Out of Time

by Deborah Truscott

  “I’m not in the least behind,” I protested anyway, peering over his shoulder at the photo. “In fact, I’m in perfect form.”

  “If you weren’t behind,” he pointed out, “you would be.”

  I snatched the pictures from his hands and set them down firmly on the dresser.

  “I don’t suppose,” he said musingly, “that ladies still ride sidesaddle?”

  “Rarely,” I snapped. “Very rarely.”

  “A casualty, I should imagine, of ladies wearing trousers.” He looked at me a little wistfully. “By the bye, Kathleen, did you bring that lovely gown with you?”

  Chapter 42

  Actually, I had brought the dress, figuring it would be perfect for Lila’s July Fourth celebration, and I had even mended its torn sleeve and ripped hem before we left Avon. But I couldn’t wear it without bathing and primping first; the dress demanded it. And I couldn’t go to all the trouble (as I pointed out to Robert) of perfume and nail polish and freshly shampooed hair without going somewhere to show off my handiwork.

  Besides, there was very little food in the house and even if there had been, I hate to cook. This gave us an excuse to drive to the Blue Bell Inn where we dined on roast beef and freshly baked bread without drawing the least attention to ourselves. No unexpected discoveries, odd questions or startling observations. We were doing well.

  “ ‘Tis a remarkably pleasant evening,” Robert observed when we got home. “Perhaps we should repair to the lawn with a bottle of wine, and gaze at that great spangle of stars overhead.”

  So we did just that, dragging Uncle Bennett’s old Adirondack chairs from the grape arbor where they had been stored and arranging them on the lawn between the garden and the shed. We found a bottle of chablis in the pantry, Bennett’s CD player in the living room (which Robert examined closely, having never seen one before), and a long extension cord in the basement. Within minutes we were ensconced in Bennett’s splintery old chairs with wine and Strauss and starlight.

  This, I remember thinking, is as near to heaven as it gets.

  Then Robert said: “What is that?”

  “What is what?”

  “The music,” he said impatiently. “I’ve never heard it before.”

  So I told him about the Strauss family (Bennett loved them all) and how they were famous for their waltzes.

  “What’s a waltz?”

  Suddenly I knew where this was heading. “It’s a dance,” I told him reluctantly.

  “Ah! A dance you say! I don’t believe we’ve discussed dancing.”

  “No, we haven’t. I figured when we got home I’d park you in front of MTV.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A joke.”

  Robert looked at me. “I suppose the minuet is quite passé now.”

  “Dead and mummified,” I told him cheerily.

  “How about the contredanse and the quadrille?”

  “Ditto.”

  “And this waltz. Is it now the dance du jour?”

  “Not exactly. But people still waltz now and then. At very formal affairs.”

  “Is that so?” Pause. “I knew an officer of the…oh hell, the regiment escapes me. Well, never mind. The point is this particular officer, a major, I believe, had some cousins in Virginia with whom he once spent time before the war—”

  “A British officer?” I interrupted.

  He shot me an exasperated look. “Of course a British officer. Anyway, he called them the Dancing Cousins. Chris — Ah, yes! His name was Christopher Lucas — said that in Virginia one’s dancing shoes were one’s passport into society. That a man was sized up by his dancing — and often disposed of by it, too.”

  “That was then.”

  “Was it indeed? I would wager fifty guineas that you can dance this waltz.”

  Forget the fact that I’d driven all the way from North Carolina, that we had had little sleep the night before, that I was tired and road weary, that I really didn’t have the inclination to dance. Robert was right: Back when Lila was at Havenhurst Mae-Mae strong-armed me into dance classes on the principle that a lady is never at a loss, especially if she knows how to waltz.

  I got to my feet and stood in front of him. “Stand up,” I said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You wanted to dance so now we’re going to dance.”

  “Dancing!” he said, as if the idea had never occurred to him. “What a splendid idea!” He was on his feet in an instant.

