He looked at her, unflinching. “As long as I can. Not long enough.”
Houston leaned her head back, releasing another long, slow breath. Of all the things he might have said, that was the only right thing, the only thing she couldn’t dismiss…the only thing she did not want to hear. Why had he come here in the first place? Why had he come back and why couldn’t she just tell him to leave? What was it with him?
The evening star was just becoming visible on the horizon. Venus, she thought. Or Mars—she wasn’t sure. The god of love or the god of war; she would have to look it up—not that there was much difference between the two, come to think of it.
In the distance the tree-frog chorus struck the first few tentative notes of their nightly serenade. She remembered that first night, when she had sat here with Quinn and he had given her that wild line about poets in outer space. Had that been the moment she’d started to fall for him?
Without looking at him, she said, “My mother is…a little flighty. Well, some would say that’s putting it kindly. You know the sixties?”
“Somewhat.”
“Well, they were real good to my mother. My father, too, come to think of it. In a lot of ways, they’re both still living in them. They never married, you know, which they can’t wait to tell anyone who’ll listen. She makes pots somewhere in New Mexico or Baja or wherever the latest spiritual center of the earth is. She calls herself Summer Moon and wears batik muumuus and turquoise jewelry. He’s a mostly unemployed musician.” She smothered a small groan in her throat. “Boy, did I marry my father or what?”
He looked startled. “Pardon?”
“I just mean my dad’s a bum, Mike’s a bum, and when I fell in love I was too young to see it coming. I think, no matter how smart you are, no matter how much you think you know better, people tend to try to be like their parents. I spent my childhood in a commune, not even sure who my parents were—until my grandmother took me home to live with her, and then I really didn’t know who my parents were. My whole life was upside down. For as far back as I can remember, nothing was normal, nothing was sane. I promised myself long ago I would never do that to any child of mine.”
He said, still not quite understanding, “It seems unlikely that you would ever take Mark to live in a commune.”
She looked at him. “No,” she admitted. “But I just might fall for the wrong guy—again.”
Understanding softened his eyes, and with it came a quickening of hope, a shadowing of regret.
Then he said quietly, “I am exactly the wrong guy for you, Houston.”
But even as he spoke he lifted his hand and touched her cheek. Her body responded without consulting her mind: skin tingling, heart pumping, anticipation leaping in every muscle. Houston took his hand firmly and lifted it from her face. But his fingers closed around hers, and she did not try to withdraw her hand.
She said, “I like you, Quinn. God knows why, but I really do. And that’s why…I’m glad you came back. But I think it might be better if you’d stayed away.”
“I think you’re probably right.”
But he did not release her hand, not immediately. And his eyes seemed to hold her with a subtle magnetic fire, kindling again the embers she had tried so hard to extinguish. With an effort, she pulled her fingers away.
He dropped his eyes and shifted his weight away from her. “I’ve never been as unsure of myself as I am at this moment. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been unsure of myself at all before. I’ve always known just what needed to be done, and if it couldn’t be done I found a way to do it. But with you, everything I do is wrong. Just believe me when I say the last thing I meant to do by coming here was hurt anyone.”
Houston replied with a small shake of her head, “I don’t know why, but I do believe that. I just think we need to slow down.”
“I agree. And I’m not sure that’s possible.”
She looked at him helplessly and knew in that moment exactly what he meant. She could feel herself leaning closer to him as hard as she tried to move away; she could practically taste him now and feel his heart infusing her. He could feel it too; she could see it in his eyes.
Mark came clattering down the stairs, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. The screen door slammed. “You guys ready?”
Houston stood up. “Right.” She was more than ready—and more confused than ever.
WHEN THEY RETURNED from dinner Quinn said good-night and went back to the familiar little apartment over the garage. He stood at the window and watched the shapes move against the lighted squares across the way, and he wondered again what kind of century this was, that a man could have been a part of so fine a family as this and then let it slip away. If ever he had such a choice, he would have made certain to hold on to it.
But that was just the point. He had made his choice long ago, and there was no turning back now. And his options did not include a twentieth-century woman and child, no matter how enchanting they both might be.
This was a hell of a time to start regretting his choices.
Even if there had not been a moral imperative against starting a relationship with her, even if the laws of physics had allowed him to stay, such a relationship was doomed to failure before it began. There were too many things he could never explain to her, too many truths he could never share. Where he had come from, the real nature of his work, the things he had seen and the places he had been that formed the man he was today…. He wanted to share these things with her, he wanted to take her into his life and become a part of hers, he wanted to try, for the first time in his life, to be a part of something that was real and lasting.
But the simple truth was that he could not. Even if he had not been just a visitor in her world, even if his home had not been three hundred years away; even if he had not made his choices and even if he was not a professional with a job to do—still, there was no chance for them. He had nothing to offer her.
