Flirting With Forever (25 page)

lens to get her the hundred and forty-one years she’l need to move from 1962 back to 1821, the year Keats happens to be dying in Rome. Then he sits her in front of the spyglass, turns for a moment to pontificate on the magnificent intricacies of time travel—you know the verbosity of some men when it comes to this topic—and when he turns back, the spyglass is on the chair and she’s gone.”

“She’s left on her own,” said Peter, who knew that once you had the right lens it was simply a matter of pointing it at the page in the book.

“Wel , that’s certainly what he assumes. And being the gentleman he is, he gives her a good thirty minutes to get her fil of Keats’s sentimental imagery and wheezy coughing. Then he refocuses the lens to snap her back, and

—lo and behold—nothing happens.

“He tries a second time and third time. Stil nothing. So he goes back to 1821 himself and takes the glass, for, of course, that’s the only way we know of to trigger a return on your own, though it’s less dependable, which is why the two-person method, with a traveler on one end and a lensman on the other, is preferred.”

Peter gave him a dry smile. “Or perhaps it’s preferred because it ensures the person who’s traveled stays where they’ve been sent until the Guild is sure the job has been done.”

Mertons cleared his throat. “In any case. DeLaney finds Keats, plasters on his chest and a flannel around his head, but no sign of the girl. And no matter what he does, he cannot induce Keats to confess any knowledge of having seen her. Stumped, DeLaney decides to wait there to see if she shows.

“But”—Mertons held up a finger—“at the same time, back in the lab, an early-rising col eague arrives, sees the case open and the lenses gone and cal s the director. The director rushes over and is just about to rouse the Executive Guild from their beds when DeLaney gives up and returns. Horrified at being caught, he explains the situation as wel as his motivation, hoping the confession, delivered in man-to-man tones, wil be enough to keep him from losing his job. Wel , DeLaney’s smart. The director laughs, certain the girl wil arrive eventual y, and even offers to give DeLaney the morning off in order to capitalize on the opportunity he’s set up for himself.”

Peter made a fastidious noise. “And?”

“And
nineteen
hours later, after much wringing of hands, examining of equipment and the utter implosion of the Guild, the girl reappears. Except,” Mertons said, clapping his hands, “it is the director’s
daughter
! DeLaney is fired, the director is suspended, and the Guild takes control of the lab. They restructure the entire security process. Even odder, though, it turns out the girl, who arrives bald and in tears, complaining of being pursued by a band of plethicords—”

“Plethicords?”

Mertons gave him a shrug that suggested he’d asked himself the same question. “It turns out that while DeLaney had his back turned she’d flipped the glass to gaze through the other side, the side without the padded eyepiece, and instead of transporting herself a hundred and forty-one years
before
1962, she’s hurled herself a hundred and forty-one years
beyond
it.”

“The future.”

“The future.” Mertons nodded. “A wild and untamed place. Though who’d have thought it was a simple matter of looking through the other end?”

Peter stroked his chin. It was
quite
an il uminating story

—more il uminating than Mertons had probably intended.

And since Peter, like Mertons, understood the verbosity of some men when it came to time travel, he said, “I see your point about the risk. Tel me, though, given the outcome, what do you think are the implications for the future of, wel , traveling to the future?”

“The implications?” Mertons clasped his hands behind his back and paced slowly along the long row of windows with the air of a philosopher. “There are a number of them to be sure. First, there is a certain amount of ethical debate that wil be required before we could reasonably attempt it again, even with trained personnel. Second, the success of again, even with trained personnel. Second, the success of the simple reversal of the lens suggests straightforward rearrangements of other time tube paraphernalia may yield similar results. And third …” He laughed a private laugh. “A team of time accountants determined nothing significant had been changed, but even now I can tel you that if it were me being sent forward, I’d be prepared for a plethicord wearing a blond wig—What the … ?”

Peter snapped one end of the cuff around his ankle and the other around the leg of the granite table.

The color drained from Merton’s face. “Oh, Peter, you mustn’t.”

“I’m sorry. If there was any other way …” In three strides Peter was at the case. He lifted his heel and shattered the glass. Instantly an alarm began to ring. He reached in, undid the lock and the door swung open. “I promise to return as soon as I finish.”

Mertons essayed a heartfelt speech on the risks and costs, most of which was lost on Peter, who picked through the lens case to find the one that would place him on her doorstep. Someone hammered at the door. Peter figured he had only a moment before a battering ram was contrived. He found the lens, laid it backward in the mount and ran to Mertons.

“Would you care to be punched?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A plausible defense, Mertons. I’m trying to help you.”

Mertons returned to his theme. “The Executive Guild wil be furious. They hold al the cards. Peter, think about your future.”

future.”

The first boom sounded at the door. “Dammit, Mertons, shal I punch you or not?”

“This isn’t a joke. You wil be brought before the examining board. They’l start by rescinding your—”

Peter threw a reluctant fist into Mertons’s nose. Over the outraged rage howl, he yel ed, “Crumple,” and with the sound of hammering crashes at the door, he returned to the book, put the wrong end of the lens to his eye, focused on the page and disappeared.

