Flirting With Forever (42 page)

“Even if I knew what the O’Janpa Convention is, which I don’t, why would I be interested?” As far as Mertons knew, she was stil at odds with Peter.

He waved the pen up and back across the plane in front on her face, then held it up and read. “Stratford, Campbel .

Author, curator, art historian, time-tube criminal, subject of a series of paintings entitled
Wednesday Afternoons
.

Former life partner: Jacket Sprague. Nurtures a deep and nearly overwhelming love for Restoration-era painter Peter Lely, despite a several-century difference in time spans and her petty jealousy over his long-dead—”

“I am not jealous!” She flushed so hard her ears seemed to crackle with the intensity of deep-fried bologna.

He continued to read. “—a feeling Lely returns.”

The bologna reached flashpoint. “I-I—He returns it?”

Mertons lifted a brow and smiled.

“Yes, fine. I have feelings for him. He returns it?”

“Feelings. Feelings one might refer to as love?”

“Yes, love, dammit.
Mertons!
”

He nodded. “He returns it. I believe I practical y spel ed it out for you when I came to visit.”

“Is that pen up-to-date? I mean, like, as of this minute?”

He cleared his throat awkwardly and held up the object in question for her to observe. No lights. He hadn’t turned it back on.

“Bastard.”

He shrugged. “We can’t do mind reading. Not even in the Afterlife.” He slipped the pen back in his pocket. “Does this knowledge by any chance change your answer? Do you know where Peter is?”

She shook her head. She never, ever wanted Mertons to find him.

“Whether you tel me or not, the Guild
will
find him, and if I can bring him back before they do, he’l face better odds.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means they are extremely angry, Miss Stratford. No one has ever defied their commands before, so flagrantly and for so long, though I must say, you’re getting close.

Look, I don’t know how you think you ended up in your current life. But it wasn’t a matter of the former you just deciding you were going to be an accomplished art historian in your next reincarnation.”

She shifted. She’d never considered her former self.

“It took the generosity of whatever Guild you’re covered under,” he said, “and years of good behavior. In short, you earned it. Peter, it goes without saying, has squandered every iota of goodwil he possessed chasing you down. He won’t be an acclaimed artist in his next life. He won’t be a portrait painter. I doubt he’l be a house painter. I don’t know what he’l be, but you can be sure it wil be monotonously boring, soul grinding and as far removed from a creative life as the Guild can manage.”

“No painting?” she said, horrified.

She considered sadly what Peter’s existence would become without painting. He’d lost so much already.

“Mertons, you have to intervene. The man has paint in his blood. I’ve never seen him without a sketch pad within arm’s reach. You told me yourself he painted nonstop after he was dead. Oh, Mertons. He won’t have Ursula, he won’t have me. You can’t take painting away. You can’t do this to him.”

“It’s not me. It’s the Guild. They’ve had it up to here. First you and the time tube, then Peter and his damned quest.

They’re tired of being ignored.”

She looked at the laptop and back at Mertons.

“What about a deal?”

“A deal? What deal?”

“Is the Guild as good as its word? If they promise to do something, wil they?”

“It is the Afterlife.” He gazed at her narrowly.

“The time tube,” she said. “I’l give it up. Show you the source. You can dig it up or drop dynamite down it or whatever it is you do to eradicate it.”

“And in return?”

“In return, you guarantee Peter the life of a painter.”

Mertons stroked his chin. “The life of a painter, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t guarantee he’l be at the top of his profession. I can’t guarantee he’l be rich.”

“So long as he can paint, Mertons. He has to be able to paint.”

He frowned.

“What?” she asked. “What is the problem?”

“It’s not a problem, per se.” He gave her a worried look.

“I hope, Miss Stratford, you are not thinking he could be reborn here? You have to see that Peter wil enter his new life as a babe, not as a man. By the time he is thirty, you would be, wel —”

“No, Mertons. I wasn’t thinking that.” Such a thought had crossed her mind, but now even that possibility had been quashed.

“There is one more thing. You won’t be able to use the tube as a way to shortcut your book research anymore.”

“I’m not going to write the book. Peter’s life wil go unrecorded, at least by me.”

A flash of something—amusement? understanding?—

rose in his eyes. “I see.”

“And in any case, when it started I only intended to buy the book, not travel through—” She caught herself. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to write, especial y if we’re talking fiction. I’m a researcher, and a novel’s like building a campfire. With a few good facts and the right spark, I can make a blaze that’l knock your socks off.”

He grinned. “I’l consider my socks forewarned. And that’s what you’l do?” he asked careful y.

When Peter is gone, she thought. The part Mertons chose not to utter. God, don’t let it be soon. “Yes.” She smiled with considerably more optimism than she felt.

“It’s damned decent of you to do this for him. I’m pretty sure I can convince the Guild to take the offer.”

“Real y?”

“I’m afraid you put a scare in them. An unregulated time tube is a very dangerous thing.”

“I don’t suppose there’l be an artist’s life in
my
after-life

—or success in any profession, I’m betting.”

“No, you’d better grab whatever joy you can now.

