disappointment and the heartbreak. He’d feared loving someone so much that he wouldn’t be able let her go, eventually ruining something beautiful by growing miserable and bored and resentful of the everyday trappings and ennui of life, just as his parents had seemed to do. He’d wanted no part of love. He’d drawn lines in the sand. He’d made a stand, as though he’d been at war.
Well, he was still at war, but his cause had changed entirely. He wanted answers. He had demands. He was through being some paranormal tool. He hit the speed dial.
“What . . . you . . . last night?”
Damned interference. “Hold on, Professor. I’m moving closer to the window. You do the same, and maybe . . .” Static. A low-pitched squawk. More static. “Hello? Professor?”
“Can . . . hear . . . now?”
“No. Not really.” The static grew deafening, and Bookman’s words became garbled and faint. Rufus sagged against the wall, thought back to their previous conversations. The reception had worsened by the day. Would they ultimately lose touch completely? What did that mean in the paranormal scheme of things? He didn’t have the energy or inclination to guess. “Listen, Professor. I can’t hear you, but I’m assuming you can hear me. That’s how it worked yesterday.”
“Yes . . . I . . . clear.”
“You hear me clearly? Good. What I have to say is very important.” He swiped a sleeve across his sweating brow, cursing his trembling hands. She’s counting on you, Sinclair. Don’t blow it. He took a deep breath and kicked into business mode. Calm, cool, analytical. “It’s Sunday, Bookman. I’ll be expected at VB headquarters tomorrow. I want you to call in sick for me.” He had no idea how long he’d be out. Two days? Two months? “Introduce yourself as a doctor, which you are—my doctor. Tell Ms. Bishop that I’m taking a leave of absence, to reschedule the calendar, and to put Crowley in charge until Marc gets back. Tell her you can’t discuss specifics.”
“Okay . . . sick . . . morning . . .”
He closed his eyes, listening to the static and the erratic beat of his own heart. He’d never called in sick a day in his life. He no longer cared. He was through hiding behind other people’s lives, ignoring his true wants and needs, pretending he wasn’t lonely. In his mind, he saw his mother clutching his father’s hand in the hospital, as though she could make her life force flow through her skin and into his. He finally understood that feeling. He understood that love was life and that, by denying it, he wasn’t really living.
Speaking of his mother, she called him at least four times a week. She’d definitely call him tomorrow to see if he’d survived another wild weekend. He always answered her calls. Always. Jesus, she’d have everyone at VB Enterprises out looking for him.
He took a deep breath. He was about to request a time-travel extension, but again, for how long? How long could he put his mother through the wringer?
“Call my mother. Don’t tell her I’m sick, for chrissake. Tell her I’m on a special extended assignment for Marc. Somewhere far away, overseas. No cell phones there but no guerillas, either. I don’t want her to worry.”
“Worry . . . why . . .”
“I’m in love with Grace. I think I’m the drifter. I don’t understand how else I could have fallen so hard, so fast.”
“ . . . knew it.” Even garbled, Bookman sounded triumphant.
“It only takes an instant, you said.”
“ . . . right girl . . .”
“Yeah. And the right girl.” He braced a hand on the wall and looked out the window, the 1923 Atlantic City skyline a humble smattering of elegant hotels dotting the distant coast. “Too bad I had to come back in time to find her. Speaking of which, I need to get a message to Newborne. I won’t assume he’s listening, since I’ve never seen him. I need to stay here. A month, maybe two. Grace might be pregnant.”
“What?” Bookman’s dismay rang through loud and clear.
“Well, most likely not. But I can’t leave her—”
“You . . . work fast . . . don’t mess . . .”
Bookman’s lecture faded to pure static. Rufus dropped his forehead to the windowpane. “I can’t understand you, Professor, so don’t waste your breath. Things are moving above and beyond my comprehension. I need you to talk to the ghosts. Get them to summon Newborne and plead my case. There’s got to be a way.”
“ . . . can’t promise—”
A series of chirps, then dead air.
He sighed. “Who can?”
He palmed the cell to check the charge. Zip. Well, he didn’t have to wonder anymore about the deteriorating reception. Dead battery. If he put his mind to it, he could probably pull a MacGyver and figure out a way to rig some juice. Question was, did he want to revive the connection? Maybe in a month. If he had a month.
