My cheeks got al scratchy. "Um, yeah," I said. "Just don't tel everyone about our plan, 'kay? And we have to tel Lori to keep quiet, because I don't want anyone to copy us."
"Oh, don't worry—I heard Quinn and Melanie are doing monster movies— Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein."
"Nice."
"Yeah, but I can't imagine Melanie going al monster ugly."
"Hmm, I don't think it would be too hard." I started into the library.
"Hey," Jackson said, catching me by the hand. "Whoever he is, he's lucky, Amy. Very lucky."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
He winked. "You can't lie about stuff like that. I see you."
I shrugged off his comment. "Can you give me a ride home after this?"
"I'd be honored," he said, and then let me go.
***
"If we're doing this, it has to be perfect," Lori said, flipping through another volume on World War I . She had a huge stack of books next to her on the table. The old guy at the circulation desk had been more than happy to help us research. "Look at this dress! I wonder if my mother can sew it for me in time for the dance."
Jackson groaned. "Lori, I'm al researched out. Can't we just watch Pearl Harbor and take notes?"
"Yeah, maybe that's a good idea. My eyes are glazing over here," I said. "They have great costumes in the movie."
"Um, hel o—that's a modern interpretation of the forties," Lori said. "This is a real y awesome idea, Amy, and I want everything to be perfect.
Can you imagine everyone's faces when we walk in and look like a mil ion bucks? Come on, let's shoot for ten more minutes."
"You said that ten minutes ago," Jackson said.
Lori glared at him. "Don't forget, we're in charge this year. If we don't rock it out, then that's not going to happen again."
"When did you turn into such a tyrant?" Jackson said, laughing. "It's like you're drunk with power."
Lori smiled, like she thought it was a compliment. "Back to work."
Jackson held up his hands in surrender. "Sure thing, boss."
I had to hand it to the girl; she was motivated. "Ten minutes," I said, shaking my head. "Slide over," I said to Jackson, who was manning the computer station near our worktable.
"There's nothing here," he said. "The Skagit River Reporter's archives on the forties suck."
I checked out the webpage Jackson had found, noting the paper had gone under a couple of years ago, which was probably why the site wasn't the greatest.
"And honestly, it's depressing looking at al the articles about the guys who were my age and died," Jackson said.
"There were a lot of those." I turned back to the computer and clicked on the Veterans section. I scanned down the huge list of names from World War I . And then I came to one that made me pause: Robert Briggs.
I clicked on it and a photograph popped up. I expected it to be of a young army soldier kil ed at Normandy in 1944, but instead it was a picture of an old man.
An old man who had died only five years ago.
I hit Print.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Henry plucked another blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth, chewing the milky sweetness from the stem and remembering that magical afternoon at the creek with Amy, an afternoon that seemed a lifetime ago. Leaning back in the grass, he looked up at the summer sky, trying to see the dragons and castles they'd found together. Nothing but big, puffy white clouds today. Giving up, he closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face. What he wouldn't give to have Amy next to him in the grass, to touch her silky hair that smel ed of strawberries and wood smoke.
He heard a rustling sound—movement along the path from the clearing. His heart beat a little quicker as he anticipated Amy's presence.
"Henry? You out here?" His grandfather's voice sailed out through the bushes, and a second later, the old man emerged with a tackle box and a couple of fishing rods.
"Yes, sir. Over here," Henry said. He couldn't keep disappointment from his voice.
"Fishing's a fine way to spend a Saturday afternoon, but it's a mite hard to catch anything when you leave your fishing gear behind." His grandfather set down the box and leaned the poles against the wil ow's trunk. "I brought a pole for you and one for myself."
"You fol owed me?"
His grandfather nodded. "Yes, wel , I saw you headed this way."
"But you never come down to the creek," Henry said, slowly.
His grandfather raised the brim of his straw hat. "Yes, that's so—but you've been spending a lion's share of your time out here or in the foggy swamp. I figured there must be something special to it. This your secret fishing hole?"
"Not real y."
Grandfather took a seat next to Henry. "Maybe we could toss out a couple lines."
