What Was I Thinking? (22 page)

“And you bought some from a pusher just for me.
What a good boyfriend you are,” I said playfully, taking his hand.

He jumped slightly at my touch, but smiled down
at me and didn’t pull away. “Never say I am not a gallant lover.”

Yet another word that didn’t mean what I
expected it to. As far as I was concerned, I had no idea what kind of lover he
was, and I was overdue to find out. For now I contented myself with holding his
hand.

“Do you like the drink?”

“I do,” I said. “It tastes very different, but
it’s good. I expect it’s the sugar.”

“Oh, because it is not the sugarless version of
the product you preferred?”

“No. I mean, yes, but I expected that. I mean
it also tastes different from the sweetened version in my time.” He winced, and
looked around to see if anyone had heard. We really did need to settle on a
code for talking about time travel, or learn not to talk about it at all.

“The version available where I, um, lived last,
had corn syrup in it instead of cane sugar. There are probably other differences
in the recipe, too, but Coke keeps secrets better than the CIA, so we’ll never
know what those differences are. But anyway, this tastes better to me.”

He relaxed just the tiniest bit, and squeezed
my hand. “I’m glad you like it.”

The day was a blur of cheerful noise and color.
We walked until our feet were sore, and we walked some more. Bert even kissed
me in the back of a gondola on the canal, holding his straw hat in front of our
faces for privacy. It was sweet, and romantic.

Later, I saw a shady spot under a big tree that
was miraculously untenanted. I pulled him under and kissed him. As if by
reflex, he put his arms around my waist and drew me close, kissing me deeply
until I felt my knees would buckle. He didn’t kiss me often enough, but he did
have the skills. And then he stood back and apologized stiffly for improper
behavior.

I was going to die of frustration. There was no
question. The only suspense was whether it would be sexual frustration or
garden-variety frustration with incomprehensible male behavior.

* * * *

The days settled down into a pleasant routine.
Augusta made arrangements for me to sleep as late as I liked every day, and for
Mrs. Horner, the cook, to send up hot tea, buttered toast, and jam as soon as I
rang for it. I had a nice, if small, selection of dresses, and a pair of shoes
more comfortable than my boots. I felt odd, embarrassed really, that Augusta
had paid for my clothing, and was paying for everything, but she and Bert
seemed to think it was entirely normal, so I tried not to mind. I didn’t have
any money, so making a fuss about wanting to pay would just embarrass us all
without accomplishing anything.

After my late breakfast, I would bathe and
dress myself, and join Augusta in her morning room. We would chat and do
needlework—I had some rudimentary skills from a brief teenage interest in
crafts—until lunchtime. Lunch was usually a social event. We would visit other
ladies for tiny sandwiches, or sometimes the ladies came to us, and we had
ladylike little treats out in the back garden, around delicate, white tables,
carefully positioned for shade. Lunches took hours, because none of us had to
rush back to work. Once in a great while, Augusta and I would go downtown for a
day of recreational shopping, and we would have lunch in an impossibly elegant
tearoom on the top storey of a department store.

A couple nights a week, I would take a bath in
the early evening and wash my hair with castile soap. Augusta had explained how
the soap was used when I asked, but there was no such thing as conditioner.
After the shampoo, I would go to my room to comb my hair out very carefully and
let it dry. I couldn’t be seen downstairs with wet hair, but the peaceful
evenings of browsing fashion magazines while my hair dried were nice.

It was all leisurely and restful. I found that
I began waking up around eight each morning, from the morning light through my
window and from just being rested enough. That was a feeling I didn’t remember
ever having before. It seemed my old life had all been rush and deadlines and
too little sleep.

This was easy, as was my relationship with
Augusta. I didn’t think it was a mother-figure hang-up. It was just that she
was smart, funny, and nice. Also, she and Bert were the only two people who knew
exactly who and what I was and Bert wasn’t turning out to be much of a
confidante.

He showed up for supper every evening, and the
three of us had quiet, formal meals with pointless social talk. Most nights we
would take our coffee up to the third floor and talk about time travel and
science, history, philosophy, and physics. That was my favorite time, except
for our dates.

Every Friday evening, Augusta had dinner with a
group of other widows, in her old neighborhood. Bert would take out the family buggy,
and he and I would give Augusta a ride to her dinner party. Those parties
lasted hours, with card games or private recitals after dinner, so Bert and I
had a whole evening to ourselves. After dropping her off, we would go out to
dinner and some entertainment—a concert, a play, or whatever else was on
offer—and we would have an intimate ride in the moonlight, back to pick Augusta
up and return to Roland House together.

On Sunday afternoons, the two of us went for
walks or bicycle rides. Those were our only opportunity to be truly alone
together and we treasured them. I liked the walks best, because we could talk
and hold hands. Sometimes Bert lost his head and kissed me passionately if
there was no one else around.

The romance of it all was great, but I
was
getting frustrated. In my old life,
I would have begun to think something funny was going on, with all these
declarations of love but no touching more intimate than a deep kiss and arms
around a
very
fully clothed waist,
but I knew Bert wanted me. I could only assume he thought I was too innocent to
interpret what I felt pressing against me, because I often noticed firm
evidence that he wanted more than kisses, too.

I didn’t know what to do. It went against the
grain to rush into marriage just to get laid—lord, if Bert ever knew I even
thought
such words, but what was the
point of putting it off? It wasn’t as if I were trying to get a career squared
away and it would be nice to end the frustration.

All in all, I was neither surprised nor upset
when Augusta brought up the subject of our engagement over our needlework one
morning, when I had been there almost a month.

