Two of the men grunted a response. The guy nearest Tony lay the newspaper on the counter. “Don’t reckon I’ve seen you around before.”
“I’m an old friend of Charlotte’s.”
For a long moment no one moved. The wall clock behind the counter ticked off several seconds. Tony pointed at the newspaper. “Mind if I look at your paper?” Brushing up on current events might help him immerse himself in the time.
The man slid it over to him. “What few jobs in it’re probably taken. Then again, I don’t guess you’re hurtin’. You a salesman or something?”
“Something like that.”
The men resumed their conversation as Tony opened the Dayton Journal, a newspaper which no longer existed in his time.
The man beside Tony muttered something about how long his brother had looked for work. “Lord knows when it’ll get better.” The other men grumbled their assents, little different than the patrons at Bernie’s decades later. So ordinary, yet not.
Tony felt their stares and turned to the paper.
“Hearing Dropped when Faber Resigns” (whoever he was) read the main headline, followed by news of qualifiers in golf’s National Open. Tony found the ads most intriguing of all. Engrossed, he barely heard the door open and shut when the men left. A few minutes later, Charlotte emerged from the kitchen and walked around the counter.
“Oh good, they’re gone.” She leaned around him to place a fragrant plate of food on the counter, then climbed onto the stool beside his. “I swear, those three are worse than a bunch of gossipy old women.”
Tony popped a bite into his mouth. “Mm-hmm.”
“They would’ve hung on every word you and I said, then gone straight home to their wives...” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes. Chesterfields. “Of course, we need all the business we can get, so I should hardly wish them to leave once they’ve paid their nickels—”
Tony sucked in a bite of eggs too fast and coughed. She held a cigarette in one hand and dropped the box back into her pocket with the other. “What’s wrong?”
Tony swallowed, then chuckled. “It’s just funny. A nickel for coffee. Where I come from, a buck is cheap.”
Charlotte’s free hand flew to her chest. “A whole dollar for a cup of coffee? Why, that’d buy lunch for five here. A good lunch, too.” She held the cigarette near her lips and gazed at him through a fringe of wavy hair. Her voice went soft, sultry. “Do you have a light, by any chance?”
Tony’s mouth opened but nothing came out. She was hot—no, that wasn’t quite it. Something about her... maybe the ease with which she spoke to him, the way her luminous eyes settled on him as if he were the only man in the world—made it hard for him to reconcile this woman and her flirtatious smile with the little girl he’d pulled out of the floodwaters.
“Tony?” She jerked the cigarette away from her mouth. “Did I say something wrong?”
Tony shook off the fog in his mind. “No, I... you know, you’ve grown up to be a beautiful woman.” He mentally slapped himself as soon as the words tumbled out. What the hell was he doing?
She demurely turned away for a second. “About that light... or don’t people do that in the twenty-first century?”
“They do, but I don’t have one. I quit years ago. Or, I guess I should say, years from now?”
With a giggle, she pointed to the counter’s back edge where a box of matches lay. It took him three tries to light one. He lifted it to the tip of Charlotte’s cigarette as she leaned close, and a warmth burst through him that had nothing to do with the hot coffee or the match in his hand. Somehow, it seemed much different to be doing this for Charlotte, in the light of day, than for the women at Mulroney’s. With them, he complied only out of politeness.
“You know smoking’s bad for you?” he asked.
She pulled back and took a puff. “It is?”
“Causes all kinds of health problems. Doesn’t get to be common knowledge until the sixties or seventies, though.” He took a bite of scrambled eggs.
She regarded the smoldering tip. “But it’s so relaxing.”
“Lots of people in my—where I come from still enjoy it.”
“After this morning I can certainly use it.” She took another puff. The smoke formed ribboned whorls in the air. “Had a big breakfast rush just before you came in. Normally I cook, but the waitress didn’t show up this morning.”