He hurried to the closet and retrieved his leather jacket and a small overnight bag wedged on the top shelf. Heart pounding, he shoved his cell and wristwatch into the inner jacket pocket, then tossed the suitcase onto his bed, popped it open, and threw in a few essentials. Two days ago, he’d been wary of distancing himself from the mansion, worried he’d somehow lose his link to the future. Day three into this crazy adventure, he needed to cut that link. At least until he better understood his situation.
Not only did he worry about a possible pregnancy, but he’d also made a promise to Grace. He’d promised he’d fly with her tomorrow. Help her reclaim her good name. He’d do anything to give her back her life and prove himself worthy. Even sacrifice his connection to home.
Of course, Laguna Vista might have nothing to do with his predicament. He migh
t be at the sole mercy of an angel. He glanced up at the ceiling as he fled the eerily stifling room. “Newborne, if you can hear me, if you have one bone of compassion in your body, you’ll keep me here. At least through tomorrow.”
“WHO DIED?”
Izzy stood on the threshold of Mick’s office door. The room was pitch black except for the red-hot tip of a cigarette floating in the vicinity of Mick’s desk. She fumbled for the wall switch, found it, and flooded the room with light. He sat in his big leather chair, head back, eyes closed, a cig hanging from his bottom lip and a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Go away,” he said without opening his eyes.
“Not a chance,” she said, clattering into the room on high heels. She’d planned on zipping in and out. Roy was waiting in the car, but he wouldn’t mind when she explained the need of a friend. Roy, unlike most people, appreciated her compassionate nature. She glanced from Mick’s to the glass of hooch. “What’s wrong?” He never touched the hard stuff.
He lazed open one eye, crushed out the fag, then drained the glass. “What do you want, Izzy?”
She hesitated before reaching into her purse. “I brought you the snapshot of Rufus,” she said, then slid the photo across the desk. “I know I was mad at him last night, but maybe . . .”
“Don’t need it. Just heard back from New York a few minutes ago. The sketch did the trick. His name is Ronald Simms. A Brooklyn-based pilot who flies bootleg for Capone. He’s wanted by the Feds. Apparently he can give them the goods on good ol’ Al.”
“Oh.” She sank down into a chair in front of his desk. It wasn’t the first time a man had lied to her. It was just the first time he’d lied and rejected her. “First he was Julius Caesar. Then Ace. Then Rufus Sinclair. Now—” She heard whiskey slosh in the bottle. She narrowed her eyes. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes.”
Something was definitely wrong. “Ronald Simms? Definitely not as refined-sounding as Rufus Sinclair.” She had trouble staying focused. She eyed Mick’s whiskey and craved a belt. “I can’t believe you’re actually corked.”
“No more than you were last night. How was old Roy?”
“Not as old as he looks. I think he’s in love.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
She fidgeted, knowing more was brewing here than met the eye but uncertain she wanted specifics. “We should’ve slept together last night, Mick. We’d both be feeling a lot better this morning.”
“Doubt it.” He bypassed the glass and swigged from the bottle.
She didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know why he was drunk. The truth about Rufus—Ronald—whoever—was bad enough. She knew that whatever it was, it involved Grace and sex and the man who had spurned her attentions for an inexperienced, abrasive tomboy. She nabbed Mick’s bottle and tossed down a shot. “All right. Lay it on me.”
GRACE WAS SITTING at her kitchen table eating a ham sandwich when she heard a car gun up the drive.
Mick? Rufus? Izzy? The thought of facing any one of them knotted her already unsettled stomach. She couldn’t recall ever battling such a case of nerves. On top of that, she’d skipped breakfast and worked clear through lunch. Billy had wandered over for a visit after his chores and, feeling guilty about Bessie Mae, had offered to help fix the wing. After a sheepish glance at the munched hole, he’d set to work. The boy knew that caring for equipment meant survival. Food on the table. He’d learned early the value of small things. He didn’t have it easy, but he didn’t begrudge his situation. Instead, he showed skill and pride and knew how to tell a story. He’d not only accelerated her progress on the wing, but he’d also made her laugh. Amazing, since laughter nowhere near reflected her mental state when he’d entered the barn.
No doubt about it, kids brewed magic in their veins.
She stared at her glass of milk, wondering about the magic she’d felt in her veins last night. Could she be pregnant?
