by Beth Ciotta
“What, are you paralyzed, too?”
He turned his face to find concern in Bookman’s eyes.
“What happened, Rufus?”
Pain and panic tore through him in equal measures.
He pushed off the Jeep and ran for the house. He needed to get to Izzy. He needed to know.
He wrenched open the front door and tore up the stairs. Bookman followed hot on his heels, shouting at him to calm down. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat as he reached the door to the west tower. He twisted the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. “Open up, dammit. I know you’re in there. You can’t hide anymore.”
Bookman moved in beside him. “Let me help.”
He elbowed the professor aside, his entire being focused on the woman who knew what had happened to Grace. He no longer cared that she was a ghost. She was Izzy, period. He gritted his teeth, dropped his forehead to the door. “Let me in.”
“Go away.”
“Not this time.”
“I didn’t mean it,” she said.
“Didn’t mean what, Izzy? Didn’t mean to kill her?”
“No!”
“You let her fly when Ace—when I didn’t show up, didn’t you? You knew she was upset, but you were too wrapped up in your own self-pity to comfort her or, God forbid, stop her. You allowed her to perform those crazy stunts distracted, dammit! ‘Erratic emotions equal body parts taken away in buckets!’ I’m sure you’ve heard that more times than I have!”
“Yes. But she didn’t crash.”
“What? She didn’t . . .” His knees nearly gave out. Grace didn’t crash her Jenny and die some god-awful death. The relief was staggering. Yet it did nothing to lessen his rage. He grabbed the knob and shook the door like a madman. “She could have. She could have killed herself!”
“I know.” Her voice grew faint.
“Dammit, Izzy, what did you do to her? What horrible thing has kept you stuck here for seventy-five years!”
“Rufus.” Bookman grabbed his arm and tried to pull him aside.
He shook him off, shouting through the warped wood. “You know who I am now, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He could barely hear her as he felt her energy pull away, retreating up the stairs. “You will talk to me,” he said, nearly spitting and yanking so hard on the old, locked knob that it broke. He whipped open the door and ran up the stairs, Bookman clattering up behind him. He stopped dead center in the dusty, moldy room, gasping for breath, gaze searching. “Izzy!”
She appeared next to the sheet-draped bureau, tears streaking her pasty face. She looked nearly the same as the last time he’d seen her. The night he’d left her to go to Grace. Only he could see right through her. Literally. “You could have had any man you wanted. You didn’t love me. You just couldn’t stand that I fell for Grace instead of you. For chrissake, Izzy, she was your friend!”
She gripped her long pearl necklace, stroking the knotted strand like rosary beads. “I was angry with her. She had a way of making me feel so . . .”
“Inferior?” Rage made his voice low, dangerous.
She closed her eyes, nodded.
He glared at her. “Tell me what you did.”
She swallowed, twisting the pearls around her fingers. “It was Ace—Ronald Simms—who died.”
Her strangled voice made him ill. He sank onto the tarp-covered sofa, wondering if he was actually going to be sick, he felt that awful. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what had happened to Ronald Simms aka Ace. He’d been in the guy’s shoes, what, minutes ago? If Newborne hadn’t snatched him away, he would be dead from a car crash or a gunshot wound. Wouldn’t he be? He was, or had been, Simms, hadn’t he?
He felt as though he were seeing things through warped glass, nothing as it seemed. None of it real.
Izzy turned and opened the steamer trunk, careful to avoid eye contact. She dug through the contents until she pulled out a yellowed newspaper. She handed it to Bookman. “This is what I didn’t want you to find.”
Bookman looked at the newspaper, frowned, then handed it to Rufus.
On the front page, bottom left, was a photograph of Grace in her glory, wearing a big smile that didn’t meet her eyes as she stood in front of her plane, scarf lifted in the wind. Female Pilot on Top of the World. He breathed in relief to see her safely on the ground, her good name restored. Then he saw the paper’s major headline: Capone Snitch Dead in High-Speed Shoot-Out.