Though,” he added with a grave face, “you never know what can change. That’s why life is so interesting. You may do something so good or so helpful that it makes everyone up there forget you were ever a burr in their side.”

“Me, the writer of hot fictography, or me, the naked model spread out like some lascivious
Artforum
centerfold?”

He chuckled, and she decided the sight of Mertons laughing was not one to be missed.

“You know,” he said, “being entertained brings people immense happiness. Don’t underestimate the redemptive power of being able to do that.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Mertons. I won’t.”

“So …” He clapped his hands together. “Where is it? Is it in this room? Is the book here?”

She waved a finger back and forth. “Oh, no, no, no.

Promise first. Tube later. I’ve learned how you people work.”

He sighed. “I’l head out and be back before you know it.”

“Hey, um, take your time? Like, take the long way, maybe with a stopover in the Paleolithic era? I hear they have unbelievable cave art.”

Mertons tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket. “I’l do my best, Miss Stratford. I can’t put off the Guild forever.

Once they agree to this, they’l want him back. The most you can expect is a few days. I think you had better not plan for more than that.” He gave her a significant look.

She’d always been the type to appreciate each moment, but even with every intention of savoring, was it possible to make the joy one could squeeze out of a few thousand minutes serve for a lifetime?

She thought of what one could gain and lose in the flash of circumstance. She thought of meeting Peter the first time in that hal way. She thought of her brother. She thought of the single, upending instant Peter’s eyes had met hers as she lay on that chaise. She thought of opening that article f r o m
Burlington Magazine,
and she thought of Peter, buoyed at the notion of becoming a father, then losing the wife, the child and any reason to keep on living.

“Mertons, wait.”

He turned. “Yes?”

“I want him to be happy.”

“Painting, yes.”

“No, not just painting. I want him to have a wife

—someone who’l love and understand his work—and a child. At least one. He’d be such a good father. Do you think—I mean, it’s not too much to ask the Guild to do that, too, is it?”

Mertons’s eyes softened. “It’s not too much to ask. Every man deserves it. I wil try.”

“Thank you.”

Cam wished everyone’s future could be so easily ordered.

Peter inserted himself into the smal group of partygoers surrounding Woodson Bal .

“Howdy, Peter. How goes it?”

“Could I have a word in private? ’Tis a matter of some importance.”

Bal eyed him curiously, then put down his glass.

Jacket slouched against a wal in the crowded entry gal ery of the Carnegie. He decided that gazing dejectedly into his Yuengling and looking like he was passing a kidney stone was more effective than he’d expected at keeping people at bay.

“Jesus, you look like shit.”

Well, most people.
He turned. It was Anastasia, looking like a cross between a real bad
Idol
contestant and a Knight of the Round Table. Christ Almighty, where did she get this stuff?

“Gee, thanks,” he said.

“And don’t bother adding I do, too. I already know it.”

“What? No,” he said. “You look great. Ready for battle.”

She blew her nose, hard into a napkin. Her eyes were red.

“Damned al ergies,” she said. “Have you seen Cam?

When is she coming down?”

“Yes, and I don’t know. Why?”

“I think you’re going to want to stick close to her this weekend. She’s going to need a lot of support.”

“Real y? Why’s that?”

“I’m going to be named executive director.”

“That’s been announced?”
Jesus, what an ego. Missed
her calling. Should have been an artist.

“No. But it wil .”

He gave her a look. “I wouldn’t count my chickens.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I dunno. Surprising things happen sometimes. For example, tonight. Cam dumped me.” He took a long pul of beer.

“What?”

“For that bloke.” He gestured to Peter Lely, who was prowling the opposite corner of the room.

“Shit.”

He frowned. “What’s it to you?”

“Loyalty, my friend. You know I’ve always been your number one fan.”

He wondered if he’d had too much to drink. He swore he saw fangs when Anastasia smiled. “I’m sure she’s better off.”

Anastasia snorted. “Is he stil passing himself off as Peter Lely?”

“Funny thing about that. It turns out he’s a hel of a painter. Could probably pass himself off as anyone if he put his mind to it—
Jesus
.”

“What?”

“Look at her.”

Cam was floating down the stairs like a blossom down a lazy stream. His gaze cut to Lely, who was watching her, too. “Bel e of the bal .”

Anastasia sniffed. “Prosaic.”

“Cal me crazy. I like that kinda prose.”

He turned to see if his rival was equal y impressed, but Lely had disappeared.

Cam scanned the heads as she descended. Bal should be obvious. Apart from having that rich man’s luminescent glow, he was general y a head tal er than anyone else in the room.

She noted that the curtained Van Dyck painting had been removed and wondered if Lamont Packard had done the dirty work for her. Then she remembered they’d decided at the last minute to unveil it in the gal ery upstairs, not in the space being used for cocktails.

She didn’t spot Bal , and, more important, didn’t see Peter, either.

Crap
.

Anastasia was in a tête-à-tête with Jacket—of course—

though when Jacket lifted his eyes and spotted Cam, he gave her a gentle smile.