Tony mumbled his sympathy. He sneaked furtive glances at her while he ate. She sat sideways on her stool, gazing out the window as she smoked. Her casual, unfeigned elegance belied the apron or the threadbare hem of the cotton print dress beneath it. She even stubbed out her cigarette with grace.
Finished with his breakfast, Tony pushed his plate away. His hat slipped forward on his head. “Oh, man,” he said. She tilted her head as he swiped the hat off. “You must think I have no manners at all.”
“Actually, I just thought you were very hungry.” The side of her face twitched in a half-wink, half-smile. “I always was after... you know.”
Tony lowered his coffee cup. “When— how long have you been able...?”
“Ever since you rescued me.” She cast her eyes down. “Though most of the time I choose not to.” She fidgeted with the corner of her apron.
“Why?” This was a far cry from Everly’s “it’s incredible... anytime, anywhere.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken of this.”
“Believe me, I understand.” He stared into the honeyed depths of her eyes.
“It was horrible. Those first few times... No one knew me, I had no idea what happened. The police took me to a girls’ home. They were so hateful there, especially to someone... different.”
She shot a nervous glance at the pass-through window. “Papa was frantic. A couple times I disappeared right out of my own bed. He was so desperate by the time Theodore showed up it didn’t even matter that Theodore’s colored—”
“Theodore?” Tony gripped his fork tighter. She had to mean Theodore Pippin, from the award plaque in the Society House. The man who’d made it his life’s mission to hunt down and punish those who disrupted the fabric of space and time.
“I suppose you could call him my mentor of sorts.” The warmth in Tony’s middle vanished. She drew out her pack of Chesterfields again.
Theodore Pippin. Her mentor, of all people. Honored by the Society for capturing time-criminals.
Tony studied her face as she shook out a cigarette. She concentrated on it, frowning at the box as if trying to avoid looking at Tony.
He should find someone else to answer his questions.
She tipped the cigarette box and let the one she’d shaken out fall back in. Her eyes swept over him. “You haven’t changed a bit.” Her voice held a quiet amazement.
“It’s only been six weeks for me.”
“Six weeks?”
“Since the flood.”
“Oh my.” She straightened. “Then you must find this... this thing as much of a puzzle as I did at first.”
“I found someone to answer some of my questions. I was hoping you could answer the rest.” Should he tell her about her brother? Better not. Once Dewey had concluded Tony was the man he’d met with his sister, he’d grown agitated until his shouts drew the staff and they’d made Tony leave. And wouldn’t there be an inherent danger in knowing one’s own future? Or in Charlotte’s case, lack of one? Dewey said she’d died the second time Tony came to 1933.
A future he’d make sure didn’t happen. There would be no second visit.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” Charlotte said. “Though it’s been years since I’ve jumped to the past, or even thought about it, other than to avoid it.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” Tony recalled his own resolve to do no more time traveling once he got Bethany back. Especially after his short trip back two years had so affected his life. Memories of another life in another timeline surfaced, one where he hadn’t discove
red Dora’s betrayal and had remained married.
The greasy face appeared in the pass-through again. “Charlotte!” the man bellowed. “I ain’t paying you to sit around and jaw with the customers! There’s dishes—”
“Coming, sir!” Charlotte hopped off the stool. The man disappeared again.
“Irving, I assume?” Tony asked.
Charlotte’s lips tightened as she straightened her apron.
“Nice guy,” Tony commented. She snatched the empty coffee carafe off the counter and hurried through the kitchen door.
He should leave. If Charlotte knew Pippin, and he’d still been at the Society House in 1954, that meant he’d be there now. How close were Charlotte’s ties to him?
Irving scowled at Charlotte as he strode into the kitchen, broom in hand, and jerked his thumb toward the dining room door. “Some dandified darkie’s out front asking for you,” he growled. “I told ‘im his kind ain’t welcome here, but he insisted. So I made ‘im wait in the alley out back.”
Theodore! Charlotte flung the dishrag into the sink. “I’ll go talk to him.” Time to pay the piper. She dashed past Irving, but not fast enough to avoid a pinch on the fanny.
