Until We Meet Again (13 page)

Lawrence’s voice is gentle. “No, it isn’t.”
“It is. Time travel is impossible.”
“And yet, here we are, a hundred years apart and in each
other’s arms.”
A thrill of energy passes through me, and our eyes meet.
“What if you’re right?” he says. “Do you know what it would
mean?”
“It means that you and I could be…”
“Together,” he says softly, lifting my hand to interlock with
his own. “Truly together. With nothing keeping us apart.”

every spare minute—on that beach with Cassandra.
She’s like a tonic to me, healing all of my fears. I want to sit
with her, basking in her warmth and beauty. But life, unfortunately, moves on. And I have to present the appearance of
normalcy to those around me. One of them being Charles.

I agreed forever ago to meet him at the club today. I’d back
out, if not for the sobering thought that this might be the last
time I see him. So, somewhat grudgingly, I dress for the day
and head out to the sunny acres of Crest Harbor’s most exclusive country club.

Charles is waiting for me at the bar when I arrive. Naturally.
Sharp in a white linen suit, he sips a Bloody Mary and eyes a
nearby table of well-heeled club girls. They peer up from under
the brims of their cloche hats and giggle to each other.

“Too pretty for you,” I say to Charles as I grab the bar stool
next to him.
“Quiet,” he mutters. “I think I almost have them fooled.”
But just then, the girls rise conspicuously from their table

and glide out to the veranda. A moment before they go, the
tall, dark-eyed girl, the beauty of the group, glances over her
shoulder with a challenging look directed at me, raising her
eyebrow with a smirk. Then they breeze out.

