"The only Jerrold Kirby I know of is my great-grandfather. He was a lawyer around the turn of the century in Galveston."
Erina felt a prickle of unease. "What do you mean, the turn of the century?"
"Around 1900. I remember that my great-grandfather's law offices were destroyed in the hurricane in September, 1900, but the house wasn't damaged much at all."
"But this isn't . . . What year would this be?"
"1996," he said, his expression one of confusion and irritation. "It's September already, and it's been 1996 all year."
Erina felt her eyes widen as the air seemed to leave her body. 1996? Could it be?
"Erina?"
Holy Mother of God! Her miracle had been granted. She'd been sent forward a hundred years, to a time when doctors could operate on her son. And this man, who had whisked her and Colin to the hospital with such speed, was the great-grandson of the man who had forced his attentions on her--gullible fool that she'd been, falling for his words--then offered her a pittance and never claimed his son.
Of all the people who must live in this strange, future world, why had Mary chosen him to help save Colin?
#
Grant registered immediate alarm at Erina's blanched color and startled expression. Was she going to faint? No, she took a deep breath and the color came back into her pale, high cheeks. She had the most clear, smooth skin he'd ever seen.
"What's wrong?" he said, placing his coffee beside hers on the table.
"The year. It's crazy you'll think I am, but I'm not from your time."
"What do you mean, not from my time? Whose time . . . what are you talking about?"
"When I walked into St. Mary's Cathedral tonight, it was October, 1896."
"Bull--" Grant stopped himself before he launched into a disbelieving tirade. "There's no way."
"But it's the truth I'm tellin' you! I was born in the year 1875, in County Kildare, and I came to Galveston with my da in 1888."
"Look, showing up in my condo in the middle of the night was a good trick, but I'm not going to believe that you're some sort of time traveler who got zapped into the future. You've been watching too many reruns of Quantum Leap."
"Now I wouldn't know what you mean by zapped or Quantum Leap, but the Blessed Virgin sent me here to save Colin. And saving him is what the doctors are doin'!"
"Yes, they are," I hope, he added silently. "You don't need to make up some story. I already told the hospital that I'd be responsible for his medical bills if you don't have insurance or money, and I'll keep my word, because of the boy."
"I'm not askin' for your charity, Mr. Kirby. Just because your great-grandda took liberties with my person doesn't mean you're responsible for his son."
"He's not Jerrold Kirby's son!"
"Oh! And I'm thinkin' that I'm in a better position to know the man's nature and what he did to me."
"I'm not going to argue with you about my great grandfather. I didn't even know the man."
"Well, let me tell you that he was a bonny fine man to look upon. Not too tall, but well-made and handsome. He had a fine mustache and thick, brown hair."
"You sound like you were in love with him."
"Oh, I was. Or I thought I was. He acted nice to me and I felt more than a wee bit flattered that he'd noticed a servant in his own house. But it wasn't love he was feelin' for me. I found out he was slippery as an eel, and his heart was just as cold."
"Wait a minute!" Grant mentally shook himself. "I'm talking about this like it was real. Forget it!" He pushed himself off the couch and paced the room. For some reason she'd concocted this fantastic story, including just enough family history to keep him intrigued. He didn't understand why… but he would.
"Now why would you be angry at me for tellin' the truth?"
"It's not the truth! You do not know my great grandfather."
"Aye, I did know the man, and a bit too well, but no more."
She folded her arms over her chest and sank back into the chair. The baby's blanket, a crazy mix of velvet and satin in a variety of colors, spilled across her chest and the skirt of her gray dress. Spots of pink colored her cheeks, and her eyes flashed with dark fire.
"If you're finished with your coffee, we can go back to the waiting room. They might have some news about your son."
Her demeanor changed immediately, from righteous indignation to worried mother. She bolted from the chair, her long dress swirling around her ankles, revealing black, lace-up boots. Damn, but she dressed as though she'd stepped out of another century. She'd planned this little charade right down to the last detail.
They took the elevator back up to the ER, where he escorted her to a row of chairs facing a TV, mounted high on the wall. The channel aired an infomercial about the latest workout machine that promised a miraculous body in just weeks.
Miraculous. That's what she expected him to believe about her mysterious appearance in his life. More like a calculated ploy to get him to take financial responsibility for her baby. Right now she was claiming Colin was the son of a long-dead man. But what about tomorrow? Would she then claim Colin was the son of the heir to the Kirby family, expecting a large payoff for keeping quiet?
He'd fallen into her little scheme quite well, already telling the triage nurse that he'd pay for the surgery. And look at how fast she'd jumped to the conclusion that Colin was his son! If Erina went to the press, he was sure at least one paper would carry the story.
His mother--the socially impeccable Virginia Kramer Kirby--would have a coronary. His attorney would assume the worst and look for someone with whom he could negotiate. His CFO, an extremely practical woman, would launch an all-out plan to liquidate assets in case a settlement was needed.
"What in the name of all that's holy are those people doin'?"
Her agitated voice caused him to whirl and face her again. Huge, startled eyes stared past his head to the television set. Her hands gripped the metal arms of the chair. He glanced up at the TV.
