Chapter 12 #2
“My father’s a research and development technician. Lab work, all indoors and confining. He’s very dedicated, dependable. At home he likes to garden, plants flowers from seed and works them all by hand.”
As he drew in the scent of the freshly turned earth that Libby worked, Cal could almost see his father cultivating his garden.
“Sometimes he paints. Really, really bad landscapes and still lifes. He even knows they’re bad, but he claims art doesn’t have to be good to be art.
He’s always threatening to hang one of them in the house.
He’s . . . I don’t know, steady. I doubt I’ve heard him raise his voice more than a dozen times in my life.
But you listen to him. He’s like the adhesive that kept the family centered. ”
He stretched out on the grass to watch the sky as he continued.
“My mother is . . . what was that term you used once? Wired? She’s packed with energy and a blazing intellect that’s almost scary.
She intimidates a lot of people. She’s always amused by that.
I guess because inside she’s soft as butter.
She raised her voice plenty, but she always felt guilty about it. Jacob and I gave her a hell of a time.
“In her free time she likes to read—flashy novels or impossibly technical books. She’s chief counsel for the United Ministry of Nations, so she’s always poring over some six-inch pile of legal documents.”
“The United Ministry of Nations?”
“I guess you’d call it an extension of the UN. It had to be expanded in . . . hell, I don’t know when. I think it was expanded because of the colonies and settlements.”
“It sounds like a very prestigious position.” Libby discovered she was already intimidated.
“Yes. She thrives on it. On the work and the worry. She’s got a great laugh—one of those big fill-the-room kind of laughs. They met in Dublin. She was practicing law there, and my father went over for a vacation. They matched and ended up in Philadelphia.”
Libby tamped down the dirt. It had been impossible not to hear the affection in his voice, impossible not to understand it. “What about your brother?”
“Jacob. He’s . . . intense is a good word.
He gets his brain from my mother, and his temperament, she claims, from her grandfather.
You’re never quite sure with J.T. whether he’s going to grin at you or throw a punch.
He studied law and then, when he’d had his fill of it, dived into astrophysics.
He collects problems so that he can pick them apart.
He’s a son of a bitch,” Cal said affectionately, “but he has my father’s unswerving, immeasurable sense of loyalty. ”
“Do you like them?” When Cal looked up, she elaborated. “What I mean is, most people love their family, but they aren’t necessarily friends with them. I wondered if you liked them.”
“Yes, I do.” He watched as she strapped the shovel back on the cycle. “They’d like you.”
“I could meet them if you took me with you.” She bit her lip the moment the words were out. She couldn’t turn around to look at him. She couldn’t have said just when the thought had hatched in her mind.
“Libby—” He was up and standing behind her, his hands hovering over her shoulders.
“I’ve studied the past,” she said quickly, turning and gripping his forearms. “If you let me come with you, it would give me the chance to study the future.”
He framed her face with his hands. There was a glint of tears in her eyes. “And your family?”
“They’d understand. I’d leave them a letter, try to explain.”
“They’d never believe you,” he said quietly. “They’d spend years looking for you, wondering if you were still alive. Libby, can’t you see that’s what’s tearing me apart about my own? They don’t know where I am or what’s happened to me. I know by now they’re waiting to hear if I’m dead or alive.”
“I’ll make them understand.” She heard the desperation in her own voice and fought to steady it. “If they know I’m happy, that I’m doing what I want to do, they’ll be satisfied with that.”
“Maybe. Yes, if they were sure. But I can’t take you, Libby.”
She made her hands drop away and stepped back. “No, of course not. I don’t know what I was thinking of. I got caught up—”
“Damn it, don’t.” Grabbing her arms, he hauled her against him. “Don’t think I don’t want you, because I do. It’s not a choice of right or wrong, Libby. If I could be sure, if there were no risks involved, I might toss you on the damn ship whether you wanted to go with me or not.”
“Risks?” She’d stiffened at the word, and now she drew back. “What risks?”
“Nothing’s foolproof.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool. What risks?”
He let out a long breath. There was a calculation he hadn’t given her the night before. “The probability factor for a successful time warp is 76.4.”
“76.4,” she repeated. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that leaves 23.6 as the factor for failure. What happens if you fail?”
