“I won’t keep you long,” said Littlewood.
“I won’t be missed,” replied Khan. Not that he would’ve cared either way.
“As for being missed, it shouldn’t be a problem to return you—”
“I want to talk first,” said Khan. Really, what did he have to look forward to at the conference that could compare with this?
Littlewood smiled. “Good, good. I imagine you have a million questions, so maybe we’ll start with those?” He held up a hand, the nervous grin back again. “No promises I’ll answer all of them. Kentucky Derby winners, who’s elected president in 2004—all that sort of thing is off limits. Regardless of the mutability of the historical timeline, I think we can both agree the less you know when you go back, the better.”
As soon as Littlewood made the declaration, something crystallized for Khan. Slowly, he shook his head.
“Why would you assume I plan to return to 2001?”
10
· EVERETT ·
Quantico, Virginia, 1903
Everett stood shivering on the mosquito-infested banks of the Potomac, anxiously watching for Langley’s long-awaited demonstration of the full-size Great Aerodrome with Charles Manly at the controls. With steady employment becoming more and more a memory, Everett had recently begun to say yes when journalists offered him a sandwich or glass of cider and was now contemplating saying yes to the offer to sleep in the corner of one of the muddy (and stinky) camp tents he’d become so expert at setting up. He thought with something like regret that Jennings would probably not recognize him if they passed one another on the street.
Still, it was something to be alive in such an age and something indeed to be present this October morning, awaiting the exploits of messieurs Langley and Manly. The large houseboat from which the aerodrome would launch dominated Everett’s field of vision as it did his imagination.
“Care to wager how long the old windbag can keep his contraption in the air this time?” asked Everett’s host, a young journalist named Maximilian, also from New York City.
Everett just grinned. He knew better than to wager funds he didn’t have.
“The boys from The Herald and The Sun Star say he won’t make it over ten seconds,” added Maximilian. “Favorable odds, would you say?”
But just then, Everett saw movement atop the houseboat. “Say, that’s them,” he said, pointing. “Isn’t it?”
“Well, I’ll be,” said Maximilian. “The old bird himself and his gosling. It just goes to show Langley’s lack of faith in his own design, sending up someone else to take the punishment.”
“Or glory,” said Everett.
“Oh-ho, yes. A great deal of glory is to be found under the surface of the Potomac.”
Everett grinned but didn’t respond. He would have taken Manly’s place in a heartbeat. Would have paid to take it.
It required six men to pull back the catapult weight, which would assist in the launch of the forty-eight-foot-wide monstrosity. Even Everett could admit it was no great thing of beauty, all awkward wings at odd angles—neither graceful nor birdlike. But none of that mattered so long as it soared. Everett held his breath when the catapult weight was released. Held his breath when the entire contraption dove straight into the water upon its release. Just like that, it was over. Everett blinked while the journalists surrounding him slapped their knees and one another’s backs, laughing uproariously at the soggy fate of the man who tried to fly and the broken mess of canvas, wood, and metal lying uneasily on the surface of the river.
Everett swore softly and took off, eager to leave the scene. It would be a long walk to the Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington Railroad, and the sooner he got started, the sooner he could start looking for work again, back in the nation’s capital.
11
· JILLIAN ·
Montecito, the Present
Jillian waited until after the turkey carcass had been carried away, until after the friends invited to enjoy Branson’s celebrated pies had gone home (take-away boxes in hand), until it was just her and her parents sitting alone in the formal great room.
She had to be the one to bring the subject forward; her parents, in situations like this, preferred to pretend a problem didn’t exist until, eventually, it didn’t.
“I want us to talk about school,” Jillian said, her voice only a little unsteady.
“Good old Cal,” said her father genially. “What I wouldn’t give to relive those four years. Your mother told me about your midterm exam grades.” He smiled at Jillian.
Her parents never praised her for getting straight As. The smile would be all the congratulations she would receive. It was understood to be bad form to praise someone for doing what was expected.
“I know you both loved it at Cal,” said Jillian. “But I don’t. I’m . . . I’m dissatisfied.” It was a compromise word. Applegates were never “profoundly unhappy” or “deeply disinterested.”
“Darling,” began her mother, but Jillian, in a fit of bad manners, interrupted her.
“I don’t plan to continue.”
Although the Applegates were masters at ignoring remarks uttered in bad taste, this was too much to ignore.
“I see,” said her father, who of course didn’t see at all.
How could he? Cal had been, as he just remarked, the best years of his life. Something he wished he could repeat. Jillian shuddered at the thought.
“What do you propose instead?” asked her mother.
Her father leaned forward, his hands clasped together. It was his I’m paying attention to you; I hear you posture. Jillian suspected he’d learned it in a leadership retreat.
“I’ve sent payment for enrolling in a professional school in Italy,” said Jillian.
“Italy?” said her father.
“What sort of . . . professional school?” asked her mother.
Jillian pulled her shoulders back ever so slightly. Raised her chin. Her father wasn’t the only one trained in using posture to communicate intention.
“I’m going to study to work as a pastry chef or baker,” she said.