Charles punches me in the arm. “What’s the big idea, Lon?
Isn’t one dame enough for you?”
“Don’t blame me, Charlie boy. My mama gave me these good
looks. I didn’t ask for them.”
He harrumphs and then taps the bar. “Another of these,” he
says to the bartender. “And make it a double.”
“A little early to get bent, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m carpe-ing the diem.”
I put my arm around his shoulder and pull him away from
the bar. “Sounds good, only I need you to help me carpe it in
another way.”
“Whad’ya have in mind?”
“How does a little Grade A spying sound to you?”
A grin pricks at Charles’s mouth. “Why, Lonnie, you old
rascal. What are you up to?”
“You’ll see.”
We drive along the coast, Charles gabbing my ear off about
the latest girl he’s going to woo. I try my best to be myself,
but my hands are clammy on the steering wheel. I can see my
act isn’t working well. And as I pull into the grummier part of
town, Charles’s suspicions seem fully stoked.
“Say, where are we?”
I try to appear casual. “Cape Row.”
Charles turns a sharp look to me. “Cape Row? What do you
have in mind, Lon? Getting us killed for sport?”
“I already told you what I have in mind,” I say. “A little spying.”
“Spying on whom?”
“No one you know. Just some fella who works with my uncle.”
Charles frowns. “Sounds dull. Don’t tell me we’re on some
business errand for Ned.”
“Not exactly.”
I almost drive past the old warehouse, but then I recognize
the strange design on the rusted side wall and slam on the
brakes. It’s the same design I saw on those red-stamped letters
from Cooper Enterprises. My insides are flipping around like
a fish out of water.
“This is it.” Hands shaking, I pull my car behind a large
pile of weathered crates and park. Charles eyes me quietly
for a moment and then folds his arms across his chest with
a grimace.
“All right. You gotta tell me what’s going. For cryin’ out loud,
Lon, you look like you’ve seen the Grim Reaper.”
He has no idea how accurate he is. “You could say that.”
His expression is serious. “Tell me.”
I take a slow breath. I know I can’t tell him everything, but I
suppose it would be nice to share this burden with at least one
other person.
“It’s hard to explain. I think my uncle might be mixing with
the wrong sort of people. And I think it could cause trouble.
Serious trouble. Danger, even.”
Charles scratches the back of his neck. “Jeepers.”
I nod grimly. “Come on. I want to investigate this place.”
“You sure it’s safe?” Charles asks, eyeing the ominouslooking warehouse.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s reassuring, Lon. Thanks.”
I climb out of the car and he follows, sticking close behind me.
The warehouse to Cooper Enterprises isn’t empty. At the
far end of the building, workers are unloading a flatbed truck
stacked with wide barrels. The foreman leans against the wall,
smoking a cigar as he watches his men work. I grab Charles’s
sleeve, and we duck behind the warehouse.
“What are you thinking you’ll find here?” Charles asks as we
creep along in the shadows.
“I don’t know. I guess I just want to get a feel for the place.”
“I think we can safely write it off as dodgy.”
We reach the back of the warehouse. With my stomach
pressed to the wall, I peer around the corner. As shoddy as the
front of the building looked, the back is worse. Piles of junk sit
festering all over the crumbled asphalt. A large puddle of stagnant water reflects the silver clouds above, shivering slightly in
the wind. And an old jalopy rots in a crown of yellow weeds.
Wait…
That jalopy. I recognize it. It was the one parked outside
Uncle Ned’s house in the middle of the night. The realization
grabs my throat, pinching off any breath.
“What is it?” Charles asks.
I press my finger to my lips to shush him. Only now do I see
that I’ve brought him into a very dangerous situation.
“We have to split,” I whisper. “Right now.”
The sharp tones of men’s voices cut through the air, freezing
Charles and me in place. Someone steps outside. A jolt of nerves
rushes through me. It’s the man I spoke with in the library. The
drunk one who told me about Cape Row in the first place. What
was his name?
Hank.
He looks so different now. It’s more than the crisp, white suit
or slicked hair. It’s the way he carries himself—ruthless and in
charge. Was his drunkard persona all an act? An act to deceive
Ned and me?
A muffled cry heralds the arrival of others. Two big, burly
types step out dragging a third man between them. This one’s
hands are bound behind his back. A burlap bag has been tied
around his neck, covering his head. Charles and I exchange a
look. Charles’s face is ghost white.
The burly men throw their captive to the ground in front of
them. His head hits the puddle of stagnant water with a dull
splash. He groans and rolls onto his back.
“Lon,” Charles whispers, his voice trembling. “This is bad.”
I shush him and turn back to the sight before us. A cold, deep
sense of dread settles over me. But I can’t look away.
The man with the bag over his head is sobbing, saying something, but I can’t make out the words. Hank smoothes his
slicked hair and gives a muffled order to the two bigger men.
One of them pulls something from his coat. Before I can even
see for certain what it is, there’s a fierce bang, and the man on
the ground goes limp.
“Holy Toledo,” Charles whispers.
I can’t take my eyes off the man on the ground. A circle of
red expands from the bag over his head. So is this what Hank
meant by “under-the-table stuff.” Cassandra was right. Cooper
Enterprises is dangerous. More so than I ever imagined.
“Holy Toledo,” Charles repeats, his eyes the size of saucers.
My whole body feels like lead, but I know we need to get out
of here, and we need to go fast.
“Holy—”
I grab Charles by the arm. “Run,” I say.
We dash back to the car. But what if those thugs saw my car?
Other men could be waiting for us. Waiting to see who’s spying
on them. Or someone could be watching from inside the warehouse. The foreman with the cigar.
I grab for Charles again. “Wait!”
He’s panting. “We gotta get out of here, Lon!”
“We have to make sure it’s safe first.”
We creep to a pile of crates near the edge of the building.
Trembling, I lift my face just over the top of the stack.
The car sits where I parked it. Movement in the corner of my
eye catches my attention. Hank strolls out of the warehouse,
wiping his hands with a handkerchief. The two thugs follow
close behind. If they walk another twenty feet, my car will be
in their line of sight.
We have a minute. Maybe less.
“Now, Charles!” I say. “Run!”
I leap out from behind the pile of crates with such force that I
nearly tumble headfirst into the asphalt. But then my feet hit the
ground and I lurch ahead. Just behind me Charles is panting.
Shouts fly like bullets through the air. The men have spotted
us. And if Hank has his wits about him, he’ll know exactly who
I am.

torture. Maybe it’s because I know what Lawrence is up
to today. He wouldn’t tell me any specifics, but I can guess. It
has something to do with Cooper Enterprises, and right now,
he should be staying as far away from them as humanly possible.
He promised me he’d be careful. And I promised him
I wouldn’t worry. I’m trying with every fiber of my frayed,
somewhat damaged sanity to do so, but this is a difficult oath
to keep.

