Time After Time (46 page)

It was a dream come true:
the prince was at her door, glass slipper in his hand. All she had
to do was ...

Lie. "I want to
concentrate on my daughter and my career, at least for now," she
murmured, cracking the door open to him.

His face lit up with
renewed hope. "Oh, understood," he said, holding his hands palms up
in agreement. "I didn't mean we had to start tonight. I just
thought ... somehow you sounded so final ... huh! See that? You're
not the only one with a flair for melodrama. God, was I off base.
What an ego. C'mon," he said with an utterly relieved grin, "let's
eat. The food
is
pretty damned good here."

Somehow Liz managed to
work through the courses and make it through the conversation
without cluing Jack in on the magnitude of her deceit. It was a
first-rate acting job, and it used up every atom of energy that she
possessed. By the time the meal was over, even the cappuccino
couldn't revive her.

Jack ignored her
insistence on sharing the tab and dropped his Visa card on the
bill. Smiling sympathetically, he said, "Let's go, droopy. I'll
take you home."

"No, maybe not," she said
suddenly. "I think I should just walk back. I could use the air. I
still have lots of work to do tonight. Is that all right?" she
asked humbly. "Would you mind?"

He gave her a baffled
look. "No, sure, if you'd rather." But it was clear that he did
mind. Still, what could he do? She knew he didn't dare act like a
chauvinist, not after his little speech earlier.

She stood up abruptly,
unable to stay with him a split second longer, and said, "Good
night, then. And thank you so much. Don't forget to tell your
secretary that I'll need a master of the mailing list by next
Tuesday."

She fled outside, leaving
him waiting to square up the bill. Less than fifty yards away, she
was suddenly overcome with revulsion at her own cowardice. She
closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip till it hurt; then, turning
on her blistered heel, she limped back to the restaurant and
intercepted Jack as he was rising to leave their table.

"I lied," she said in a
whisper. "I can't have a Susy. I can't have anyone, ever. It's not
that I won't. I
can't
. So now you know."

She had no idea how he'd
react, but she wasn't expecting stillness. His handsome face
settled into an expression so dangerously discreet, so devoid of
shock or anger or even disappointment, that she was forced to look
away.

"Shall we go somewhere and
talk?" he asked quietly.

"No. There's nothing more
to say."

"But ... why didn't you
say that earlier?" he asked, obviously rethinking everything she'd
said so far. "When you told me about Keith, for
example."

She stared at the
flickering candle on the table between them. "I didn't know
you."

"Or when you pulled out
your drawer of ... supplies?"

"I didn't know
you."

"Or last
night."

"I was afraid," she
whispered. She lifted her gaze to his and said, "I'm still
afraid."

And then she left him for
the second time, knowing full well he would not follow.

****

"You told him?"

"I told him."

"What did he
say?"

"What could he say?
Nothing. Thanks for baby-sitting, Tori. Now, go home. I can't share
this one with you.

****

That night Liz dreamed of
Christopher Eastman. It wasn't a vision; there was nothing
supernatural about it. It was a plain, ordinary, everyday dream. In
it, Liz and Christopher were sitting on one of the ledges of Cliff
Walk, high above the sea that crashed on the rocks below. They were
drinking Cokes and eating Burger King Whoppers and sharing a large
order of fries. Behind them on the Walk, Susy and a young playmate
were laughing and running around. Liz — for once — had no fears for
Susy's safety, because Susy had taken swimming lessons from Mickey
Mouse at Disney World.

Liz was having trouble
explaining to Christopher how it was now possible for a human heart
to be transplanted from someone who had just died into someone
whose heart still beat, only badly. Christopher was frankly
astonished and had deep misgivings about surgeons who played God;
he wanted to meet this Dr. Ben.

"Sure," said Liz, and she
stood up. "Let's go. I'll take you home."

Suddenly someone in the
dream — either Liz, or Christopher, or Susy, or her playmate —
slipped on the rocky ledge and went hurtling down the side of the
cliff, sending Liz bolting up from her pillow with a half-muffled
scream.

After that she cried, on
and off, until dawn.

****

The phone rang early, as
Liz thought it might. It was Jack, sounding as haggard as she
felt.

"I followed you last
night."

"I asked you not
to."

"But I lost you in the
crowd."

"Easy to do."

"I went back for my car
and drove to your house, but I saw Tori through the front window. I
felt like a stalker, so I went home. Do you want to talk
now?"

"No.''

"When?"

"I don't know when. This
is way, way too painful for me, Jack. Can't you tell
that? God!"

She shuddered, then sighed
and said, "Please. Not now.
Please."

"All right," he said
soothingly. "Not now, then. I'll leave you some room."

But beneath the gentleness
of his words, Liz thought she heard something else: the first faint
sound of wariness.

The next few days were the
longest of Liz's life. During the day she pretended to work, and
during the night she pretended to sleep. But all she was doing, day
and night, was waiting. It occurred to her that before she fell in
love with Jack, the days flew by in a satisfying way. Now they
crawled to a close, empty and meaningless.

This is what happens when
you give up control,
she
realized.

She'd never do it
again.

Eventually, finally,
Tuesday rolled around. Liz waited, bleary-eyed, until three in the
afternoon before putting in a call to the shipyard. But she needed
the master list today, and she had no choice but to call and try to
get it.

Cynthia, the shipyard
secretary who'd baby-sat Susy briefly the first time Liz had gone
there, was completely enthusiastic about the yard's sponsorship of
the benefit; Liz had no trouble getting her cooperation.