“I don’t know.” But he could make a good guess. Frying in the sun’s gravitational pull was one of the less painful possibilities. “And I won’t take chances with you, no matter how much I want you with me.”
She wasn’t going to panic, because panic wouldn’t help. Taking three deep breaths, she felt some balance return. “Caleb, if you gave yourself a little more time, do you think you could narrow the odds?”
“Maybe. Probably,” he conceded. “Libby, I’m running out of time. The ship’s already been in the open for two weeks. It was blind luck that we headed off the Rankins yesterday. What do you think would happen to me, to us, if it were found? If I were found?”
“The real season doesn’t start for weeks. We hardly get more than a dozen hikers in a year.”
“It only takes one.”
He was right, and she knew it. They’d been living on borrowed time right from the start. “I’ll never know, will I?” She traced a finger under the fading wound on his brow. “Whether you made it.”
“I’m a good pilot. Trust me.” He kissed her fingers. “And it’ll be easier for me to concentrate if I’m not worried about you.”
“It’s hard to argue with common sense.” She worked up a smile. “I know you said you had a few last details to see to at the ship. I’m just going to walk back to the cabin.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Take your time.” She needed some of her own. “I’ll fix a bon voyage supper.” She started off at an easy gait, then called over her shoulder, “Oh, Hornblower, pick me some flowers.”
***
He picked an armful. It wasn’t easy balancing them as he flew the cycle. The path beneath him was strewn with white and pink and pale blue blossoms. He thought they smelled like her—fresh, earthy, exotic.
In the hours he’d worked aboard ship one thought had run continually through his mind. She’d been willing to go with him. To leave her home. Not just her home, he corrected. Her life.
Perhaps it had been impulse, something that had been born of the moment.
Reasons didn’t matter. He needed to hold on to that one sweet thought. She’d been willing to go with him.
He saw only the faintest light through the kitchen window. That had him frowning as he stored his bike and retrieved a few of the fallen flowers. Perhaps she’d decided to take a nap or was waiting for him in the front of the cabin by the fire.
He liked the idea of seeing her there, curled up on the couch under one of her mother’s exquisite throws. She’d be reading, her eyes a little sleepy behind her glasses.
Pleased with the image, he opened the door and found a completely different, and even more alluring, one.
She was waiting for him. But it was candlelight. She was still lighting them, dozens of them, all pure white. The table was set for two, and a bottle of champagne sat nestled in a clear bucket. The room smelled of candles, of the spices she’d used for cooking, and of her.
She turned to smile at him, and he felt the breath quite simply leave his body.
Her hair was swept up off her neck so that he could see the long, delicate curve. She wore a dress the color of moonlight that glittered at the bodice as she moved. It left her shoulders bare, then slipped like a lover down her hips and thighs.
“You remembered.” She crossed to him, holding out her arms for the flowers. He didn’t move a muscle. “Are they for me?”
“What? Yes.” Like a man in a trance, he offered them to her. “There were more when I started out.”
“This is more than enough.” She had a vase waiting, and she filled it. “Dinner’s almost ready. I hope you like it.”
“You dazzle me, Liberty.”
She turned back, electrified by what she saw in his eyes.
“I wanted to, just once.” When he just continued to stare, her shyness rose up and had her twisting her fingers.
“I bought the champagne and the dress while I was in town yesterday. I thought it would be nice to do something a little special tonight.”
“I’m afraid if I move you’ll vanish.”
“No.” She offered her hand and gripped hard when he took it. “I’ll stay right here. Why don’t you open the bottle?”
“I want to kiss you first.”
Her heart went into her smile as she wound her arms around his neck. “All right. Just once.”
They ate. But the trouble she had gone to over the meal was wasted. They didn’t know what they were tasting. Champagne was superfluous. They were already drunk on each other. The candles burned down low while they lingered.
They carried some up to the bedroom, filling the room with the soft, flickering light so that they could watch each other as they loved.
There was sweetness, slow, savoring sweetness. There was urgency, fevered, racing urgency. There was power and tenderness, demand and generosity.
Hour melted into hour, but they never drew apart. Each tremble, each sigh, each heartbeat would be remembered. The candles guttered out, but they were still wrapped together.
Then, though the words were never spoken, they knew it was the last time. His hands seemed that much more gentle, her lips that much softer.