He was dying. Day by day, breath by breath, his time was running out. He accepted that, but he could not ask Houston to do so. He could not make promises to her he couldn’t keep; he couldn’t give her time when he had none to spare.
He had been a fool to come back here. But try as he might, he couldn’t regret it.
A shape paused before a lighted window in the house, facing him, seeming to look up at him. He couldn’t see the face or even tell much about the form, but he knew it was Houston. He tried to clamp down on the longing that twisted in his belly, but he could not. He watched until she reached up and drew the curtain, sealing him out. Then he turned away.
He began unpacking the few belongings he had taken with him. The electronics he always left behind; in relative value they were so easy to replace that they were almost disposable. Tomorrow he would hook them up and start work again; tonight he simply did not have the spirit for it.
He took from his bag the packet of tablets, opened it and looked at it a moment before putting it away. One each day would keep him alive for another two weeks. And two weeks was not nearly long enough.
He opened his instrument pouch and took out a small cutting tool. Adjusting the blade to its finest edge, he neatly and quickly sliced each of the tiny tablets in half. Then, taking one half of one on the tip of his finger, he swallowed it.
It might not work. Even if it did, he knew he had only bought a little time.
For once in his life, time had become precious and he would take it any way he could get it. A minute, an hour, a day… It might mean the difference between finding his way home and dying here alone.
But every extra moment he could buy or bargain was another moment to spend with Houston. And in the end, if all he achieved was another day or two in which to watch her move, to listen to her voice, to see her smile—that would be worth it all.
When he looked at it like that, he really had nothing to lose.
Chapter Seven
Quinn entered the kitchen through the back door, which Houston always left open for him when she went to work, a ch
ange of clothes and a towel slung over his shoulder. Houston was cleaning the counters with a sponge, and he stopped short when he saw her.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought I heard the car leave.”
Since there was no shower in the garage apartment, Quinn always waited until after she and Mark had left in the mornings to use the shower in the house. That was considerate of him. He always left the bathroom spotless, which was also considerate. But he had apparently forgotten this was Saturday.
“You did,” she answered lightly. “I guess you didn’t hear it come back. I took Mark to a birthday party.”
“Oh. I was dozing. I worked most of the night.”
They were trying to ignore the awkwardness between them, but it was as palpable as a humid day. It had been almost a week since he had returned and in that time the atmosphere between them had been polite, guarded and strained. He took his evening meal with them and made interesting conversation on neutral subjects, just as he always had, and then he excused himself. He didn’t volunteer to help Mark with his homework or play computer games. He didn’t ask Houston what she would like done around the house. He didn’t go on afternoon walks with them. He behaved like a paying boarder, just as she had requested.
She was glad. And she missed him.
She said, “I wish I understood what it is, exactly, that you’re working on.”
He murmured, “So do I.”
She probed a little harder. “All those televisions, and computers—what do you do with them? I thought you were a social scientist.”
“It’s difficult to explain.”
He still stood in the doorway, hesitating to come in, and it was clear Houston’s attempt to ease the tension wasn’t working. In fact, conversation only made the atmosphere more strained.
Still, he did his best to reciprocate. “Why are you home today?”
She smiled. “You have been working hard. It’s Saturday.”
He looked blank for a moment, then his face cleared. “Oh. Right. No classes on Saturday.”
Usually, when he made one of those absentminded-professor remarks, she would laugh or tease him out of it. Today she just nodded.
The silence lengthened, and neither of them seemed to know what to say next. Then he smiled a little and gestured toward the hallway and the bathroom at the end of it. “Well, if you don’t mind…”
“No, of course not. Go ahead.”
She turned back to scrubbing the counter that already shone. He left the room.
The relief that Houston felt was embarrassing. She hadn’t been this nervous around a member of the opposite sex since she was thirteen, and the worst part was there was no reason for it. At least when she had been a teenager, she had inexperience as an excuse.
She found herself listening for the sound of the shower, and when it came, imagining Quinn pulling his T-shirt over his head, kicking off his shoes, stepping out of his jeans, walking naked beneath the steamy spray…
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway distracted her, and she turned toward the window. She only had a glimpse of the car and she couldn’t make out who the driver was until she saw him ambling across the lawn toward her. Hands in pockets, head thrown back, whistling a carefree tune under his breath and swaggering like a sailor on shore leave was her ex-husband.
“Damn,” Houston muttered out loud. The hand that was holding the sponge clenched involuntarily, squeezing out a stream of water that splattered her white shorts and her bare legs and caused her to jump back and exclaim again, “Damn!” as she brushed at the wet spots.
By that time Mike was at the door.
Quinn had left the back door open, and only the screen door was in place. Mike grinned at her from the porch. “Knock, knock.”
Some women might have considered him an attractive man; obviously Houston had once been one of them. Now she looked at him and observed only that he wasn’t very tall and his carefully styled black hair seemed affected, and the shadow of a beard that he thought made him look rugged in fact only made him look sleazy.
