Now and Forever (44 page)

She met his gaze full on. "It's beyond mine, too, yet I feel that we are...connected in some way."

"Aye," he said slowly, "'tis nothing I want or need yet I cannot bring myself to leave."

Her hands rested together on the table top. His right hand lay mere inches away.

"You don't have to leave," she said in a soft voice. "Not until you're ready."

He covered her hands with his and for a moment he felt whole again and hopeful, the way he had when the world was young and his whole life stretched out before him, all shiny and new.

 
#

No one in the restaurant thought it strange when Shannon paid the bill for their lunch. Andrew had felt most uncomfortable when she reached into her purse and produced the same shiny black rectangle she had used to pay for his clothing. The serving wench took the bill and the rectangle and disappeared into the back.

"I believe that rectangle is some form of currency," he said, "yet it is returned to you unaltered each time you give it away."

Shannon smiled and it was good to see the light of humor in her sad eyes. "It is a form of currency," she said, "but not in the way you think." She went on to explain a system of credit that seemed to put a great store on faith among strangers.

"And all of this is accomplished using the post?"

"Sounds unbelievable, doesn't it?"

"The post in my time was most unreliable. A letter might take seven days to travel from Philadelphia to New York."

"Still does." Her eyes twinkled. "Some things never change."

Her good humor should be of no consequence to him. She was neither wife nor lover. Their acquaintance was too new to call her friend. Yet the sight of Shannon, face aglow with laughter, lit a fire deep inside his soul that would not be extinguished. He wondered what it would take to keep her thus all the days of her life.

More than you could ever provide,
he told himself as they walked outside to her car. She was from a world of ease and wealth, a world he wished to call his own one day. But until the time came when he could walk through that world as an equal in privilege she could be naught but a dream.

He began to cough as they made their way toward the place where they had left the car to rest. "'Tis something most disagreeable," he said, rubbing at his scratchy eyes. "Never have I encountered air with such characteristics."

"Pollution," said Shannon, jingling the keys she held in her right hand. "I never notice it here but when I go up to Manhattan, I can't breathe without coughing."

"What is the origin of this pollution?"

"Something called the Industrial Revolution."

"I have not heard of that particular uprising."

She laughed, but not unkindly. "It isn't an uprising, Andrew. It's more of a result than anything else. When we get home I'll sit you down at the computer and let you do some exploring."

"Emilie remarked once about a cum-pyoo-turr. It is an object that thinks like a man but has not emotion nor intellect."

Her eyes widened. "I'm impressed. What else did Emilie tell you?"

"About metal birds that carry men through the skies and talking boxes and pictures that move and have sound and music."

"She covered a lot of territory, didn't she?" Shannon muttered. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of jealousy and his heart soared but that was absurd.

Shannon opened the doors to her car and Andrew was about to climb inside when she motioned for him to stop.

"Look!" She pointed toward the sky. "You're about to see one of those metal birds your pals told you about."

He craned his neck and looked up, squinting into the bright sunlight. He saw muted blue sky and some cloud cover and little else.

"Do you hear that noise?" Shannon asked. "That's the plane. It'll probably break through the clouds any minute."

He watched and waited, heart pounding in anticipation and then when he was about to give up he was rewarded with a glimpse of something silvery and sleek, moving majestically across the heavens. It seemed a thing apart from man, as if it had sprung wholly from imagination and needed no help to stay aloft.

"Probably heading for Newark," Shannon said, watching him. "It's a 747."

"What is that?"

"A huge plane that became popular in the late 60s, early 70s. It carries three hundred people."

"That cannot be."

"I should take you to the airport," she said. "Hundreds of planes take off and land every day of the week."

"Such an adventure must be only for the wealthy."

"Not at all," said Shannon. "I'd bet most men and women in this country have flown at least once."

That statement was beyond his comprehension and when the plane vanished into the clouds he climbed into the car, feeling acutely aware of how little he knew about this world.

 
It was devilishly hot in the car and he grimaced as the metal buckles on the seat strap burned his fingers. He wondered how a strap could save his life in the event of catastrophe but decided to cast his lot with the future and hope for the best.

"It's a beautiful day outside." She inserted a key beneath the wheel and the car came to life. "We could go home if you like, but I thought there might be some place you'd like to see." She hid her eyes behind shadowed spectacles. The urge to pull them from her face was strong but he resisted. "The airport, maybe, or Philadelphia."

He considered her suggestion. "I believe you said Princeton is not far."

"Ten miles or so."

"I would like to see it." So much had happened near Princeton. In his mind he could see the Blakelee farm, the spot in Milltown where he and Emilie and Zane had spent a night. So much of his life was tied into that small parcel of New Jersey land.

"Sure," said Emilie. "I'll show you Nassau Hall and Morven and Bainbridge House--"

"I'd like to see Princeton," he said again, "but not today."

She lifted the glasses and rested them atop her head. "Why not?"

"There are windows to be repaired and other chores to do," he said, "and if I am ever to be free of debt 'tis time I started."