He gripped the newspaper, imagining how she must have felt when he hadn’t shown up . . . and when she’d read this article and seen the picture alongside it. Simms’s picture, he guessed, except it might as well have been him. She’d certainly have thought it was him. And she would have been devastated. She’d opened herself to love, only to have it ripped away from her the very same day. Jesus, he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t bear thinking about how heartbroken she would have been. As heartbroken as he felt, thinking about it.
Nearly choking on the pain in his throat, he let his gaze skim down to the lead line of the article. Acting on a tip, the FBI . . .
He raised his gaze to Izzy. “Mahoney found out. He turned me in.”
“No,” she said, surprising him. He saw her swallow hard before continuing. “Mick did send a police sketch of Ace to a connection at the N.Y.P.D. The man identified Ace as Ronald Simms. But by that time, Mick knew Grace was in love with Ace and couldn’t bear to hurt her, even though it killed him to see her with another man. Mick told his connection to forget he’d ever seen the picture.”
Something inside him turned cold, colder than anything he’d ever felt. He slowly rose to his feet. “You called the Feds,” he whispered. “Mick confided in you, and in a fit of jealousy, you tipped them off.”
Tears coursed down her face. She let go of the pearls and wrung her hands. “I thought they’d just take him away. I never thought . . .” Her voice cracked.
“You got Simms killed. You killed the man Grace loved. She loved me!”
She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “I lost my best friends.”
“You lost your soul,” he said, his tone flat and edged with bitterness.
She continued to sob.
“I loved her,” he said, the cold inside him starting to bite. He actually had to live with this. “I do love her.”
Bookman blew out a breath, then sank down onto a packing crate.
“Christ, Sinclair.”
Rufus could barely force the words past the lump in his throat. “She married Mick?”
Izzy nodded and pulled a lighted cigarette from the air. Her hand trembled.
He tensed, watching her cower by the steamer trunk. “What about . . . Did she have a child?”
“No,” she said, choking back the tears that were brimming in her eyes. “Never.”
The ache intensified. He’d have given anything to have a child with Grace. A child born with her wild curls and indomitable spirit.
“I hired detectives after she and Mick moved to California—away from me. Away from the memories. I wanted to know where she was in case . . .”
“In case you got the nerve to tell her the truth. To apologize.” He shook his head. “Jesus. You loved her, even after you destroyed her.”
Izzy lifted her head and pinned him with a watery gaze. “I’m so sorry.”
“Tell it to someone who cares. Tell it to Newborne.” Sick with hurt and anger, he stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets—the same trousers he’d worn to bed with Grace—so as not to punch something. “All this time—eighty frigging years!—you’ve kept the secret. Just say it, Izzy. For once in your life, deal with an uncomfortable situation. Own up to your mistake, so we can get this the hell over with.”
“I betrayed Grace!” she shouted in a blubberin
g rush. “I betrayed Ace. Because of me, he died. Because of me, Grace lost her first and only love. I never made amends. I never told her I was sorry.” She tipped her head back and whispered to the heavens, “I’m so sorry.”
A psychedelic whirlwind suddenly materialized out of nowhere, kicking up dust and dumping a white-haired man onto the sofa. Dressed in white from shirt to shoes, surrounded by a colorful aura, the elderly man radiated goodness. Newborne, Rufus presumed. The wingless angel who had put him through hell.
The angel smiled at Izzy. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“It was awful,” she said, sniffling. “Though I have to admit, I feel lighter.”
Rufus shot Izzy a murderous glare. She shuddered, and he looked away, recalling he’d appointed himself her savior just before he’d been blown back in time. Maybe in some star-crossed way, he’d set himself up for the events that had followed.
Then he saw him. Near the arched window. Jonas Van Buren, looking solid and every bit as alive as his honeymooning grandson. Rufus blinked at the uncanny resemblance between the two. He’d never seen Jonas the ghost, nor had he met Jonas the man. No wonder Daisy used to mistake Jonas for Marc. Both were tall, dark, confident, remote. Twins born decades apart. Jonas wore a mask of confusion as he stared across the decaying room.