Jeanne snapped off her desk lamp, slipped off her pumps and dug in the tote for her Sketchers. If I have to listen to one more high-paid business executive complain about how hard it is to be them, she thought, I’m gonna shoot somebody.

Cam was packed off with Mr. Bal , digging into old, rich-guy food somewhere, and Jeanne was looking forward to an easy bus ride home while she finished the sexy romance about the woman who fal s into the pages of her favorite book. She actual y thought Cam would enjoy it, too, given her amazing adventure, but she’d been so damn moody since the Lely thing started, Jeanne didn’t dare risk suggesting it.

She dropped her walking shoes under her desk and was just about to slide a foot in when she noticed a flash of pink on the knuckle of her big toe. Oh, crap. She’d given herself a pedicure this morning—Moorea Dream Mango—and was hoping that wasn’t a smear. She leaned into the kneehole to get a better look when the sound of a crash made her jerk upright.

Her head smacked hard into the underside of the desk, and she flung herself back and shot upright.

Trying to catch his balance in front of Cam’s laptop was a long-haired man in a ruffled linen shirt, silk stockings and puffy brown pants.
Holy shit. It’s Hammer time.

“Who are you?” he asked, stil clinging to the desk for support.

“Jeanne Turner.” Dazed, she moved across the floor and bumped the door closed. He looked like something out of Shakespeare, but he had a flesh-and-blood quality no actor could ever convey.

He made a low bow. “I apologize for the interruption. I—

What is that?”

“That, my friend, is a laptop.”

He tilted his head slowly. “’Tis a lamp of some sort?”

“For some people, yes.”

His gaze flicked around the room. The coffeemaker, her dress, the tubes of paint at Cam’s little practice easel, the telephone. He took a step backward, alarm on his face, then shook his head and brought his attention back to Jeanne. “I … I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are.”

“You do?”

“Painter by the name of Peter Lely.”

His eyes widened. “I’m looking for a woman.”

“And I’m pretty sure I know who.”

“Oh my God. My sister decorates like a fifty-eight-year-old school nurse.”

“Hey, me mum’s a fifty-eight-year-old school nurse.”

“Then she’d love it here. Jesus, sprigged flannel.”

Anastasia kicked the leg of the bed that had been shoved into the corner of the makeshift studio.

Jacket, who had had no feelings for flannel one way or another, viewed the sheets with little interest.

Anastasia wandered to the window, her long legs disappearing under a tight black leather miniskirt.

“I can’t believe she came back here, to Mount Lebanon.”

He shrugged. “She always told me she liked being reminded of her childhood. Plus, she can take the bus to the museum. She likes that.”

“The bus? Jesus Christ, what next? Twinsets?”

Jacket saw no connection between these items and steered the conversation back on course. “Do you want to see it?”

“The latest Jacket Sprague? I do.”

He turned the easel so she could see. She pul ed out a pair of glasses and perched them on the end of her nose.

Leaving one foot at a right angle to the other, like a bal et dancer, she stepped back. A scent he could only describe as flowers in a harem hung on her shoulders.

“Bal sy,” she said at last. “Ironic. Postapocalyptic Duchamp

crossed

with

John

Singer

Sargent.

Congratulations, you’ve reinvented yourself.”

Jacket beamed. That was exactly what he’d wanted to hear. “I told you it was good.”

“You were right.”

“Did you get a chance to talk to Bal ?”

“I did. I don’t think this is what he’s looking for.”

“He hasn’t seen this.”

“True. Stil , the aesthetic is not—”

“It is true what I heard, then—that he’s buying big?”

“What you heard, my dear,” she said, touching his nose,

“is that he’s building a new postmodern house in Florida with an entry hal the size of a smal Eastern bloc country.

He wants a dozen pieces, same artist. He wants to make a statement. He’s wil ing to go as high as twenty-five mil ion.”

“Jesus, that’s a hel of a statement.” He took her arm.

“Listen, I want it.” Their eyes met, and he felt a tingle of excitement mixed with fear. It was like looking into the eyes of a hungry panther.

“I hope you get what you want, then.” She gave him a sly smile and walked past the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows, her stilettos clicking out the bal -tightening code of a streetwalker. “Let me ask you something,” she said when she finished a long sweep of the skyline.

“Why is it you’re asking me for help with Bal and not Cam?”

He took a breath. He didn’t real y understand al the rules about women, but he had a sense talking about Cam in this way was crossing the line. “She doesn’t like to get involved in that sort of thing.”

“For her fiancé?”

“We haven’t quite gotten to that stage yet.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “We’re stil in negotiations.”

“Jesus. Are you fucking her, or are you actual y stuck in the guest room like it looks?”

He rubbed his hands on his jeans. “C’mon, Anastasia.”

She dug a cigarette out of her purse and held out a pack of matches. He struck one for her and lit the cigarette. The sound made his heart do a weird sort of jump step, even though he’d never been a smoker.

“What’s this?” She looked at the sketchbook on his work desk.