by Tamara Gill
He misinterpreted her hesitation. “Oh, I forgot. Kathy Monroe doesn't pump gas. Never mind, I'll just put it on my card.” He was out of the car before she could respond and Catherine sat there, feeling rather foolish, but not knowing what she could have done differently. There was so very much she still didn't know!
Logan paid at the pump and pumped the gas, still struggling with his conflicting emotions as he restarted the engine and pulled out of the service station. It was obvious that Kathy and Annette had set up this “date” in advance, but why? Kathy had never given him the slightest hint before that she was romantically interested in him. But she seemed different tonight, just as she had at the mall a few days ago. That eager innocence could all be an act, he supposed, but again—why? Could she be feeling the same strange tug of attraction that he did?
“Well, we're back,” he said unnecessarily as he pulled the car to a stop before the broad front steps of the Monroe house. “Um, thanks for coming tonight.” He felt a sudden urge to prolong the moment. She'd get out of the car any second now and the evening would be over—and he wasn't ready for it to end just yet.
“Thank you for taking me, Logan,” she replied. “I don't know when I've enjoyed anything so much.”
She made no move to leave, Logan noticed. Was she waiting for him to come around and open the door for her? Kathy had snapped at him more than once in the past for doing that, saying she wanted to be treated as an equal. But now he recalled that at the mall, and again tonight, she'd allowed him to hold doors for her. The change he noticed in her was more than imaginary, then.
“I enjoyed it too, Kathy—more than I expected to.” Tentatively, he reached out and touched her arm and felt something—a current, a bond—leap between them. She half turned, her eyes questioning, and suddenly he no longer saw her as a little sister, but as a woman. “Kathy, I—”
The rest of whatever he would have said was lost as she swayed slightly toward him and his arms went around her without conscious thought. He lowered his lips to hers and the bond between them crackled into life, twining them together.
She responded at once, but timidly, inexpertly, though he knew Kathy was no novice—she'd made that brutally clear to him during their flare-up at her college. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn he held a different woman in his arms. Abruptly, more for his own sake than hers, he released her.
Catherine sat back quickly, a sigh that was almost a gasp escaping her trembling lips. What must he think of her? She had . . . had encouraged him to kiss her! She was glad the darkness hid the deep blush she could feel staining her cheeks.
“I'm sorry,” said Logan after a moment. “I shouldn't have done that. I . . . I don't know what got into me. Let's forget it, okay?”
“If . . . if that is what you wish,” replied Catherine shakily. She had felt a current humming between them, but wasn't sure if Logan had. She was ready to die of embarrassment.
“Look, Kathy, I really am sorry. It's just we hadn't seen each other in so long and . . . Will you accept my apology?” His look was almost pleading.
Catherine thought she was the one who had behaved wantonly, but he apparently didn't see it that way. A surge of relief swept through her. “Of course, Logan,” she said softly, afraid that her voice might give away her feelings. “We won't mention it again.”
“Are we still on for tomorrow?” Logan asked as they climbed the front steps, his smile so appealing that Catherine was tempted to throw herself back into his arms.
“Why shouldn't we be?” she managed to reply lightly. His smile broadened and he opened the door. “All right, then. Good night, Kathy.”
She watched his broad back wistfully as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. If only she dared tell him who she really was! They had agreed to forget what had happened in the car, and Catherine resolved to do her best, but there was a problem. She didn't want to forget.
The memory of Logan's kiss warmed her as she finally drifted off to sleep.
***
CHAPTER NINE
When Logan came downstairs for breakfast the next morning, he found Kathy in the living room switching through the channels on the TV. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked from the doorway.
She dropped the remote onto the coffee table as if it were hot. “No! No, I haven't,” she replied, avoiding his gaze.
Surely a polished sophisticate like Kathryn Monroe couldn't still be flustered by—or even remember—that kiss last night? Logan himself had been unable to forget it, but he doubted an experienced woman like Kathy would have similar trouble.
