"You're right." He smiled. "Things have not changed that much, then?"
"No."
"Good." He gave her a quick kiss. "In that case, I expect you to march back into that kitchen and make me a huge breakfast."
She laughed and swiped her hands over her wet eyes. She had asked him to tell her what had put that stricken expression on his face and he hadn't, but she knew. She knew.
Now, he was deliberately trying to lighten the moment. He was right to do it. There were only so many days and nights left. Why waste them in tears? Not that she was ready to admit defeat. There had to be a way for them to be together. They had bridged their two worlds now, hadn't they? There had to be an answer.
"Well? Do I get a meal, or do I just keep listening to my stomach telling me it's empty?"
"Tell your stomach help is on the way," Kathryn said briskly. "I'll do the bacon and eggs, you do the toast."
"Do the toast?"
"Yes."
Matthew's expression suggested she had just asked him to fly to the moon.
"You want me to make toast?"
"Right. I want you to take the bread and butter from the fridge, pop the bread into the toaster, push down that lever right there... see? It's not very complicated."
"Well, I'm sure it isn't. But I don't cook."
Kathryn smiled sweetly. "You do, if you want to eat."
She was arranging strips of bacon in a pan, humming softly to herself and paying him no attention. With a shrug, he took the bread and butter from the contraption she called a refrigerator, then gave the metal box that toasted the bread the benefit of his full attention.
It worked with amazing speed and so did he, consuming one slice for every two he toasted and buttered. By the time he had six slices piled on a plate, Kathryn was cracking eggs into a bowl.
"How do you like your eggs?"
"Whatever way you make them is fine, just as long as the bacon's crisp."
"Speaking of the bacon... see if it needs turning, would you?"
Matthew peered into the pan of sizzling bacon, "Nay, it's fine."
"Good. Just keep an eye on it, please. So you can turn it when it's ready."
"Me?" he said in horror.
"Yes."
"Kathryn, I am not a cook."
"No?"
He drew himself up in as dignified a fashion as a man could when he was chewing a mouthful of toast.
"No," he said. "I am a sea captain."
"Ah," she said with a sweetness that he knew boded ill, "of course. How silly of me. I suppose you had a seafaring Julia Child to prepare your meals."
"A what?"
"A chef. You know, white toque, white apron, haute cuisine."
Matthew thought of every ship's cook he'd known. They'd all been grizzled old sailors with missing teeth, blackened fingernails, and a nasty propensity for not always picking the weevils out of the biscuits before they served them.
"I would not call a ship's cook a chef, Kathryn."
"Perhaps not, but you'll agree they're all men?"
He laughed even harder, imagining a woman in the galley of a ship.
"Indeed. But on shore—"
"Don't tell me," Kathryn said with wide-eyed innocence. "On shore, cooks are always female."
"Certainly."
She laughed. "Well, we've done away with all those separate gender distinctions."
"Separate gender...? What sort of humbug is that?"
"It's not humbug at all," Kathryn said, bristling. "There's no such thing as men's work and women's work anymore." She watched him as he buttered another piece of toast. There was something incongruous and wonderfully sexy about the sight of all that bare male skin and muscle. Her mouth softened. "Of course," she said demurely, "not all men could possibly look as handsome doing kitchen duty as you."
Two streaks of crimson swept across his high cheekbones.
"Why, Matthew," she said in delight, "you're blushing!"
"Don't be silly. Men don't blush."
"Oh, but they do." Her smile took on a wicked edge. "They've learned to get in touch with their feminine side."
Matthew's eyebrows shot towards his hairline. "What feminine side? Men don't have—"
"Of course they do." She turned her back to him and chewed on her lip to keep from laughing. "Oh, it's wonderful, how men today let their feelings out. You know, share their emotions. It's all part of learning to nurture one's inner child."
"Whose child?" Matthew demanded. "I have no—"
"Everybody has an inner child, unless they're mired in self-denial."
"What in heaven's name are you talking about?"
