by Beth Ciotta
Of all the rooms in this sprawling mansion, how had he ended up in the bad-luck boudoir?
When he’d finished his bathroom call with Bookman, he’d returned to the living room, where Grace looked pointedly at him and said, “Let Ace stay in the west tower. He already knows the way.” He’d ignored the comment, making note to pay more attention to his actions. In 1923, he’d never been inside Laguna Vista. He couldn’t know the rooms like the back of his hand. James had agreed with Grace, grumbling something about it being the farthest from the blue room.
Izzy had shrugged. “So long as my man is under Laguna Vista’s roof.”
“Speaking of which, it’s time for me to meet my special man.” Grace had winked to Izzy, then given Rufus a suave salute. “Later, Ace,” she’d said, then clunked her heavy boots out the front door.
Why did she keep calling him Ace? Although it was better than Julius Caesar. Way better. And who was her “special man”? The way Grace had winked at Izzy, it had sounded like a hot date. Which was where he should be. Tangled in sweaty sheets with Barbie, instead of sleeping alone in the haunted bedroom.
Pivoting on Jonas’s Oxfords, he glanced around the infamous west tower.
He’d only managed a glimpse through the dingy window when arguing with Izzy the Lusty Ghost. All he remembered were tarp-covered clumps and stained, bare walls. The 1923 bedroom popped with color, dimension, and light. Sunshine-yellow walls. Gleaming marble floors. Oriental rugs. An interesting mix of sharp-lined deco and elegantly carved dark wood furniture. Bright, velvet throw pillows—green, blue, yellow—were strewn across the wide bed and indigo velvet settee. The pillows and coordinating bedspread and drapes were all trimmed with braided gold tassels.
The result was cheery yet classy, finished off with the warm touches of splashy watercolor paintings and eclectic decorations. He especially liked the table lamp. Its bronze base resembled a tree trunk, and the shade was stained glass, with brightly colored leaves, oranges, and a butterfly raised to make it look 3-D. The lamp cast a soft golden glow over the entire room.
When James had shown him to the room, he’d told him that the remote west tower had been furnished with visiting dignitaries in mind. People with superior taste and mucho moola. People who needed privacy. The latter consideration had kept Rufus from demanding another room. He needed privacy and couldn’t keep going to the bathroom to get it. He’d excused himself twice during dinner, three times during cocktails and Cubans, until James had remarked on his weak bladder. The trips had been in vain, anyway. The professor had failed to answer any of his calls.
Frowning, he glanced at the clock on the bureau. Ten twenty-five. Six hours since he’d spoken to Bookman. Five minutes until Izzy’s promised return. He reached into the inner pocket of Jonas’s double-breasted jacket, plucked out his cell phone, and hit redial.
He tapped his foot while Bookman’s phone rang. And rang. He began to panic. What if he’d lost his connection to the future? What if he was stuck here forever?
“Hello?”
He sagged against the wall. “Where have you been?”
“You told me to become an expert on time travel. Izzy kept sabotaging my laptop. I had to leave the house.”
“You didn’t take your cell with you?”
“I did. It was on the entire time. You called?”
“Five times.”
“My phone didn’t ring once.”
“Except this time.” Rufus jammed his hand through his hair. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. But I was away from Laguna Vista for a good four hours. Now I’m back. Maybe I have to be in the house?”
“You’re asking me?” He crossed the room and sat on the bed for fear his legs would crumple with relief. Having contact with Bookman brought some sense of normalcy to his bizarre situation. It let him know the future was still out there, somewhere. “So what did you find out?”
“There may be a hole in our portal theory. That whirlwind . . .”
“Yeah?”
“It might have been Mr. Newborne.”
“The angel?”
“The same. According to James, when Newborne appeared last month to collect Jonas, he arrived as a colorful whirlwind.”
Rufus massaged his temples. “Again with James.”
“I’m working with what I’ve got,” Bookman said, sounding irritated.
