When I open the door to our suite, Ned is sitting on the plush sofa, smoking a cigarette, and staring at a stack of papers. His whole body tenses as I enter.
“Lonnie?” His surprise quickly becomes a scowl. “What are you doing back?”
My mind is still buzzing with everything that’s happened in the past hour. When I don’t immediately respond, Ned stamps out his cigarette in the little glass tray.
“Dammit, Lon. Why aren’t you with Fay?” His anger throws me off completely.
“Where is she?” he demands. “I was told you’d taken her back to the Ritz.”
“I did. She’s in her room.”
“And you didn’t stay?”
“I…”
“You what?”
“I just felt like coming back, that’s all.”
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Ned growls.
I’ve never seen him lose his temper like this. I’m not sure if the meeting I overheard put him in a foul mood, or something else.
“Is Fay not good enough for you?” he demands.
“N-no. That’s not it at all.”
“Then what is it, pray tell?”
His tone rankles me. “What’s it to you, whether or not I go with Fay?”
He scoffs and scrapes a thick hand through his hair. “I don’t think you quite understand what’s expected of you, Lon.”
“You’re right. I don’t. What is expected of me?”
“You and Fay will be married. It’s all been discussed.”
I stare at him for a moment, not sure if he’s kidding around or crazy. “Discussed? With whom?”
“Your father approves of the match. As do Fay’s parents.”
“I haven’t heard a word from my father this whole summer.”
“That’s because he trusts my damn judgment,” Ned says, slamming his fist on the coffee table.
A charged silence fills the room. But before I can grasp what I might say, Ned releases a shaky breath and rubs his face. He stands. His expression calms.
“You’ve had a long night. Both of us have.”
I nod, still trying to understand what’s gotten into him, but I’m too tired pursue it. “I’ll turn in.”
Ned calls my name as I reach the door to my room. I pause in the doorway.
“You must use your head about these things,” he says. “You’re a smart lad. A lot of people expect great things from you.” His brow furrows. “You will marry Fay Cartwright. By the end of the summer. Set your mind on that fact.”
Chapter 15
Cassandra
I should have seen this coming. The ultimate test of my resolve. After all my big talk about preserving the time-space continuum, now I find myself sitting on the back porch in the early morning, staring at the pathway to the beach.
I know I shouldn’t do it. I should stand my ground. Telling Lawrence what I know might set off the butterfly effect. And who knows what could happen next? What if the next person to vanish from existence is Mom or Frank or Eddie?
It’s nearly dawn. Above me, the clouds are a swirl of silver, steely blue, and watered pink with the early light. Closing my eyes, I picture the way the beach would look right now, the water all soft and metallic, the sand pristine and cool. Unbidden, the image of Lawrence appears near the shore. He’s waiting for me. Once again, I can see him taking me into his arms and pressing his lips to my cheek.
I push my hands to my eyes, bending over into my lap. This is torture. I’ve spend the last forty-eight hours going back and forth about what to do. And no matter how many times I come to the proper, logical conclusion, my emotions always take over.
How can I not go to see him again? Am I really supposed to know what I know and simply carry on as usual? Can’t I see him once more, just to say good-bye?
Those questions always lead to the one overwhelming dilemma.
How can I not tell Lawrence that he’s going to be killed?
Honestly, how am I supposed to keep this information to myself? The guy has less than two weeks to live. He ought to know. Maybe if he knows, he can avoid it. Murdered. The word sends a churning sensation through my stomach. I grip two fistfuls of my hair and try to breathe.
I envision the beach again, all watery blue in the dawn light, and this time imagine a bloodstain spreading across the sand.
And in that moment, my body makes the decision for me. I’m on my feet. I’m walking across the cold, wet grass. I’m going to the beach, and all the reason in the world can’t stop me.
As I pass through the bushes, the air takes the heavy, surreal quality of a dream. A nightmare. Calm down, Cass. He’s probably not even going to be there. If he is, you have no idea what you’re going to say, what you’re going to do. You’re insane to keep walking, but you knew that already. He’s not going to be there. He’s…
Not there.
The beach is empty. Like it always is. Rocks. Water. That’s it.
My feet drag out a few steps. I close my eyes. I can’t be surprised about this. I told him I’d never come back to the beach. Despite what he said, he obviously gave up hope that I would change my mind. Coming out here today was futile.
I flop onto the ground, trying hard not to cry. But I’m sitting in the spot where we first met. My fingers trace a line in the cold, gray sand, every part of me aching.
Then I notice the wide indent. It’s a footprint. Men’s shoes.
Frank hasn’t come out here since we moved in. And no one else would be walking around in men’s shoes.
It was him! He was here. Swallowing hard, I hover over the print, touching it lightly with my hand. It’s old. Probably made yesterday.
I look to the bushy path. Wind pulls strands of hair across my face, but no one’s there. I missed him. One day late, and I missed him.