Laughter burst from her throat. "Basically," she said, "I guess I'm talking about you taking this fork and dealing with the bacon."
He looked at her, smiled, and took the fork. "Why do I get the feeling I'm being mocked, madam?"
She watched as he began turning the strips of bacon with an expertise that suggested he'd been teasing her almost as much as she'd been teasing him. Emotion welled up within her, constricting her throat with its impact, and she turned all her concentration on the eggs, beating them with much more force than they deserved.
"Actually," she said, pouring the beaten eggs into the skillet, "you're lucky there's bacon to cook."
"I would have thought your cold chest would keep it well."
"Oh, it does." She reached for the salt and pepper and shook some of each over the frothy eggs. "But, like most people, I hardly ever keep the stuff in the house, except for special occ-..."
She bit her lip, but it was too late. Matthew smiled.
"Meaning, you purchased it for Jason." He reached out and touched his hand gently to her cheek. "It doesn't bother me to hear his name, sweetheart, not when I can remember how quickly you sent him away."
"I didn't." Their eyes met and Kathryn sighed. "All right, I suppose I did."
"You did," he said smugly, "and it was because of me." He shook his head dramatically as he lifted the strips of bacon from the pan and placed them on the paper towels Kathryn had laid on the sink. "Where is Elvira, by the way? Doesn't she usually come to help you try and tame this monster of a house?"
Kathryn blushed. "I phoned and told her not to bother coming."
Matthew grinned. "Got rid of her, too, did you?"
"Get that self-satisfied look off your face, Captain! I just figured it would be easier than having you whisk around under our feet while we worked."
"And why would you think I'd do such a thing, madam?"
"Well... well, considering..." She swallowed. "I mean, I just thought..."
"You mean," Matthew said, whirling her into his arms and laughing, "that you didn't want to miss an opportunity to make wild, passionate love with me."
She shot him an indignant glare. "What an ego you have! Do you really think I'd..."
"Yes." His laughter faded. "Yes, sweetheart, and I wouldn't want it any other way."
They smiled at each other, kissed gently, and then Kathryn sighed and eased out of his arms.
"We wouldn't want the eggs to burn."
Matthew smiled. "No. We wouldn't. You go and sit down, then, and I'll serve."
In the end, they worked together, then sat opposite each other over a breakfast so enormous Kathryn was sure she'd have to toss most of it out, but Matthew was as good as his word, eating every bit she put on his plate.
"You're a fine cook, Kathryn," he said, after he'd devoured another slice of buttered toast thickly spread with marmalade.
She smiled, pushed aside her plate, propped her elbows on the table and leaned her chin on her hands.
"Well, I can do a pretty mean lamb stew. And people have been known to swoon over my chocolate soufflé. Not that I have much time to cook, though."
"Why?"
"Why, what?"
"Why don't you have time? Here, aren't you going to finish those eggs?"
She laughed. "Don't tell me you want them!"
Matthew took her
plate, tipped her eggs onto his, and smiled at her. "So tell me," he said, "why haven't you time to do much cooking?"
"Well, my job keeps me busy."
"Ah. Another sign of gender equality, hmm?"
"Uh huh. Most women work today."
"At what?"
"At everything. Some are waitresses, some work in offices. There are women lawyers and doctors..."
"Doctors? Female doctors? Do they have men as patients?" When Kathryn nodded, Matthew grimaced and pushed his empty plate aside. "I don't know if I approve of such a thing."
She laughed. "I'm sure my internist—my doctor—will be heartbroken to hear that."
"Is that what you are?" he asked warily. "A physician?"
"Would it upset you if I were?"
Matthew sighed. He rose from the table, got the coffee pot and filled their cups.
"Aye," he admitted, "I suppose it would. The thought of you touching another man..." He sighed again. "But, I suppose, if that is the way of your time..."
Kathryn reached across the table and linked her fingers through his. All her feminist leanings told her that his jealousy was wrong, but her heart enjoyed everything about it.