“Sorry. Go on.”
“The obvious conclusion is that this angel, Mr. Newborne, blew you back to 1923.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not. Everything is up for speculation.”
“Still clinging to your past-life theory?” He snorted. “Give it up, Professor. I am not that drifter reincarnated.”
“Maybe not. But you are a drifter.”
“Who was he, anyway?”
“Nobody knows. He came out of nowhere.”
Bookman’s insinuation poked hard at his already clenched gut. Rolling back tense shoulders, Rufus focused on the odd-looking lampshade. The butterfly. Free. Soaring. “I’m not a drifter. Izzy planted the amnesia seed, not me.”
“Regardless, you’re in 1923, and no one knows who you are. Technically, neither do you.”
Maybe if he wished hard enough, he’d turn into that butterfly. Then he could fly away. Stranger things had happened—obviously. “Listen to what I am saying. I am not the man in the picture. I am not Izzy’s lover reincarnated or whatever the hell it is you’re thinking.”
“I didn’t say you were Izzy’s lover.” He paused. “Though—”
“Forget it. Let’s talk angels. If this Newborne sent me back in time, why?”
“I assume it would have something to do with helping Izzy cross over.”
“Great. An angel with an agenda. Sounds like a cable show.”
“Since we’re exploring the inconceivable, do you want to know what I learned about time travel?”
Rufus flopped onto his back and threw his left arm over his eyes. “Hit me.”
“There are several theories. I’ll cover the three that strike me as most reasonable. Theory One—Fate. Travel back in time to save someone’s life, only to find out that death is unavoidable. Or, worse, you were the cause of that death in the first place.”
“I can’t imagine I was responsible for the Van Burens’ deaths, since I wasn’t alive in 1928. Not to mention, that’s five years from now. But what do I know? Next.”
Bookman cleared his throat. “Theory Two—Alternate Universe. Travel back in time to save someone’s life, succeed, then return to your own time to find nothing has changed. You succeeded only in changing an alternate reality.”
Rufus massaged his temples. “So what? I’m supposed to warn Jonas, Isadora, and James? Change fate? Let them live? That doesn’t make sense. Why would an angel need me to do that? Next.”
“Theory Three—Observer Effect. Travel back in time to change history, succeed, but only you, the time traveler, can differentiate between the reality left behind and the new reality.”
He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. “So which is it, Professor?”
“I don’t know. It might not be any of them. If there is indeed an angel in the mix, then these theories might not apply.”
“Great.”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“Play it by ear.”
Rufus felt numb. Not creeped out or freaked out. Just plain numb. “So I’m stuck here until this angel person, Mr. Newborne, decides I’ve done whatever he wants me to do and sends me back home?”
“Theory Four.”
“I’d rather have Mike Fox’s DeLorean,” he mumbled. “Eighty-eight miles per hour. Lightning. It was all so simple.”
“You’ve probably alr
eady thought of it, Sinclair, but keep your cell phone off unless you need me. You have no way to recharge it.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll try to get more information from James.”
“Great.”
“Oh. Marcus called.”
“From Egypt? In the middle of his honeymoon?” He tensed. Was Marc hurt? Was Daisy hurt? Had the company stock taken a sudden nosedive?
“Daisy woke in the night. She dreamed that Jonas crossed over.”
Rufus sighed. Just what he needed. More creepy nonsense. For some cosmic reason (a reason he had no interest in understanding), Daisy and Jonas seemed to be psychically connected. He’d been under the impression, however, that proximity determined the intensity of the link, so Daisy’s dream was probably just that—a dream—and had nothing to do with reality. Still . . .
“Did he?”
“No. But you know Daisy. She encouraged Marcus to check in, just in case.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To relax and enjoy his honeymoon. He still pressed for an update, so I told him that we’re on to something with Izzy.”
“We? Tell me you didn’t tell Marc that I time-traveled.”
