Flirting With Forever (45 page)

“I don’t know yet. They haven’t decided. It’s sitting in my office.”

“Haven’t decided?” His face darkened. “Do they doubt my word? I am portraitist to the
king,
you know.”

“Credentials that sadly must remain unspoken—much as the carnal status of Bal and his parents should be.”

“What is the objection?” he demanded. “ ’Tis an exquisite piece.”

“It is. But the odds of finding an undiscovered Lely after more than three hundred years are practical y nil, and there’s not enough yet to tip the balance in the favor of authenticity. Besides, Bal ’s so mad he hasn’t let anyone look at it.”

He harrumphed. “Philistines.”

“But the good news is, Anastasia is doing everything she can to help. Between you and me, she told me she knows the painting’s not real.” Then, in answer to the look of insult in his eye, she added, “It’s not old and real. But she said because you did it for me, she won’t say anything. Oh, Peter, this is going to sound sil y, but in some ways, that’s the best part of al .”

Peter squeezed her waist. “I’m glad.”

Forlorn, Cam gazed down at the bal et flat peeking out from her skirt. Her friend, Seph, told her pink shoes always lighten one’s spirit, but Cam did not feel uplifted. “Peter, what do you know of the O’Janpa Convention?”

His arm fel away. “Where did you hear that?”

“Mertons.”

“Hel .”

“Can they real y take you away?”

“Aye—wel , no. It would be a battle.” The lines around his eyes deepened. “I’d prefer to go on my own.”

“And you have to go?”

“What I do here impacts you.”

“Of course it impacts me.”

“No, Cam. I-I—” He cast his eyes downward. “I have already hurt you. You may have lost your job because of me, and … and there may be even more I’ve cost you that you don’t see.”

“No, Peter, no. Listen to me. When two people love one another, every choice they make affects what comes next.

But that doesn’t mean the choices shouldn’t be made.

That’s life. If your being here, in the future, means my life has to change, that’s a change I choose freely.”

“Cam—”

“Peter, no—”

“Cam, listen to me. I have cost you a marriage … and a child.”

“A
child
?” She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You and Jacket were to have a child. That child is gone.

Simply by the fact of my being here. Mertons showed me the calculations. It’s true. And I—I with a wife and child who cannot even have the comfort of a name in their final resting place—I have no right to interfere. Cam, I knew what perfect happiness was once. I won’t take it from you.”

“You fool.” She wanted to shove him and hug him at the same time. “That mythical future baby is gone because that baby wasn’t meant to be. Was it because of you? Yes. Was it because of me? Yes. Was it because of Jacket? Yes.

Don’t you see? Everything we do in this crazy beaker of ooze sends ripples in every direction—left, right, forward, backward. So what if your being here took away a child?

Did you happen to ask if staying would bring me another one?”

“Cam …”

“Fight them. We’l do it together.”

She heard an odd rushing noise and wheeled around.

Mertons was brushing snow off his coat, a sort of telescope in hand, looking momentarily confused. “Ah,” he said, spotting them. “There you are at last.”

Mertons wore an odd, unreadable look, and she dreaded what he was going to say. Peter shifted, growing tal er and broader. She couldn’t help but notice Mertons avoided her eyes.

“My negotiations have been successful.”

“What negotiations?” Peter asked.

“You didn’t tel him?” Mertons said to Cam.

Peter’s gaze cut to her. “Didn’t tel me what?”

Mertons made a show of placing the scope in his pocket.

She swal owed. “I wanted you to have a painter’s life.”

The look of confusion on Peter’s face grew. He looked to Mertons and back. “What, Cam? What did you do?”

“I promised to show them how I travel.”

“So they can shut it down?”

“Yes.”

“And in return,” Mertons said to Peter, “you wil be given a painter’s life. Money, time, recognition. You’l have it al .”

Cam looked at Peter. She could see the effect this offer had on him.

“No,” Peter said. “I’d rather stay. Even if it’s only for a short time.”

Merton’s face purpled. “Are you insane? Do you know what you’d be giving up?”

“Aye, I think I do.” Peter caught Cam’s hand and squeezed.

“No, Peter,” Mertons said. “You don’t. I haven’t just negotiated any painter’s life. I’ve negotiated
your
painter’s life. You wil be al owed to return to Ursula.”

Peter gasped. After a moment that seemed like forever to Cam he said, “I have no wish to return to her knowing what wil happen. You might as wel tie me to a rock and let what wil happen. You might as wel tie me to a rock and let an eagle feast on my entrails.”

“You won’t know.”

“What?”

“I said, you won’t know. The Guild has agreed to let you return to your former life insentient of your future or hers.

Peter, think of it. You wil fal in love with her again. You wil paint her again. You’l have more than a decade to live over.”

Peter’s posture changed. The lines around his eyes grew softer. “And she wil die, stil the same?”

“We cannot change that,” Mertons said sadly. “You know the limitations. But, Peter, listen. I have gotten special permission for a variance. It wasn’t easy, and I had the team triangulating the calculations for the last hour to support it. I have gotten permission to al ow you to marry her.”

“Oh.” It came out like a faint puff of wind, and Cam felt her world break in two.

“Your name,” Mertons said. “She’l have your name. And so wil your son.”