"I would never touch another man as I've touched you," she said softly.
Her words were like fire in his blood. The promise was all he could ever wish for, but he could not accept it from her. There would be someone else for her, there would have to be, for she could not be his and both of them knew it.
"Nay," he said, forcing a smile to his lips, "I would surely not permit you to saw off a limb of mine or dose me with salts."
Kathryn laughed. "You'll be happy to know the practice of medicine's changed quite a lot, over the centuries—and even happier to know I'm not a physician. I'm in computers."
"In what?"
"Comp..." She took a breath, then blew it out. "Computers are machines. People use them to do all kinds, of stuff."
"What kinds of 'stuff'?"
"Writing letters and books. Working out mathematical problems. Drawing up plans for buildings. And for ships, I suppose. Anything you can think of, really. What I do is create programs for stock brokerage firms and..." She looked at his puzzled face. "Are you sure you want to listen to all this? It's going to take a long time to explain."
He smiled, but his eyes were narrowed above the smile. "I am capable of comprehending whatever you tell me."
"Oh, Matthew, I didn't mean—"
"Nay," he said, leaning forward and clasping her hand, "nor did I. Forgive me, sweetheart, I don't mean to be sharp-tongued. It's just, well, I see that the world has changed more than I'd realized." His hand tightened on hers. "Kathryn? We did win the war, did we not?"
He'd asked the question in an almost casual way, but the look in his eyes guaranteed that that wasn't how he felt. Her heart went out to him. How awful it had to be, to wake up in a world you didn't know.
"Nobody won it, really. I suppose you could say it ended with honor on both sides."
"Did we regain freedom of the seas?"
She nodded. "Yes."
A faint smile curled across his lips. "Are the United States and Great Britain still enemies, or have we patched up our differences and become allies as English-speaking nations should?"
"Allies, ever since."
"That's good news." Matthew hesitated. "Have there been other wars?"
Kathryn sighed and rose from the table. "Far too many," she said, as she began clearing their dishes.
His chair scraped as he pushed it back. He went to the sink, turned on the water and began scrubbing the pans they'd used.
"And were we victorious?"
She thought of conquest of the Native American tribes, the agony of Vietnam, the pain of Iraq and Afghanistan, and she came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist.
"Not entirely. But we're still a proud and great nation."
"There is so much I don't know. I suspect I might not recognize the world as it is today."
"It doesn't matter," she murmured, kissing the hard, bony ridge of his spine.
"Aye," he said, "you are right, it does not, for I shall never be a part of it."
She felt the sudden tension in his muscles, heard it in his voice, and cursed herself for having been so thoughtless.
"This world, the one at Charon's Crossing, is the only world that counts," she said fervently, "because it's ours."
Matthew turned off the water and dried his hands.
"Aye," he whispered, "for a little while, at least, it is."
He turned and took her in his arms. He kissed her, gently at first, and then with a desperate hunger Kathryn met and quickly matched.
Between them, they forced reality to slip away.
* * *
At noon, they packed a picnic lunch and carried it down to the beach.
The storm had left gifts of the sea on the shore. Exotic shells, driftwood, kelp, and coconuts littered the white sand. The Caribbean itself had recovered its shades of azure and sapphire. Only gentle swells, rolling in over the sea, were left as reminders of last night's powerful display.
Kathryn looked up at the cliffs as she and Matthew strolled slowly down the beach, their bare feet splashing in the warm, frothy surf.
"I'm amazed the cliffs are still standing. I thought the waves were going to topple them for sure."
"Aye, I can understand how you might think that.; Wind and rain have been trying to reclaim these islands for centuries."
"Matthew?" Her hand clasped his more tightly. "What happens if a storm like that catches a ship at sea?"
He sighed. "Then the lives of the ship and the men who sail her are in God's hands. It is far simpler for nature to claim a ship than an island."
