Outside the window, lightning flashed. A loud crack of thunder boomed through the valley.
Whimpering, Phoebe buried her head against his chest.
Laying tender lips against her hair, Alex carried her to the porch swing. Lightning was bouncing off the mountain peaks and burning deep inside the clouds. Thunder crashed, marking the spectacular illuminations with exclamation points.
“Look, Phoebe,” he murmured, holding her close. “Look at the beauty and not the storm.”
Phoebe raised her head, and in the safety of his arms, she watched the brilliant light show.
Nuzzling her cheek with his, he sang,
Softly, safely, snug in the storm;
God is here with you.
The wind may blow. The lightning flash.
The thunder may roll in the sky.
But God is here, and you are safe.
His protection is near and nigh!
Flickering light played over Phoebe’s face. Alex could see dawning wonder filling her eyes. His heart leapt with pride as he watched her fear fading away. He knew she was beginning to see the storm’s beauty.
When he finished “Storm Song,” Phoebe said, “Sing me our song about the meadow home.”
Alex nodded. Tightening his arms around her, he sang in a voice trembling with emotion,
Hush, little love—my darling, treasured one;
Hear my song to you.
Hush, little love—my precious, pretty one;
Softly, I call to you.
Dry your tears, and still your heart;
The pain and fear have gone.
I call to you, my beloved, lovely one;
Please, hear my gentle song.
A home I have built on the meadow sweet;
A home of love for you.
Come with me, my precious, pretty one;
I’ve been waiting just for you.
The stars are shining bright in our sky of love tonight.
The wind in the pines blows free.
The happy brook plays a merry melody;
Come home to the meadow with me.
Hear the birds as they testify;
The leaves as they whisper true.
Softly they murmur my mountain meadow home
Is built with my love for you.
Come, my love.
“You were right, Alex,” she murmured after he’d finished singing. “The storm is beautiful.”
Alex looked at her with a heart full of love. The wind was ruffling her hair, and her eyes were shining. He watched as light and shadow played over her delicate cheekbones. “Beautiful isn’t a strong enough word,” he whispered tenderly, almost reverently.
7
June 10, 6:04 AM
Alex Ableman’s Cabin
Creekdale, Colorado
As morning light streamed through his bedroom window, Alex smelled something wonderful wafting through the air. The smell confused him.
Is Phoebe actually cooking?
Throwing on clothes, he went to the kitchen. Phoebe was in a pretty, pink sundress making bacon and eggs. It was the first meal that she’d prepared since he’d rescued her. The table was set, and there was a bouquet of wildflowers in a blue jug. He started to smile.
She must be getting better; she must be feeling stronger.
Being mindful of her injuries, he wrapped his arms gently around her waist and kissed her cheek. “Something smells wonderful.”
She grinned. “You always pamper me. I thought you deserved some pampering too.”
“I can live with that.” He smiled. “In fact, I could probably get used to it.” He studied her face carefully. She was pale, but she wasn’t trembling. “Are you OK? Do you need to sit?”
“I feel great, and I’m tired of sitting,” she replied. “I want to get my strength back.”
“I can understand that. Just be careful not to overdo. How about if I finish the eggs while you flip the bacon?”
Passing him a spatula, she quirked her brow and teased, “Afraid I’ll cook the eggs too hard? After eating all the meals you’ve prepared, I thought you liked burned rubber.”
Alex laughed, appreciating her attempt at humor. “Hey, rubber’s yummy. So is charcoal. But I happen to like my eggs runny.”
“In that case”—Phoebe giggled—“you’re gonna love our side dish. I made cherry gelatin. It’s not set yet, but we always just slurp it anyway.”
Alex smiled, knowing she was referring to the silly way they’d eaten gelatin in the hospital. Slurping had been their way to introduce a light note into an otherwise tense situation.
“Gelatin will taste like manna from heaven,” he said. “And slurping makes it fun to eat.”