I could scream. Falling back on my knees, I swipe my hand over the shoe print, sending the sand flying to the wind. Curse me and my stupid hesitation.
“Ughhhhhhhhhhh,” I say loudly, smashing my fists to my forehead. “You suck, Cass.”
I sit for a long time, partly out of despair, partly out of a crazy hope that he’ll come. The waves break against the sand: curling, crashing, rushing up the shore in white, lacey foam, and then pulling back to the sea. I watch the pattern repeat itself until I’ve lost count. I wait, hating myself more each minute for missing my chance. My chance to say good-bye. A chance to help him.
But Lawrence doesn’t come. I finally have to accept the reality that he’s gone for good. My legs feel heavy as I pull myself up. I don’t bother to brush the sand from my knees. I’ll carry it back to the house—my last memento of this place. Because one thing’s for sure, I’m never coming back.
The sound of footsteps rustling through the bushes bursts through my somber silence like a firecracker. I spin around.
It’s Lawrence. The sight of his warm brown eyes and tall, lean frame shatters me. He’s dressed in a light khaki shirt and dark slacks, his sandy hair tousled. He’s even more beautiful than I remembered. His eyes light up with surprise, and then a heartbreakingly joyful smile spreads across his face.
“You came back!”
I rush to him, unable to speak. Lawrence runs faster, closing the gap between us. All I can feel is the thud of my heart. All I can see is the faintly blurred print from the Crest Harbor Sentinel: “Following the tragic murder of his nephew, Lawrence Foster, on the property’s private beach.”
“I can’t believe it,” he says, beaming. “I came every day, hoping against hope that you’d change your mind.”
Tears sting my eyes. Keep it together, Cass. Keep. It. Together.
Lawrence grips my arms. “Is it really you? Or are you some beautiful vision coming to torment me?”
This makes me smile in spite of the agony inside. “It’s almost like you’re happy to see
me, Lawrence.”
“Happy is an understatement,” he says, beaming.
I should go. I’ve seen him now, and every second that I stand here in front of him, I feel the weight of the information I know. I should walk away while I still can.
“What made you change your mind?” he asks.
“It’s a long story.”
“I know what you mean.” Suddenly his expression shifts to seriousness. “I thought about you every day, Cassandra. You have no idea how glad I am that you came back.”
I’m not sure how much of this I can take. I’m going to break. Any second, I’m going to break.
“Cassandra.”
“Yes?” My voice breaks.
“Will you walk with me for a bit?”
Once again, logic is shattered by the hammer of emotion. “Sure.”
Lawrence holds out his forearm for me. I’ve seen enough old movies to know why. I lace my arm in his. He tucks it close. A rush of pleasure zips through my stomach. Being around him again, touching him, smelling the faint tinge of his vintage cologne, fills me with a dangerous amount of happiness.
It’s still a beautiful morning. Perhaps a bit cooler than it should be at the end of July. Two gulls cry at each other as they swoop overhead. I wonder which world they come from, Lawrence’s or mine. Or are they also separated by a century of time? For some reason, thinking about it depresses me.
Lawrence leads us toward the far point, where the waves are most tumultuous.
“I don’t think a week has ever felt so long,” he says as we walk slowly.
“I know what you mean.”
He smiles, but this only twists the blade deeper in my gut. He doesn’t deserve to die. Not in a homicide. It can’t be true. Why does it have to be true?
We come to a rocky ledge at the base of the point. Lawrence climbs up, then holds out his hand to help me up. I wobble a little on my climb, nearly slipping. He grabs for my other hand. As he helps me to the higher ledge, we’re face-to-face for a moment. Separated by little more than a breath. My eyes fall to his lips, but I force myself to step away.
“You’re pretty quiet,” Lawrence says as we head to the end of the point. “Is something wrong?”
Yes, Lawrence. Yes. The worst possible thing. The words scream in my head: “following the tragic murder of his nephew, Lawrence Foster, on the property’s private beach.”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly.
His eyes sweep over my face. He can see I’m holding something back. I force a little smile and lead on, inwardly kicking myself. I can’t be weak. I’ve been through this in my mind, assessing every possible path. You can’t cheat death. It’s a fact. And you can’t mess with fate. Telling Lawrence that he’s going to die less than two weeks could set into motion the very events that will bring it to pass.
I close my eyes and try to breathe. I will be strong. I’m not going to tell him. I’m just going to spend a little bit longer with him, say good-bye, and move on with my life.
Waves slam against the craggy rocks at the tip of the point. With each thundering crash, a faint mist of water tingles on my skin. Wind bites at me, but the view of the shore, stretching for miles in either direction, makes the elements worth braving.
Lawrence finds a somewhat smooth patch of rock near the edge and sits. I hesitate but ultimately can’t resist sitting down next to him. He scoots closer, smiling, and I have to fight the impulse to nuzzle my face into his shoulder. The desire to feel his arms around me rages through my heart. I stare out at the horizon to keep from bursting.