Louse. She waited to rub the sore spot until she was through the door and out of Irving’s view, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of even that small acknowledgment. If jobs weren’t so hard to come by... Of course, she could always do like Theodore and let the Society support her. But she’d rather suffer Irving’s attention than allow them to own her. It was bad enough she’d let them put her through college.
She forgot her indignity when she glimpsed Tony at the counter, bent over the newspaper. The sight stabbed her heart. How could she tell Theodore he was right there, in the restaurant? What terrible things would he do to him? She ran out the front door before Tony could hail her. Thank heavens his back was to the window. For the first time, she was glad Irving didn’t permit colored in the restaurant.
“Good morning, Charlotte.” Theodore tipped his hat as she slipped out the front door.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed as she led him around the corner of the building. Away from the window.
He held up a hand. “I know, I won’t keep you. I’m just a little concerned. You haven’t answered the telephone for the past two nights, especially after you missed dinner Sunday.”
“I’m better now. Just tired.” Due to Tony’s presence, she’d begged off their weekly dinner at the Society House, claiming she didn’t feel well. Theodore cocked his head, unconvinced. “Really, Theodore, there’s nothing wrong.” Nothing, if she didn’t count the fact she was harboring a wanted man, and hiding him from the person to whom she owed everything beyond life itself. She started to lean on the restaurant’s white, frame wall, then pulled away when she remembered how dirty it was. “It’s been busy here, and after fighting off whatever bug it was I had, all I want to do when I get home is collapse with the radio and a cigarette.” Which was the truth, except for the reason. For the past two days, as soon as she walked in from work, she’d taken up her post next to Tony, to be near in case he woke.
She’d avoided the telephone because she knew it was Theodore. Her loyalty to him and the Society warred with her need to repay Tony for saving her life. And she longed to talk to Tony, to let him see the woman she’d become, get to know him. “I’ll have the money I owe you Friday. I’ll bring it to you af—”
“I’m not concerned about the money.” Theodore’s voice was firm. “As you shouldn’t be. There will always be a suite for you at the House, the Society takes care of its own—”
“I know, Theodore. I just want to...” Be her own person. Not be ruled by the Society any more than she had to. “...take care of myself. I won’t take charity, not even from the Society. I wasn’t avoiding the phone because of the money, you know me better than that.”
“Yes, I do.” Theodore spoke slowly. “That’s why I get the idea there’s more to this than you’re telling me.”
She slumped against the siding and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.
“You found the jumper, didn’t you?” Theodore’s voice was quiet, accusatory. “When, Charlotte? Why did you not contact me?”
“I was going to. As soon as I got off work—”
“How long have you been aware of this person?”
She sighed. “Friday. He just woke up from recovery today.”
Theodore’s voice lowered in pitch, and he spoke sharply. “This isn’t a random jumper, is it? It’s someone who—”
“He’s a good man! He doesn’t deserve—”
“If he’s in the book, he must be neutralized! You of all people should understand that, after your father—”
“This isn’t about my father!” Charlotte jerked upright. “This is about a man who may not have even done anything.” Yet.
Theodore’s shoulders flattened and he loomed closer to her. “But he will. Otherwise he wouldn’t be in the book.”
Charlotte lowered her voice and dropped her gaze to project a deferential attitude. “I’m not arguing the fact that time shouldn’t be altered. But your methods... please, Theodore, let me handle this one.” She forced strength into her voice. If he detected any weakness in her, he wouldn’t let her. “I’ll convince him to come to the House. Please, promise me you won’t hurt him, you’ll just send him home...”
It wouldn’t be easy. Tony had tensed when she mentioned Theodore. He knew something, though maybe not the full extent of the danger. He wouldn’t be easily convinced. She’d have to take care in working up to the suggestion. “Please, Theodore.” She stopped before her pleading turned into begging.