“Darling,” said her mother. “I hope we’ve raised you to aspire to more than that.”
“I agree you’ve done your best to . . . to inspire me to be successful like you,” replied Jillian. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want your kind of success. I wouldn’t love it.”
Her father attempted a good-hearted chuckle, as if to imply she would love it.
“No, I’m being serious,” said Jillian. “I don’t love business. I never have. I love cooking. And in particular, I’m . . . I’m passionate about baking.” She said it in spite of the fact that Applegates weren’t passionate about things. They were driven. They were motivated. They avoided messy things, like being passionate. But if Halley and DaVinci had taught her anything, it was that it was okay to be passionate about something.
Her mother and father looked at one another, exchanging information without speaking. At last her mother seemed to give her father a slight nod, as if to say proceed.
“Jillian, you’re very young.”
Jillian bristled. She was an adult.
“Which might be our fault for sheltering you from life’s rough edges,” added her mother.
It was the first time either parent had come close to apologizing for something, and the shock of this kept Jillian silent while her father continued.
“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you to engage in pursuits that catch your interest,” said her father, effectively dismissing her passion as a mere “interest.”
“But I think we can all agree a college degree is de rigueur in today’s world,” said her mother.
Jillian did not agree. “Halley doesn’t have a degree.”
“To suggest you could function happily on Halley’s income,” began her mother, “well, that doesn’t bear discussion.”
“I disagree,” said Jillian.
Her father chuckled.
“I
’m not being funny,” said Jillian, bristling again. At this rate, she was going to turn into a porcupine.
Her father’s smile disappeared. “Okay. You don’t like business. It’s not too late to declare a new major. What about computers?”
Jillian wrinkled her nose. “Dad.”
“Or physics?” asked her mother. “You said you enjoyed your Physics for Poets course last spring.”
She frowned. Yes, she’d enjoyed it. She’d wanted to understand as much as possible to help her as she read through Khan’s notes about “strange attractors” and “chaotic cosmology” and “temporal inertia.” But this wasn’t about changing her major. She wanted to be a baker.
“Here’s the bottom line, Jillian,” said her father, interrupting her thoughts.
She sat up straighter. Her father was all about the bottom line. If they’d gotten there already, final negotiations were near.
He continued. “When I was your age, I told your grandfather I wanted to drop out of school. My sophomore year, believe it or not. So when I say I understand what you’re going through, you can believe me. Your grandfather gave me a choice that your mother and I are willing to extend to you.”
Jillian felt herself leaning forward. A choice?
“You are welcome to drop out of school, but there will be consequences. You will have to support yourself. If you want to be an adult, you’re going to have to act like one: no more allowance.”
No allowance? No allowance? Jillian had known her parents wouldn’t pay for Il Pane Perfetto, but it hadn’t occurred to her they might take away her allowance. How was she going to pay for things?
Keep it together, she told herself.
As a sort of panic circled the periphery of her thoughts, she realized this was what her dad hoped would happen: that she would panic and agree to stay in school. She exhaled slowly.
She would not panic. And she would not go back to Cal. At least, not after this semester finished. Her thoughts shifted from panic to cool determination.
“Your father has internships in international trade at his disposal,” murmured her mother.
“She’d have to apply, just like everyone else,” said her father. Jillian knew the dynamics between her parents well enough to recognize they’d argued over whether or not to offer the internships.
Jillian shook her head. “No. I don’t want an internship.”
“Then you have a hard choice to make,” said her mother. “But we feel it’s a fair one.”
“Your grandfather was the fairest man I’ve ever known,” said her father.
“And Jillian,” said her mother, “we’re going to insist you finish the semester in either case. We’re not flexible on that issue.”
“I understand,” said Jillian. She’d been planning to finish. Whatever else was true about her, she wasn’t a quitter. She stared at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. This wasn’t what she’d hoped for. It wasn’t close to what she’d intended to bargain for. But she recognized she wasn’t going to get a different offer. Her dad had invoked Grandfather Applegate, pillar of all that was Applegate-iest. This was the offer: stay in school and keep your allowance, or quit and support yourself.
She stood. “I’ll let you know my decision before I leave Sunday.”
She turned to go but then stopped beside the Steinway, an idea forming.
Facing her father, she asked, “Those internships in international trade, are any of them in LA?”
Her father nodded. “One is.”
“I’d like you to consider offering it to Edmund Aldwych, Halley’s, um, husband.”
She was thinking of something Edmund had said, how if Magellan and Drake and the rest of them had found themselves deposited in the modern world, they might have turned to international trade, as it was the undertaking most similar to adventuring across unknown seas in search of fabled riches. Well, that or hired themselves out as mercenaries, he’d added, but Jillian knew Edmund well enough to know which occupation he would prefer.
“Do you know, as a matter of fact, Edmund and I had the funniest conversation this afternoon,” her father replied, a genuine smile on his face. “He argued that in today’s world, all the great explorers of the sixteenth century—”
“Would turn to international trade,” said Jillian, completing the thought.
