“I know,” Michele said tremulously, taking his hand. “That’s how I feel too.”
After they’d finished their picnic, Philip and Michele crossed Bow Bridge into the sumptuously designed split-level Bethesda Terrace, with its ornate stair rails and sculpted carvings. They climbed the stone staircase leading from the upper level to the Bethesda Fountain plaza. Sitting beneath the fountain and its statue, Angel of Waters, Philip took Michele into his arms and kissed her for what could have been minutes or hours—Michele had lost all sense of time.
“What do you think it all means?” she asked suddenly. “You know—the fact that we both recognized each other before we met, and you can see me when no one else can besides Clara?”
“That we belong with each other?” Philip suggested, pulling her close again.
“But … how can we? How can we really be together when I don’t truly exist in your time, and you can’t even get to my time?” Michele swallowed hard. “Sometimes it seems like a cruel joke.”
Philip was silent for a moment and then he turned to her, his eyes intense. “We met for a reason, so I know that whatever … whatever force brought us together can keep us together somehow. And until we have a permanent solution, we have these moments. So many people never get to experience this—it’s rare in my time. It may not seem like it, but we are lucky.”
Michele smiled as his words sank in. “You’re so right.”
Hand in hand, they walked out of Bethesda Terrace on the majestic tree-lined path of the grand promenade. As they proceeded under the canopy of overhanging American elm trees, Philip suddenly leaned in to give her a kiss, and Michele found that she couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t control the fluttering, thrilling sensation inside her.
When they returned to the Walker Mansion, Philip led her into the music room. He lit a few candles and then gestured for Michele to sit beside him at the piano bench. “Can I hear your lyrics now?”
Michele let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know. I’ve never shown my writing to anyone but my mom …”
“Please? I want to hear your words.” Philip took her hand and laced his fingers between hers.
“Oh … all right.” Staring at the floor, her cheeks flushing red, Michele recited her lyrics for him. He’s going to think I’m totally obsessed with him, she thought in embarrassment. When she had finished, she kept her eyes focused on the ground, until he lifted her chin with his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“That’s just how I feel too,” he whispered. “But you’re the only one with the talent to put it into words.”
As he kissed her, Michele thought she might burst from the thrill she felt. When they finally managed to break away from the kiss, both smiling and flushed, Michele said, “So do you think you can put music to it?”
He grinned at her as he placed his hands artfully on the keys. “Let’s see, shall we?” And he began to play, experimenting with different melodies until he found one that seemed to perfectly fit “Bring the Colors Back”: a bluesy, soulful midtempo tune in a minor key. The melody and feel of Philip’s composition reminded Michele almost of Ray Charles, and though he played it from a 1910 point of view, she could easily imagine hearing it in her own time as a contemporary song. Michele listened dreamily, humming along.
Suddenly, without warning, the music became faint. Michele looked up sharply to see Philip and the music room fading from view. Philip’s mouth opened in a silent cry. His hand was outstretched toward her, and Michele tried desperately to meet his grasp. But then he was gone and there was nothing left but the modern, bright kitchen she was standing in.
I’m back in Caissie’s apartment, she thought dully. Why did Time have to take me away from that perfect night? Her eyes quickly scanned the room, but fortunately she was alone. She spotted a window big enough for her to squeeze through and close enough to the ground for a non-treacherous drop. Before opening the window, Michele glanced at the digital clock on the oven. She gasped. It was just before ten-thirty—her curfew.
She held up the skeleton key necklace, looking at it searchingly. Is someone—or something—controlling my time traveling? she suddenly wondered. After all, it seemed that she nearly always returned to 2010 against her will. And she had yet to figure out a surefire way to get back to her time on her own.
As she walked back to the Windsor Mansion, she couldn’t stop playing the question over in her mind: What, or who, is causing all this? She was desperate for the answer. She had to be sure that she would always be able to get to Philip.
During her U.S. history class the next morning, Michele rested her head on her desk, struggling to stay awake through Mr. Lewis’s lecture. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before, replaying the incredible evening with Philip over and over in her mind. But then Mr. Lewis said something that got her attention.
“As you all know, our field trip to Newport, Rhode Island, is just two weeks away. We’ll be touring the historical mansions that belonged to New York’s finest families, and getting a firsthand peek at the way of life back then.” His voice was full of enthusiasm. “Per the annual tradition, we’ll be staying at Hotel Viking for the weekend. I’m going to pass out permission slips for you to have your parents fill out today, as well as a form on which you can request the classmate you’d like to share a hotel room with. I’ll do my best to meet everyone’s requests, but I’m afraid some of you will have to make do with your assignments.”
A weekend away with this group? Michele thought desolately. How had she missed the memo about this trip? And she hated to have a whole weekend away from Philip. Without thinking, Michele thrust her hand into the air.
“Yes, Michele?” Mr. Lewis called.
“Um … well, I was just wondering—is the field trip mandatory?” she asked.
The other students gawked at her in surprise, but Caissie grinned at Michele. Clearly she felt the same way about this trip.
