Chapter 9 #2
“I’d love some tea,” Libby said, knowing it was a sure way to her father’s heart. She took Cal by the hand. “We’ll be right back.” The moment they were in the living room, she turned on him. “What are we going to do?”
“About what?”
With a sound of disgust, Libby paced toward the fireplace. “I’ve got to tell them something, and it can hardly be that you’ve just dropped in from the twenty-third century.”
“No, I’d just as soon you didn’t.”
“But I never lie to them.” Torn, Libby poked a charred log with her toe. “I can’t.”
He walked over to cup her chin in his hand. “Leaving out a few small details isn’t lying.”
“Small details? Like the fact that you came visiting in a spaceship?”
“For one.”
She closed her eyes. It should be funny. Maybe it would be in five or ten years. “Hornblower, this situation would be awkward enough without the added bonus of you being from where—make that when—you are.”
“What situation?”
She tried not to grind her teeth. “They’re my parents, this is their house, and you and I are—” She made a circling gesture with her hand.
“Lovers,” he supplied.
“Will you keep your voice down?”
Patient, he laid his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading. “Libby, they probably figured that out when I almost kissed your mother in the refrigerator.”
“About that—”
“I thought she was you.”
“I know. Still—”
“Libby, I realize it wasn’t the most traditional way to meet your parents, but I think that of the four of us I was the most surprised.”
She couldn’t help chuckling. “Maybe.”
“Absolutely. So I think we should just get on to the next step.”
“Which is?”
“Lunch.”
“Hornblower.” With a sigh, she dropped her forehead on his chest. It was a pity this was one of the things she loved about him—his ability to appreciate the simple things.
“I wish you’d get it through your head that this is a sensitive situation.
What are we going to do about it?” She waited one beat.
“If you ask me about what, I’m going to smack you. ”
“You talk tough.” Framing her face with his hands, he lifted it. “Let’s see some action.”
Libby didn’t make even a token protest as his mouth lowered to hers. It was all some sort of a dream anyway, she told herself. Surely she could make everything come out all right in her own dream.
There was a loud, annoyed cough from behind her. Jerking away from Cal, she looked at her father. “Ah . . .”
“Your mother says lunch is ready.” Though he hated acting so predictably, he gave Cal one last measuring look before he went back into the kitchen.
“I think he’s warming up to me,” Cal mused.
In the kitchen, William scowled at his wife. “That man always has his hands on one of my women.”
“One of your women.” Caroline let out a long, robust laugh. “Really, Will.” She tossed her head so that both of her earrings danced. “He does have very nice hands.”
“Looking for trouble?” With one arm, he scooped her up against him.
“Always.” She gave him a warm and very provocative kiss before turning toward the doorway. “Come sit down,” she said, sharing her radiant smile with Cal. “I just threw a salad together.”
She had four bowls set out on her own woven mats.
In the center of the table was a concoction of vegetables and herbs, with the surprising addition of green bananas, sprinkled with whole-wheat croutons and ready to be mixed with a yogurt dressing.
Libby gave one wistful thought to the BLTs she’d planned on before she sat down.
“So, Cal . . .” Caroline passed him the bowl. “Are you an anthropologist?”
“No, I’m a pilot,” he said, just as Libby announced, “Cal’s a truck driver.”
Libby muttered under her breath as Cal calmly dished up salad. “Cargo,” he explained, pleased that he could honor Libby’s wish to stick with the truth. “I deal primarily with cargo. Libby figures that makes me an airborne truck driver.”
“You fly?” William drummed his long, skinny fingers on the table.
“Yes. That’s all I ever really wanted to do.”
“It must be exciting.” Caroline leaned forward, always willing to be fascinated. “Sunbeam, our other daughter, is taking flying lessons. Maybe you can give her some pointers.”
“Sunny’s always taking lessons.” There was both amusement and affection in Libby’s voice as she passed the salad on to her mother. “She’s good at everything. She took up parachuting and figured the next step was to learn how to fly the plane herself.”
“Makes sense.” He glanced over at Caroline. Caroline Stone, he thought, not for the first time. The twentieth-century genius. Cal would have found it no more incredible to be sharing a meal with Vincent Van Gogh or Voltaire. “This is a wonderful salad, Mrs. Stone.”
“Caroline. Thanks.” She slanted a look at her husband, knowing he would have preferred his sausages and chips and a cold beer. After more than twenty years, she hadn’t quite converted him. That never stopped her from trying.