“Exactly,” said her father. “You know, I might have something for him. He’d have to apply—”
“Like everyone else,” said Jillian. She must be setting a record for Applegates interrupting Applegates. “I’ll talk to him,” she said.
“You do that,” said her father, nodding.
“Goodnight, Jillian,” said her mother. “You do some soul-searching tonight. I’ll be away tomorrow and Saturday, but let’s have breakfast to discuss things on Sunday.”
“Okay,” said Jillian. And then, before she did something silly like cry in front of her parents, she strode to her room.
The following day, Jillian spent the morning preparing an apricot tart and vegetable quiche for her friends, who were coming by in the afternoon. Her crusts weren’t quite as flaky as those she’d made under Branson’s supervision, but she didn’t mind. It had been wonderful to fill the kitchen with the fragrant perfume of the apricots, the rich scent of the roasted garlic-stuffed quiche.
The four friends gathered in Jillian’s suite of rooms to eat as she explained both her plans and her conversation with her parents. After her parents’ lack of sympathy, Jillian found herself practically drowning in it from her friends, which was a relief after all her worrying.
“I still can’t believe they’re cutting you off, though,” said DaVinci.
“What is this ‘cutting off’?” Edmund asked. “Is this some butchery of which we are speaking?”
“No, no, no,” said Jillian, sighing heavily. “My parents just want me to finish college, so this is their version of backing me into a corner.”
“Cutting someone off means removing their access to financial assistance,” Halley murmured to Edmund. “There’s no actual cutting.”
Jillian sank back into the goose down-filled cushions on the squashy loveseat she’d ordered last August from Pottery Barn’s RELAX collection. Sadly, the softness of the cushion was doing little to actually RELAX her.
“But it’s crazy your parents are disowning you if you don’t stay at Cal,” said DaVinci. “Just . . . wow.”
“They’re not disowning me,” said Jillian, rising to her parents’ defense. “They’re not cutting me out of their . . . their wills or anything. And they’re paying all my credit cards and expenses through the end of December no matter what.” Jillian worried the hem of her sweater. “I tried to explain how much this meant to me, but Dad got all . . .” She sighed in exasperation. “You know how he is.”
DaVinci drew herself up erect in her chair, frowned, and deepened her voice in imitation of Mr. Applegate. “If you want to get ahead in life, you need to make a plan and see it through, no matter the bumps along the way.”
“Pretty much.” Jillian sighed. “So, if I drop out of school, I have to support myself.”
“Harsh, much?” said Edmund.
Everyone turned to look at him, and Jillian found herself smothering a laugh.
“Spoke I the phrase in error?” demanded Edmund.
“Nope,” replied DaVinci. “You said it just right.” Then she shook her head and turned to Jillian. “You’ll never make it, you know, on your own.”
“DaVinci,” warned Halley. She turned to Jillian. “Of course you could make it, if you really wanted to. Do you?”
Jillian bit her lip. She remembered the feel of the piecrust this morning. It had been like silk against her fingers. Better. Not cold and lifeless, but supple and pliant and cooperative. She thought of how she’d pinched the rolled edges into small triangles, perfectly rimming the circle of the pie plate. She thought of how both tart and quiche had melted in her mouth. How her friends had sighed—and in DaVinci’s case, moaned—i
n praise of the meal.
Yes, this was what she wanted.
“I can’t be who my parents want me to be,” she said softly. “I want . . .” She blinked quickly. “I want . . .” She wanted to bring strangers together, to create community over food—food that made people want to clap and, fine, occasionally moan. The words stuck in her throat, though, as she thought about trying to express how deeply she wanted these things.
“I have to do this,” she said at last. “I have to try.”
Halley asked, “Can you get a job in Italy?”
She shook her head and straightened the new pillows she’d ordered from Pier 1. “The program restricts their students from working outside jobs while attending.”
“The couch and pillows!” said DaVinci suddenly. “That’s what’s different about your room. These are new, aren’t they?”
“I bought them for Berkeley, but my apartment was too small, so they stayed here. I guess I should have returned them. . . .”
“Can I have them when you move to Italy?” asked DaVinci.
“DaVinci!” said Halley, her dark eyes narrowing.
“I’m just saying.”
Jillian laughed.
“Made you laugh,” said DaVinci, smiling. But then her demeanor changed. “Wait, don’t you have some kind of investment . . . portfolio or whatever? Your parents can’t touch that, right?”
“No. That’s mine. But it doesn’t generate more than maybe three or four hundred dollars a month, tops.”
“Which covers what, your Victoria’s Secret budget?” asked DaVinci.
Halley snorted in laughter and then quickly held up a hand in apology.
Jillian felt color rushing to her cheeks. “We have to wear some sort of uniform every day in the kitchen, so clothing won’t be an issue.”
“Fine,” said DaVinci. “But you have to eat, don’t you? And an Italian apartment? What if your portfolio has an off month? Do you have a trust fund or something you can dip into?”
Jillian’s cheeks burned a darker red. She did have a trust fund, accessible when she turned twenty-one, but she was too embarrassed to explain any of that to DaVinci.
A Flight in Time (Thief in Time Series Book 2) Page 7