~*~
In Washington D.C., Zeke arranged for Senator Richards’s roses to be returned to the Dirksen Senate Office Building. In a firm hand, he wrote on the back of the senator’s card,
Miss C. is under my protection. The next time you send flowers, I won’t return them to your office. I’ll send them to your wife with a clear explanation of your conduct. —Zeke Masters
~*~
Maneuvering his car through early-morning traffic on interstate 395, Marc saw Crystal’s yellow compact approaching in his rearview mirror. Her car’s top was down, and her blonde hair was whipping wildly. He narrowed his eyes. She was driving fast. Very fast. There was a huge roll of butcher paper perched in her passenger seat. The roll had come undone and was snapping in the breeze.
As he watched, she weaved in and out of traffic until she was abreast of his car. He waved, but she didn’t notice. Suddenly, she hit the gas and dodged in front of him. In less than a minute, she’d slipped between two semitrucks. Marc held his breath. Watching Crystal drive her tiny car down the highway was like watching a mouse running between an elephant’s legs.
He sped up, trying to keep her in sight, but she was driving like a Daytona driver with a death wish. Soon, she passed from sight, her butcher paper flapping like a flag on a ship.
Fifteen minutes later, when he pulled into the parking lot behind Student Union, he saw Crystal walking toward the building. Obviously, traffic lights hadn’t been kind to her. Shutting off his engine, he shoved his keys in his pocket and sprinted toward her.
Crystal was carrying a huge purse, and she was balancing the roll of butcher paper over her shoulder. Her back was to him, and she was whistling “Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah” in a strong militant tone. His lips twitched. She was making the zippy tune sound like a cross between a battle call and a funeral dirge.
As he approached, she stopped whistling and froze.
Marc put a hand on her shoulder. “Hi, Cris—”
Dropping her purse, Crystal spun around. Her roll of butcher paper smacked him painfully across the face. Staggering, Marc put a stunned hand to his cheek.
Blinking rapidly, Crystal lowered the butcher paper. “Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry.”
She rushed to his side. Her roll of paper slammed into his stomach. Marc doubled over and slumped to one knee.
“Oh, no,” Crystal exclaimed, dropping the butcher paper—right on his foot.
As he yelped, Crystal once again sprang forward. This time, her foot became tangled in the strap of her purse. Marc ducked as the contents of her giant bag rocketed toward him. He fell on his backside as something resembling an eggbeater hit his temple. Before he could look at the object more closely, Crystal whirled her arms like a windmill, stumbled forward, and fell onto his lap like a pile of bricks. Her forehead hit his chin with enough force that he bit his tongue.
“Are you OK, Cris?” he asked, feeling like he’d just survived a hurricane.
As he watched, Crystal went completely motionless. Her face turned pasty white. After a moment, she slid off his lap and took a deep, shuddering breath. Raising her eyes to his, she said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
His lips twitched. What was left of Crystal’s wind-damaged bun had come undone, and her glasses were hanging by one ear. He manfully choked down a laugh.
“No need to apologize. It was my fault. I startled you. Why’d you bring the butcher paper?”
“Doodling helps me think.”
“That’s one big doodle pad.”
“The bigger the better.” Crystal settled her glasses back onto her nose and rummaged around her purse’s debris until she found a rubber band. After using it to tie her hair into a messy ponytail, she began tossing her belongings back in her bag. Marc knelt beside her to help.
At first, he wasn’t paying attention to what was going in her purse but then the oddity of Crystal’s belongs registered. He’d already put in a frog-shaped beanbag and several toy cars. Soon, he was adding a bunch of mismatched silverware. He scratched his head.
Who carries silverware in their purse?
As he watched, Crystal stuck in bug spray and a bottle of bubble solution. He added a pink-haired troll doll, a harmonica, and several chopsticks.