“No one was in the dining room when I came down,” she continued when Logan didn't speak, “so I thought I would wait until someone else was ready for breakfast. I . . . I didn't like to bother Alice for just me.”
Logan blinked, but only said, “Now I'm here. We don't have to feel guilty asking your high-paid housekeeper to cook for two of us, do we?”
Catherine looked at him uncertainly, not sure if he was teasing. She had been unprepared for the feelings, stronger than ever, that surged through her at the sight of him, and struggled to maintain her composure. Her mother breezed in at that moment, sparing her the need to answer.
“Why is everyone in the living room instead of the dining room? I've asked Alice to fix us pancakes for a change, and they should be ready any minute. Is Annette up yet?”
“I haven't seen her, ma'am,” replied Catherine. The puzzled look from both of her companions made her belatedly realize she'd been “overly polite” again, despite Annette's reminders. “I'll go upstairs to find out, if you'd like.”
She stepped into the foyer in time to see Annette descending the stairs. “Do I smell pancakes?” she asked eagerly. “I'm starved!”
The conversation was light and general during the meal, with Annette and Mrs. Sykes-Monroe carrying the bulk of it. Logan left while the others were still eating, saying that he had to meet Mr. Monroe if they were to finish their business by four.
“I'll be back in time to change before the race,” he told Catherine on his way out the door. “You should probably wear grubbies tonight, since we'll be in the pit. Jeans and a T-shirt'll do—if you have any.”
“Grubbies?” echoed Mrs. Sykes-Monroe distastefully when he had gone. “What race? You told me that you were going out with Logan tonight, but you didn't say where.” Annette raised her eyes heavenward, Catherine noticed, but luckily her hostess didn't.
“We are going to a, ah, speedway, Mother,” she answered as calmly as she could, expecting a tirade like the one she had received from Annette last night.
Instead, Mrs. Sykes-Monroe merely said, “Oh? I didn't realize Logan was still racing—but I suppose it will be all right. I'm sure he wouldn't take you among undesirable people.”
Remembering what Logan had said on that point before, Catherine did not comment. “What should I wear for the luncheon today?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Oh, daytime-dressy, I think. There will be mostly older ladies there, and they like to see a young person looking nice.”
Some things never change. “What time will we be leaving?”
“Oh, not until eleven-thirty or so. And I promise to have you back in plenty of time to change into your 'grubbies.' “ Mrs. Sykes-Monroe shuddered delicately.
Annette followed Catherine upstairs to explain the mysteries of “daytime-dressy” and “grubbies” and to pick them out of Kathryn's wardrobe. There were two tailored dresses to choose from, either of which would be appropriate for the luncheon, but Annette despaired of Kathryn's sole pair of jeans.
“Not only are they one hundred dollar designer labels, but they look like she never even wore them,” she exclaimed. “Come to think of it, I can't remember ever seeing her in jeans at all, even in college, when everyone else practically lived in them. Well, try them on and let's hope they're not too tight!”
They were a bit snug, but after Catherine did a few deep knee bends, at Annette's direction, she coul
d sit down in them, though not easily. “I thought I had left corsets behind in 1825,” she said, laughing.
“Don't worry, it's not permanent. Once you've broken them in, there's nothing more comfortable,” Annette assured her. “Now, what about a T-shirt?” Some more rummaging brought to light an appropriately well-worn black shirt with Cats emblazoned across the front. With jeans, shirt and Kathryn's jogging shoes laid aside for later, Annette helped Catherine dress for the luncheon, though by this time she needed very little help.
“You catch on fast,” commented Annette as Catherine donned the blue-and-lavender dress without assistance and knotted a matching scarf around her throat. “You look as fashionable as Kathy ever did, in fact.”
“She has such a beautiful wardrobe, I can't imagine not being fashionable in it,” replied Catherine honestly. “And the clothes are so comfortable here. Except for new jeans, that is,” she admitted. “I hope Kathryn is managing with corsets and long skirts. And sidesaddles.”
