When she gazed at him questioningly, he added, “I’ll take you to your bank.”
She licked her lips. “Banks aren’t open, now.”
He stared at her a moment. “Your ATM won’t give out that much at once?”
Cautiously, she said, “No.” Knowing she had no more money, she swallowed her pride and added, “There are other things I can give. If you’re interested.” She looked at him innocently. Only an iron-hot determination to have his help getting Julian—or at least keeping him from Claire—gave her the boldness to make such an offer. She must find him, and she needed Omar to do it.
Surprised, Omar cleared his throat. He looked her up and down. “Okaaaay,” he said, with a little smile. “Let’s go.”
“But only afterward,” she added.
He stopped. “Deal’s off.”
“If we do this before, then I want my $500 back.”
“That’s an expensive proposition,” he said, looking at her. But suddenly he smiled. “You’re on.”
Adam hurried over when he saw them preparing to leave. “Clarissa!”
Omar looked confused. “I thought your name was Claire.”
“Clarissa’s her full name,” Adam said. He looked at Clarissa. “Leaving? Together?”
She said, “We have business.” In a lower voice, she said, “I’ll be back. You said I have a room here?” He reached in a pocket and drew out a key. “Here’s your key. Will you need help moving out of the cottage? Need to put anything in storage? Remember, the equipment will be there in two days to start razing the place.”
Clarissa hesitated. “I’ll let you know; thank you, Adam.” She smiled.
“I’ll see you later,” he said unhappily. He watched her leave with Omar.
“My place or yours?” Omar asked, once they were seated in his black Chevy Trailblazer.
Clarissa was all agog when he had opened the door for her. “This is your carriage?” she asked wonderingly.
“My carriage?” He chuckled. “Ah, yes, your chariot, my lady.”
Clarissa knew she’d said something wrong. “I’d like to go by the cottage,” she said slowly, “and then we’ll go to ‘your place.’” Omar knew where the cottage was and took her only far enough up the drive to where they could see the dwelling, for Clarissa cried sharply, “Stop here!”
Omar did so. As he glanced out at the little house, he said, “You left the lights on.”
“I have houseguests,” she said. “The man I told you about, whom we must follow. And a woman,” she added, with compressed lips.
“Oh!” He drummed the wheel with his fingers. “Do you need anything? Are you going in?”
“No. Let's move on.”
“These are the people you want me to follow tomorrow, though, right?”
Clarissa nodded.
“Hold on a sec,” he said. Omar left the car and sprinted up to Claire’s garage. It wasn’t locked. He went in the side door. A minute later he came out and sprinted back to his truck and Clarissa. They left.
When they were at Omar's house, a sizable condo in a newer development, and after Clarissa had been offered a drink—which she refused—she looked at him plaintively.
He took her hand and started leading her to the bedroom.
“Omar,” she said nervously.
He looked her way. “Yes?”
“I should tell you—I—I've never done this, before.”
He stopped. He stared at her a moment. “Never?” His tone was of real curiosity.
She shook her head. “Never.”
“A beautiful lady like you?” It seemed as though he had trouble believing it.
Again she shook her head.
He took a breath, looked around thinking, and then leveled his gaze upon her. “And you're sure you want to do this? Instead of paying me?”
She sighed. “The truth is, I haven't got the money to pay you. What choice do I have?”
His brows furrowed. “What did you do with all your money?”
Clarissa stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“I saw it in the papers, that six-figure deal you got for your book. Did you really spend it all, already?”
She swallowed. “Six figures? Oh, yes. No, I didn't spend it. I just don't have it, yet.”
“Look, the article said the contract was signed. That means you’re getting the money.” He looked thoughtful a moment, his lips pursed. “I'll let you pay me when you get it.”
Clarissa gazed at him in surprise. “You would do that? And you’ll still work for me, tomorrow?”
