Kindred Spirits

by Beth Ciotta

  Tires screeched. A car hurtled into the driveway, racing straight for him.

  He didn’t have time to react as it squealed to a halt, the steel grille two inches from his nose. The radiator belched scalding hot air into his face.

  His second near-death mishap of the day.

  His heightened senses reeled. December. It was December. So why did it feel and smell like a midsummer day?

  A car door slammed. “That’s the last time I let you drive my Ford.”

  Where the hell was Bookman?

  A second door slammed. “I was distracted. Is it my fault Raul prunes the roses shirtless?”

  Rufus leaned forward to peek around the car. A broad-shouldered gardener, naked to the waist, tended the giant rosebushes at one corner of the house. In December. An eighty-degree day in December. Rufus swiped a hand across his sweating brow, stopping mid-gesture when a very familiar woman stepped into his line of vision.

  Isadora Van Buren.

  What was she doing out of the house?

  He fell back on his elbows and blinked up at the skinny-as-a-rail flapper. If she turned sideways, she’d disappear. “Turn sideways,” he said.

  Grinning, she whipped off her tortoiseshell sunglasses and gave him a lazy once-over. “Anything for you, dollface.” She pivoted and thrust out her nonexistent breasts. She didn’t disappear. “As it happens, I’m free for dinner.”

  Rufus groaned.

  “You nearly killed the man, Izzy. At least, apologize before making eyes at him.” The passenger stepped around the car and offered him a hand up.

  He squinted against the sun as he accepted the hand. A tingling sensation shot from his fingers to his shoulder. He hoped it wasn’t a nerve injury. Standing on shaky legs, he raised his gaze and found himself face to face with Grace LaRue.

  Or her twin. Everyone has a twin, he thought. So what?

  A chill shivered down his spine.

  She released his hand and shook out her own. Had his grip been too tight?

  He stared at her in awe. Maybe he hadn’t survived the fall. Maybe this was some crazy interlude of his last thoughts as life slipped from his body. Or some funky comatose dream as he lay fallow in a hospital bed, nothing but bumps and blips beneath a sheet.

  Grace looked exactly as she had in the photograph. Compact body straining with energy, wild black curls tamed only by a pair of giant flight goggles perched atop her head. Eyes that pierced skin, bone, and marrow—and how deliciously blue. He could see that now—those eyes tearing him down, prying behind the pupils, peering into the dark corners.

  He shivered again. She looked twenty-three. Not one hundred and three.

  Had he died? Was he in heaven? No, Izzy wasn’t in heaven. That much he knew. Hell, then? It was hot enough, but he didn’t think so.

  Grace eyed him. “You look a little green, Ace.”

  “Let’s get him inside,” Izzy said. She hooked her arm through his.

  Contact. Flesh and bone. Jesus.

  “Why were you sitting on the lawn?” Grace asked him, eyes sharp as she waited for an answer.

  Izzy tugged him toward the portico. “Do you work with Raul?”

  The front door swung open. A skinny, gray-haired man in formal attire stood ironing-board stiff in the threshold. His eyes remained blank with indifference. “May I be of assistance, Miss Van Buren?”

  Rufus felt Izzy’s hand tighten its possessive grip on him.

  “Thank you, Lincoln,” she said. “Please set out fresh soap and linens in the downstairs lavatory for our guest.”

  Lincoln stepped aside, allowing them access to the grand foyer. “Certainly, Miss.”

  “And tell Mrs. Potts to set another place for dinner.”

  “You don’t waste time,” Grace said.

  Izzy smiled. “It’s the least I can do for almost running him over.”

  Lincoln didn’t raise an eyebrow. “I’ll ask Mrs. Potts to make a special dessert.” He strode ahead, then disappeared around the corner.

  Rufus’s temples pulsed. Lincoln? Mrs. Potts? Who were these people, and what were they doing in Marc’s house? He allowed Izzy to tug him toward the living room. At least, Bookman would be there, amid Daisy’s god-awful furniture. The professor would clear this up. He’d perform some ghost-busting ritual. Exorcise Izzy and her ghost pal, Grace. Or at least, Rufus thought, slap him out of this insane delusion.