“Well, I don't know about the sidesaddles, but she's probably in heaven with the clothes. She always loved costumes, and comfort never took precedence over fashion with her. She jogs and exercises a lot, too, to make sure she looks her best.”
“She enjoys exercise?” asked Catherine, suddenly intrigued by how little she knew about this person whose body she now inhabited. They looked so much alike that it was easy to forget that only her spirit had been transported through time. What was Kathryn doing in 1825 with her body? Somehow she hadn't thought to worry about it before.
“Kathy is a real go-getter,” Annette was saying. “Always into causes—Save the Snail Darter one week, Handicapped Albino Skydivers the next. She'd jump on one bandwagon, then get lured away by another one, usually before she had a chance to do any good. She used to try to drag me along, but I was too lazy. We sort of anchored each other.”
Catherine gave Annette a sympathetic smile, knowing that she was missing her friend again. But she couldn't say she was anxious to get back to 1825—not anymore. She toyed with the idea of telling Annette about that unexpected kiss last night and asking her advice, but decided against it. Logan had wanted to forget it, though she hadn't been able to.
“Perhaps Kathryn has found an outlet for her energies in my time,” she finally suggested. “She has likely found many things there she would like to change.”
Annette agreed with a laugh and they went down.
***
“It's not five yet, but what do you say we get an early start?” asked Logan with a glance at his wristwatch—a clever improvement over the pocket watch, Catherine thought—after they had finished an early dinner. Catherine had eaten little, for the luncheon had started late and she had consumed more there than was probably wise, especially considering the jeans she was now wearing.
“That would be fine,” she replied. “I'll run upstairs for a sweater. I won't be a moment.” True to her word, she was back in less than two minutes with Kathryn's lightweight white cardigan over her arm. “Ready when you are,” she said airily, mimicking an expression she had heard Annette use.
“You know, I've been wanting to try out a Porsche,” said Logan as they stepped outside. “What do you say we take your car?”
“My car?” Catherine almost squeaked.
“It hasn't been driven since you got here, has it? Oh.” He started to chuckle. “Don't worry, I'll drive—that's the whole point.”
“You mean you want to race in it?”
Now Logan looked incredulous. “Race it? Of course not. My racing buddy, Billy Clark, has got the car I'll be racing in. I just wanted to drive it to the track—if that's okay.”
“Ah, certainly,” replied Catherine with relief. Just for a moment there . . .
“Um—can I have the keys, then?” She froze. The keys? What keys? “Aren't they in your purse somewhere?” he prodded.
“Of . . . of course!” Catherine dug into the bag she carried, hoping he was right. He was. At the bottom was a ring of jingling keys. She pulled it out and offered it to him, hoping he would know which one was for the car.
He did, for he unlocked the passenger door and motioned her inside, went around to his own seat and fitted one of them into the keyhole by the wheel. “What a waste,” he remarked, glancing down. “There ought to be a law against building a Porsche with an automatic transmission—but I can't say I'm surprised you'd have one.”
Since she had no idea what he was talking about, Catherine examined the array of dials and indicators on the dashboard instead of answering while Logan started the engine. This time she didn't even have to brace herself for the roar.
“Will the car you will be racing travel more quickly than this one?” she asked once they were under way.
“Of course,” said Logan, taking his eyes off the traffic to glance at her in surprise. “I did some street legal racing when I was younger, but stock cars are specially made to go much faster than even sports models like this. And dragsters can go as fast as 250 miles per hour.”
“Two . . . my goodness!” Catherine gasped. Surely, that must be impossible!
“I know I've told you this stuff before—it sounds like you've blocked everything about racing out. Part of your therapy?”
“Therapy?”
