Now and Forever (50 page)

He fell into step beside her. "I will see you safely to your room."

She nodded. It felt good and right and she loved him for thinking it necessary.

They climbed the stairs together, not speaking. It was only the second time they'd climbed those stairs, yet she felt as if it were part of a shimmering chain of events that bound them to each other. Which, of course, was romantic nonsense but still....

"This house has seven bedrooms," she said when they reached her door. "Feel free to use whatever one you like."

"I will be here, as I was last night."

She felt heat rush to her cheeks. "You don't have to do that, Andrew. I'm perfectly safe. Please sleep in comfort."

He didn't answer, just watched her with those beautiful hazel eyes of his, watched her until she thought she would dissolve into a pool of longing.

"Well, goodnight," she said, hand on the doorknob. Her heart thundered so loud she could barely hear the sound of her voice. "I'll see you in the morning."

Still he said nothing and the heat building inside her body rose another degree.
Why are you looking at me like that? Are you going to kiss me?

"Aye," he said, drawing her close. "I am."

She inhaled the smell of his skin.

He cupped her face in his hands.

She thought she would die of anticipation.

He wondered if pleasure could kill a man.

It was a simple kiss, as kisses went.

Their lips met.

Their breaths mingled.

It wasn't enough...yet it was everything.

And the miracle of it all was that they both knew it.

Chapter Thirteen

Andrew was repairing the window of the guest bathroom the next morning when the Negress lawyer arrived.

"Good day," the woman said, not extending her hand to Andrew. "Is Shannon around?"

"She is at the house with the women," he said, not looking up from his work. He felt uncomfortable and did not like feeling thus.

She ran her dark hand along the sash. "Nice work you're doing." He sensed that she was smiling at him in a most friendly fashion but chose not to acknowledge it. "Is carpentry your hobby?"

He nodded, wielding the scraping implement across the peeling layer of paint.

"I'm into running," she said.

An odd statement and one for which he had no reply.

"You don't like me very much, do you?" she asked.

"I did not say that."

"You didn't have to, Mr. McVie. Your silence pretty much says it all. I'm going to go find Shannon. Have a good day."

Andrew waited until the sound of her car died away, then tossed the tool to the ground. There was nothing deferential about the woman. She neither courted him nor treated him as her inferior. In truth she spoke to him as if they were equals before both man and God and that unsettled him more than anything she could have done.

He thought of his days at Harvard then tried to imagine a woman walking those hallowed halls in search of knowledge. The image simply would not come clear for him. The fact that the woman in question was a Negress made it all the more impossible for him to comprehend.

Shannon believed him a bigot in matters of race. He chose not to label himself that way. It was understood in his time that the division between slave and master was absolute. Even when a slave was released into freedom, that freedom bore a great similarity to all that had come before.

Such was not the case today. The descendents of slaves - men and women alike - were lawyers and doctors. Successful in their own right and on their own terms.

And in a world that Andrew had once considered his for the asking.

He wondered if there could be room enough for every man and woman to find power and success or if some fell by the wayside and were forgotten.

Nothing was as he'd imagined it would be. His dreams had been of a world where men lived like kings, where women stayed beautiful into their fourth decade and beyond, where he would instantly find meaning to a life that had long ago lost its sense of purpose.

"And where are you now, Andrew McVie?" he muttered. Repairing doors and scraping paint from windows. A common laborer performing menial chores for a woman with a cloud of soft dark hair and eyes the color of the sea.

A woman whose beautiful face was matched only by the beauty of her soul.

Back in his own time he would have known how to woo such a woman. There had been a time when he held a position of respect in the world, when the good people of Boston had hailed him in friendship when he passed.

A time when he might have deserved a woman like Shannon.

But that time was no more and he wondered if it would ever come again.

 
#

Three more families had arrived during the night. Each woman had a story to tell of abuse and fear and the loss of self-respect. Their stories cut across all economic and social barriers, and each story reminded Shannon anew of how important these shelters were.

By nine a.m., Shannon had spent thirty minutes on the phone with a vocational school in Bridgewater, called for a repairman to fix the air conditioning in both guest houses, and refereed a loud fight between two of Pat Delaney's kids.

Karen Naylor stopped by on her way to court to see if any of the women were interested in obtaining restraining orders against their husbands but she met with resistance all around. The young lawyer did a great deal of
pro bono
work for the shelter and was often as frustrated as Shannon at the reluctance many battered women showed when it came to prosecuting the men who'd beaten them.

"I saw your friend Andrew outside," Karen said over a cup of coffee at Shannon's house. "He was scraping paint off your windows."

"He enjoys working with his hands," Shannon said smoothly.

Karen arched a brow. "An attorney who works with his hands? Not very likely."

Shannon offered up a bland smile. "What can I say? He's a Renaissance man."

"So, is it serious?"

Shannon arched a brow. "What's with the questions?"

Karen pushed her coffee cup away from her and sighed. "It's been awhile since I've come across prejudice like his. I guess I'd forgotten how it felt."

