Flirting With Forever (24 page)

Cam felt like she’d been punched. She’d been had. Oh boy, had she been had. Peter fed her a line. He’d fed her more than a line. He’d fed her an entire goddamned play! It couldn’t be a coincidence. But why would he do it? Things were starting to add up in an ugly way. Peter had worked his magic to get her to pose, then he’d done his brooding leading-man imitation to get her into bed and then he’d careful y fed her the plot, characters and lines of a play instead of a story about Van Dyck.

She didn’t know why or how, but it felt like the most manipulative thing a man had ever done to her. She was breathless with hurt and fury.

“Hang on.” She went to Wikipedia, typed in “School for Wives” and hit ENTER.

“Molière’s masterpiece,
The School for Wives,
was first staged on December 26, 1662,” the entry started. She staged on December 26, 1662,” the entry started. She scanned the plot.

Shit
.

“Cam?”

“Yep. Got it. Pul the book. We’re sunk.”

THE AFTERLIFE, ARTISTS SECTION

Mertons waved away the proffered bal politely and shaded his eyes from the sun. He’d never been a fan of bocce. Too much rol ing. Not enough cracking. Give him cricket any day. He even liked that odd American version. And though he’d only seen it twice, long ago, the sound of the bal connecting with the hardwood had stayed with him.

“Thank you, no. I’m just here for a few minutes, though the espresso smel s delicious. I’d love a cup of that if you have one to spare.”

“Certainly,” Rembrandt said, lifting the pot. “ ’Tis excel ent today.”

“Where’s Peter?”

Rembrandt, who was waiting for Velázquez to align his shot, tilted his head toward the rise beyond the end of the path. “At the canvas. Always at the canvas.”

Even at this distance, Mertons could see Peter’s drawn face. “I take it he’s not glad to be back.”

“
Glad
?” Rembrandt shrugged. “ ’Tis not a word we use with Peter.”

“I have some news for him.”

“He wil not be interested,” Rembrandt said.

“In this he wil .” Mertons drew the journal from his suit coat pocket. “It just arrived. I’ve only scanned the headline myself, but I suspect he’l find it to his liking.” He opened it and read. ” ‘
The Girl with a Coral Earring
Stripped to Canvas. Simon & Schuster announced yesterday the much-anticipated novel from Campbel Stratford,
The Girl with a
Coral Earring,
a fictography of painter Anthony Van Dyck, has been scrapped due to narrative issues.’ Blah, blah, blah. He did it.”

Mertons had to smile. Special projects were rare, and not al ended wel . They were fraught with complications and a gamble on the best of days. But despite his success in derailing the book, Mertons had been unable to find the hole in the fabric of time Stratford had used. A shame, real y, as it would have been quite a feather in his cap.

According to Peter, Stratford disappeared after he had adjourned to the scul ery to clean his brushes, though the look on Peter’s face while he said it had made Mertons wonder.

With a bow, Mertons left the journal on the table, picked up his cup and broke away from the men. He wandered slowly up the fieldstone path cut into the lavender, to the top of the rise.

“How goes it, my friend?”

Peter stiffened, receiving the question almost like a blow. “Another day. They are the same.”

blow. “Another day. They are the same.”

Mertons considered the pal id complexion and the eyes, stripped of their usual proud ferocity. “Your new life, the one you wil be reborn into, is coming. The Executive Guild is working on it as we speak.”

“I—I would be grateful for it.”

“There is news that might please you.”

The sadness left his face for an instant. “They approved my request to return to 1673?”

“What? Oh, no, Peter. I have told you. It cannot be. Even for a day. I’m sorry. I know now how much it would mean to you to convince Charles to sign that writ.”

Peter had confessed his ulterior purpose to Mertons and begged to return for a day or two to convince the king, but the Guild had been adamant. Once the misinformation had been planted with the writer, there was to be no more interaction with the past.

Peter nodded. The sadness returned and he went back to his painting.

“There is something else, though,” Mertons said.

“Oh?”

“It was in the news this morning. Miss Stratford’s book has been canceled. Seems the narrative took a turn for the worse.”

If Mertons had expected a cheer or even a victorious

“Aye!” he was disappointed. Peter’s only reaction was a brief half smile.

“I am glad for the sake of the Guild.” Peter reloaded his brush with paint.

“And the Guild appreciates your time, though, of course,

“And the Guild appreciates your time, though, of course, we were not as lucky in discovering the writer’s source of travel.”

Peter grunted. Mertons knew the man’s heart had never been in the assignment.

“I, er, found out a bit more about her motives.”

“Did you?”

“It certainly doesn’t excuse it, of course, but it seems she is in line for a promotion at her place of business—a museum of art, actual y—and publishing a book is apparently an important hurdle in achieving that goal.”

“Let us hope she finds contentment elsewhere.”

Mertons smiled. Dry wit was an improvement over dour moodiness.

“Uh, she may get the promotion yet.”

“How?”

“The variables weren’t robust enough for significance, but directional y she appears to be heading for it. It seems she has negotiated the gift of a rather expensive painting to the museum—a Van Dyck, oddly enough, a portrait of the Countess of Moreland—and that may carry the day.”