“I didn’t see the point. He wouldn’t believe me.”
“What sane person would? So what did you tell him?”
“I told him that you were investigating a specific period in Isadora’s life. That you’d holed up for the weekend, no calls, no distractions, hoping to solve the mystery that would help her to cross over.”
“And knowing how eager I am to boot Izzy out of Laguna Vista and our lives, he didn’t question you.” Rufus raised an eyebrow. “He did try to reach me, didn’t he?” It irked him to think that Marc had called Bookman first to discuss a potential problem. He didn’t care that it was ghost business. Bottom line, he was Marc’s personal assistant. His right hand. His number one problem-solver. He was always Marc’s first call. Although . . . Marc did seem to call him less and less frequently these days. Rufus thought back to Marc’s recent shopping excursion and frowned.
“He tried you at home and on your cell,” Bookman said. “He couldn’t get through. I had to tell him something.”
Rufus smiled. He had been Marc’s first call. The relief was strong . . . and unsettling. Since when had he become dependent on Marc for a sense of security? It was supposed to be the other way around.
“Sinclair? Hello? Helloooo? You still there?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry. What?”
“I said I had to tell Marcus something.”
“So you told him the truth minus the time-travel bit. Something vague and sensible. Good thinking, Professor.” Rufus had been taking care of himself and his family since he was twelve years old. He was innovative, smart, capable, and confident. He was not insecure. So what if Marc no longer needed him? Someone else would. Someone else always did.
“Are you all right?” Bookman asked.
“I’m stuck in 1923.”
“Yes, well, we’re working on that.” Bookman paused, as if racking his big ivy-league brain for words of comfort. “I should get back to my research,” he finally offered. “Goodbye, Sinclair. Good luck.”
Rufus flipped the phone closed. He refused to say goodbye. It sounded too . . . final. He shut down the power, slid the cell in between the mattress and box spring, then rose and walked to the window. He stared out at the moonlit grounds. What was with his sudden obsession over job security? As if he needed another worry. He’d been ditched in 1923 by an angel on a power trip. Wasn’t that enough?
“Focus on Izzy,” he told himself. “Help her to right her wrong. Help her to cross over. Then Newborne will whip up one of those magical whirlwinds and suck you back to your own time.” He repeated the words like a mantra. Help her to right her wrong. Whatever that was.
Two big round lights splashed over the lawn as Lincoln brought the Pierce-Arrow around from the four-stall garage. A reminder of the night yet to come.
He didn’t want to go out.
He didn’t want to lose any chance of returning home.
He didn’t want to hobnob with the dead elite.
A knock at the door. “Are you ready, sugar lips?”
Izzy. No way was he inviting her in.
Help her to right her wrong. No way was he going to ignore her.
Sucking it up, he turned and checked his image in the giant wall mirror. He finger-combed his dark hair straight back, à la F. Scott Fitzgerald, then tugged the wrinkles out of his—Jonas’s—jacket. He had to admit it was one helluva suit. A pinstriped, double-breasted, chocolate-brown jacket with matching vest and trousers. Cream shirt. Wide brown tie dotted with ivory geometric shapes. Classic. Timeless.
Creepy. Jonas’s clothes fit perfectly.
He did look good, though.
He opened the door only enough to slip out and close it behind him. This forced him to bump against Izzy, who giggled and ran her hand down his chest. “Maybe we should stay home.”
She was dressed to kill. He didn’t know where the hell she was taking him, but the provocative gown screamed trouble. “Maybe you should go, and I’ll stay home. I’m not feeling well.”
“If you’re not going, I’m not going.” She eyed him in his fancy new duds.
“Fine. Let’s go.” What the hell. “Play it by ear.”
He hurried down the steps and out into the night. James was smoking a cigarette, one foot on the running board. Dressed in a gangster-like tuxedo, he resembled a young Robert Redford in The Sting. Which made Rufus think of gambling. He looked east. No casino towers. No blinking signs. No spotlit billboards advertising The Best Slots In Town! No nothing.