He turned her around, heading back to the living area. He gave her a sideways smile. “Astounding, I know, right? I'm a devil with men; I don't give them an inch. But you? You’re a lady. I can respect that.”
Clarissa felt as though a load of bricks had just been lifted off her. She gazed at Omar with real appreciation. “You, sir,” she said, “are a true gentleman.”
He smiled as they sat down before a large-screen TV. While Clarissa watched in fascinated silence, he picked up the remote and pointed it at the screen. When it sprang to life, she jumped, but Omar, watching the screen, missed it. “Clarissa,” he said, clicking the remote to change channels, “I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
A complete stranger has the capacity
to alter the life of another irrevocably.
J.D.Stroube
CHAPTER 52
Claire was horrified to see Clarissa. She’d thought Julian would be safe from her in the present! But Miss Andrews was here! That meant she was still a threat, right in the here and now.
Claire’s foot hit the gas to put space between them, while her mind raced with what Clarissa’s presence meant. How could she have gotten there? Julian had the tallit—and then she remembered. He only had half of it.
“How did the shawl get torn?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
“I apologize about that—”
“No, I don’t mind; it got you here,” she said, darting a little smile at him between keeping her eyes fixed on the road and the truck at their rear. “But what happened?”
“It was Clarissa, I’m afraid.”
So that explained it!
Julian shifted in his seat, removing his attention from the dashboard to look at Claire. She felt his gaze but kept her eyes on the road.
“How did she know about the shawl, I wonder?” Claire asked.
“If she did know, she beat me to it,” he said. “I never suspected there was any truth to your delusions until just before I arrived here.”
“How did it happen for you?” Claire asked.
He took a breath, but never had time to answer. Behind them, the truck had inched precariously close. “My word!” Claire cried. She almost laughed at her exclamation for sounding so…Regency, but there was no time for that. Any second and the truck could hit them! Claire was already at 75 mph, but she hit the gas again—the turnpike was straight at the moment—but she’d never driven above 80 in her life and didn’t want to now.
She swerved into the middle lane. When they immediately followed, she veered farther into the right lane. They did the same.
“Never a police car around when you need one!” Claire griped, while veering back into the center lane. The truck followed. Claire glimpsed the driver’s intense face—he looked mean. Who was he, she wondered? Clarissa couldn’t possibly have known anyone in this time, which meant that somehow she’d worked her manipulative magic on the poor guy driving the truck, getting his cooperation in her insane pursuit of St. John.
She changed lanes again, her heart in her throat. She’d never driven so wildly. Julian seemed utterly immune to worries about their speed or a possible crash. He’d discovered the car’s owner’s manual in the glove compartment and was reading with great interest. Now and then he’d pop his head up and watch the world whizzing by with a short grin or look of appreciation. Knowing how much slower travel was in his day, Claire was amazed that he didn’t find t
he speed daunting. Of course he didn’t know about Clarissa, yet. She didn’t want him to, either.
Claire continued to weave in and out of traffic, but however she maneuvered, the truck stayed with them like a fly at a picnic. If she went to the middle lane, it did too. If she returned to the left, it followed. It was so close now she could see the driver’s face clearly. He looked Middle Eastern, with narrowed eyes focused like magnets on her car, his expression stony. Claire’s gaze returned to the road, but then she took a quick peek at Clarissa in the mirror. Miss Andrews wore a smirk.
The next exit sign revealed they were approaching South Portland; traffic picked up. Claire was glad. It might be possible to lose them in thick traffic.
She tried not to show her perturbation, but the truck was still riding precariously close to their rear. It could ram them! It would be an instant wreck.
St. John glanced at the speedometer. “Eighty? In one hour? I can hardly fathom it!” he cried excitedly, turning his attention to the passing road. “In my day if you do fifty miles in six, ‘tis newsworthy—and you’d likely kill a horse doing it.” He turned to her. “Do you often drive this fast?”