“So, despite everything, our writer profits?”

“But the book is stopped. That is the important thing. As I said, the Guild is quite grateful.”

Peter made no reply, and Mertons turned his attention to the portrait. He regarded the flowing, flame-colored hair, sparkling on a gold background, and pale-blue gown. There was a silver hair clip pinned to the top of the easel.

“Is that Ursula?”

Peter daubed speckles of green into the hair.

Peter daubed speckles of green into the hair.

“Sometimes. It is today.”

“I must apologize. The Guild gave me no indication of the circumstances regarding her death. If they had, I hope I would have handled the affair with more delicacy. I’m sorry.

It must have been very hard for you to go back.”

Peter sighed, laid down his brush and extended his hand. “Thank you, Mertons. You are most kind.”

Footsteps on the path made them turn. Rembrandt was half running, journal in hand.

Peter held up his palm. “Mertons told me the news. I am glad for Van Dyck’s sake.

“No, Peter,” Rembrandt said. “There is more. At the bottom.” He slipped on his glasses and read, ” ‘Simon and Schuster wil instead publish a different novel from Stratford,
The Artist and the Angel of the Street,
an intimate look into the steamy goings-on in the studio of Peter Lely, bad-boy portraitist to the court of Charles I —

where no woman’s portrait was complete until she loosened her tongue, her gown and her morals—and the love affair with a prostitute that drove Lely to heartbreak.’”

THE AFTERLIFE, VAN DYCK’S HOME

“And that’s the whole story?”

“Aye.” Peter gazed at the pale-eyed mustached man before him. They had known each other before, but not in this place. It was almost like meeting one’s father and discovering he hadn’t aged but you had. Peter was older now than Van Dyck, for Van Dyck had died at little more than forty. In the Afterlife, one remained one’s dying age until being reborn. He wouldn’t have come—it pained him to humble himself here—but he must stop Campbel Stratford, no matter what it took. How dare she meddle in his life, after using him to get to Van Dyck.

“Wel , I’m very sorry for your trouble, Peter. Very sorry.

Especial y after al that you’ve done for me.” Van Dyck pul ed at the narrow beard that ran from his lip to his chin.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“There are two things, actual y.”

“Name them.”

“First, please don’t tel the Guild of my visit to you today.”

Van Dyck looked at him curiously but nodded. “And the other?”

“I need a letter.”

“Peter, I don’t have my letters here. You know that. None of us does.”

“’Tis a new letter.”

“A new letter?”

“Aye. Get a quil .”

Peter had constructed his plan careful y, and to have Mertons refuse this simple request was infuriating.

“It’s not that simple, Peter.”

“The hel it’s not.” Peter pounded his fist on the long marble worktable in the Executive Guild’s Time Lab, and Mertons jumped. “I told you, I need only a few hours.”

“Aye, I’ve been hearing that for two days. But while I’m glad to see you are sensible of the impact such an act could have, it doesn’t change the fact that travel into the future is strictly forbidden.”

“But not impossible. Mertons, I have done exactly as I’ve been asked, and at no little cost. The Guild must al ow it.”

A blue button flashed on the wal next to the door’s window. Mertons pressed it and the latch on the door opened. A security guard stuck his head in the door, and Mertons waved him away. Peter eyed the ax, rope and hand and foot cuffs that hung within arm’s length of the table. They clearly had a high regard for security in the lab.

“It cannot be done,” Mertons said, lowering his voice.

“Traveling into one’s past is risky enough. Traveling into the future is a recipe for disaster. The models for the future are directional at best. We cannot know what wil be affected.

Hel , we can barely place someone at the correct destination, let alone ensure that the variables remain stable.”

Peter stole a glance at the locked case in the corner. A book, a scope and a box of lenses sat on a counter in front of a stool. The whole thing looked as if it belonged in a tent at some vil age fair, though he knew from firsthand experience how wel it worked. He looked at Mertons and with a loud, resigned sigh lowered himself into a chair.

“You’re right,” Peter said, nodding. “The risk is too great.

In any case, I’m sure it’s not as simple as traveling backward. The Guild may have standardized many things, but even they could not have standardized that.”

Mertons laughed. “Are you joking? Have you never heard the story? Wel , of course, you wouldn’t have, but it’s a good one. This is, oh, ten, fifteen years ago. A time accountant by the name of Robert DeLaney crashes a party at the university one night and meets the girl of his dreams. She professes a deep love for the work of a poet named John Keats. DeLaney, being a man of limitless determination though not ethics, quickly offers to introduce her. This is before the era of security cards and aura scans, of course.

He brings her to the Time Lab and sets her up at
The Book
of Years
.” Mertons inclined his head toward the book in the locked display. “And just as I did with you, Peter, he opens the book to 1962.”

“That magical year that is the focal point of al time travel?”

“Yes. As I said, it is a mystery time scientists may never understand. DeLaney opens the box of spyglasses, and after checking whether she wants the pre- or postconsumptive Keats, begins to fashion the scope into a proper configuration. Being a romantic, she chooses postconsumptive, and DeLaney dutiful y selects the ‘141’