Kathryn shivered. "I've always thought that men who went out in sailing ships were incredibly brave."
"A ship is always at the mercy of the sea, sweetheart. Sailors are not brave, they are merely pragmatic and make the best of things."
"I read once that sailors often didn't know how to swim. Is that true?"
He nodded. "Aye."
"But why? I mean, when I think of those little ships and the vastness of the sea..."
"Exactly. There are those who see it as futile to hope to survive a ship's sinking. Not all, of course. Some of us swim like fishes."
She looked at him and smiled. "You?"
"Aye, me."
"Did you learn when you were a boy?"
"In New England?" He laughed. "Nay, sweetheart, such frivolity was out of the question. I did my learning in a warm South Pacific cove, with the trade winds sighing through the palms."
"Taught by a golden-skinned native girl in a grass skirt?"
He chuckled, wrapped his arm around her waist, and tugged her towards him.
"Jealous?"
She was, that was the damnedest part of it, though she knew it was ridiculous to be jealous of something that had happened almost two centuries ago.
"Of course not," she said primly. "I'm just curious."
"Let me see... ah yes, I remember it well. My teacher was an incredible sight."
"Was she?" Kathryn mustered up a smile.
"Oh, indeed. Brown hair, slender, five foot nine or ten with a shiny bald head—"
She swung towards him. "What?"
Matthew grinned. "I got my swimming lesson from a mean-tempered captain, who decided the stench of his cabin boy was bad enough to offend even his nostrils."
"Ah, I see."
"A golden-skinned girl would have been much more to my liking, especially since I damn near drowned. But after I'd swallowed half the sea, I surfaced and found, to my amazement, that I could keep my head above water. What about you? Do you swim?"
She nodded. "I can't remember when I learned, it was so long ago. I just know we lived in this wonderful old house on Cape Cod I think, and..."
"What's the matter, sweetheart?"
"Nothing. Well, it's just that I always thought of that house as miserable but
now, for some reason, I thought of how much I really liked it. And how my father used to put me on his shoulders on summer mornings, and carry me down to the water where we'd wade and search for shells."
"You loved your father a great deal, did you?"
"No," she said, frowning. "Why would I? He left us, my mother and me, and forgot all about us."
"I don't think so, love, not if he left you this—God almighty, what is that?"
Matthew's voice had turned sharp with fear. He knocked Kathryn to the sand and fell on top of her, protecting her with his body as two dark shadows swooped over the island and roared out across the sea. When they were nothing but black dots on the far horizon, he rose slowly to his knees.
"What in hell were those things?"
Kathryn sat up. "Airplanes," she said gently. "Ships that fly."
"Ships that fly?" he whispered. "Like what Montgolfier flew in Paris back in '83? No. They were more like the drawings by what's his name, the Italian... Leonardo da Vinci?"
She smiled. "Very much like his drawings."
Matthew shook his head, rolled onto his back, and threw his arm across his eyes.
"Your world is like a magic box," he said quietly. "The more I look, the more there is to see."
"A lot has happened since... in the past couple of centuries, I guess."
"What powers these ships of the air? Not sails, surely."
"They have engines."
"Steam engines?"
"No. No, not steam." Kathryn lay down on her stomach, her elbows propped in the sand and her chin in her hands. "I don't know much about this, Matthew. Some—the older ones—run on gasoline. Oil, I guess you'd call it. Others—the ones that just swooped over us—have jet engines. And before you ask, I haven't the foggiest idea how jet engines work."
"And what is their burthen?"
"Their what?"
"How much can they carry?"
"Well, some are really big. The one I took from New York to Grenada, for instance—"
His eyes popped open.
"You have flown in these things?" She nodded. "What is it like? Can you see the entire world from up so high?"
"It feels that way, sometimes, especially when you fly above the clouds, but—"
"Above the clouds," he said in a reverential whisper. "God, I cannot imagine such a thing."
She thought of what he would say if she tried to explain rockets, and space stations, and flights to the moon.
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