  But Bookman wasn’t there. Neither was Daisy’s mismatched collection of vintage furnishings. Rufus stood mesmerized in the archway of the spacious living room. The eclectic décor included a scarlet velvet chaise, an indigo and scarlet tapestry armchair, mahogany end tables and armoire, and a huge round table draped with gold and scarlet silks. Vases of red and yellow roses accented the room along with Tiffany table lamps. An Austrian crystal chandelier dripped like melting ice from the vaulted ceiling. An intricate Oriental rug covered most of the marble floor. Decadent. Classy. Meticulously arranged.

  Grace passed a hand in front of his eyes. “Halloooo?” She frowned. “I think he’s in shock. Get a cool cloth, Izzy.”

  “I’ll get something better.” Izzy eased him onto the plush chaise, then hurried to the double-doored armoire. Grace sat in the chair next to him.

  He stared at the spiral staircase. The staircase that led to the second floor. The floor that led to the west tower. Ghosts. Angels. Reincarnation. “I suspect you’re connected. I think your relationship is rooted in the past.” Bookman had filled his head with a bunch of mystical mumbo jumbo.

  He’d fallen. He’d cracked his melon. End of story.

  He pinched himself. Nothing happened.

  Izzy returned with a silver flask. “Drink this.”

  He pinched her.

  She giggled. “My kind of man.”

  Grace pinched him. “Hands off.”

  His arm throbbed. Okay. Not dreaming. Think, man, think. He eyed the black rotary phone, the pre-deco furnishings, Izzy’s shapeless dress, turbanlike hat, and rolled stockings. It was as if he’d wandered onto the set of The Great Gatsby. He didn’t want to ask, cringed to voice the thought, but he had to know. “What year is this?”

  Grace folded her arms, those blue eyes needling in. “You’re kidding.”

  “1923,” Izzy said. She felt his brow, then ran her fingers through his hair. “Did I wing you with Grace’s Ford? Do you have amnesia?” She giggled. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “No,” Grace said.

  1923. Perfect. This was all Bookman’s fault. All that Twilight Zone gibberish. All right. He’d go with it. For now. So what did that mean? He’d time traveled? He reached for the flask and drank. He winced and choked. “What the hell is this?”

  “Good stuff, huh?” Izzy winked. “Mick stocks the best hooch in town.”

  He grimaced, then downed another swig.

  “Grace can vouch. She and Mick—”

  “May I talk to you?” Grace said to Izzy.

  “What?”

  Grace inclined her head and started for the far side of the room. “Over there.”

  Izzy looked hesitant, her hungry eyes on Rufus.

  “Please. Go.” He waved her away. Keep going.

  Rufus watched Grace. There was something about her confident swagger, the tomboy sway of her hips. Would she bring her aggressive tendencies to bed? He shook his head, capped the flask, then set it aside. Don’t mess with the dead. That’s what had landed him here in the first place.

  If he was going with this time-travel scenario, the first thing to do was figure out how to get back. He thought about the movies he’d seen and ticked off possibilities. I don’t have Back to the Future’s DeLorean. No Mr. Peabody. No Time Machine. He reached into his pocket and dug out a handful of change, picking out the newest coins. He stared hard
at the twenty-first century pennies and nickels, waiting to be whisked ahead to modern times.

  Nothing.

  Wait. What about a portal?

  The window. Of course!

  He jumped to his feet, coins flying and scattering across the floor as he sprinted for the spiral staircase.

  Izzy squealed. Grace called out.

  He kept running. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Door. Door. There! He wrenched open the original west tower door, raced up five steps, across the room, and without hesitation, dove out the open window.

  For a moment he was free. He almost smiled as he sailed through the air. Until he felt the sharp, stabbing pain. Once again, he stared up into the sky. Izzy and Grace were leaning out the window. Izzy gasped. Grace grinned. Then they disappeared.

