By the Bay (24 page)

Abruptly she shut that train of thought down. Over the years she’d gone over that night again and again, reliving it as though hoping she could change the outcome. She’d blamed herself. She’d blamed her husband. She’d blamed the whole darn wide world and none of it had  done any good.

She would not live through that again.
She had released it, let it go, so that the only time she had to suffer so was in the dreams which she could not control.

She wondered what it was like to be Christine who could not let go, and shuddered.

After a while, she make
Owen
get up so she could make up the sofa as his bed. He gave her an unaccustomed kiss goodnight and crawled between the sheets. She turned off the light and went to Jillian’s room to get ready for bed.

It was a pleasant room with built-in book cases lining one wall,
constructed
years ago by
Owen
, and filled with everything from favorite text books to a row of kids series books that Jillian still liked to read now and then. A window seat with a rose velvet cushion provided the perfect setting for reading and, by daylight, a view of the bay
could be
glimpsed between buildings. With Jillian away, the curtains were drawn, giving the room a sense of intimacy and security.

She wondered how safe her niece had felt growing up here with a paranoid mother to stir unreasonable fears. Well, she and
Owen
had done their best to provide balance and they, with their lost children, had been well rewarded by the affection she had given them.

She could well understand the fears though. Accustomed as she was to Christine’s, the talk tonight had stirred her own imagination and shadows seemed to dance in the corners of the room and dangers to stalk the windows and doors.

More than anything, she was afraid for Jillian and longed for her to be safely back at home.

She lay down on top of the soft coverlet on her niece’s bed and said a little prayer for a world of people
worried about loved
ones
caught up in
a war they had not sought, but which had come anyway.

Chapter Thirty
Three

Jillian was not entirely that Philippe’s quiet insistence that he would run his sword through Davis if he did not do as Jillian wanted had not carried more weight than her own pleas and arguments. Certainly
Philippe
actually had pulled a short, deadly looking bladed weapon from where he’d concealed it under his clothes and he looked in
his
own way just as deadly as the sword.

Davis muttered something about how they’d be sorry they made him do it, but he gave a grim nod and started walking again. Scowling
,
Philippe  followed, but said to her in an undertone, “What? Are we to walk to this place then?”

This seemed unlikely to Jillian also, but she had little idea how Davis accomplished his time movements, especially now that they had no machines with flashing lights around them. Those had seemed convincingly
scientific
enough to seem in some vague way, understandable. Now they simply walked through terrain that seemed much like what she was used to at home.

Then things began to change, not as they had with the ripple effect where one minute they were in one time and then the next in another. This was more like watching a picture being paint
ed
, she saw the change unfolding, this tree
coming into being
, then a flower, a bush, a house, and much as she distrusted Davis, she realized they were moving back  in the direction she had requested.

Anger expressed itself
with
every stride of the red-haired man ahead, his feet touching ground with an enraged pounding. He was doing this under duress and she doubted it was because of the very real threat that her buccaneer presented. He was going back because he was desperate and didn’t know what else to do. But he was making it very clear he didn’t like doing it.

As for Jillian, she found the lingering attachment she had felt to this Davis Blake was gone. He was not her father, no matter how much he looked like the young man in a police uniform
whose picture
her mother had shown her and he told her lies to suit his own convenience. The connection between them was severed.

She had become so accustomed to exaggerated change that at first she did not realize she was already where she wanted to be.
Port Isabel just before the United States became involved in World War I, the war to end all wars. If Davis had guided them truly, then it was 1916, the year the project that would eventually be called Timing would begin.

She recognized
Owen
’s Café only because it was where she expected it to be and because the makeshift sign out
front
so identified it. It was as Auntie had described it, a small ramshackle wooden building painted a pale green. She saw a little girl playing and wondered if she was
Owen
’s daughter. Years ago
Owen
’s wife had left him and taken their daughter. Rightfully so, he’d said, because he’d become a drunk.

She suspected the story was a whole lot more complicated than what she’d been told as were the events in most human lives, but neither Aunt
Florence
or Uncle
Owen
had ever said a negative word about his wife and daughter.

She was tempted to go inside, but had to remind herself that this was not
yet
the
Uncle
Owen
she knew
and that he and Auntie were only the most casual of friends at this point anyway. He’d started out by being her dad’s friend.

The town was smaller and many of the buildings familiar to her were missing. Her parents would be newlyweds, she knew, if this world was anything like her own. She would not be born for another two years.

Not her. Not them. She had to keep reminding herself that this was not her reality, just another very similar one. Somewhere the two had broken apart, branching into twin, but not identical worlds. She  wondered which came first, hers or this one. Funny how she kept thinking of her world as the
real
one.