"That'd be fine." Henry got up and dug around in the tackle box so he could rig up the rods.
"You know, Henry, it's a bit odd out here," Grandpa said, watching him work. "It's queer coming through the mist, cold and lonesome. I can't say I prefer it to the farm."
"Hmm," Henry murmured, not wanting to start on that discussion.
"This fog hasn't always been here."
Henry paused, tying the leader on to the fishing line. "What do you mean?"
Grandfather gave him a hard look. "I hadn't thought about it until recently, but that fog rol ed in across the field—wel , real y around the whole farm—sometime after spring began. I'm certain of it."
"And what made you think of that?" Henry said, going back to working on the rod. He ignored the dry feeling in his mouth.
"That little gal, Amy, was the first visitor we've had on the farm in ages. I hadn't thought to walk down the road to check on any of the neighbors in quite a long time, but visiting with Amy got me thinking about the Widow Barnes and her sick calf. I remembered promising her I'd pay her a visit. I started down the road toward her piece yesterday while you were out in the garden. When I came to our fence post, the one that divides our parcel from the county road, there was nothing but this gosh darn fog there, as far as I could see."
"We don't need to leave the farm, Grandpa." Henry turned his attention to rigging the second pole. "Her calf's probably fine now."
"But why the fog, Henry? I didn't walk through it, but it gave me pause. When did that fog rol in around the whole farm?" Grandpa gestured to the creek, where the fog was like a huge white veil over the opposite bank.
The confusion in his grandfather's face scared him. Henry finished rigging the fishing lines. "Here you go," he said, holding out one of the rods.
Grandpa took it, but made no move to get up to fish. "I have vague recol ections of you trying to explain things, the fog and the like, to me. I didn't fal off the last turnip truck. You know what's going on, son."
Henry felt a strange feeling in his stomach. "I did try to tel you, sir. I did try to tel you when al this began." He didn't say that things were changing now, that probably Amy had started al this. It didn't feel right to blame her for it. Amy had only brought him happiness, but maybe that happiness had a price. Henry pushed the thoughts of her aside, as difficult as that was, and forced himself to focus on his grandfather.
He started with the truth. "I wanted things to stay the same. I wanted Mother to be wel . I wanted the three of us, al the Briggs family there is, to stay together. That's how al this happened."
" Three of us. There are four of us. Your brother may be out of sight, but he's not out of mind."
Henry's chest tightened. Yes, he wanted to say, Robert is no longer in this family. But instead, he said, "You're right. He's never out of my mind, sir."
"Wel , I don't see how your explanation makes a lick of sense." Shaking his head, Grandpa stood up with the fishing rod and walked to the edge of the stream. "You wanted al of these things for us? These were your boyhood desires that brought the mist. How does a change in weather concern your mother's health or our family's staying together?"
"Boyh
ood desires? It has nothing to do with boyhood desires," Henry said. "I prayed for something that would help our family."
"Prayed?" Henry's grandpa cast out his line. "The Lord doesn't answer prayers with fog."
"Wel , perhaps this time he did, sir." Henry took up his rod and joined his grandfather at the stream. "Perhaps there are a whole host of things happening to us because of my prayer." He cast the lure out, jigging it in slowly to entice the Dol y Varden from under the rocks.
Grandpa sighed deep and long. "Look, son, al I know is, I haven't seen another living soul in ages. Seen you and your mother and this little gal, Amy, and that's it. What happened to the town? What happened to us?"
It's what didn't happen, Henry wanted to say. But instead, he kept fishing, and let his grandfather's question float on downstream.
***
The after-supper pipe smoke was a distant phantom floating out from the back porch to the bean patch. Henry watched the white specter join the mist coming from the clearing. And then, as he and Grandpa listened to the chorus of grasshoppers start up over the string orchestra on the radio, they got out the checkerboard.
The conversation at the stream seemed to be put to rest for the time being. Grandpa hadn't asked any more questions, and Henry had been relieved. He dreaded tel ing Grandpa what was to happen to Robert. He was half afraid that Grandpa wouldn't believe him—and half afraid he would. Then Mother would find out, and everything would come apart. Everything Henry had sought to save his family from would come to pass.