"Exercising," he replied, trying to keep his tone civil.
"But they're not wearing any clothes! They're in their underthings!"
"Leotards and tank tops," he corrected her.
"And where are those people? They're not in that little box."
"Television," he corrected her. "You know perfectly well that they taped that in a studio somewhere. Don't pull that innocent act on me."
"I'm thinkin' that you're a most infuriatin' man."
"And I'm thinking that you're a very accomplished actress."
"I most certainly am not!" she said in a haughty, offended tone. "I may have a babe and no husband, but it's honest work I do, sewin' and the like. I'm no actress."
"I was referring to your thespian skills, not your profession."
"You think I'm lyin' about where I'm from, and I'm not takin' that lightly."
"I tremble at the thought, Miss O'Shea."
She stared at him until her lower lip began to tremble. "I'm no liar," she said in a small voice that broke ever so slightly.
"Damn," he cursed under his breath. Of course he thought she was a liar. What else could he think? That she really was a time traveler? That the baby who had looked up at him so trustingly was his first cousin, several times removed?
"It's my son I'm wantin'," she said in a small voice, looking away from him, from the television, from everything in the room, "not a brawl."
In the bright light of the waiting room, he could see tears glistening in her eyes. For a moment, he'd forgotten that her child was gravely ill and might not survive without major surgery.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have upset you."
She said nothing, looking old fashioned, small, and very young sitting in that dark, thoroughly modern chair. She should be in school somewhere, studying art or Medieval literature or mathematics, not sitting in an emergency waiting room, worried about her child. Despite the lies, despite the deception she may be trying to pull, he wanted to sit beside her, put his arms around her
, and tell her everything would be okay.
"Can I get you something else to drink? Something to eat? There's a cafeteria here, but I'm not sure it's open this late."
"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Kirby."
"Please, call me Grant."
"I'm thinkin' that's too forward."
"I'm an informal kind of guy. And Galveston isn't exactly a metropolitan place."
"Galveston? But it is. It's the largest city in Texas, I'm told, and quite a sea port."
"We're not back to the nineteenth century, are we?"
She sighed, looking at him with a directness that was unnerving. Her eyes were a deep, deep blue, he realized, not black as he'd thought earlier.
"You're not believin' me."
"No. Let's just stay away from that topic, okay?"
"I'll not apologize for speakin' my mind, Mr. Kirby."
"Grant."
She didn't reply, just broke eye contact and looked around the room, dismissing him as an irritating element of the environment. Hell, he'd brought her to the hospital, volunteered to be responsible for the boy, and had every intention of waiting here with her until the surgery was over. Didn't she realize that he cared--for the baby?
"How old are you?" he asked before he could stop the question. It was rude, but he wanted to know.
"I'll be twenty-one in December," she replied, sitting up straighter.
Just as he'd thought, she was way too young to be a mother and such an accomplished actress. He was eleven years older--and probably couldn't concoct nearly as extravagant a story.
With a sigh, he grabbed a couple of magazines and put them on the chair beside her. Then he eased into a seat across from her, crossing his feet and stretching out his legs. It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER THREE
She knew she should stay awake, but her eyes felt as heavy as wet Turkish carpets. She heard the noise of the hospital, the faint music and murmur from that magical box called television, and the familiar smell and feel of the blanket she'd made for Colin last spring. The doctors would come soon to tell her about him, but until they did, as much as it hurt, she could do nothing to help him.
She wanted to curl up beside her baby and take a nap, to wake and know that all this had been a dream. He hadn't really been born with a bad heart; she hadn't really asked the Holy Mother for a miracle and been sent a hundred years into the future.
No, when she woke up, she would be in her bed above Mrs. Abernathy's dress shop. She'd light a fire in the stove, feed Colin his breakfast, and dress for the day. Then she'd walk down the back stairs and settle her baby into a bassinet beside her chair, and she'd finish the trim on the gown for Miss Bettie Brown. Mrs. Abernathy would bring in a pot of tea and two buttery scones, and they'd talk about Colin and current fashions and upcoming social events that meant new gowns for the island's elite.
Just as soon as she woke up…
#
Grant knew he should be sleeping; there was nothing he could do until the doctors came back with the test results. Then he'd see what decision Erina would make about her son's care. And maybe he'd throw in a few suggestions, since she didn't seem very knowledgeable about modern medicine. He knew he should be furious with her for breaking into his condo and involving him in her life, but somehow, he couldn't work up the anger. He found himself making excuses for her weaknesses: she didn't know any better; she had no money; she was desperate to save her child.
She needed a keeper. If she was going to tell stories, they should at least be believable ones. Not some wacky sci-fi fantasy of time travel from the gay nineties in Galveston. No, Erina O'Shea had a lot to learn about the context of her lies, although he couldn't fault her one bit for delivery.
Now she slept, worry etched across her brow, a frown turning down the corners of her perfectly formed mouth. Her neck rested at an awkward angle, and he knew she'd be stiff when she awoke. Her long gray dress covered her legs and the tops of her black, high top boots. At least they were in fashion. He'd seen a teenager at the Galleria wearing a very similar pair last weekend, only she wore them with black tights, a leather mini skirt, and a cropped sweater that showed a pierced navel.