As though he sensed her tumbling emotions, Philippe took her hand, holding it tightly as they walked. Davis, who had led the way, dropped back to walk beside them. His face looked drawn and pale and in spite of the cool day, he was sweating. “Remember,” he said. “I warned you.
I’m not the only one who will lose everything that matters.
”

She didn’t feel as though he cared for her any more than she did for him. In fact, she thought maybe he hated both of them for making him come here.

This had been his dream most of his life, the Timing project. He’d envisioned a better world and it hadn’t happened, but now lay in ruins all around him. Paradise had fallen further because of his intervention, but he still wasn’t ready to recognize that fact.

Like many people, he had to rationalize. What had happened wasn’t his fault. Give him a little time and he would make it all better.

Only Jillian and Philippe were demanding that he take action now.

To Jillian’s surprise, the conspirators met at a familiar address. In the last half block, she guessed that Davis was taking them to what looked like Mom’s little cottage. It
appeared to be
newly built, the exterior paint
ed
a shining white, the shutters green as
Owen
painted them last year back at home, and tropical plants quickly taking hold as
they
did in this climate. There was no swing on the little porch, but otherwise things seemed much the same.

“I brought you here. I can’t go in. I’m already here.”

“But you know what happens. You remember.”

He nodded and the look on his face made her fearful. She tried to tell herself that his distress was only because, if she was successful, his project would be wiped away.

“I’m waiting for you on the other side of this door,” he told her. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Because it already happened.”

He nodded once again, a short jerk of motion. “It already happened.” He started to turn away, th
e
n paused. “It would be better for you if this meeting never happened.”

Fear rose in her throat. “Something has to be done.” She reached out to knock on the door, but Philippe pulled her aside and knocked instead, loudly and forcefully.

She heard footsteps approaching
and then the door was flung open. A much younger Davis Blake, his hair a
mane of strawberry-colored hair
, stood facing Philippe. He hadn’t even seen her yet, his attention was focused on the privateer’s commanding form.

She glanced around. The Davis who had brought them here was nowhere to be seen.

“We wish to talk to you and your friends,” Philippe said quietly. “We have understood that you were expecting us.”

The young Davis looked past the man, his gaze lingering on the woman accompanying him.

Jillian supposed it was a strange experience to see the daughter who was not born yet, standing there at about the same age as he was now. For Davis it must seem to be confirmation that his time travel ideas had been fulfilled in reality.

With a leaden heart, she realized that she was in a close to impossible position. To explain to an aging Davis who had lost his whole family that his project was a dangerous failure might just work. But to explain to this idealistic young man that all his hopes and dreams would lead to disaster was quite another thing.

It was the business of the young to hope and believe. Only the old allowed doubts to control their actions.

Davis looked at them with open animosity. “You are here to play devil’s advocate. You’ve come to try to convince us not to continue with our work.”

“How do you know?” Philippe asked with equal chill. “Who told you and what version of the truth were you given?”

David ignored the other man. “We receive messages. I was told I must listen to you.” He raised a hand to gesture to them to enter.

None of the furniture in the house was familiar to
Jillian. The living room was furnished in what looked like odds and ends, a couch and chairs that didn’t match, probably gifts from friends’ castoffs to the younger couple.

Three men were seated in the room and they looked up with varying degrees of animosity as the visitors walked in. None of them seemed to be surprised at the intrusion.

She was pleased to see that one of them was older, a white-haired man with bristling brows and deep wrinkles cut into his face. Perhaps he would be more willing to
listen to words of
caution.

The other two looked to be older than Davis,
one in his mid-thirties, the other perhaps ten years older
. About them, she thought, was the look of enthusiasts, of fanatics. They would be a hard sell.

“I thought there would be more of you,” she realized that she’d made the statement right out loud.

“You have to realize we’re just starting out,” Davis sounded almost defensive as though accused of something. She hadn’t meant it that way, but had simply expected perhaps a dozen men and women working on the project.

She had to remember that this was the beginning, the spark of what would become. She was grateful there were no more people involved.

With chilly politeness Davis introduced them:
the older man was Cal Franklin, the two younger, Michael Stevens and
Owen
Lewis
.
Owen
!

Jillian hadn’t recognized her old friend in this slim, vigorous looking man. She saw little resemblance to the hefty, aging
Owen
she knew.

Not
Owen
. His alternat
e
in this other world. He might be as different as Davis was from her real father. She was sure her own dad would never have done this outrageous thing.
Neither would
Owen
. He ran his own café and would never be the type to get involved in secret government projects.

Chapter Thirty
Four

The simmering sense of danger he’d felt in the other cottage was here too. Philippe stayed close to
J
illian’s side, his hand on the handle of his short sword in its scabbard under the layer of cloth. He watched  all four men
closely
, wondering which of them the danger would come from. Maybe it was all of them.

Davis gave their names: Jillian and Philippe, just their first names and no other information. The older man nodded. The other two sat in silence. Obviously their identity was already known.

“Make your pitch, young lady,” the older man Cal Franklin invited.