On the crate next to Bookman sat James Van Buren. Young, cocky, good-hearted Jimmy. He appeared nearly as solid as Jonas, and he, too, looked confused.
Bookman looked euphoric.
Rufus brought his gaze back to Izzy, who, though not wholly solid, was no longer transparent. She dragged on her cigarette as the room hummed with a curious energy. Anticipation. Trepidation. Finality.
“It’s time,” he said, understanding and turning to Newborne. Suddenly he had a vision of the angel standing beside a Jenny, holding Grace on his shoulders . . . the same kindness and humor in his eyes . . .
Rufus sank onto the sofa. “Pop Pop.”
The angel looked at him and gave him a secretive smile, and he felt his heart squeeze. When the angel returned his attention to the Van Burens, though, he wondered why didn’t they recognize him. They had to have known Pop Pop. Then he recalled Bookman saying, “When a person dies the physical body ceases to exist. The outer layer fades away, leaving an electromagnetic field—the inner self.”
Bookman rose from the crate and wiped a big hand across his scrunched brow. “Mr. Newborne?”
The angel smiled. “Ah, Professor Bookman. World-renowned parapsychologist.” He winked. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”
Izzy squared her bony shoulders, then tossed away her cigarette. “I guess you heard, Mr. Newborne. I guess that’s why you’re here. I admitted my regret, my moral bungle, and now you’ve come to escort Jonas and James and me to the other side. I know I said I didn’t want to go, but I’ve changed my mind.” She swallowed, then whispered, “I am going North, aren’t I?”
Newborne nodded. “But you have some work to do.”
“Anything,” she said and sagged, looking faint with relief. “I’ve been terrified of this moment. Riddled with such guilt, I could only think of fiery pits and eternal misery. I knew I deserved it. I wouldn’t allow myself to think of my son, or ever seeing him again. My boy.” Tears spilled from her big doe eyes. “It’s been so long. I want to say I’m sorry to Grace, and some more people, too. I definitely want to see Roy.”
“What about James?” Jonas asked Newborne. “I told you I’m not going anywhere unless we all go together.”
“All for one and one for all,” Izzy said, sniffling. “That was the deal.”
Newborne turned to James. “So?”
James stood and gave his Fedora a slap against his thigh. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, Newborne. I gotta say I’m stumped. I’m not saying that I was perfect. But I never did anything truly terrible. I might have gambled and tossed a few pretty girls, but other than that, I lived squeaky clean.”
“It’s true,” Rufus said, still amazed to be sitting near the angel who was once Pop Pop. It somehow comforted him, made him feel closer to Grace. “He’s a good kid. A little lazy, but kind and generous. Always thinking of others.”
“You’re thinking too hard,” Newborne said to James. “There’s nothing you wouldn’t take back? No moment in time that you wouldn’t live differently?”
Izzy and Jonas gawked at each other, then at James.
“It’s so obvious,” Jonas said.
Bookman grasped James’s shoulder and squeezed. “You told me once that it was your fault that Izzy and Jonas were stuck here. I thought you meant that you were holding them back because you’d yet to solve the mystery of your personal regret. But maybe . . .”
James looked stunned. “Izzy and Jonas wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t killed them.”
“I distracted you,” Izzy said.
“It was an accident,” Jonas said.
James shook his fair head. “I was half-screwed. I drove the Pierce off the bridge.” He looked at Newborne, blue eyes swimming with self-condemnation. “I killed my brother and sister. My two closest friends.”
“One hell of a regret,” Bookman said.
James blinked at Jonas and Izzy. “I just realized, I never said I’m sorry.”
At that, the three of them started to fade and rise.
“Just like that?” Jonas asked. He shook his head in disbelief, then smiled down at Rufus. “Tell my grandson to take good care of our Daisy.”
Bookman waved to James. “See you in the afterlife.”
Izzy blinked down at Rufus. “I really am sorry.”