“Have you thought of a date for your wedding,
dear? We should begin thinking of arrangements, do you not agree?”

“Bert and I haven’t discussed it, to tell you
the truth. I
was
thinking it was time
to start planning, though. What would you suggest?” Before she could answer, I
interrupted with another question—just like the old me. “You don’t think he’s
getting cold feet do you? Isn’t it odd that he hasn’t said anything?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Addie. You know men
aren’t much for this side of life. They tend to leave it all to us and are
astounded when the bills come in. They think it all happens by magic, you
know.”

I smiled. That did seem like Bert’s approach to
life. In my own time, that had been considered old-fashioned and rude, but it
was normal here, and I really didn’t care. It didn’t seem important, compared
to how much I loved Bert.

He had brought me roses just the day before,
saying he had been thinking of our poem, and felt the need to remind me. They
were once again a luscious bouquet of cream-white roses with a blush of red…

“Addie?” I looked up. “I believe you were
daydreaming, dear. You were far away.” Augusta smiled indulgently. “I was
saying, what about an engagement party? You have met many of my friends and
their daughters, but we should introduce you generally in society, as you’ll
become Bert’s hostess.”

“A party?
That might be nice. When do you
think?”

So we settled down to plan. After a while,
Augusta put down her sewing and went to her desk to beginning writing down
plans, invitation lists, and menu ideas. I moved to a straight-backed chair
beside her desk and bent over the paper with her.

“The newspapers!” she said suddenly,
straightening up.

“The newspapers?”

“Yes. We must announce your engagement. What on
earth have I been thinking all this time, not even announcing it? What people
must think! Here, let me get a sheet of my good stationery and we will write
out a piece to send to the paper.

“Now, let’s see. We’ll need to say that I am
announcing as proxy for your own parents, as they are far away. Should we say
they are deceased, do you think
,
to prevent awkward
questions?”

“I suppose so. Or we could simply say that they
are far away and unable to undertake the trip.”

“I know! We’ll say that they are in a distant
place and not of an age to travel!” she giggled like a very young girl. “That
has the advantage of being true, and only the three of us will know what it means.
What are their names?”

So we talked on, and did just fine, until she
asked how old I was. I didn’t give it a thought. Time travel jokes had gotten
old for all of us, and we each just spoke of time as it had affected each of
our lives as we lived them, so I was twenty-nine, even though I had been born
far in the future.

It had an effect on her, though. She started so
much that her fountain pen made an unsightly blot on the paper, and she stared
at me.

“No! You’re never an old maid! You are having
me on!”

That was the closest to rude I’d ever seen
Augusta, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
“An old maid?
What are you talking about?”

“Twenty-nine and not married?
A pretty girl
like you?
It’s not possible that
you
could be left on the shelf, and you look so young! You’re not twenty yet,
surely.”

“On the
shelf
?
Is that really how you people talk? I
am
twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty in
December. Do you have a problem with that?” It was the first time I’d been
rude, too, but at the moment I didn’t care.

She recovered first, though she was a bit
stiff. “I do apologize. I meant no insult, my dear. I simply…I just…” she
trailed off, obviously having trouble deciding what she just.

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. I
really
wanted a Diet Coke and a drive in
my pretty blue Corolla. But I was here, and this was my reality, and I loved
Bert, and Augusta was a wonderful person. It was wrong to let these cultural
differences come between us.

“I know. I know you meant no insult, and I was
entirely in the wrong to be offended. It’s a simple case of differing
expectations from our different worlds. In the world I grew up in, it is very
important not to speak as if marriage is a goal for a woman. Educated women
like me—and like you—don’t usually marry until well after finishing university
studies and establishing a career and an independent life. In my own world, I’m
not too young to get married, but I’m far too young for anyone to ask why I’m
not yet.
If you know what I mean.
I said that badly,
didn’t I?”

I opened my eyes and looked straight into her
grey ones. She was the best woman friend I’d ever had, and I hoped I hadn’t
just gone and screwed it up permanently.

She looked back at me, with something like
wonder on her face. “You are
really
almost thirty? But your skin—” she reached out as if to touch my cheek and
pulled back at the last moment. She had listened when I had objected to the
maids’ handling me to dress and groom me.

I smiled, and took her hand. “You can touch,
just this once.” I brushed her hand against my cheek, and then over the
beginnings of crows’ feet at the corner of my right eye.

She drew back her hand in wonder. “How?” she
asked.

“Very good health, nutritious foods, exercise,
and staying out of the sun,” I told her. I spared a thought for the fact that I
hadn’t had any exercise but my Sunday afternoon outings with Bert in a month,
and had been bad about getting to the gym back when I had the opportunity.

“Other than that, I’m not quite sure. Probably
good genes—heredity I mean,” I hastened to explain. I didn’t know how long ago
genetics were understood as such, but I knew Mendel had published theories of
heredity long ago.

“Do people—did people marvel at you, and always
think you were much younger than you are?”

I had to smile.
“No, not at
all.
Most people look like this. Many women look much younger. I rely on
good health, and never made much effort. Most women use a lot of creams to keep
the wrinkles away, and rich women and actresses even have surgery and
injections to change their looks.”

Augusta gaped. I laughed. “Why Augusta, what
would your society friends say if they saw your fish imitation now?”

She stopped gaping and laughed, too. “I know, I
know, but what a surprise,” she said, dabbing away tears with an embroidered
handkerchief. “I cannot imagine going to such extremes as surgery merely to
look younger. In fact, I cannot decide whether I am more surprised at surgery
for beauty’s sake, or the notion that it works.”