“I’m facing a crossroads,” Lawrence says, also looking out over the water. “A decision has been pushed on me, and I don’t know what to do.”
“A decision about your career?”
“And other things…” He sighs. “My choices are to accept my family’s plan for me or I’m kicked to the street.”
“It’s wrong,” I say, shaking my head. “They should let you decide how you want to spend your life.”
He smiles ruefully. “I wish I lived in your time. I can’t imagine having that freedom.”
“I wish you had it. You deserve better.”
He scrapes a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure I do. That’s part of the problem. I’m willing to accept the responsibilities that come with my life of privilege. Without my father’s money, I’m nothing. I should be grateful that practicing law is even an option for me, rather than, say, digging coal out of the ground a mile under, or breaking my back behind a plow. Is it wrong to live the life people expect of you? To please the people who helped make you who you are?”
I shake my head. “But you’re still entitled to your dreams. Being rich doesn’t exclude you from that.”
“My old man thinks dreams are a waste of time. Work is the only thing that matters.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
He sighs. “I guess not. Otherwise I wouldn’t fill notebooks with my writing when he thinks I’m asleep.”
“You deserve to follow your dreams, Lawrence.” My eyes sting with tears as I speak the words, knowing he’ll never get the chance. He sets his hand beneath my chin, turning my face to him. His intensity melts me.
“In my mind, you have come to embody those dreams,” he says softly. “A girl from another time. Who only exists on one windswept beach. You’re a poem, Cassandra. You’re my poem.”
He takes my hand and presses it to his chest. My heart is pounding so hard that I can barely breathe.
“I feel like, if this is real, then my dreams can be real. If these feelings I have for you are truth, then the truth of my words is worth fighting for, and it doesn’t matter what people expect of me.”
Lawrence sets his hands on my face. His fingertips slide gently into my hair. My ears are ringing. I shouldn’t let this happen. But everything in me longs for it.
Lawrence’s gaze brushes over my face, tender and hungry at once. And then he presses his lips to mine.
For a moment, there’s only the crash of surf, the clean smell of cologne, and the burning heat of this kiss.
We part. Then, like magnets, our lips come together again. I turn fully to him, hooking my arms around his neck. He grips my back. Our breathing rises and joins in unison. I want more. I want to lose myself.
But then the inevitability of Lawrence’s death seizes me.
He keeps kissing me, but I freeze. These lips, this hair, those eyes—they’ll be gone forever in a matter of days. Less than two weeks.
I pull away. Lawrence looks dazed. His cheeks are flushed. I push to my feet. The truth bears down on me, oppressive and overwhelming. I can’t breathe.
I have to tell him. He deserves to know. I would want someone to have the courage to tell me if they knew I was about to die. I have to do the hard thing and tell him or break under the weight of this secret.
Lawrence stands, his brow furrowed. “Cassandra? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t…” Tears burn in my eyes. I can’t meet his gaze or I’ll lose it. I shake my head, trying to find a breath, let alone the words to tell him he’s going to die.
Lawrence cups my face in his hands. His expression is so earnest, so caring. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it the kiss? I shouldn’t have done it, should I? It was taking advantage of you.”
“No. It’s not that.”
He pulls me into his arms, and I don’t resist. I can’t. I lay my face against his shoulder. His body feels firm and warm against mine. Can’t we just stay here together? Why does he have to die? Why?
“What is it, then? Tell me, Cassandra. Please.”
“I know something. Something that’s going to happen…to you.”
He’s quiet. I push through the wall of resistance in my heart. I have to do this. “I came across a newspaper from your time. At the library.”
I reach for the words. They’re there, but they refuse to pass my lips.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Lawrence says softly.
The perfectly horrible, perfectly correct words to say. I am looking at a ghost, Lawrence.
“Tell me,” he says again.
Drawing in a sharp breath, I press my face to his shoulder. The horrible words come out in a trembling whisper. “It says…that you will…die. There. On our beach.”
I’ve done it. I’ve broken the one rule I know I shouldn’t break. And yet I don’t feel regret as much as a horrible emptiness.
Lawrence pulls me back a little to look into my eyes. “You must be mistaken,” he says, but he doesn’t sound very convinced. My oracle-like words seem to have rattled him.
I shake my head. “You have no idea how much I wish I were mistaken. But I cross-referenced with a few other newspapers to confirm. It happened. It…will happen. In ten days.”
Lawrence stares out at the ocean. “Good God.”
Nothing could hurt me more than the look on his face. Fresh tears sting my eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Lawrence. I had to tell you. I know it goes against everything I said before. I know we shouldn’t mess with time, but we can’t let it happen.”
A dazed, distant look glazes over his eyes. The color drains from his cheeks. “I don’t…” His voice fades into the wind. He looks back toward the house, voice trembling. “I have to go.”
“Lawrence, wait!”
But he doesn’t turn back. As he staggers back toward the beach, I realize I’ll probably never see him again.
Until We Meet Again Page 11