More things went into the enormous bag. He was amazed at what it held: an air horn, a tiny fire extinguisher, screwdrivers, a roll of duct tape, an Italian-to-Chinese dictionary, a road flare…
As each item went into the bag, it became more difficult for him to swallow his laughter. Looking down, he picked up an elegant pair of opera-length gloves. As he held them dangling in his hands, his lips twitched. Crystal looked at his face and snatched the gloves away, plunging them inside her purse. He started to make a comment, but her face was so red that he kept silent.
Standing, he looked around and spotted one more item. Changing a laugh into a cough, he picked up the rotary eggbeater and passed it to Crystal. She tossed it in her purse and slung her bag over her shoulder without bothering to zip it shut.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
“Don’t mention it.” He picked up the butcher paper. “Do you want me to carry this?”
“No. I have it,” she said, grabbing it from his hands and moving toward the building.
Marc politely opened the fateful door that had trapped her hair. As she scuttled past, she stepped on his instep and the butcher paper whacked his face. Checking his nose to see if it was bleeding, Marc felt his good-natured bubble of laughter slowly dying. He was beginning to think that being around Crystal would be good training for a Navy SEAL.
Crystal stood uncomfortably on the landing.
He motioned her politely toward the stairs. “Ladies first.”
She shook her head. “You go.”
Knowing she wasn’t budging, he started down the stairs. It didn’t surprise him when he heard a thud and knew she was falling behind him. Spinning around, he caught her. The heavy roll of paper bounced off his thigh and cartwheeled down the stairs. Her purse fell as well, and he watched resignedly as her belongs bounced their way to the basement. The silverware lent a particularly musical tone to the cacophony of noise.
Crystal’s face was so red that it almost looked purple. Marc set her on the stairs and tossed her things back in her purse. When he had the bag repacked, he helped her to her feet. He didn’t ask if he could take the roll of paper—he just took it. He figured he’d been hit with it enough for one day.
As they walked toward TEMCO’s temporary headquarters, he noticed she was limping. “Did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m fine. It’s not my ankle—the heel of my shoe broke.”
“Well,” he said in a hearty voice, “you have another pair of shoes waiting for you in the classroom.” As she glanced at him, he smiled. “I found your shoes after your accident yesterday. Who knew that getting trapped by your hair would be a blessing?”
Crystal’s face drained of color. She stumbled and fell against the wall. When he reached out to support her, she stepped away from his hand and said in a lifeless voice, “There’s a bright side to everything.”
Marc winced as she stumbled again. She seriously needed someone to teach her how to walk—maybe a modeling school where books were stacked on a person’s head. Marc took in her appearance. She was wearing an ugly, green sweater that was three sizes too big. Her shoulders were hunched. Her hair was untidy. He grimaced. No self-respecting modeling school would accept her.
As if she heard his unspoken thoughts, Crystal put a hand to her messy hair. “If you’ll take the paper to the room, I’ll be there shortly. I’m going to step into the ladies room. Thanks again for all your help.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Watching her limp to the restroom, Marc put a hand to his aching nose. His lips twitched. He’d never met anyone like Crystal Stuart, and that was probably a good thing. If there were two Crystals on campus, he doubted he’d survive the day. He’d probably be dead by noon.
~*~
Entering the Oval Office, Andrew sat down across from the president. “You wanted to see me privately?”
President Paul Freemar nodded. “Yesterday, I received some disturbing news. Our political opponents have been looking into your background. They’re hoping to find an indiscretion they can use to discredit you during the upcoming election.”
“Is that all? They won’t find anything,” Andrew said confidently. “You know how I feel about the sanctity of marriage. When I marry, I’m going to my wife pure. I haven’t had any affairs.”
The president leaned forward. “That’s the problem.”
“Pardon me?” Andrew blinked. “I don’t follow.”
“We learned yesterday that our opponents are planning a new ad campaign. The commercials will insinuate that you’re a homosexual lying about his sexual orientation.”
Andrew sprang from his chair. “They can’t do that. There’s absolutely no truth to that allegation.”
“I know, but it doesn’t matter,” Paul replied. “Sit down.”
“But—”
“Sit down, Andy.”