"I don't think he meant to be rude."

"Maybe not," said Karen, "but he succeeded admirably."

"I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better."

Karen patted her on the forearm in an easy, affectionate gesture. "Not your responsibility, Shannon. Believe it or not, you can't change the entire world."

"I'm doing my damnedest," Shannon said with a smile.

"Speaking of which," Karen said, checking her Filofax, "I have an opening at one o'clock, if you'd like to come in and take care of the paperwork for the Foundation." She looked back up at Shannon. "You did read everything, didn't you?"

"I'll get around to it."

"By one o'clock?"

"I promise."

 
#

"Ms. Wylie, we need to talk."

Dakota peered around the side of the huge stack of books she'd been hiding behind since lunchtime. "What's up, Dr. Forsythe?"

"You were fifteen minutes late. You know how we feel about lateness."

"My alarm clock didn't work."

"And you went home early yesterday."

She thought for a second. "I had a headache." She couldn't remember exactly what she'd told him, only that she couldn't wait to get to Shannon's and grab a minute alone with Andrew McVie.

Dr. Forsythe tapped one loafered foot impatiently. "I can't talk to you with you hiding behind that stack of books."

She forced a bright, lighthearted laugh and rose to her feet, brushing decades of dust from her flowing paisley skirt. "Whatever gave you the idea I was hiding? I'm cataloging, for heaven's sake. That's all."
Right, Dakota. Just pray your nose doesn't start to grow....

"Mrs. Payton will be in to make her bequest this afternoon. I'd like you to join us in my office to witness her signature."

Her brows knit in a frown. "What time is she coming?"

He frowned right back at her. Not a good sign. "Three o'clock. I hope that doesn't interfere with your schedule, Ms. Wylie."

It did but she didn't think Dr. Forsythe would care to hear about it. "I have a luncheon appointment but I should be back by three o'clock."

His frown degenerated into a scowl. "Your work ethic is deplorable, Ms. Wylie. I would give great thought to my attitude, were I you. You're up for review in November. It would pain me to have to put you on probation."

What else could you expect from a man with an aura the color of a faded puce bedspread? He stormed off down the hallway and Dakota dived back behind the stack of books. Of course none of this should have surprised her. Last night she'd dreamed Dr. Forsythe would try to throw a monkey wrench into the works and he had, just like clockwork.

Which also meant she was about to find what she'd been looking for. Closing her eyes, she visualized the book. It was a small, slender volume with a navy cover, no dust jacket, and a chip in the bottom right corner. The frontispiece was missing and half of page eleven, but the name "Andrew McVie" was in the second sentence of the first paragraph on page 127.

She could see it all. She could almost smell it. But where was the book hiding? It wasn't every day a psychic got her hands on proof that her best pal's new boyfriend was a time traveler. She flipped through the titles.
Apothecaries in Colonial New Jersey...Artists of the Revolution...Declaration of Independence: Call to Arms...Forgotten Heroes
.

"
Forgotten Heroes,
" she whispered, grabbing the book from the shelf. Her hand tingled as she cradled the volume to her chest. This was it. She didn't even need to turn to page 127 to make sure. She felt as if she'd been plugged into a giant source of electricity and all of that electricity was zapping through her body right that very minute.

Though why Andrew McVie should have such an uncommon effect on her was beyond Dakota. He was an average man in every way. Average looks. Average height. Average coloring.
 
Nobody she'd look twice at on a given day. And yet when she'd clasped his hand she'd felt the same sensation of pure electricity that she felt right now as she held the book.

She took a deep breath and flipped to page 127. First paragraph. Second sentence.

Pay dirt
.

In an act of courage unequalled at that time in the War for Independence, Boston lawyer-turned-spy Andrew McVie staged a daring raid on British troops near Jockey Hollow during the winter of 1779-1780 and singlehandedly saved two of the most important members of the Spy Ring from certain death when --

"Darn," she muttered. The bottom of the page was torn but it didn't matter. She had seen enough to know the truth.

 
#

Shannon reached Karen's office at one-thirty on the dot and by one-forty the papers had been signed, sealed, and notarized.

"Okay," she said as she placed the cap back on her pen, "now let me get this straight. If I move to Borneo, the shelters will survive."

"Not just survive," said Karen, handing the documents to her secretary to photocopy, "but thrive. You've done an extraordinary thing, Shannon. I don't know if you realize how extraordinary."

"It's only money," Shannon said with a shrug. "There's a limit to how many diamonds one woman can wear."

"Trust me when I say there's no limit. You're truly exceptional."

Shannon brushed away the compliment with a wave of her hand. "So how are we doing with the overflow facilities. Last month's fundraiser brought in plenty of promises, but how many followed through with satellite shelters?" She had new facilities under construction in Gloucester, Monmouth, Middlesex, and Warren counties but more were needed. It was exciting to see her brainchild grow, but the need for her brainchild was a constant source of sorrow.