Mr. Lewis frowned. “Of course it is. If you remember, it was part of the curriculum I gave you on your first day. Did you have somewhere else you have to be that weekend?”
“No. I was just … wondering.”
When she was handed her roommate-request form, Michele wrote Caissie’s name, crossing her fingers that Caissie would do the same.
At lunch, the topic everyone was buzzing about was not Newport, but the annual Autumn Ball, which had just been announced for the third Saturday in November at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
“At least that’s not mandatory,” Michele remarked to Caissie and Aaron as they attacked their burgers.
“Yeah, no kidding,” Caissie agreed. “The last thing I’m in the mood for is watching our classmates compete over who can spend the most money on a dress they’ll wear once and forget about the next day.”
“I say we go to the dance and shock them all by wearing thrift-store clothes and Chuck Taylors,” Aaron suggested, a gleam in his eye. He nudged Caissie. “You down?”
Caissie blushed slightly. “Sure. Why not?”
Michele couldn’t hold back her smile as she watched the two of them. It was obvious they liked each other. She didn’t know why they bothered with the whole Just Friends routine.
“Hey, why does that Ben Archer dude keep looking over here?” Aaron asked.
Caissie grinned. “He so wants Michele. He’s always looking at her.”
“Not always,” Michele said, rolling her eyes.
“Will you go with him if he asks you to the dance?” Caissie asked curiously.
Michele was momentarily thrown by the question. Since Philip, she hadn’t even contemplated the idea of other guys asking her out. It would feel wrong, almost unbearable, to go out with someone else now. “I’d say no,” she replied.
Aaron raised his eyebrows. “Seems like most girls here would be pretty psyched to go out with that dude. He doesn’t do it for you?”
“It’s not that. He’s really cute and nice enough,” Michele said honestly. “It’s just—well, I’m sort of ta
ken.”
Caissie gave her a suspicious look, no doubt remembering the whole Philip Walker time travel conversation. “Oh yeah? By who?”
Michele looked down. “He … lives far away. It’s a long-distance thing.”
“Well, long distance almost never works at our age,” Caissie said, giving Michele a knowing look. “So if Ben or any other cute guys here ask you out, I think you should go for it.”
“Okay, well, let me remind you that no one has asked me out here,” Michele said with a laugh. “So how about we change the subject?”
After school, Michele reluctantly brought the Newport permission slip to the drawing room for her grandparents to sign. They were seated beside each other drinking tea, Walter studying the newspaper while Dorothy looked over some correspondence.
“Hi,” Michele said, standing in the doorway.
“Hello, dear.” Dorothy looked up to give her a quick smile before turning back to her letters.
“Come in,” Walter said.
“Um, I have a permission slip that I need you guys to sign. It’s for a weekend field trip in two weeks to Newport, Rhode Island.” Michele handed them the paper.
“Newport …” Dorothy’s voice warmed. “We loved it there.”
“Really? Do you have a house there?” Michele asked, suddenly a little more interested.
“We did,” she answered. “It was one of the most treasured properties the Windsors had. It was built in 1898, but it burned down in the 1970s.”
“I’m sorry. I would have liked to see it,” Michele said sincerely.
“It’s a beautiful town. You’ll like it,” Walter said, giving her one of his rare smiles.
Something occurred to Michele. “Do—do the Walkers have a house there?”
“Yes. Theirs didn’t burn down,” he replied, a trace of bitterness in his voice.
Michele’s heart leaped. Maybe, just maybe, she would get to see Philip that weekend after all!
The next afternoon, Michele found herself staring contemplatively at Clara’s diary. She wondered how things had turned out between Clara and her new family, if Henrietta and Violet had managed to accept the adoption, or if they had continued their quest to make her miserable. It was strange, but she felt protective of this girl who was really her elder by a hundred years. Would it hurt just to check on her? Probably not, Michele thought. And then I can go see Philip afterward.
Michele carefully opened the diary to the fourth entry, November 12, 1910, and braced herself for the roller-coaster ride back in time. When she landed on the floor of the bedroom one hundred years earlier, she was surprised to find it empty. She was used to Clara’s being there to greet her. But then she heard the sound of high-pitched yelling coming from downstairs, and she hurried out of the room to see what was going on.
She stopped dead in her tracks at what she saw two floors below in the Grand Hall. Violet, her face red with fury, was pushing Philip toward the front door as Clara and several members of the household staff looked on in shock. Neither Philip nor Clara looked up to see Michele watching from the third-floor railing.
“You are a despicable, disgusting excuse for a man!” Violet shrieked. “Get out, get out of this house!”
“Violet, please don’t. Don’t make a scene,” Clara begged, clutching her sister’s arm. Violet threw her off.
“You would be dead if my father was home,” Violet said menacingly, stalking toward Philip. “But you wait. We will ruin you.”
“Violet, please try to understand—I never intended to hurt you,” Philip pleaded. “I care about you—I have all my life—but we aren’t right for each other in that way. I’m not the one who can make you happy. I’m only trying to save us both from an unhappy marriage—”
“Get out!” Violet cried. “I never want to see you again.”
“I hope you can forgive me one day.” Philip looked at her sadly. “Good bye, Violet.”