“I feel very strongly that proper nutrition is what keeps the mind clear and open,” she began. “I recently read a study where proper diet and exercise was directly linked to longer life spans. If we cared for ourselves better, we could live well over a hundred years.”
Noting the expression on Cal’s face, Libby gave his ankle a kick under the table. She had a feeling he’d been about to inform her mother that people did live over the century mark, and regularly.
“What’s the use of living that long if you have to eat leaves and twigs?” William began, but then he noted his wife’s narrowed look. “Not that these aren’t great leaves.”
“You can have something sweet for dessert.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek. Six rings glittered on her hands as she offered the bowl to Cal again. “Have some more?”
“Yes, thanks.” He took a second serving. His appetite continued to amaze Libby. “I admire your work, Mrs. Stone.”
“Really?” It still pleased her when anyone referred to her weaving as her “work.” “Do you have a piece?”
“No, it’s . . . out of my reach,” he told her, remembering the display he’d seen behind glass at the Smithsonian.
“Where are you from, Hornblower?”
Cal switched his attention to Libby’s father. “Philadelphia.”
“Your work must involve a lot of traveling.”
Cal didn’t bother to suppress the grin. “More than you can imagine.”
“Do you have a family?”
“My parents and my younger brother are still back . . . back east.”
Despite himself, William thawed a bit. There had been something in Cal’s eyes, in his voice, when he’d spoken of his family.
Enough, Libby decided, was enough. She pushed her bowl aside, picked up her tea with both hands, then leaned back, her eyes on her father. “If you have an application form handy, I’m sure Cal could fill it out. Then you’d have his date of birth and Social Security number, as well.”
“A little snotty, aren’t you?” Will commented over a forkful of salad.
“I’m snotty?”
“Don’t apologize.” Will patted her hand. “We are what we are. Tell me, Cal, what’s your party affiliation?”
“Dad!”
“Just kidding.” With a lopsided grin, he reached over to pull Libby onto his lap. “She was born here, you know.”
“Yes, she told me.” Cal watched Libby hook an arm around her father’s neck.
“Used to play naked right out that door while I was gardening.”
Despite herself, Libby laughed, even as she closed a hand over her father’s throat. “Monster.”
“Can I ask him what he thinks of Dylan?”
She gave his head a shake. “No.”
“Bob Dylan or Dylan Thomas?” Cal asked, earning a narrowed look from William and one of surprise from Libby before she remembered his affection for poetry.
“Either,” Will decided.
“Dylan Thomas was brilliant but depressing. I’d rather read Bob Dylan.”
“Read?”
“The lyrics, Dad. Now that that’s settled, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here instead of driving your board of directors crazy?”
“I wanted to see my little girl.”
She kissed him, just above the beard, because she knew it was partially true. “I saw you when I got back from the South Pacific. Try again.”
“And I wanted Caro to have the fresh air.” He sent his wife a smug look over his daughter’s shoulder. “We both figured the air around here worked well the first two times, so we’d try it again.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about this place being good for your mother’s condition.”
“Condition? You’re sick?” Libby was up and grabbing her mother’s hands. “What’s wrong?”
“Will, you never could come to the point. What he’s trying to say is I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” Libby felt her knees go weak. “But how?”
“And you call yourself a scientist,” Cal murmured, and earned his first laugh from Will.
“But—” Too dazed to be annoyed by the comment, she looked back and forth between her parents.
They were young, hardly more than forty, and vital.
She knew there was nothing unusual about couples in their forties having babies.
But they were her parents. “You’re going to have a baby. I don’t know what to say.”
“Try congratulations,” Will suggested.
“No. Yes, I mean. I need to sit down.” She did, on the floor between their chairs. She discovered sitting wasn’t enough and took three long breaths.
“How do you feel?” Caroline asked.
“Dazed.” She looked up, studying her mother’s face. “How do you feel?”
“Eighteen . . . though I have talked Will out of delivering this one himself here at the cabin, the way he did with you and Sunny.”
“The woman’s lost her sixties values,” Will muttered, though he had been tremendously relieved when Caroline had insisted on an obstetrician and a hospital. “So what do you think, Libby?”
She rose to her knees so that she could hug each of them. “I think we should celebrate.”
“I’m one step ahead of you.” Rising, William went to the refrigerator, then held a bottle aloft. “Sparkling apple juice.”