He needed to remind himself that he had come forward in time to find purpose for his life.

And not to fall in love.

Chapter Nine

Dakota smiled at the young girl with the green-and-white striped socks and triceratops t-shirt. "You'll find everything you ever wanted to know about the New Jersey Devil in our folklore section in the east wing." She handed the girl a flyer. "Our map will help you find the right section."

The girl scurried off with her mother, a woman who was obviously at the end of her summer-with-kids rope. It happened every year like clockwork. Only the most dedicated researchers visited the historical society from June to August 15th then bam! Parent after parent trooped their offspring through the Society's hallowed halls in an attempt to amuse children who had overdosed on summer fun.

As far as Dakota was concerned, you didn't need to be psychic to recognize a lost cause when you saw it.

You either loved history or you didn't. For some people the sweep and romance of the past was as dead as yesterday's newspapers. They didn't hear the music or feel the passion or understand the fluid nature of time itself.

Dakota did. For her the past, especially the Revolutionary War past, lived side by side with the present, turning her days into a rich blend of what was and what had been.

Which was why she'd spent most of the afternoon up to her elbows in documents dating back to the summer of 1776.

Not 1775.

Not 1777.

Seventeen hundred and seventy-six.

And she wasn't reading about the Declaration of Independence or any of the things most people associated with that time period.

She was looking for anything she could find on Andrew McVie.

"You're losing it," she muttered, reaching for another huge volume of town records from the time.
You meet a perfectly normal man - if you didn't count the way he talked - at your best friend's house and suddenly you're convinced he's a time traveler.

Dakota believed in the energy of crystals, the power of runes, and that being a Gemini gave you license to change your mind as often as you liked. She saw auras. She read minds. And now and again she had the unshakable feeling that just because she was born in the latter half of the 20th century, that was no reason believe she belonged there.

But real, live time travel? That was pushing the edge of the envelope, even for her. When you started playing around with the laws of physics, the logical side of her brain - underappreciated though it was - kicked in and yanked her back to reality with a thud.

She was too much her parents' child. Her father was a professor of physics, cursed with a brain that saw the inherent logic in everything from mathematics to MTV, while her mother adhered to the chaos theory of existence: sooner or later something incredible was going to happen and she intended to be ready to enjoy it when it did.

The four Wylie children were an odd mix of 4.0 grade point averages and enough E.S.P. to turn the world on its ear. Frederick Wylie had been telling his children to plan for the future since they were old enough to understand the words
bank balance
and
career
. Ginny Wylie had just smiled and told them bedtime stories about Atlantis and spaceships to Mars. "Life is short!" Ginny exhorted. "When adventure comes knocking, fling open the door."

So what was Dakota doing, searching for McVie's name in every yellowed, mildewy old book she could find?

"Because I've lost my mind, that's why," she said out loud.

"Ms. Wylie!" Doctor Forsythe, head of the museum, glared at her from across the room. "Shhhh!"

Shhhh? I'm twenty-six years old and you're telling me to shhhh?

She hadn't been shushed since seventh grade study hall. No wonder Forsythe's aura was so grey and forbidding. The man had the soul of a bureaucrat. Auras were funny things. Most people didn't believe they existed but they did. And they were as individual and precise as fingerprints. All Dakota had to do was see an aura once and--

That's it
, she thought as her heart rate doubled.
Auras.
Or the lack of them. That's what had been bothering her since she first saw McVie dragging that red balloon across Shannon's back yard.

She closed her eyes tightly and reconstructed their morning encounter. She conjured up the rugged face of Andrew McVie and studied his features one by one. Nope. No aura. Not even a glimmer of one. She would have settled for a faint hint of gold, a touch of pale blue, the slightest wash of red but there was nothing.

Her heart beat speeded up yet again. And that wasn't the half of it. The man had a force field around him that wasn't to be believed. Talk about the thunderbolt. He clasped her hand and she felt as if she'd been hooked up to a major source of electricity and all of that power was zapping its way through her.

You'd think power like that was sexual but it wasn't - at least, not with her. It was something different, something harder to define, as if the entire chain of history had followed him to this time and place.

"Ms. Wylie!"

She started at the sound of Dr. Forsythe's nasal voice next to her left ear.

"Good grief," she said, hand to her throat. "Did you have to sneak up on me like that?"

"I asked you the same question three times, Ms. Wylie. Have you located the master directory of casualties under General Mercer during the Battle of Princeton?"

"No--I mean, yes." She shook her head to brush away the cobwebs. "I mean, I'll find them for you."

His bushy grey brows knotted together in a disapproving frown. "We don't pay you to daydream, young lady."

She scowled back at him.
And you don't pay me enough to live on either.
If it wasn't for working the psychic fairs on weekends and private parties on Monday nights, she'd be living in Shannon's cabana along with Balloon Boy. She rummaged through the tower of papers on her desk and found the information Forsythe was looking for. Being psychic helped a lot when you thrived on disorganization, chaos, and a deep-rooted love of the unexpected. She tucked the papers under her arm then marched into his office.