by Nora Roberts
“No.” He sat beside her. No matter how much he lectured himself, he couldn’t deny the pleasure it gave him to share his bed with her, if only as a friend. “How do you feel?”
“Still a little rattled.” She combed both hands through her hair, holding it away from her face for a moment before she let it fall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep. I guess my mind needed to shut off for a while.”
“It’s a little much to take in all at once. Libby?”
“Yes?” She glanced distractedly around the cabin, trying to let it all settle in.
“I’m sorry. I have to.” He closed his lips over hers and savored. She was warm and soft from sleep. He couldn’t have explained to her how badly he needed that yielding texture. Reflexively she lifted a hand to his shoulder. But there it relaxed.
It took all his willpower not to touch her and, with the need raw in his gut, to draw away.
“I lied,” he murmured as his gaze dipped down to her mouth. “I’m not sorry.” But he rose and moved away from the bed. She stood up and tried to keep her nervous fingers from fiddling with the hem of her sweater.
“Is that your family?”
“Yeah.” He’d been staring at the picture, wishing life could be as simple as it had been at that moment. “My brother Jacob and my parents.”
The love, somewhat wistful in his voice, was unmistakable. Moved by it, she laid a hand on his arm. “This is Jacob?” she asked, indicating his brother. “But they don’t look old enough to be your parents.”
“It isn’t difficult to look young.” He shrugged. “Well, it won’t be.”
“And that’s your home?”
“I grew up there. It’s about twenty kilometers outside the city limits.”
“You’ll get back to them.” She buried her own yearnings. Love, no matter how suddenly it came or how deep it reached, was selfless. “Think of the story you’ll have to tell.”
“If I remember.”
“But you couldn’t forget.” The possibility struck her painfully. She couldn’t bear it if he forgot her, if even her memory no longer existed. “I’ll write it down for you.”
He shook off his black mood and turned to her. “I’d appreciate that. Will you let me go back with you?”
She felt a flutter of hope. “Go back?”
“To the cabin, I’ve done about all I can for now. I can start the repairs on the ship tomorrow. I was hoping you’d let me stay until it’s all ready.”
“Of course.” It was foolish, and selfish, to hope that he would stay any longer than necessary. She put on a bright smile as they started from the room. “I have dozens of questions to ask you. I don’t even know where to begin.”
Still, she asked him nothing on the drive back. He seemed distracted, moody, and her own mind was crowded with impressions and contradictions. It would be best, she decided, if they pretended a kind of normality for a few hours. Then, with a thud, inspiration hit.
“How would you like to have lunch in town?”
“What?”
“Try to stay tuned, Hornblower. Would you like to drive into town? You haven’t seen anything but this little slice. If I suddenly found myself back in, say, the 1700s, I’d want to explore a little, watch people. It only takes a couple of hours. What do you say?”
The moodiness left his eyes, and he smiled. “Can I drive?”
“Not on your life.” She laughed and tossed her hair back. “We’ll stop back at the cabin for my purse.”
It took more than thirty minutes to get to the highway through a narrow pass where the Land Rover had powered its way through the mud. When they reached the highway Cal saw the vehicles that had fascinated him on television. They rumbled noisily along. He shook his head as Libby jockeyed aggressively for position.
“I could teach you to fly a jet buggy in an hour.”
The wind felt wonderful on her face. They had today, and perhaps a day or two more. She wasn’t going to lose a moment of it.
“Is that a compliment?”
“Yeah. You’re still using what—gasoline?”
“That’s right.”
“Amazing.”
“Being smug and superior suits you—especially since you didn’t even know how to turn my car on.”
“I’d’ve figured it out.” He reached out to touch the flying strands of her hair. “If I were home I’d fly you to Paris for lunch. Have you ever been there?”
“No.” She tried not to think too deeply about the romance of it. “We’ll have to settle for pizza in Oregon.”
“Sounds great to me. You, know, the strangest thing is the sky. There’s nothing in it.” A car whizzed by, muffler coughing, radio blaring. “What was that?”
“A car.”
“That’s debatable, but I meant what was the noise?”
“Music. Hard rock.” She reached over to turn on the radio. “That’s not as hard, but it’s still rock.”
“It’s good.” With the music playing in his head, he watched the buildings they passed. Neat single-family homes, chunky apartment complexes and a spreading single-level shopping center. The traffic thickened as they came closer to the city. He could see the high rectangular forms of office buildings and condos. It was a cluttered and, to his eyes, awkward skyline, but it was oddly compelling. Here were people, here life continued.
Libby eased down the curving ramp and headed downtown. “There’s a nice Italian place, very traditional. Red checked tablecloths, candles in bottles, hand-tossed pizza.”
Cal gave an absent nod. There were people walking the sidewalk, some old, some young, some plain, some pretty. There was noise from car engines, and the occasional bad-tempered blare of a horn. The air was warmer here and smelled slightly of exhaust. For him it was a picture out of an old book come to life.