“To shake your phobia. You mean you did it on your own? I'm impressed.” She didn't know what to say, but after a moment he continued. “We'll be stopping in a few minutes to check on my sportsman car. I left it with Billy so his mechanic could go over it before tonight. It should be fueled up and ready to go by now.”
When Catherine saw the car Logan would be racing, she realized no one could mistake it for the type normally driven on the streets. It was long, low and solid white, with huge tires and space for only the driver. In fact, the tires and steering wheel looked like the only things it had in common with the other automobiles Catherine had seen. The driver would sit in a sort of metal cage, which he would apparently have to climb into, since the car had no doors. The back end of the car was higher than the front and had transparent “fins” (as Logan called them) extending even higher, making it wedge-shaped.
Billy Clark was a friendly, stocky man with sandy hair and a mustache, perhaps a year or two older than Logan. He greeted them effusively on their arrival. “Good to see you again, Logan,” he exclaimed in obvious delight. “I told Charlotte, the track owner, you were coming, so don't be surprised if she makes a big deal over you. It's not often we get a big name at our little dirt track! “
“Big name? Me?” Logan seemed both amused and disbelieving.
“Shoot, yeah. Here, anyone who's ever NASCAR raced is a big name. For a while there, it looked like you had a shot at the Winston Cup.”
“Yeah, well, I was taking myself too seriously then. Now it's just a hobby. Kathy, meet Billy. This is Kathy Monroe. She's a mover and shaker in Washington, and also an actress—or should I say, aspiring actress?” He glanced at Catherine.
“Aspiring,” she said firmly.
“Aspiring, then. One day she may be a big name, who knows?” Billy seemed suitably impressed. “Well, we'd better get going. I'll follow you to the track. How are you getting your car there?”
“Joey took it down already. You ready?”
Catherine climbed back into the passenger seat, more eager than ever to see the race.
“He seems like a nice man,” she commented as they pulled back out onto the road.
“He is. Always willing to help people. That's probably why he decided to become a police officer. That's what he does when he's not tinkering with cars.”
They were leaving the downtown area now, and Logan began to drive faster. Delighted, Catherine watched trees and fence posts flash by. and then the car accelerated onto the freeway. Soon they were moving faster than the fastest racehorse and she exulted in the feel of it. She longed to ask Logan how fast they were going, but thought she had probably asked enough stupid questions for the time being. The scenery whipped past so quickly that
she was at first unable to focus on anything, but after a few minutes she found that if she picked an object far enough away or far enough ahead, she could watch it long enough to make out what it was.
Speed Limit 55 MPH, she was able to read on a black-and-white sign before it was behind them. That must be their rate of speed! Now she knew, and without having to ask, she thought smugly. She vowed to become more observant in general, to speed her adaptation to this century.
In keeping with this resolve, she began to watch Logan carefully from the comer of her eye. He seemed to be driving effortlessly, with only one hand on the steering wheel while he tuned in music from the panel in front of him with the other. Could she ever learn to drive like that? So easily, so . . . casually? She would ask Annette to teach her, she decided.
Logan seemed unable to find the music he wanted, flipping through different songs much the way she had been able to change the channels on the television with the remote. She presumed this music mechanism worked much the same way. When he paused at a soft instrumental tune, she broke their lengthening silence.
“This is pretty. Can we listen to this?”
He glanced at her with that small frown that told her she had surprised him again—she fleetingly wondered what sort of music Kathryn liked—and took his hand away from the panel, placing it back on the steering wheel. “Sure.”
“How far away is the racecourse?” she asked.
“It's in Gaston. We should be there in fifteen or twenty minutes. You're not regretting your decision already, are you?”
“Of course not. I was merely curious.” She fell silent for a few moments, working out how far away Gaston must be from Columbia given their rate of speed. The answer amazed her. That would have been half a day's carriage ride in her day, given the usual state of the roads.
Logan broke the silence next. “Kathy, maybe it's just me, and you can tell me to go to hell if you want, but you seem, ah, different somehow. Is it anything you'd like to talk about?”