  I grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the chairs. “Stand right there and face me,” I told him, trying hard to remember the basics. “Now, raise your arms and bend your right elbow — no, your right—” I manhandled him into position, posing him like a window dresser would a manikin. “Perfect,” I said at last. “Now, I put my left hand on your right shoulder and you put your right hand lightly at the small of my back.”

  “We touch thus?” He sounded surprised.

  “Yes. And then you take my right hand in your left. Like this.”

  “And this is how we stand? It seems…so intimate.”

  “We’ve been somewhat more intimate than this, Robert.”

  “But what if one is not well acquainted with one’s partner?”

  “You know, Robert, I’ve read that all sorts of subtle, intimate gestures and suggestive glances were exchanged during minuets. Between dancers little acquainted with each other.”

  Robert smiled at me. “Indeed. One can imply a great deal in a single glance.”

  Yeah, I thought, I bet one can. I took a breath and opted for the hesitation waltz rather than the box step, mainly because I actually remembered how to do it. “Now, step to the side on your left foot,” I instructed. “Rise up slightly, and draw your right foot to your left…”

  We tried that a few times, lumbering around the lawn to the count of one-two-three, one-two-three, before we finally began to laugh. We laughed so hard that Robert dropped his arms and let me go, and I sank down on the cool, green grass. A minute later he pulled me to my feet and we began again, silently counting off our steps. This time it went better.

  After a while, Robert spoke. “Sometimes, Kitty, understanding goes beyond words.”

  “With us, it nearly always does.”

  Suddenly, he stopped dancing. He raised my hand and kissed my knuckles, then folded my fingers into his. “Yes, that is true,” he acknowledged. “For example, I have never properly asked you to marry me. It has been in every way implied and assumed, but I have not asked for your hand as a gentleman should. And yet I love you beyond words and reason. I love you with a passion, hot and sweet, that both consumes and comforts me.

  “Robert—”

  “Nay, Kitty, I must say it. I am naught but a soldier, blunt and plain, and my words are a soldier’s words. I surrender you my heart. I lay it at your feet. Do me the honor, my lovely Kitty, of becoming my wife.”

  I looked up at him, my heart in my eyes. In response he placed my hand flat against his breast, and covered it with his own.

  “Marry me,” he said quietly.

  “I will,” I whispered, promising. “I will.”

  He smiled at me, a slow, lazy sort of smile, sensual and inviting. Then he lifted my hand, turned it over, and kissed my palm. The touch of his tongue seared my flesh. A laser’s touch, white with thrilling heat.

  The CD reached the end of one waltz and moved to the next. Silently, formally, I placed my left hand lightly upon Robert’s right shoulder. He rested his right palm firmly against the small of my back. Then, to the opening chords of the Emperor’s Waltz, we spun across the grass where, on a summer’s day in 1918, my family once sat with their babies and cold lemonade while someone took their photograph. We danced among their ghosts, improvising through our missteps, around and around the lawn from the garden to the shed.

  From the past toward our future.

  I tilted back my head and saw above me the starry sweep of sky.

  *****

  Saturday morning dawned
uncharacteristically cool and grey. I tumbled out of bed, pulled on jeans and an oversized T-shirt, and then Robert and I roamed the house, deciding, once and for all, what to keep and what to give away. As always, Robert was fascinated by the photographs. “You’ll have to put these all upon a wall, Kathleen,” he told me, and I envisioned the house we’d have someday, its hallways lined with long-gone Tiptons.

  Robert saw it, too. “And when we have guests to dine, we’ll take them on a tour of the ancestral gallery, pointing to dear departed Uncle Bennett and telling everyone how he arranged our introduction. Well, not how, exactly, but that he did.” He looked at me, smiling happily.

  “We’ve already told Phillip we met at a conference,” I pointed out.

  “Mere details, Kitty. We’ll think of something plausible. We always do.”

  I looked at him. “The main point in coming here, Robert, was to gather up your stuff and dispose of it. And if we do that now, then we can simply lock up the house and leave.”