Libby pulled into a graveled lot next to a squat white-and-green building. The neon sign across the front window said Rocky’s.
“Well, it’s not Paris.”
“It’s fine,” he murmured, but he continued to twist his head and stare.
“It must feel like stepping through the looking glass.”
“Hmm. Oh.” He remembered the book, one he’d read as a teenager. “Something like that. More like something from H. G. Wells.”
“It’s nice to know literature has survived. Are you hungry?”
“I was born hungry.” Once again he fought off a darkening mood. She was trying, and so could he.
The restaurant was dim, nearly empty, and the air simmered with spices. In the corner was a jukebox pumping out a current Top 40 hit. After a glance at a sign that read Please Seat Yourself, Libby led Cal to a corner booth. “The pizza’s really wonderful here. Have you had pizza before?”
He flicked a finger at the hardened candle wax on the bottle in the center of the table. “Some things transcend time. Pizza’s one of them.”
The waitress toddled over, a plump young woman in a bright red bib apron that had Rocky’s and a few splashes of tomato sauce dashed across the front. She placed two paper napkins beside place mats decorated with maps of Italy.
“One large,” Libby said, taking Cal’s appetite into account. “Extra cheese and pepperoni. Would you like a beer?”
“Yeah.” He tore a corner from the napkin and rolled it thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger.
“One beer and one diet cola.”
“Why is everyone here on a diet?” Cal asked before the waitress was out of earshot. “Most of the ads deal with losing weight, quenching thirst and getting clean.”
Libby ignored the quick curious look the waitress shot over her shoulder. “Sociologically our culture is obsessed with health, nutrition and physique. We count calories, pump iron and eat a lot of yogurt. And pizza,” she added with a g
rin. “Advertising reflects current trends.”
“I like your physique.”
Libby cleared her throat. “Thanks.”
“And your face,” he added, smiling. “And the way your voice sounds when you’re embarrassed.”
She let out a long, windy sigh. “Why don’t you listen to the music?”
“The music stopped.”
“We can put more on.”
“On what?”
“The jukebox.” Enjoying herself, Libby rose and extended a hand to him. “Come on, you can pick a song.”
Cal stood over the colorful machine, scanning the titles. “This one,” he decided. “And this one. And this one. How does it work?”
“First you need some change.”
“I’ve had enough change for a while, thanks.”
“No, I mean change. Quarters.” Chuckling, she dug into her purse. “Don’t they use coins in the twenty-third century?”
“No.” He plucked the quarter from her palm and examined it. “But I’ve heard of them.”
“We use them around here, often with reckless abandon.” Taking the quarter back, she dropped it and two more into the slot. “An eclectic selection, Hornblower.” The music drifted out, slow and romantic.
“Which is this?”
“‘The Rose.’ It’s a ballad—a standard, I suppose, even today.”
“Do you like to dance?”
“Yes. I don’t often, but . . .” Her words trailed away as he gathered her close. “Cal—”
“Shh.” He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “I want to hear the words.”
They danced—swayed, really—as the music drifted through the speakers. A mother with two squabbling children rested her elbow on her table and watched them with pleasure and envy. In the glassed-in kitchen a man with a bushy mustache tossed pizza dough in quick, high twirls.
“It’s sad.”
“No.” She could dream like this, with her head cushioned on his shoulder and her body moving to their inner rhythm. “It’s about how love survives.”
The words floated away. Her eyes were shut, her arms still around him when the next selection blasted out with a primeval scream and a thundering drum roll.
“What about this one?”
“It’s about being young.” She drew away, embarrassed, when she saw the smiles and stares of the other patrons. “We should sit down.”
“I want to dance with you again.”
“Some other time. People don’t usually dance in pizza parlors.”
“Okay.” Obligingly he walked back across the room to their table. Their drinks were waiting. As Libby had with the drink in his galley, Cal found enormous comfort in the familiar taste of American beer. “Just like home.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you at first.”
“Babe, I didn’t believe me at first.” In a natural gesture he reached across the table to take her hand. “Tell me, what do people do here on a date?”
“Well, they . . .” His thumb was skimming over her knuckles in a way that made her pulse unsteady. “They go to movies or restaurants.”
“I want to kiss you again.”
Her eyes darted up to his. “I don’t really think—”
“Don’t you want me to kiss you?”
“If she doesn’t,” the waitress said as she plopped their pizza in front of them, “I get off at five.”
Grinning, Cal slipped a slice of pizza onto a paper plate. “She’s very friendly,” he commented to Libby, “but I like you better.”
“Terrific.” She took a bite. “Are you always obnoxious?”
“Mostly. But I do like you, a lot.” He waited a beat. “Now you’re supposed to say you like me, too.”
Libby took another bite and chewed it thoroughly. “I’m thinking about it.” Taking her napkin, she dabbed at her mouth. “I like you better than anyone I’ve met from the twenty-third century.”
“Good. Are you going to take me to the movies?”
“I suppose I could.”
“Like a date.” He took her hand again.
“No.” Carefully she removed it. “Like an experiment. We’ll consider it part of your education.”