The Dol y Varden he and Grandpa had caught had been enough to get Grandpa's mind off bigger topics. Back at the house, Mother had dusted the fish in cornmeal and fried them to a golden brown. She'd seemed happy to have something fresh for supper, and had even put together a parfait from the new strawberries coming on in the garden.
"Wel now, look here—she walks in beauty," said Grandpa, gesturing with his pipe. Henry looked up from setting out the checkers and saw Amy strol ing out of the mist and onto the path to the house.
She was dressed in one of his mother's hand-me-down dresses—the blue shirtwaist—but on Amy, it looked like new and fitted perfectly.
Instead of leaving her hair loose, she'd fashioned a pretty ponytail and combed her bangs to one side. She moved into the porch light, and Henry noticed the lack of sparkly eye makeup on her face. She looked natural, bare, except for a rosy red shade of lipstick. If he hadn't known better, he'd have easily thought she was a schoolmate, or a girl from the town.
He was struck by how easily she could blend into his world, but at the same time, he was painful y aware she could never truly be of their time.
"Wel , good evening, Miss Amy." Grandpa rose from his chair as she approached.
Henry fol owed suit, abandoning the checkers. "Hel o, Amy."
"Oh, don't get up—I didn't mean to interrupt anything," Amy said softly.
"Nonsense. A lady approaches; gentlemen rise." Grandpa gave Amy a wink and then settled back into his rocker seat. "What brings you down our piece of road this fine evening?"
"Just visiting, I guess." She gave Henry a shy, uncertain look.
Suddenly, Henry thought of the kiss on the stairs and wondered if Amy was angry with him for taking such liberties. "Nice of you to visit again," he said, feeling unsure of himself.
Amy's smile faltered, for an instant. "Yeah, wel , I wanted to come over. I needed to, um, talk to you."
The nervousness in Henry's stomach intensified. She was angry, he supposed. And rightful y so. What was he doing kissing her, when it was impossible— they were impossible?
"Please excuse me, Amy. I was just about to go trouble Henry's mother for a bit more dessert," Grandpa said, rising from his chair. "Would you like me to fetch you some?"
"Oh. Sure ... um ... yes, please. Her cooking is so yummy."
Grandpa grinned at Amy. "If that's what you young people are cal ing delicious these days, I'd have to agree." He went into the house, the screen door banging closed behind him.
Amy took a seat next to Henry on the porch swing. She smoothed the dress over her legs.
He moved closer to her, close enough to touch, but she kept her hands in her lap. "You look so pretty tonight, Amy. Mother's in the kitchen. I know she'd be tickled that you're wearing the dress she gave you."
"Thanks," Amy murmured, her gaze lowered.
Henry worried again that she real y was upset about the kiss. "Say, what's the big idea about coming over at night?" He played off his fear with a little laugh. It sounded weak, even to his own ears.
Amy shrugged. "I had to see you. I had to wait until Mae went to sleep. I don't want her worrying about me."
"It's awful y dark out there. Weren't you afraid to cross the clearing?"
"Scared of what? Disappearing into the mist? I've never been scared of that."
He nodded. No, Amy didn't seem scared about the clearing. Then again, she hadn't anything to lose.
She fixed him with a stare. "Look, there's something we need to talk about," she said.
"I figured you were sore at me," Henry said. "It's just that when I was with you in the hal way, I couldn't control myself. I hope you'l accept my apologies."
"It's not that," she said. "That was al right."
"Good." Henry exhaled and reached for Amy's hand. "I'd never do anything to hurt you, Amy. I'd never jeopardize ... wel ... this."
"Right. This." Amy's smile faded away. "I'm not sure what this is."
"Yes. Good point. It's a little confusing, isn't it."
"Yeah."
"Then why does it feel so right when you're with me?" Henry stroked Amy's hand in his, and she moved closer to him on the swing, resting her head against his shoulder.