  “You mean, for Virginia?”

  “Well, do you want to face my mother today or tomorrow? That pretty much seems to be our choice.”

  We looked at each other, weighing our options.

  “Call your mother,” he told me suddenly. “Tell her you’ll be home in time for supper tonight. And if you think it best,” he added, “tell her now about me.”

  I nodded. “I suppose it’s time,” I said.

  *****

  But Lila wasn’t there. She was still on her way back from Kinsale, her cleaning lady informed me, and not expected home until later in the afternoon. I left a message I would be home that evening and that I was bringing a friend, then I zipped through the house emptying trash and stuffing things back into suitcases. That done, I went outdoors and wandered around the property, relishing the mild temperature as I put away lawn furniture and secured trashcan lids. On my way back to the house I bent over to pick up a wine glass we left out the previous night. When I straightened I saw Robert, looking tan and lean in a fresh white shirt and a pair of blue jeans we bought somewhere, striding across the lawn, carrying his boots and sword.

  “What are we to do with these?” he asked.

  “Box them up?” I suggested. “Put them in the attic until we move? As long as they’re out of sight we’ll be fine.”

  “Actually, I was wondering if we shouldn’t burn them. After all, they no longer have any relevance to who I am. They are the past, Kitty. I have no wish to bring them into my future. Do you understand that?”

  Nodding, I took one of the boots from him and saw that he had rolled up his breeches and slipped them down the leg. “What’s in the other one?” I asked.

  “My shirt and linen.” He tipped the boot so I could see.

  “Would any of this stuff burn well? Aside from the cloth—”

  “Well, the sword obviously wouldn’t.” Robert shook his head and took back the boot I held. “I suppose we could bury it. Bury all of it. Think of the symbolism.”

  “That would work. Until someone dug it up again.”

  “We’ll find an unobtrusive spot. Anyway, it doesn’t matter who digs up what, once we’re gone and some time has elapsed. Let them speculate.”

  This seemed to be a reasonable plan. By silent accord we began heading in the direction of the garden shed with its shovels and tools.

  “There’s a tangle of shrubs and vines behind the garage,” I offered. “We could bury everything there and cover it up with leaves. No one would ever notice.”

  By this time we had opened the door to the shed and stepped inside. For a moment we stood motionless in the dusty silence.

  “I don’t know what to do about this place,” I said, meaning the trap door. Leaving it behind for the new owners was like handing them a ticking time bomb, despite Robert’s current theory that only he or an act of God or an as-yet-undetermined sequence of events could trigger the mechanism.

  “We could tear it down,” he said, knowing exactly what I was thinking. “I could do that by myself.”

  “Do you think that would help? Would it really eliminate the trapdoor, the possibility of someone falling through?”

  “It’s probably our best chance. Assuming that anyone else could fall through. But we have to assume that, I suppose.

  “If we were to tear it down,” I went on, “when do you suppose we should do it?”

  “Soon, don’t you think? Meanwhile, if your agent presents you with a, um, contract, you could stipulate that you will sign contingent upon tearing down the shed. For reasons of safety or whatever.” He looked at me. “Or fear of lawsuits. This is, after all, such a litigious

  society.”

  I sighed. “I suppose we could drive back up next weekend and do it. Tear it down and all.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Or do it now.”

  “Now?” I looked at him in disbelief. “How long would it take?”

  “To do the whole thing? A couple of days, maybe, and then we’d have to have the lumber hauled away. But I wasn’t thinking about toppling the entire shed right at this moment. Merely collapsing a beam or two before we leave this afternoon. That way our claim that the shed is unsafe would seem more plausible.”

  “How would you do it?”

  I could tell he liked the question. He tucked the boots under one arm and began surveying the interior structure, evaluating beams and siding, and undoubtedly imagining where he’d swing the sledge hammer. Somehow I was sure a sledgehammer would be involved in this. It seemed like an essential guy sort of thing.