Where were they going? Private party? Midnight movie? Speakeasy? What did people do for late-night fun in 1923?
Golden light sliced from the house onto the driveway as Izzy clicked toward them on round-toed pumps. James slid him a cocky grin. “So here’s the thing, old man. So far today you’ve been called Julius, Ace, sugar lips, and dollface.”
“Not to mention ‘old man.’” He slid his hands into his pockets. Since when was thirty-two old? Although to a fresh-faced college kid, he probably did look on the downside of middle age. That thought was almost as depressing as being stranded in the wrong century.
Izzy smiled. “Just an expression, sweet cheeks.”
James palmed his hand over his pomade-slicked hair. “I’m not calling you sugar lips, dollface, or any other endearment. Izzy likes Julius. Grace likes Ace.” He looked at his sister. “Hey, that rhymes. Grace and Ace. Has a swell ring. They sound like a team.”
She frowned. “No, they don’t.”
“Ace is fine,” Rufus said. Although Julius was closer to his real name, he liked the sound of Ace. Or maybe he just liked the sound of Ace when it rolled off Grace’s tongue. He definitely liked the sound of Grace’s voice. Husky, direct. Unlike Izzy who’d rambled all through cocktails about frivolous pastimes like Mah-jongg and dance marathons.
Screeching tires turned their heads as that damned Ford cut the corner and gunned up the drive.
“And she criticizes my driving,” Izzy said.
The Ford Model-T jerked to a stop behind the Pierce-Arrow. Grace jumped out, slammed the door, then clunked up the lighted drive in those heavy boots. Her arms and legs chugged like the hooves of a small bull on the charge. She was wearing the same wilted trousers and button-down shirt, her hair still mashed from her ever-present flight goggles. According to Izzy, she owned a farm fifteen miles west. He wondered, not for the first time, if that’s where she’d met her “special man.” Actually, he’d spent the entire evening wondering about her, much to his annoyance. The only person—a daredevil stunt flyer—he was even remotely interested in talking to, and she’d left him alone with the v
apid Van Burens. Despite her truculent attitude, he’d bet they at least spoke some of the same language, meaning planes.
She surveyed their evening wear and frowned. “I don’t suppose you’d consider Purgatory.”
“Don’t be silly.” Izzy looped her arm through his. “My man deserves the best.”
Rufus didn’t like the sound of Purgatory. He didn’t like the look on Grace’s face, either, when she unwrapped the white silk scarf looped around her neck and stalked up to him.
“Fine,” she said. “But we’re not taking any chances.”
He smelled the heat and sweat in her spiral curls as she reached up to blindfold him with her scarf. He expected the heavy perfume of sex—musky, hot, dirty—from an afternoon romp. Instead he inhaled the clean, honest scent of summer. He couldn’t move as she tied a knot at the back of his head. Something about her—so un-self-conscious, so natural. There was something animalistic about Grace. Something primal and instinctive. “I might enjoy this under different circumstances.”
“Keep it in your pants, Ace,” she said.
She was priceless. The one appealing aspect in this unappealing situation. He lifted the blindfold. “So, what is this?”
Izzy took his arm. “Trust me, you’re going to love it.” She pulled his blindfold back down and steered him toward the car.
Why was he going along with this?
He knew the Van Burens wouldn’t hurt him (although, if dinner was any indication, they might well bore him to death), and he had to admit, he was curious to see what demanded a blindfold. But maybe this wasn’t a good idea. What if he couldn’t get back to the house? What if leaving Laguna Vista altered whatever dynamics figured into transporting him home to the future?
“I’m not equipped for a night out. I have no money. No—”
“Balderdash,” Izzy said. “James will take care of everything.”
Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was Izzy’s potent cocktails. Or Bookman’s suggestion to play it by ear. He suddenly lacked the energy to argue.