Grant was fairly certain Erina O'Shea did not have any pierced body parts.
He wondered if she was telling the truth about how old she was. She didn't appear to be over nineteen. At thirty one, he felt ancient.
He tried to focus on the magazine he'd picked up, but an article on the ten best fly fishing spots in the western U.S. didn't hold his interest. He'd never been fly fishing, although he had seen that Robert Redford-directed movie about the father and sons who--
Damn, he was rambling in his own mind! Blabbering to himself about teenagers with pierced navels and fly fishing. He was going out of his head thinking about everything except the most important two; why was he so drawn to Erina O'Shea, and could her son's failing heart be fixed?
He didn't want to think about those subjects. Not at two thirty in the morning, he thought, glancing at the wall clock.
The sliding glass doors opened and paramedics pushed a gurney into the triage area.
"Traffic accident on Seawall. Drunk as a skunk."
He didn't listen to the rest. The patient, a young man from the sound of his voice, was singing "Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall" off key, obviously not critically injured.
Erina stirred, her eyes opening wide and looking all around her.
"I'm still here," she said, as though the idea baffled her.
"Yes, and so am I."
She focused on him, frowning again. "I thought this was all a dream."
"No, not really. The doctors haven't come back yet with any news."
"How long did I sleep?"
"Not more than ten minutes, I think," Grant answered, glancing at the clock again.
She rubbed her temples. "I had the strangest dream that I was asleep in my own bed above the dress shop with Colin beside me, and my heart just as sad…"
"This would be back in 1896?"
"Of course. It's not a story I told you, Mr. Kirby. It's the truth."
"We'll see."
"I'm thinkin' you give me a headache."
"And I'm thinking that you woke me up in the middle of the night."
"I'm not askin' you to stay," she said bravely, thrusting her chin up in a defiant gesture. "The Holy Mother woke you, not me, so you might be askin' her pardon, if that's your mind. I didn't ask to be sent to your home."
"It's my condo, not my home."
"And what would the difference be?"
"I have an apartment in Houston I call home. It's just off Westheimer, in River Oaks. Maybe you've heard of the area."
"I've never been to Mudville, er, I mean Houston," she said saucily. "Nor can I think of a single reason to waste a dime on the train trip. Galveston is twice the city--"
"You really have your historical perspective down pat, don't you?"
"I'm thinkin' that's another insult."
Grant laughed at her smoldering outrage. "You're good. You're very good."
"I'm not actin'."
"What did you dream?" he asked, changing the subject.
"I dreamed that I was back at Mrs. Abernathy's dress shop, sharing a spot of tea and workin' on my quilt."
"Who's Mrs. Abernathy?"
"The lady I work for. She owns a shop on Post Office Street. I live above the shop."
"By yourself?"
"With Colin, of course," she said indignantly.
"And is there something special about this quilt?"
"It's a piece I'm makin' from scraps of gowns and such. Velvets, brocades, silk. Mrs. Abernathy makes gowns for some of the island's finest ladies and there's nothin' like the feel of those fine fabrics on a cool winter night. I was almost finished with it when--"
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor who had begun treatment on Colin in the ER. Erina jumped to her feet, her hands clenched together until her knuckles turned w
hite.
Grant stood beside her. She looked as though she was ready to collapse, except for the fever-bright excitement in her eyes.
"Ms. O'Shea. Mr. Kirby." The young doctor nodded at each of them in turn.
Grant read his name from the blue coat as Dr. Jack Cook.
"What news do you have of my Colin?"
The doctor's gaze darted between them. "We've managed to stabilize your son--"
"Her son," Grant said between gritted teeth. He supposed the entire hospital thought Colin was his son. By tomorrow the rumor could be all over town.
"Yes, well, he's resting comfortably at the moment. His vital signs are good and so is his color. We'll continue with the ventilator for now, but hopefully he can be weaned off of that tomorrow."
"I want to see him."
"He's in PDICU--"
"And what is that?"
"The Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. It's for critically ill children. You can see him, but only for a moment."
"But he needs me! You can't have me leavin' my son to the care of strangers."
"Ms. O'Shea, your son is very ill. The X-rays showed a possible case of pneumonia, in addition to the heart problem."
"What exactly is wrong with his heart, Dr. Cook?" Grant asked.
The doctor ran a hand through his brown hair. "Why don't we have a seat in the consultation room? I could get you a cup of coffee and we'll talk."
"I just want to know about my son," Erina said with distress.
"I understand. And we can sit down and I'll explain everything we know."
"Let's go to the consulting room, Erina. The doctor looks as though he could use a cup of coffee." Grant placed a hand on her elbow and guided her stiff body behind the doctor as he walked back through the doors behind the triage area, down the hallway that led to the examination rooms, or crash rooms, as the nurse had called them, and into a small, windowless office.
"Get some coffee if you'd like, doctor," Grant said. "We'll wait right here."
"Thanks."
Erina turned to him the minute the doctor cleared the doorway. "And just who do you think you are, Mr. Kirby? Givin' orders and makin' suggestions like you owned the whole hospital?"
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