His smile spread, slow, easy and undoubtedly dangerous. “I’m still going to kiss you good-night.”
***
It was dark when they returned to the cabin. More than a little frazzled, Libby pushed open the door and tossed her purse aside.
“I did not make a scene,” Cal insisted.
“I don’t know what they call being asked to leave a theater where you come from, but around here we call it making a scene.”
“I simply made some small, practical comments about the film. Haven’t you heard about freedom of speech?”
“Hornblower—” Stopping herself she held up a hand and turned to the cupboard to get the brandy. “Talking throughout the picture about it being a crock of space waste is not exercising the Bill of Rights. It’s being rude.”
With a shrug, he plopped down on the couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. “Come on, Libby, all that bull about creatures from Galactica invading Earth. I have a cousin on Galactica, and he doesn’t have a face full of suction cups.”
“I should have known better than to take you to a science-fiction movie.” She sipped the brandy. Then, because she decided it was as much her fault as his, she poured another snifter. “It was fiction, Hornblower. Fantasy.”
“Rot.”
“All right.” She passed him the snifter. “But there were people in the theater who had paid to watch it.”
“How about that nonsense with the creatures sucking all the water out of the human body? Then there was the way that space jockey zipped around the galaxy shooting lasers. Do you have any idea how crowded that sector is?”
“No, I don’t.” She sampled more brandy. “Tell you what, next time we’ll try a Western. Remind me not to let you turn on Star Trek.”
“Star Trek’s a classic,” he said, and sent her into a fit of giggles.
“Never mind. You know, I almost think I’m losing my grip. I spent the morning in a spaceship and the afternoon eating pizza and not watching a movie. I don’t seem to be able to make sense of it all.”
“It’ll come clear.” He touched his glass to hers before settling his arm around her shoulders. It was comforting, the glow of the lamplight, the warmth of the brandy, the scent of the woman. His woman, Cal thought, if for only a moment. “I like this better than the movies. Tell me about Liberty Stone.”
“There’s not much.”
“Tell me, so I can take it with me.”
“I was born here, as I told you before.”
“In the bed I sleep in.”
“Yes.” She sipped her brandy, wondering if it was that, or the image of him in the old bed, that warmed her. “My mother used to weave. Blankets, wall hangings, rugs. She would sell them to supplement what my father grew in the garden.”
“They were poor?”
“No, they were children of the sixties.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s difficult to explain. They wanted to be closer to the land, closer to themselves. It was their part of a revolution against material power, world violence, the entire social structure of the time. So we lived here and my mother bartered and sold her work in the surrounding towns. One day an art buyer on a camping trip with his family came across one of her tapestries.” She smiled into her brandy. “The rest, as they say, is history.”
“Caroline Stone,” he said abruptly.
“Why, yes.”
With a laugh, he downed the brandy and reached for the bottle in one smooth motion. “Your mother’s work is in museums.” Bemused, he picked up the
corner of the blanket beside them. “I’ve seen it in the Smithsonian.” He poured more brandy in her glass while she gaped at him.
“This gets stranger and stranger.” She drank again, letting the brandy influence her sense of unreality. “It’s you we need to talk about, you I need to understand. All these questions.” Unable to sit any longer, she cupped the snifter in both hands and started to pace. “The oddest ones pop into my mind. I keep remembering you spoke of Philadelphia and Paris. Do you know what that means?”
“What?”
“We made it.” She lifted the snifter in a toast, then recklessly drained it. “It’s still there, all of it. Somehow, no matter how close we came to blowing everything, we survived. There’s a Philadelphia in the future, Hornblower, and that’s the most wonderful thing I can imagine.”
Still laughing, she spun in a circle. “All these years I’ve been studying the past, trying to understand human nature, and now I’ve had a glimpse of tomorrow. I don’t know how to thank you.”
Just looking at her left his stomach in a knot. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. Her body was long and slim and wonderfully graceful as she moved. Wanting her was no longer an urge, it was an obsession.
He drew a long, careful breath. “Glad I could help.”
“I want to know everything, absolutely everything. How people live, how they feel. How they court and make love and marry. What games do the children play?” She leaned over to pour another inch of brandy in her glass. “Are hot dogs still the best bet at a baseball game? Are Mondays still the hardest day of the week?”
“You’ll have to make a list,” he told her. He wanted to keep her talking, moving, laughing. Watching her now, animated, bursting with enthusiasm and humor, was as arousing as being in her arms. “What I can’t answer, the computer can.”
“A list. Of course. I make terrific lists.” Her eyes glowed as she laughed at him. “I know there are more important things for me to ask. Nuclear disarmament, world peace, a cure for cancer and the common cold. But I want to know it all, from the inconsequential to the shattering.” Impatiently she pushed her hair back from her face. Her words couldn’t seem to keep up with her thoughts. “Every second I think of something new. Do people still have Sunday picnics? Have we beaten world hunger and homelessness? Do all men in your time kiss the way you do?”