“I know,” he said, heart in his throat. He believed her. “Go find Roy.”
Newborne turned to Rufus as the ghosts faded and floated up through the ceiling. “There’s a reason for everything, son. Do you believe that?”
“Four days ago, I didn’t believe in anything. Yet here I am having conversations with ghosts and an angel. Hell, I traveled back to 1923 to fall in love with your granddaughter.”
He waited for Newborne to say something about Grace, to admit that he was indeed her grandfather. To reprimand him for taking her to bed, for ruining her life. But the angel simply stood patiently, waiting for an answer to his question.
“Yes, I believe everything happens for a reason,” Rufus said. “Though right now, aside from forcing Izzy to face her biggest regret, I can’t fathom why I spent the last few days reliving Ronald Simms’s life.”
Newborne smiled. “Ever hear of second chances?”
He blinked. “So I was Simms.”
“The drifter reincarnated,” Bookman said. “I knew it!”
“So what?” Rufus said, throwing up his hands. “You blew me back in time just so I could repeat the same mistakes? Just so I could hurt Grace a second time?”
“I blew you back in time to help Izzy, which you did. As for past mistakes . . .” Newborne scratched his head. “Simms hit the road two days after sleeping with Grace. He couldn’t face that she might be pregnant. The Feds picked him up leaving Atlantic City.”
Rufus shook his head. “I didn’t hit the road. I wanted to stay. I was headed to Van Buren’s. I needed a uniform. Something to make the exhibition perfect.”
“Yet another perk,” Newborne said. “Seeing spiritual growth in action.” The colorful cyclone around Newborne intensified, lifting him upward.
“Wait!” He ran to the center of the room, tried to grab Newborne’s ankles. “That’s it? That’s all? I don’t get it!”
“It’ll come to you,” Newborne said, then disappeared in a flash of brilliant color.
Chapter Twenty-Three
RUFUS TURNED ON his heel and left the west tower.
He descended the spiral staircase, Bookman’s heavy, still-limping footsteps behind him. He thou
ght about lying down and sleeping for the next year. Like Mel Gibson in Forever Young. That way he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain. Stone-faced, he zipped his leather jacket and walked outside, pausing in the middle of the driveway. The exact spot where he’d first met Grace. The pavement then so smooth, new. Now crumbling, stained.
Standing in front of Laguna Vista, he felt as though he could simply reach out or call her name and she would be there. Or wait for her Model T to come careering up the drive. Or he could walk back into the house and find her chowing down on eggs and bacon, flight goggles pushed up on her curly hair, sharp blue eyes narrowed, taking in everything, suspicious. At least she used to be suspicious, until she opened herself to him.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
Jesus.
He turned up his collar against the bone-deep chill, and his fingers brushed cool metal. The wings he’d given to Grace.
“Just wear my pin and know that you are truly loved.”
But she wasn’t wearing his pin. He was.
He’d read enough in Izzy’s yellowed newspaper—the true history of June 5, 1923—to know that the events read exactly as Izzy remembered them. Ronald Simms was killed in that shootout. Which meant Mick Mahoney had gone on to marry Grace . . .
“Theory Two,” Bookman had said, “Alternate Universe. Travel back in time to save someone’s life, succeed, then return to your own time to find nothing has changed.”
But something had changed. He had changed. No matter the universe, knowing Grace, loving Grace, had altered him completely.
He drew a deep breath. His chest hurt. His eyes burned.
In this universe, she was gone. Only a flicker in his consciousness. No skin to touch. No voice to hear. No mouth to taste. Just a memory. Like the ghosts. All gone, except in the memories of those who loved them.
He wondered where she was buried. The thought made his lungs seize up so he couldn’t breathe.
What had Grace done when she’d found out that he—Simms—was dead?
He spotted Bookman’s Jeep and knew she’d raced through the countryside to clear her head. He jumped in. No keys. Numb, he simply stared at the dash. “Why are you staring at the instruments with your eyes crossed?”