  Well, the portal was a bust. One could say the hedges had cushioned his fall, except for the tiny pointed twigs jabbing his skin. But then, he could’ve broken his neck.

  Raul glanced over, then moved to the side of the house.

  Grace and Izzy barreled out of the mansion.

  “You’re nuts!” Izzy said, clapping. She looked as though she might ask him to do it again.

  He finagled himself from the bushes and brushed himself off. “Maybe.”

  Grace’s eyes sparked as Izzy plucked a leafy twig from his hair. “Who are you?”

  He rolled his eyes. Great. The burning question. What had Kathleen Turner done? As Peggy Sue, she’d relived high school with middle-aged knowledge and still ended up marrying her slouch of a husband. Bill and Ted, in their so-called “excellent adventure,” had kidnapped prominent historical figures. Christopher Reeve? He’d worn a ridiculous period outfit and run around like a weenie because he was all gaga for Jane Seymour in a giant hair bun.

  No way.

  Michael J. Fox? He’d tried not to interfere with the past while he found his way home. Hmm . . . But how the hell was he supposed to do that? At least, Mike had had Doc and the DeLorean.

  Damn. He didn’t want to think it. Cringed to think it. But knew he had to do it. He needed to stick around Laguna Vista. His only link to his own time.

  Izzy elbowed Grace. “He doesn’t know. I was right!” she squealed with glee. “He has amnesia.”

  Grace rolled her eyes, then wiggled her fingers at Rufus. “Give me your wallet.”

  He tensed. Leave it to this one to go for the jugular. His name would be in his wallet. Driver’s license. Credit cards. Except they didn’t have credit cards in the twenties, did they? Credit cards with expiration dates. Holy—

  “Are you paralyzed, too?” Grace asked.

  “I’ll help!” Izzy reached for the front pocket of his pants.

  He sidestepped her eager fingers, not wanting her anywhere near his package. Again. “I’ll do it.” He searched his trousers, then his jacket, wondering how he’d explain the birth date on his license.

  No wallet. What the hell?

  “Lost your memory and your wallet?” Grace smirked. “It’s like that radio drama you auditioned for, Izzy.”

  A vintage car tooled up the drive, saving Rufus from an interrogation. Unlike Izzy, Grace hadn’t recently fallen off the turnip truck.

  The driver hopped out and strode across the lawn. A handsome young man with sun-bleached hair and dancing blue eyes.

  James Van Buren.

  That cinches it, Rufus thought. I’m not in Kansas anymore.

  James wedged himself between the two women, grinning as he gestured to Rufus and his leaf-strewn hair. “So. Who’s Julius Caesar?”

  RUFUS STARED AT the antique fixtures of the bathroom sink. No, not antique. Brand-new. Everything in Laguna Vista was brand-new. The finishing touches on the bay-front estate had been completed two months ago. According to the butler, Lincoln, it was June 2, 1923.

  He turned on the cold-water spigot and stuck his head under the faucet. Ice-cold water sluiced over his neck and hair, cooling him but not waking him to a more palatable reality.

  He was stuck in frigging 1923.

  With Isadora Van Buren.

  His stomach churned. His head rang. No, wait. Not his head. His phone.

  He jerked upright. The back of his head banged against the faucet. “Dammit!” Seeing stars, he fumbled for his jacket, hooked over the cut-glass doorknob, and rifled his pockets. He didn’t know how his phone worked. Didn’t care. It meant someone with his private number could reach him. He hoped it wasn’t his mother. She’d flipped when he told her he’d bought his own plane. How would she react to learning he’d taken a detour into the Roaring Twenties? She’d tell him to get off the drugs.

  He steadied his breathing, flipped open his cell. “Sinclair.”

  “Where the devil are you?”

  “Professor?” Rufus sank down on the toilet seat, relieved it wasn’t his mother calling, annoyed that it was Bookman. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Are you all right? I ran downstairs to make sure you hadn’t broken your neck, and all I found was your wallet.”