Claire was watching for a break in the next traffic lane—a break that wouldn’t be large enough for the truck to follow her. Not taking her eyes off the road, she said, “No.” She was gripping the steering wheel so hard her fingers were getting numb. Julian must have noticed. Gently he said, “Do not let her presence flummox you. Our best response is to give her the cut.”
Claire glanced at him in surprise. “How long have you known?”
“Almost since we got on the road,” he said, “I didn’t want it to concern you.”
Claire let out a breath of frustration. “My concern is for you.” She glanced in the mirror again. This time, Clarissa followed a smirk with a wave.
“You needn’t fret on my account,” he said. “But I think that woman is brain-addled,” he murmured, looking in the mirror at Clarissa. “Imagine her dangling after me even into the future!” He turned to Claire. “Do not go faster than is comfortable for you on her account. She is a vexation but nothing more.”
“If they hit us, we could all be killed!”
He turned to look behind him and shook his head back and forth at Clarissa, with a quelling look. Claire was surprised at his calm. “Doesn’t it bother you that she’s come all this way—to the present—to vex you still?”
He said, “To no purpose; she is wasting her time, utterly.”
Claire took a sudden swing into the middle lane without having used a directional. The car coming up behind them beeped its horn, but she was satisfied to see that Clarissa’s vehicle could not follow them—yet. The exit ramp was in sight. If she could keep them from following behind her and then move right and exit swiftly, the black truck would have to keep going. It would be a chance to escape.
The little white car now behind Claire was another tailgater, but Claire welcomed it. Clarissa’s truck couldn’t squeeze in. As they neared the exit ramp, Claire saw her opportunity. Again without using a directional, she darted to the right lane at the last moment and swerved onto the exit ramp, bouncing and braking at the same time. The black truck hit its brakes, but they were already past the exit.
St. John smiled at Claire’s maneuvering. “Well done, Miss Channing!” They shared a quick smile. She had to tear her eyes away to watch the road, but she felt his gaze upon her as he added, “There is something pleasing about a beautiful woman handling an equipage with aplomb.” Claire blushed like a teenager. He chuckled.
She eased onto U.S. Route 1 and turned back off at the first exit. She made a right at the light and began meandering around the outskirts of South Portland. St. John was mesmerized by what he saw. He stared at storefronts, people, and signs. Claire saw people gawking at him and reached over and removed his hat. He turned to her and she said, “No one here has ever seen a beaver hat except in old movies—er, moving pictures.”
“Moving pictures?” He looked intrigued. “I should like to see moving pictures.”
With wonder, Claire said, “You’ve never even seen a photograph, have you?”
He said, “I have.”
As she made a smooth right onto a side street filled with shops, she said, smiling, “You couldn’t have.”
“But I have.” He grinned. “On your analytical engine.”
Claire had to laugh. Wait until he saw a movie. He’d not yet examined the television at the cottage since it was in her bedroom. She’d have him carry it out so they could set it up in the living room. She’d find something that wouldn’t horrify him. Something rated G.
As they continued down a strip with increasing density of stores and pedestrians, Claire saw a mall up ahead, visible by the huge Reny’s department store sign, and headed for it. The parking lot was a small sea of cars. Claire felt they’d be virtually invisible even if Clarissa did somehow manage to come down this same street. She found a spot and parked.
She glanced at St. John. She had money in the bank now—or would very shortly. That advance from the publisher would be deposited electronically, directly to her account. Even if she returned to the past by some miracle, she could spend money today. She’d earned it fair and square.
When Julian got out, his eyes practically glazed over at the rows and rows of vehicles: cars, vans, and trucks of all shapes and sizes. He shook his head. “Amazing.”
She took his arm, but then stopped and removed his hat again, though he frowned. She put it back in the car, at the same time grabbing the barn jacket.
He retrieved the hat, looked at the jacket and then at the entrance to the mall. “I will not wear that monstrosity, even for so short a walk.”
“If you don’t wear it, everyone will stare at you.”