Quinn was always clean-shaven. She liked that in a man.
Houston looked at him, glaring, and said coldly, “You’re a little late, aren’t you?”
He looked mildly puzzled as he opened the door. “For what?”
Houston was surprised—not by his insensitivity or his ignorance, which she had learned to accept long ago—but by her own inability to feel anything except a faint disgust.
“For Mark,” she said. “You remember your son, Mark? You had a date with him—last Friday.”
“Oh.” He didn’t even bother to look abashed. “Do you know what happened there? That damn car. I was all ready to come over and the car wouldn’t start. Can you believe that? It was the ignition switch. Had to go all over town looking for one, and by the time I—”
“You could have called.”
He grinned and lifted one shoulder in a way that Houston could not believe she had once found endearing.
She said, “He waited for you for two hours.”
“Man, I’m really sorry. Tell him that for me, will you?”
Houston’s hands closed, and she could feel the tension winding around the back of her neck. “You broke that child’s heart. What kind of role model are you, anyway? What kind of man can you expect your son to grow up to be when his father lies to him on a regular basis?”
“Come on, Houston, I didn’t come over here so you could rag on me. Jeez, I had a better deal than this when I was married to you!”
She drew a breath for a sharp retort but the anger left her before it was spoken. She had long ago learned the futility of arguing with him. She shook her head and muttered instead, “Why do I even try to make you act like a human being? What do you want, Mike?”
Again he grinned, bad humor giving way to charm as it always did when he found it convenient. “Can’t I come see my favorite girl without wanting something?”
“No.”
He pulled a chair out from the table and straddled it, arms folded across the back in another posture calculated to look disarming. “I miss you, Houston,” he said. “We don’t see nearly enough of each other. Can’t we just spend some time hanging out, talking…you know, like we used to?”
Houston opened the dishwasher, added detergent and locked it. “We never talked. We never hung out. I’ve got a lot to do this morning, so if you’d just get to the point I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll help you.”
She stared at him. “Help me what?”
“Do whatever it is you have to do.”
She made a sound of exasperation and disbelief. “No, Mike. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. What I want is for you to tell me how much money you want to borrow so I can say no and get on with the rest of my day.”
He looked hurt. It was a look he had perfected over the years. “Money. Why does it always come down to money with us?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. And while you’re at it, maybe you could tell me why you never seem to be able to hold a job long enough to make your first child-support payment.”
“Come on, babe, that’s not fair. The market is rough, you know that.”
“Well, do you think it’s any easier for me? We’re barely getting by as it is, trying to make ends meet on a schoolteacher’s salary, and then you come along begging for money—”
“Damn it, Houston, I don’t beg!” He stood up and pushed the chair aside roughly. “After all we meant to each other—”
“We meant nothing to each other, not for a long, long time! Why don’t you just give it a rest, Mike?”
He ran an angry hand through his hair and then, with a visible effort, changed his demeanor and his tone. “Houston,” he said plaintively, “don’t you see what this is doing to us?”
“Us? There is no us.”
He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I’m a wreck without you, babe. And you just said yourself how hard it is for you and Mark alone. If
we were all together, we could face anything. I know it.”
Houston could not believe she had heard correctly. “And you think the answer to your problem is for us to get back together again?”
“Not my problem, babe,” he assured her earnestly. “Our problem. We need each other—don’t you see that?”
Houston didn’t know whether to laugh or reach for the nearest heavy object to hurl at his head. Instead, she said, “What I see is a great deal for you, not so great a deal for me.”
“What about Mark?” he persuaded. “A boy needs his father. I want to be there for him.”
If he hadn’t used Mark, she might have been a bit more tolerant. As it was, she felt a strong urge to start looking around for those heavy objects. “I want you to go away now, Mike. And I want you to stay away. Forever.”
He smiled and took a step toward her. “That’s not going to happen, babe.”
Houston muttered, “That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”
QUINN WAS SURE Houston did not know how clearly voices traveled between the walls, and he did not intend to eavesdrop. But from the minute he heard her say her ex-husband’s name, he couldn’t make himself stop listening.
He had an instinctive dislike for the man he had never met—the man who had disappointed Houston, deserted her son, caused her unhappiness and in general failed to live up to the definition of manhood in any century. Nonetheless, it was not his place to interfere, and he tried not to listen.
When he stepped out of the shower, she was saying something about money. As he toweled off, he heard the other man’s whining, insinuating reply and he reminded himself of the danger—not to mention inappropriateness—of becoming personally involved in someone else’s problems.
As he stepped into his jeans, her voice was rising and she was obviously becoming impatient. He knew he should move quietly down the hall and out the front door and let her conduct her life unimpeded by his good intentions. But then she told her ex-husband to leave, and he indicated he had no intention of doing so, and that kind of discourtesy was simply unacceptable.
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