  One mystery solved. “Must have slipped out of my pocket when I fell.” Good thing. Saved him from trying to explain color photos and magnetic strips. Not to mention dates. He had the feeling Izzy would swallow whatever bull he shoveled. Not so with Grace.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “What bathroom?”

  “The downstairs bathroom.”

  “Laguna Vista’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wait.”

  Rufus heard doors slam and size-twelve Hush Puppies limping down the hall. He dragged a trembling hand through his wet hair. Maybe it had been a bad dream. Maybe the cool water had revived him. He stared hard at the door, waiting for it to creak open. Waiting for Bookman.

  He heard the creak. Heard Bookman’s labored breathing. “Okay, Sinclair. I’m in the bathroom.” Heard shower curtain rings screech. “You’re not.”

  He stared at the door that hadn’t opened. “Yes, I am. I’m sitting on the john. There’s a sink to my left. Claw-footed tub to my right. No shower. Guess that was added later.”

  “Later?”

  “Professor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m in the past.”

  “What?”

  “When I fell off the roof, I must have fallen through some sort of wormhole or portal or something. There was a whirlwind—”

  “Whirlwind?”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “No. But I felt something. One of those winds kicked up and knocked me on my keister. I stood, and you were gone. Looked over the edge and . . . when you say past—”

  “1923. I’m in Laguna Vista, sitting in the same room you’re standing in, only it’s June 2, 1923.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “Am I laughing?”

  Pause. “Interesting.”

  Rufus sighed. “Not interesting, Professor. Freaky. Whacked. Unacceptable.”

  “What makes you think it’s 1923?”

  “Izzy told me. After she and Grace hauled me into the house. After she almost ran me over. She’s a lousy driver. I’m surprised she wasn’t behind the wheel the night those three went over the bridge.”

  Pause. “You sure you’re all right?”

  Rufus slammed his hand to his thigh. “No, I’m not all right! Don’t women wear corsets in the twenties? I’m a T-shirt-no-bra kind of man!” Not that he’d seen evidence of a corset on either Izzy or Grace.

  “Don’t get hysterical.”

  “Hysterical? I’m in a house with a bunch of dead people!”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Are you all right?”

  James.

  Great. Rufus stood, swiped a towel from the
rack, draped it around his neck, then peeked out the door. “Yes. Fine. Thank you. I’ll be out shortly.” He forced a smile, shut the door, then listened until the footsteps faded. Moving back to the sink, he whispered into the phone. “Professor?”

  “Who was that?”

  “Your buddy, James. Another dead guy.”

  “Take a deep breath, Sinclair. Think. If it’s 1923, they’re not dead yet. They’re everyday people with everyday lives. You’re the oddity.”

  “So you believe me.”

  “I told you, I’m open-minded. Occupational hazard.”

  Rufus braced one hand on the sink and released a shaky breath. “How did this happen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do I get back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No ideas? No theories? For cryin’ out loud, Professor, I would’ve thought this kind of thing was right up your alley.”

  “Time travel isn’t my area of expertise.”

  “Well, make it your area! Make some calls. Do some research. Get me the hell out of here.”

  “The picture.”

  “What?”

  “The picture I showed you of Grace and . . . your twin. I thought we might be dealing with an ancestor, or even a shared soul, but now—”

  “I am not the guy in the picture!”

  “I have to go. I need to talk to James. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.” Chirp.

  Rufus stared at the phone. His only link to the future had just hung up on him. Heart pumping, he punched in Bookman’s cell number.

  “Hello?”

  He wiped sweat from his brow. “How is it that we can communicate like this over several decades?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s impossible. But then, most people would say that about time travel. Speaking of which,” Bookman said, “you probably shouldn’t let on that you’re from the future. They might think you’re crazy.”

  Too late. “They think I have amnesia.”

  “Perfect. Play along. I’ll call you in a couple of hours.”

  “No. I’ll call you when I can talk. Wouldn’t want my ass to ring during dinner.”