"Mr. Eastman won't be in
today," Cynthia volunteered. "He's in New York, wooing those
investors of his."

He sure wasn't wooing Liz.
"That's all right," Liz said in a voice of false cheer. "I didn't
need to talk to him. Can I come by around five for the
addresses?"

"Come by sooner if you
like. All the stuff's in the computer; I just have to set them up
to be collated. Nothing could be — oh. Here comes Mr.
Eastman."

Liz felt her heart
automatically slam up against her chest at the sound of his name.
In a faltering voice she said, "He must've got through sooner than
he expected in New York—"

"No, not that Mr.
Eastman," said Cynthia, betraying her disappointment. "His father.
Cornelius Eastman."

"I'll let you go, then,"
said Liz, somehow relieved that Jack still had an excuse for not
calling her. She hung up, not at all surprised that Cynthia,
married or not, had a little crush on Jack. Was there anyone in the
world who didn't?

Liz had intended to go
directly from her office to her parents' house to pick up Susy; but
in between those two points was her sweet little cottage with its
own little answering machine, its red light possibly
blinking.

She had to
know.

She left the car running
as she ran inside and up the stairs to her bedroom, where she'd
relocated the answering machine out of Susy's earshot. Considering
the agony of the last few nights; considering that Liz was in the
thick of planning a last-minute benefit; considering how much she
plain
wanted
there to be a message — it didn't seem possible that the
little red light wasn't doing a damned thing.

With a moan of
disappointment Liz threw herself on her bed, face down and arms
outstretched, like a tired butterfly basking in the summer sun that
poured through the west windows. Hoping somehow to be recharged,
she fell, instead, into a weary sleep.

****

"Elizabeth. Wake
up."

"Uh!"
she said, instantly alert.

He was sitting on the side
of her bed, just the way Jack liked to do, watching her with a look
that was more disappointed than bemused. "This isn't going very
well, is it," he said, dispirited.

He was close enough to
touch. She considered trying it, then backed away from the idea. He
looked too young, too real, too altogether attractive in his
loose-fitting shirt and tight-fitting pants.

"How come you're here?"
she asked, lapsing back to a groggy state. She rubbed her nose with
the back of her hand and said sleepily, "I thought I had to summon
you."

"You did," he said,
smiling. "In your dream just now."

"My dream? I'm
never
going to get the
rules straight. What was I dreaming? I don't remember." She wanted
to sit up, but her limbs felt extraordinarily heavy, as if she'd
been drugged.

In a gentle rebuke, he
said, "You took your time telling him, don't you think?"

She buried her face in the
coverlet. "Like great-great-grandmother, like
great-great-granddaughter," she said in a muffled voice. "With a
twist, of course."

"I tell you, it doesn't
matter about your condition."

"To Jack it
does."

"It shouldn't."

She turned to face him.
"Were you there when we were together last?" she asked Christopher.
When he nodded reluctantly, she said, "Then you saw the look on his
face."

"It should not matter," he
repeated.

"Why are you
telling
me
this?"
she asked, suddenly aware of what a rotten job he was doing as
intermediary. "Why aren't you convincing
him?
Why aren't you appearing
to
him?"

Christopher shrugged. "You
need me more than he does."

"The hell I do! — ah,
sorry," she said tiredly. "You probably don't like that kind of
talk." She tried to raise herself up, but she was positively
immobilized. "Okay, tell me why I need to be worked on more than he
does," she said, sighing. "I'm curious."

Christopher was succinct:
"You're afraid of him. Of his wealth. Of his position."

Defensive now, she managed
to drag herself up on one elbow.
"Afraid
of him? I don't
think
so. I'm a working
mother, mister. I'm not intimidated by Jack Eastman."

"Good. Go to him as his
equal, then. Not with your head bent low in apology."

She fell back down on her
nose. "Fine," she said, yawning and drifting off again. "Fine ...
fine ... fine." She turned her face onto one cheek and gave him a
dopey little smile. "Are you my guardian angel?"

"No, sweet one," he said
in a voice that was low and oddly melancholy. "Not
technically."

"Just a ghost, then. Well
... whatever."

"But do I care about your
destiny?" His voice was rich with emotion as he added, "Oh, yes,
dear lady. Be certain of it."

She watched him for a long
time, puzzled by his tone and yet deeply stirred by it. Something
was happening here, something she felt rather than understood.
"Thank you for that night," she said, her eyelids beginning to
droop once more. "You saved my life."

"Not so," he said softly.
"You saved your own life. And you still can."

He stood up then and held
his arms in the air over her prone body. Warm, golden light fell
over her, engulfing her like a halo, wrapping her in a warm caress.
"Now sleep, Elizabeth ... sleep."

****

When Liz woke up she felt
terrific. Dream? Vision? Who could tell anymore? What was a vision,
anyway, but a waking dream?

Whatever it was that he
infused in me,
she thought,
I wish I could bottle it.
She washed her face and combed her hair and went out to her
car with a new spring in her step.

The van was still
running.

Embarrassed by how
thoroughly she was losing it, she jumped back in, drove down to her
parents' house to gather up Susy, and then raced with her out to
the shipyard before Cynthia closed up the office.

There were sawhorses
blocking the front of the shipyard office — no doubt to keep the
area free for moving a boat — so Liz was forced to park around the
side of the building. Reluctant to leave her daughter alone, she
hauled Susy inside with her.