Peter blinked, dizzy with the wealth that had just been laid at his feet. “I-I—”

“But you must come tonight.”

“Tonight!” Cam cried. She felt as if she’d spent the evening having chunks of her happiness hacked away with a butcher knife. “No, please.”

Mertons looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Miss Stratford. The Guild insists. The whole affair’s been an embarrassment to them. They want it to end. Peter, you’l be back in your studio by morning.”

Peter was lost in a world he’d let slip through his fingers.

Cam watched him work the emerald signet ring, savoring his first taste of a life free from guilt and pain, a parched man handed water.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Peter, you must,” she said.

He licked his lips, staring far into the snowy night. She touched his hand. He looked surprised, and she directed him to open it. When he did, she pul ed a hairpin from her hair and placed it there. “Just think of me every once in a while. That wil be al I need.”

“Campbel , I …”

“You know what you must choose. For her. For your son.”

Cam heard a clatter behind her and turned. It was Jeanne, running toward them, looking panicked. “You look different in men’s clothes,” she said to Mertons, and to Cam: “C’mon, Packard wants to see you.”

“Not now.”

“It’s important.”

Peter caught Cam’s hand and squeezed it. “Self-confidence, remember. Go. I wil wait.”

Cam could barely breathe. “You wil ?”

“Yes.” His dark eyes affirmed the promise. “I swear it.”

“Peter,” Mertons warned.

But Cam didn’t have to run. Packard strode in, mouth tight. “I need you to convince Bal to let us look at it.”

“Sure,” Cam said. “Where is he?”

“The boardroom.”

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Packard said. “Our curator was overheard saying it was a fake and that you did it. I don’t believe you did it, but I’m in a tough spot, with my key expert having once disputed it.”

Peter made a low growl. “I think you wil find proof enough when you examine it.”

Mertons looked at his watch. “We cannot stay long. A quarter hour at most.”

Peter, awash in a raging sea of emotion, said, “We’l stay.” He gazed at the Bonnard. He knew exactly why Bonnard had done it. He thought of Ursula and his son and what it means to love someone. He thought of that ring, back on Cam’s finger after she’d removed it this afternoon and placed it in her pocket. He thought of his own ring and the many years it had represented a burden he could not unshoulder. He even thought of Rick and Ilsa. How long he stood there he did not know. He knew what he had to do.

“Where did they say they were?”

Mertons looked at his watch. “Peter, you don’t have time.”

“To hel with you and your requirements. I’m saying good-bye.” Peter ran.

Bal gazed at his hands on the boardroom table and sighed. Cam said a silent prayer.

“Fine,” he said. “Let’s get it over with.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bal .”

Packard gave Cam a grateful look. “Excel ent. Should we head down to Cam’s office?”

She glanced at the clock. Her only thoughts were with Peter. How long would he stay? Could she say good-bye?

The group exited Packard’s office single file, Cam last.

Anastasia stood with a drink, halfway down the hal . She gave Cam a sorrowful look. Cam thumped her on the back.

“Anastasia,” Packard said. “Let’s go.”

Then Cam saw Peter, and her heart sunk. He stood in an archway, nearly out of sight, with the grave look of a man facing down his fate. He motioned her toward him, and the movement was so poignant, her eyes began to fil .

“Cam,” Packard said. “Are you coming?”

“What? No.” Her lip started to tremble and a tear ran down her cheek. “I have to do something. You go without me.”

“Cam—”

“Let her go,” said Bal , who was looking down the same archway.

She ran to Peter and threw her arms around him. He hugged her back, hard. The tears ran freely now, and she didn’t care. For one last time she could dry them against Peter’s broad chest and take comfort in the iron circle of his arms.

“I want to say good-bye.”

Her shoulders heaved as a new round of tears overtook her. “I know. I know.” She laced her fingers at his back, trying to keep time from moving.

“I want you to wear this.” He pul ed away and opened her hand. Without ceremony, he dropped the emerald ring onto her palm. Shaking and uncertain until she looked into his eyes, she slipped the ring on her middle finger, where it towered, enormous, over her knuckle.

“Careful,” he said, “there may be paint on it.”

She wiped her eyes, confused.

“I want to say good-bye, Cam, but not to you. To Ursula.

Mertons warned me once that if I put my mark on any piece of art outside my true place in time, I would be captive there forever. Cam, I know Ursula wouldn’t have wanted me to live our life over—to hold it in some bel jar, like a Bartholomew Day’s Fair curiosity, to gawk at, mesmerized, as Bonnard did. Our life had life, a life of its own that can never be again, though I loved it—loved it—when I lived it.”

“Oh, Peter.” She could barely breathe.

“I want to be with you. I want to paint you. I want to be your Alex Katz.”

She hugged him. “I’l be your Ada.”

Mertons appeared, scanning the air with his computer pen. “Peter,” he said, “something just happened. The variables went haywire.”

“I struck it,” Peter said. “The painting. I have struck my mark upon it.” He held up Cam’s hand and pointed to the ring. Instantly the sound of Bal ’s triumphant hoot reached their ears from the direction of Cam’s office fol owed by Anastasia’s happy
“I told you. Curators make mistakes all
the time. Look, that’s Lely’s mark. I’d recognize it
anywhere.”

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” Mertons cried.

“I don’t,” Peter said. “But I’m wil ing to find out.”