She tensed. Her mother had died in childbirth. Died to give her life. Though, according to Pop Pop, her mother had always suffered a weak constitution. She thought of her robust father, how she must’ve inherited her strength from him. She barely ever suffered even the slightest case of the sniffles. As a child, she’d sometimes wondered if she’d drained from her mother what little life she’d clung to, but Pop Pop had told her that was like blaming the sun for outshining the stars. Besides, medicine had made tremendous advances in the years since her birth. Logically, she faced more chance of dying from a failed stunt than from giving birth.
She imagined a girl or boy with Rufus’s dark, intense eyes and her wild black hair. Tall, like Rufus, not short with a personality too big for his or her body. She wanted her child to learn the confidence she’d learned from Pop Pop, the love she’d learned from Rufus.
She settled into the possibility of pregnancy, trying to see it as a blessing rather than a curse. Just because she’d never envisioned herself as a parent didn’t mean she wouldn’t be any good at it.
Not that it mattered. She was not pregnant.
Rufus walked into the kitchen and she nearly tipped over her glass. Her cheeks flushed, and she cursed herself for allowing him to rattle her. Her gaze drifted down. Her heart skipped. “What’s that?”
“A suitcase.”
“Don’t tell me it’s yours.”
He set the black bag beside the icebox and draped his leather jacket over a chair. “A few necessities. I left the Pierce back at the mansion, called a cab and . . .” He sat in the chair next to her, reached over to her, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I can’t stay at Laguna Vista, Grace.”
She pushed back her plate, her appetite gone. “Did Izzy throw you out?”
“I didn’t see Izzy. I didn’t see anyone. But I did speak to a friend.”
“And?”
“He’s trying to arrange it so I can stay here, in Atlantic City.”
“For how long?”
“I wish I knew.” He reached over and took her hand, his fingers grazing over her knuckles. “I want to come clean with you, Grace, but . . .”
She pulled away, unnerved by the tingling sensation his touch evoked. “But?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I thought you were crazy the moment I met you.” She stood and dumped her half-eaten sandwich into the trash. Did she really care what people said about her? Only when it came to her skill as a pilot. As for taking a lover into her home . . . “You can sleep in Pop Pop’s room.”
He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, then kissed her neck.
She shivered.
“I’m sleeping with you, Grace. I’m not going to waste one moment with you, not in the sky, not in bed.”
“If you think I’m going to risk pregnancy by sleeping with you a second time . . .”
“I had the cabbie swing by a pharmacy. No risk involved anymore.”
Except a broken heart. She turned in his arms, ready to list the reasons he shouldn’t move in, but her protests died when he took her mouth in a bone-melting kiss. She felt herself soaring . . . higher and higher . . . She pulled away, frightened by the glimpse of Heaven. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Neither do I.”
She gazed into dark, soulful eyes brimming with sincerity and tender affection. He wouldn’t hurt her, not intentionally. She believed that, even if she knew nothing else. She sighed. Why was she fighting this? Wouldn’t her energy be better spent working out tomorrow’s exhibition? Win over the media. Regain the professional respect she deserved. Start her own air circus.
Then at night let Rufus take you to the stars, because surely this is a one-time adventure. Don’t be a coward, Grace.
Izzy was supposed to get his nights.
She squirmed out of his arms and swiped her car keys from the counter.
&nb
sp; His face darkened. “Where are you going?”
“I need to talk to Izzy.”
“Grace . . .”
“I don’t want her to hear it from Mick. I need . . . She’s my friend. I need to explain. I hope . . . I hope she’ll understand.”
He followed her to the back door. “She doesn’t care about me, Grace. Not really. She cares about Roy.”
“She can’t stand Roy.”
He caught her by the shoulders and spun her around. “Trust me, she cares deeply for that man. Why else would she marry him?”
She stared at him. “Who said anything about marriage?”
He found himself tongue-tied. “James,” he said, after clearing his throat. “Yesterday, James warned me not to mess with Izzy. Said Roy planned to propose.”
“Doesn’t mean she’ll accept.”
“She’ll accept.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Call it intuition.”
She shook off his grasp and cracked open the screen door. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. You’re screwy.”
“More screwy than we both thought. There’s no time to send out a press release. I forgot you don’t have fax . . . never mind.”
“Just call the reporters on the telephone and give them the information. I keep a folder of press clippings and contact numbers in the top drawer of the desk. Tell them to meet us at Curtiss Airfield. Rolls, spins, a loop with a wing-walker.” She hiked an eyebrow at him. “Then we’ll end with the fall of flames. That’s when—”
“I know what it is.”
“You up for it?”