Violet stared after him, breathing heavily. Once the front door had closed behind him, she let out a terrible sob, crumpling to her knees. Clara wrapped a protective arm around her. “Please, leave us,” she told the staff.
Michele felt guilt striking at her insides as Violet sobbed on Clara’s shoulder. She wondered what Clara would think of her if she ever found out that Michele had caused all this.
“Come, you need fresh air,” Clara said gently. “Let’s go outside.” As she led Violet toward the back patio, Michele sensed that Clara was glad to be able to take care of her new sister.
Once the girls were gone, Michele tiptoed down the stairs and hurried out of the mansion. She had to see Philip. She raced through the Windsor Mansion front yard, out the gates, and through the Walkers’ front door, which, fortunately, was unlocked. Once inside, she heard angry voices coming from down the hall. Her heart sinking, Michele followed the voices until she was outside a closed door.
“How dare you do something so unforgivable, and without even consulting us!” came an enraged voice that Michele recognized as Philip’s uncle’s.
“With all due respect, sir, you are not my father,” Philip retorted.
“You may think nothing of my wishes, but to completely disobey your own mother? What kind of a son are you?”
Michele angrily balled her hands into fists as she listened outside the door. If only Philip’s uncle could see her … She would have loved nothing more than to barge in there and tell him off.
“Mother, I do apologize if this causes you any pain. But marrying Violet would have been a lie,” Philip entreated. “I can’t stand up in a church and lie, and I cannot commit myself to a fraudulent life. Can you really not understand that?”
“I understand that you do not know your duty to this family,” a woman’s chilly voice spoke up. Philip’s mom, Michele realized. “You know that this scandal could be damaging for the family business, yet you acted of your own accord anyhow.”
“Mother, you really think my breaking off with Violet affects the real estate market?” Philip replied, with an incredulous laugh.
“Ah, but your boy has no regard for the family business. In fact, today’s Town Topics hinted that he plans to attend music school next fall,” Philip’s uncle spat. “Music school, not Harvard. Is that true, Philip?”
There was a shocked silence. Michele squeezed her eyes shut, in agony for Philip.
“Yes. It is true,” Philip admitted. “Mother, I’m sorry if I am not what you expected of your son. But the Institute of Musical Art is the finest conservatory in the country, the hardest to get accepted into, and after hearing me play, they offered me a spot. I have to follow this opportunity. I am gifted, Mother, and music is what I am born to do. Please, let me have your blessing on this.”
“You are not my son.” Mrs. Walker said the words so sharply, Michele drew back as if she had been slapped. “My son made a promise to marry Violet Windsor. My son is due to start work at the Walker Company this summer. If you want to be my son, this is what you must do.”
There was another long silence, and Michele held her breath. When Philip finally spoke, his voice sounded heavy, but brave. “Very well. If your regard for me is so conditional that it rests solely on whom I marry and what I do for a living, then you clearly don’t love me. And I don’t wish to have a mother who can’t love her own son. I’ll settle my affairs and be out of this house by graduation. You won’t have to see me again after that.”
With that, Philip swung open the door—nearly colliding with Michele. He looked weary and beaten, but his eyes still warmed at the sight of her. She took his hand and followed as he led her upstairs to his room. It was a spacious bedroom in the Empire style, with wood trim and mahogany furniture. Dark maroon curtains hung above his bed, and opposite was a striking desk in the Louis XIV style, made of gilded mahogany. Her first time in Philip’s bedroom should have given her a thrill, but Michele was too sickened by all she had just seen and heard.
Once the door was closed behind them, Philip sank dazedly onto his bed.
Michele sat beside him.
“Did you hear everything?” he asked dully.
Michele nodded. “And I also … I saw what happened with Violet. I was on the third floor. I got there in the—the middle of it.”
Philip winced. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Philip, I can’t stand this,” Michele burst out. “I can’t stand watching your life go up in flames because of me when I don’t—I don’t have anything to offer you instead.”
Philip looked at her, clearly astounded. “What do you mean, you don’t have anything to offer me? Since my father died, you’re the only person in this whole world who has brought any happiness to my life.”
“But I’m not real in your world. Violet is real. She can give you an actual family and a home—” Michele broke off, suddenly in tears. “You have to marry her.”
Philip pulled her face toward his. “Look at me. You are real for me, and that’s what matters,” he said intently. “Do you think I could ever be happy married to Violet, knowing you’re out there, somewhere in time? And besides, I know I’m not the one she really wants. She wants a businessman, like my father, like her father. She’s embarrassed by my music. She doesn’t really want me.”
Michele looked up at him tearfully. She wanted so badly to believe him, to believe that her involvement in the past wasn’t wrecking everything.
“I really ought to thank you,” he said quietly. “If it weren’t for you, perhaps I wouldn’t have had the courage to go after what I really want in life. I know I can make my mark on this world, and not because of my last name—but because of my own talent.”
Michele smiled through her tears. “I know you will. And, Philip?” Her smile faded as she took his hand. “I’m so sorry … about your mom and uncle.”
Timeless Page 13