  “I could probably knock the whole thing apart with a sledge easily enough, let alone a temporary beam or two,” he said, which made me chuckle. Abruptly, he bent to kiss me. I could taste toothpaste on his mouth, smell the soap from his morning shower — wonderfully ordinary and enduring sensations.

  “I love you, Kathleen,” he said, suddenly serious. “I love your laugh and your steadfast courage—”

  I shook my head. Not courage. Not me. Well, maybe.

  “You stood beside me,” he said, insisting. “My brave soldier.”

  “I did it because I love you.”

  He placed his palm gently against my cheek. “And isn’t love an act of courage?” he asked wryly.

  “You have a point,” I smiled.

  We shifted our attention back to the shed. “You know, what I can’t bring down with a sledge hammer,” Robert mused, “I can pull down with a pair of oxen.”

  “Oxen may be difficult to find.”

  “Your car, then.” He moved toward the far end of the shed. “You know,” he went on in a speculative fashion, “I think this may be even easier than it seems. Some of these beams are almost rotted through—”

  At this point I forgot the shovel and followed him to the back room. I saw him just in front of me, shifting the boots from one arm to the other so he could reach up to test the beams overhead. A little to the left was the wooden trunk he tripped over when he first arrived.

  “We could easily knock this one out before we leave,” he said. “And that one, too. Then call your agent and warn her not to come inside, that the shed is in danger of collapsing. If she looks in the window and sees these beams, she’ll believe you.”

  I came up beside him and the two of us arched our necks backward, peering at the beams above, contemplating the fate of the shed. And then we heard the quiet snick of metal against metal.

  In an instant Robert spun us both toward the wall that divided the shed, thrusting me behind him in the process. I heard a muffled thump and the sing of steel and I knew he had dropped his boots and unsheathed his sword.

  I caught my breath. Robert turned to me, hand up, palm out: stay put. My heart pulsed in my throat. I didn’t want to stay put. I wanted to run, to flat-out bolt from the shed, but I could see that my options were distinctly limited. Whoever was lurking around the corner stood between us and the door.

  Robert raised his sword. With his back to the wall, he inched silently toward the opening t
hat led to the first room, leaving me deep in the corner where the dividing wall met the back wall. Of the shed’s two windows, one was shuttered, leaving the back room where we stood deep in shadow. My corner was the darkest part of the shed.

  I peered into the gloom, assessing potential weaponry. A fireplace poker would be nice. A gun even nicer, if I knew how to use it. I shifted slightly and something hard bumped against my foot. I leaned down slowly, trailing my fingers cautiously toward the floor until they connected with …

  A garden stake! It was the old fashioned kind, about 2 feet long, made of heavy lathe and pointed at one end. I slipped it into my hand and hefted it. It felt like the kind of thing you’d run through a vampire’s heart. Surely this could be useful.

  But not at the moment. I raised my eyes from the stake just as Robert thrust himself, his sword extended, toward the opening. And in that instant, just inches beyond reach of the blade, a figure stepped into my line of vision, dimly backlighted by the window behind him.

  Robert made a subtle movement, like the tightening of a spring, and I knew he was preparing to lunge.

  “I really wouldn’t do that if I were you,” our visitor suggested calmly.

  Instantly, I recognized the voice and let out a sigh of relief.

  “Why, Phillip Olson,” I chided in surprise. “You scared me half to death!”

  Chapter 43

  As I stepped forward to greet our visitor, Robert quickly pulled me back.

  “Robert!” I exclaimed. “It’s just Phillip, for goodness sakes.”

  “Kitty,” Robert said, his voice heavy with irony, “I believe dear old Phillip is pointing a pistol at us.”

  I glanced swiftly at Phillip, who helpfully raised his arm an inch or two. Even in the gloom I could make out the dull metallic gleam of something in his hand.

  “Good Lord, Phillip!” I squawked. “You’ve got a gun! And … is that a silencer?”