"I don't know, Henry," she whispered, "but this can't last."
Henry wanted to pretend he hadn't heard what she'd said, but his throat went dry. He didn't want Amy to think that way. He didn't want anyone to think that way. "We have this moment. We have this time together now."
"Sorry to be a downer, but what if this time now isn't enough?"
"It's al I have. It's al I can give you."
Amy searched his face and Henry steeled himself for what was to come. His deepest fear was that Amy would tel him she was never coming back, and yet somehow, he couldn't believe she would do that. Sitting next to her on the swing's bench, the slow movement rocking them together, the sounds of the orchestra on the radio sailing out like a serenade, the moment was perfect. He couldn't believe she would risk destroying that with pragmatism.
"What's on your mind, then?" Henry asked. "I know I've been thinking about you."
Amy let out a sigh and looked up at Henry with a crooked smile.
"What? Did I say something funny?"
"No, it's just that I can't believe it when you say things like that to me."
"What do you mean? Do you think I'd lie?"
"No." Amy chewed her lower lip. "But guys don't usual y mean it when they say stuff like that."
"Am I just some guy?" Henry said, sounding hurt.
"I don't mean it like that," Amy said. She sat up straight on the swing bench, making Henry feel farther away. "You're not just some guy." She folded her arms across her chest. "But some of them have said some pretty lame things."
Henry couldn't hold back this time. "This boy," he said, "the one who real y broke your heart—I'd like to break his legs."
"Maybe it was my own fault. Maybe I made some dumb choices," she murmured.
"Loving someone isn't dumb," Henry said. "I mean, I don't know a whole lot about love, but I don't think it's dumb if it's real."
"But how do you know what's real?" Amy said. She unfolded her arms and leaned back into the swing. "I mean, at the time, I thought things were real between me and this guy—Matt. I thought he real y cared about me. He made me feel special, I guess. But then I found out that everything had been a lie, that he wasn't who I thought he was."
"We're always who we are," Henry said. "Mostly
people don't show you al sides of themselves. I'm pretty sure it's impossible to become someone else suddenly. Human nature is to hide the parts that aren't pretty to look at. It's easier to hide than to be your ugly real self," Henry said.
"Yeah, wel , some people hide a whole lot of ugly," Amy said with a bitter laugh. "I moved to my aunt's to get away from Matt and everyone.
To start over somewhere where nobody knew me." Her eyes looked fiery in the porch light. "I didn't think I would find someone like you. I mean, this wasn't what I was expecting. I don't think most people would believe this was real like I do, anyway. I have a hard time believing it myself."
"But this is real. It couldn't be more real. I don't think anyone could make up the way I feel about you, or could dream it up, even," Henry blurted out.
Amy's cheeks darkened with a blush.
"Oh, gosh. Sorry, I don't mean to keep saying the wrong things," Henry said, shaking his head. "I'm a heel. Al I have to do is open my mouth and these stupid words fal right out."
"But they're not stupid. That's the problem," Amy said softly.
Henry took her hand in his. "I can't help it. I've never met a girl like you before. Never, wel , never felt like this, I guess."
Amy closed her eyes, leaning into Henry. "Me neither," she whispered.
Henry lifted her chin, noticing tears on her cheeks. "Don't cry, Amy. I don't mean to make you feel bad," he said. "Did I say something stupid again?"
"No. It's just ... look, I have to tel you something. I have to tel you something, and I'm afraid al of this wil end—that you wil go away when I tel you. I'm afraid of what wil happen to us. God, did I just say us? I must be crazy." Amy swiped at her tears with the back of her hand, but Henry stopped her.
"I'm not going to leave you," Henry said, kissing her tears. "Now that I found you, I don't see how I can let you go."
The screen door banged open and shut. "Here we are, Miss Amy. Strawberries for the prettiest little girl around," Grandpa said, coming out with a tray of dessert. He caught sight of Amy's expression and turned to glare at Henry. "Brought one for your cad of an escort, too."
Henry straightened up on the bench, and Amy sniffled away the last of her tears.
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