“And do you imagine that concerns me?”
She gazed at him and had to smile. He looked magnificent in Regency finery, after all. “Fine. But we must leave the hat.”
When she went to take it from him, he didn’t let go. He winked at her. “A gentleman isn’t dressed properly without his hat.”
Smiling, she returned, “But today’s gentlemen don’t wear hats.” She pulled on the hat again, but he resisted. “Julian—no one today is properly dressed.” He finally released the headwear and gave a sigh.
He offered his arm. But instead of placing her hand upon it like a Regency miss, she wrapped his arm around her and snuggled against him. Julian stared at her in amazement, so she said, “If I merely take your arm, we’d only get more stares, I assure you.”
Just as they neared the entrance, St. John looked up at the sound of a jet. Claire followed his gaze and said, “Oh! We’re near Portland Airport. That’s a plane, an airplane. People can fly in planes, now.”
“Are you suggesting there are people in that thing?”
She smiled. “Yes, dozens and dozens.” To his look of disbelief, she added, “A plane is like a car, sort of, but it takes off at a very high speed and then flies, like a bird.” She noticed at that moment a man and a woman had stopped behind them, and were staring at them in consternation. Claire said, “Oh—he’s um—he’s had—brain damage.”
She took his arm and hurried him into the mall.
“Brain damage?” he said with a scowl. “Was that the best you could do?”
Claire giggled. “Sorry.”
He dipped his head. “I’d prefer amnesia, thank you.”
Once past the entrance corridor, Claire made a beeline for the mall directory. People did stare, some yanking on a companion’s or parent’s sleeve to point out the oddly dressed man. Teens pulled out their cell phones and snapped photos. St. John made things worse by walking in slow motion, or so it seemed to Claire, for he stopped to examine store windows, the ceiling, other people, everything. While he surveyed the architecture, or wares in a booth, others stopped to stare at him as if he were a mall exhibit. Claire tried to be as patient as possible, but ended up hurrying him along.
She l
ocated the store she was hoping to find and headed up the escalator—another marvel to St. John, who had to hop on and then hop off at the end, turning to look back at it. A young girl walked up to him. “Are you an actor?”
He peered at her a moment with narrowed eyes. “No.” He turned to Claire. “An actor, indeed!”
“No one knows what to make of you,” she said.
“They’ve no doubt never seen a properly dressed gentleman in all their pitiful lives,” he responded, looking disdainfully at two young men in baggy jeans, sneakers, and long tees. A girl with multicolored streaks in her hair went by—he stared, frowning. “Is she a gipsie?” he asked. “They’ve been a plague for ages.”
Claire tried not to chuckle. “No.”
A minute later, another child cried, “Look, Mommy! A man in a costume!” St. John’s eyes narrowed; he raised an indignant brow at the brat, making the mother hurry her little girl away. Claire quickened her pace, saying, “Let’s get you some new clothes.”
His look of distaste increased as he surveyed people as they walked. Some wore puffy coats over jeans and boots, but others were carrying coats, revealing oversized sweatshirts, layered tees, hoodies and other like shirts. “Surely you don’t expect me to wear such ill-looking apparel as I see on these creatures?” A passerby heard him and stopped to stare, openmouthed.
Claire hurried him on. “We’ll get you quality clothing,” she said, and walked him into Brooks Brothers.
“Is this a tailor’s?” he asked.
“Something like that.” Gazing at St. John, Claire had to admit the idea of dressing him differently was not abhorrent. Despite her admiration of his Regency duds, she brimmed with anticipation at the thought of seeing him in contemporary styles.
The clerk took one look at St. John and, without a blink, hurried toward them as though they were the president and first lady. Amazing, Claire thought, how people can smell money—no matter what century it’s from.
In minutes St. John was being measured and sized. They took their fittings seriously here, and Claire was thankful for it. It would seem almost normal to Julian. She found a place to sit, and waited.
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