Theodore’s voice grew gentle again. “Who is this man, that you’re willing to risk your principles, everything the Society stands for?”
“It’s Tony. Tony Solomon. The man who saved my life.”
“I know! Let’s go visit my friend Theodore.” Charlotte popped a dusty-pink, bell-shaped hat on as soon as her shift at Irving’s ended.
Nausea welled in Tony’s stomach as he held the door for her. What was she trying to do? She couldn’t have seen the wanted posters in the 1954 Society House, but were there earlier versions?
Not a chance Tony wanted to take. “Uh... I don’t know, I’m kind of tired, and I could use a shower—or bath.” Even though he’d taken one that morning, he preferred not to go through the rest of the day smelling of fried food.
“Oh, how rude of me! Of course we can go back to my house. Then maybe after—”
“I’m going to need some new clothes, too,” Tony cut in, hoping to distract her. “I brought a suitcase, but when I got here, all I had was the broken handle.”
They turned down Fourth Street, toward the river and Charlotte’s house. “I’ve tried that before, too. There seems to be a sphere of influence, if you will, around us. Unless something’s directly touching you, and within a couple of inches of your body, it stays behind when you jump.”
Tony gave a rueful chuckle. “Then some homeless guy’s probably got himself a week’s worth of socks and underwear. And a couple of mint-condition, vintage suits. Speaking of which... who, uh, undressed me?”
A tinge of red crept into her face before she turned away. “Elmer did.” She stared at a laundromat as they walked past, as if there were something fascinating reflected in its front window. “He’s a... gentleman I’ve been seeing.”
Oh yeah, the boyfriend Dewey had mentioned. The one Tony supposedly ran off.
Which he wouldn’t, despite the hollow in his gut. He was there for information. Nothing more, never mind what Dewey said.
Conversation made the half-hour walk zip by. Tony told her about welfare and Social Security, and other legacies from her time that lasted into his day, all while trying not to gawk at the old-fashioned—at least, to him—cars, the newsstand huckster, the teenage boy selling apples on the corner for a nickel apiece. Tony flipped him a dime, and he and Charlotte munched apples as they walked, jui
cier and sweeter than any he could remember eating. Maybe it was just in contrast to the underlying tang of pollution that curled from exhaust pipes and floated in gray clouds on the north and east sides of town, from factories long gone in Tony’s time.
Charlotte listened with attentive eyes, made him feel interesting and important. In turn, she amused him with stories of her childhood, fascinated him with descriptions of projects she’d worked on at the now-defunct Kitchen Products Research Company.
Though her dreams and her life’s work had become relegated to a few minutes she could snatch here and there on weekends and evenings, they were still intact, unlike his own.
Tony had called it The Plan, the product of a naïve, twenty-one-year-old’s mind.
Establish management career with prestigious firm, good pay, and advancement. Check.
Get married, have kids. Been there, done that, though a little earlier than planned.
Make a million by age thirty-five. Done, with a little help from his future self.
And what did it all mean now? His one child had been taken from him in a horrible, violent way. Divorce hadn’t been in The Plan, either. Time travel sure as hell hadn’t been.
His achievements weren’t without sacrifice. And once he’d reached them, what was left?
It was a question he didn’t care to ponder at the moment. Much more pleasant to enjoy the company of a beautiful, intriguing woman, one who was alive because of him. “So what do you do for fun?” he asked.
“There are the dances every weekend. And the movies, of course. Though I’m afraid my social life isn’t very active now.”
She entertained him with tales of her college years, of weekdays spent studying and weekend jaunts to roadhouses or an illicit club with a laundry for a front.
“So were you a flapper, then?” he asked.
She laughed. “Well, I never took up the habit of going about with my coat and galoshes unfastened. But I’ve enjoyed my share of drink, and dances my papa would have never approved of. The time my sister visited... oh, the things she said to me! But then Mabel’s always been dreadfully dull and proper.”
Time's Enemy: A Romantic Time Travel Adventure (Saturn Society Book 1) Page 18