Maybe impossible.
I just need to see him. I want to feel his warm pulse. I want to
lie against his chest as it expands and contracts with air. I need
to keep him alive. A prickly, chilling thought pushes into the
back of my mind. What if we’ve already messed with the timespace continuum? Has Lawrence being aware of me and of his
own potential death changed his actions, which have, in turn,
changed the course of the future?
I waited for him for a solid hour at the beach this morning. Only the gulls and the gray waves broke the cloudy stillness. And I know, I know, he has to do what he has to do. But
wouldn’t he at least come say a quick hello?
The ever-present knot in my stomach tightens. I’m not sure
how much more anxiety I can take. All I can do is dive deeper
into my research and pray for another breakthrough.
I’m lost in the glowing projection of microfilm when the
scrape of a chair pulling out startles me to attention. Mom sits
down at the desk next to mine.
“Well, well,” she says. “You really are at the library.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “Did you seriously come all the
way down here to see if I was lying?”
“Oh, come on, Cass. You didn’t expect me to buy your story
wholesale. It seems a little hard to believe that you’re spending
your gorgeous summer days in the library.”
“Well, I am. As you can clearly see. I suppose you can give me
a little credit now.”
She shrugs. “I guess I have to. What are you doing here
anyway?” She examines an empty microfilm box labeled
“December 1, 1928–February 1, 1929.”
My hands tense on the edge of the table. It takes all my
restraint not to snatch the box away from her. Must appear
calm. Must not arouse suspicion.
“Oh nothing, really.”
Mom’s eyebrow raises, and I know I won’t get away with that
answer. My mind races. Think, Cass. There has to be something
plausible I can tell her. In desperation, I scan the secluded lower
level of the library for ideas. Think. Think!
All at once, it comes to me.
“It’s something for Jade,” I say with a shrug. “She’s studying
the surrealists in the nineteen twenties. I guess she thinks we
could collaborate on a senior project for AP Art History when
she gets back.”
Mom frowns slightly, looking back at the box. I hold my breath.
“Well…it seems pretty unfair of her to ask you to spend your
summer holed up in the library while she flits around Paris.”
I swallow a sigh of relief. “It’s fine. She’s doing research in
Paris. Granted, it’s more entertaining, but
c’est la vie
.”
Mom looks into my eyes. It’s that “I’m trusting you to be
honest with me” gaze that has leveled me many times before.
And sure enough, guilt surges through me. I hate lying to her.
I avoid it at all costs. But this is different. I could never explain
this to her. At best, she’d think I was crazy and worry even more.
At worst, she’d ban me from the beach. So I give her a smile and
pat her arm.
“I’ll be fine, Mom. You can go knowing you’ve done your
motherly duties and checked up on me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Okay, but I want you home for dinner.
Five thirty. Not one minute late, you understand? And we’re
spending time together as a family after that. It seems like
between this research business and your newfound love of running, I barely see you.”
I bite my lip. Dinner is doable. Spending a night with the
family is out of the question. But I’ll cross that bridge when I
come to it.
“Sure, Mom. I’ll be there.”
She gives me a kiss on the top of my head. “Don’t you study
too hard, okay? School is great, but during the summer, you
need to be out enjoying the world.”
“Okay, Mom.”

When dinnertime rolls around, I’m not ready to leave the
library. But time keeps moving, no matter how much you want
it to wait. I’d never before realized how precious a minute could
be. An hour. A day. They pass by so fast, and you can’t do anything to stop them.

I trudge up the steps into the main wing of the library.
As I reach the top step, my eyes fall on a painting hung
across the way. Light from the sunroom above has illuminated the painting despite the nearly hidden obscurity of
its placement.

I can’t say why, but I find myself walking toward it. It’s a
painting of a beach—not exactly our beach, but similar. Above
the indigo water, a full moon glows. The light from the moon
paints over the ocean and the shore in a thick band. Something
about that moon pricks at my brain.

Wasn’t it a full moon when I met Lawrence? In my mind,
I picture it. I remember a pulse of light that seemed to flash
across the waves, but I’m not sure if that really happened, or if
it was a dream. That whole first meeting feels like a movie that
I watched happen to someone else.

I stare at the painting for a moment before leaving, a
strange, disconcerted feeling coiling around me. As I walk
through the automatic doors of the library’s main exit, I toss
another glance back at the painting. The pale circle of the
moon in the painting stands out across endless shelves and
stacks of books between.

Walking to my car, I pull out my phone and type “next full
moon” into my Google app. A little moon icon pops up, along
with the information.

I draw in a sharp breath. August 6. The day after Lawrence is
supposed to be killed. I stop in my tracks. What does it mean?
I need to go home and get some food in my system. I’m seriously starting to crack.
As I drive away, however, I can’t help but feel that this is all
somehow significant.