Dropping into a chair, Andrew tugged at his necktie.
Paul cleared his throat. “Taken alone, a rumor about homosexuality probably wouldn’t hurt our reelection—it might actually help in some circles. However, this is you we’re discussing. Coupling this rumor with the way you’ve been promoting traditional marital values will kill our campaign. Since you took office, you’ve been actively promoting abstinence until marriage. I’ve lost count of the number of abstinence speeches you’ve given to students. You’ve also made it clear that you believe marriage belongs between a man and a woman. A rumor implying that you’re not only sexually active but that you’re having sexual relations with another man, will paint you as a complete hypocrite. Hypocrisy is something the public cannot stand. We were elected because we promised to be honest. The public will turn on us if they feel we’ve broken that promise.”
“But surely,” Andrew protested, “given my public stand on abstinence, no one would believe—”
“We can’t take that chance.” Paul stood to his feet. “Even though it’s untrue, once a rumor starts, it’s hard to stop. People believe where there’s smoke—there’s fire. And let’s face it, you haven’t been seeing many women since we took office. In fact, I could hazard to say that you haven’t been dating at all.”
Andrew snorted. “You know what our schedules are like. When have I had time?”
“I know, Andy,” Paul said quietly. “But our opponents are going to insinuate that it’s more than a busy schedule keeping you from dating. If the ads go public, the nation will think you’re a lying, holier-than-thou hypocrite. That’s something they won’t overlook.”
Andrew winced.
Paul put a firm hand on his shoulder. “The new polls came out, and we’re holding steady at an 84 percent approval rating. Our opponents are planning to lie about you because they know they can’t beat us any other way.”
“So what do you propose we do?” Andrew asked, feeling slightly sick.
Paul sat down. “We can get ahead of the rumors in a very simple way. You need to start dating, and you need to start dating very publically.”
Andrew shook his head. “I don’t have time to find a girlfriend.”
Paul handed him a stack of folders. “That’s why my staff has found some prospective women for you.”
Andrew stared at the folders in disbelief. Attached to each one was a photo. “You have to be kidding. You’re setting me up on blind dates? That’ll never work. The public will never buy it.”
“Actually, they will. You’ve met each of these women, and it would be quite plausible that you would call any of them for a date. For example, looking at the first three files, Charlene is the teacher who gave you a tour of her elementary school, Liz is the ecologist who briefed us about that environmental issue with the EPA, and Sandra is the staffer who brings you coffee. You have a tenuous connection with every woman in the pile.”
“Paul, you know I won’t date a woman who isn’t a Christian.”
“Don’t worry. They’re all fine Christian ladies.”
Andrew looked at the files in concern.
“For Pete’s sake, Andy. I’m not asking you to get married.”
“But—”
Paul made an impatient sound. “All you have to do is look at the files, choose a woman, and then pick up the phone. Go to dinner. Relax a little. Have some fun. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Are you saying I’m a dull boy?”
Paul smiled. “Let’s just say you’re working too hard. There’s more to life than budget cuts and education reforms.” He pointed at the files. “Give it a chance.”
“You’ve thought about everything, haven’t you?” Andrew tugged his collar. “But have you considered how embarrassing it will be for me to date in the public eye—especially when I’m a bit out of practice? Reporters are going to scrutinize my every move.”
Paul stood to his feet. “A necessary evil. The only way to get ahead of the rumors is to act quickly. I hear you’ve been named America’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”
Andrew winced. “I didn’t ask for that silly title, and I don’t want it.”
“Maybe not, but the timing couldn’t be better. We’ll capitalize on the publicity. The nation will be dying to see which lucky lady snaps you up.”
“But—”
“No more arguing,” Paul said firmly. “Consider dating to be your civic duty. It’ll raise the morale of our nation’s women to know that a handsome fella like you is finally on the prowl. Use the women in the files to get the ball rolling. I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding your own dates once you get back into the swing of things.”
Time Search (The Time Counselor Chronicles Book 3) Page 5
