Out of Time: A Time Travel Mystery

by Martin, Monique

  Ten minutes and three dollars later, he still hadn’t hit a sodding thing. He slammed another quarter down on the wooden ledge.

  “Really, it’s okay,” she said, biting her lip in an obvious effort to keep from laughing.

  “No, it’s not,” he said.

  He tossed the ring, and it clattered off to the side. The second rimmed off the blue-necked bottle. Finally, the third hit its mark. It looped around the bottle and settled in place.

  Simon grunted in triumph. “About bloody time.”

  Elizabeth laughed and gave him a round of applause. He suddenly felt embarrassed. He wasn’t one for overt, or covert for that matter, shows of testosterone. But the way she looked at him, almost adoringly, it was enough to turn lead into gold.

  The carny used his long pole to retrieve the stuffed tiger and handed it to Simon. Elizabeth positively beamed when he turned back to her. Whatever the cost, it had been well worth it.

  Feeling the carny’s eyes on them, Simon led Elizabeth to a secluded spot near a darkened stall for more privacy. He looked down at the tiger. It was ridiculous really, poorly made and covered with a layer of dust. The stitches were loose and haphazard, ready to split apart at the slightest provocation.

  He turned it over in his hands, feeling suddenly foolish. Such a paltry thing for all the money he’d spent. Money they didn’t have to spare. He took a deep breath. “I think he belongs to you,” he said softly and handed her the tiger.

  Elizabeth brushed the soft fur and played with one of the ears. “I love him,” she whispered. She steadied herself on his shoulder and leaned up to kiss him. Just the barest caress on the corner of his mouth, but the feeling was electric. She pulled away just far enough for him to see her face—surprised, questioning, and desiring. A breathless moment hovered between them.

  A voice inside Simon’s head screamed at him to step away, to stop this before it went too far. She moved closer again, her lips brushing against his. And the voice fell silent. Everything Simon knew, every good reason, every second thought, disappeared in that instant. The only thing that mattered was the feeling.

  Her lips, tentative and soft, pressed against his. His hands moved without thought and pulled her body closer. Fueled by desires too long buried, he kissed her with all that he was, all that he dreamt of being. She opened herself to him, and he took all she offered. The gentle kiss blossomed with passion, as he tasted her, drank her in, devoured her. He felt her breasts crush against his chest as he pulled her closer still. His hands splayed across the arch of her back and the delicate curve of her neck. The silk of her hair wound its way around his fingers as she wound her way around his heart.

  She eased her mouth from his, and he could feel the soft warmth of her breath against his cheek. He groaned with pleasure and opened his eyes.

  “Simon,” she whispered breathlessly.

  He pulled back and looked into her face, flushed with the heat of the moment, lips swollen and slightly parted. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight, pulling him in. He was falling, spiraling, completely out of control. Out of control. Slowly, a swelling terror rose in his chest. The panicked feeling from his dream, the loss and desolation, surged inside him. Dear God, what had he done?

  It was a moment he would revisit for years to come—the moment he pushed her away.

  He still held her, not to him, but away from him. His fingers dug into her arms, as his grip tightened. He couldn’t do this. He’d been a fool to think he could lose himself in her. He could never outrun who he was, who he wasn’t. Love was a luxury for other men. He shook his head slightly and winced as pain and confusion colored her expression.

  “That was a mistake,” he said.

  Her face blanched, and she gripped the small, stuffed tiger tightly. “I... I don’t understand,” she stuttered.

  He couldn’t explain it. How could he confess that he could never be the man she wanted, the man she deserved? Wanting her in return couldn’t change that. No matter how much he wanted her. He’d selfishly taken what she’d offered without thought to the consequence. He could love her. He did love her, he thought with a deepening sickness in his heart, but he couldn’t bear to be loved by her. To have something so beautiful and know it couldn’t last. To know each day spent with her was one fewer day left to them. The swell of panic from his nightmares overwhelmed him again. He could not bear to let her in, only to have to let her go again. His heart couldn’t take the risk.

  “But on the train,” she said. “And this morning, I know...”

  The pain in her voice cut into his resolve, but he couldn’t waver. He knew he was a coward. That realization only reaffirmed he was right in pulling away. He wasn’t capable of being what she needed. He was selfish and afraid. The sooner they both faced it, the better. She deserved a whole man, not broken pieces.

  “Mistakes,” he said more firmly.

  She looked as if she’d been struck. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to comfort her. He reined them in. Better a clean cut. He would watch over her, loving her safely from afar. If he kept his distance, maybe one day he could forget her. Or perhaps, if he stayed away from her, the terrible fate he’d dreamt of would never come to pass.

  “We should be getting back,” he said. He set his jaw and let his eyes fall to the ground.

  Elizabeth glared at him for a long moment. He could feel her eyes boring into him, but he didn’t have the courage to meet them. Didn’t have the strength to weather the questions and the anger he knew they held. Then, without another word, she turned and walked away.

  * * *

  The train home was crowded, but there were still seats to be had. Elizabeth took one next to a window. Simon had kept his distance as he followed her back to the station, and now stood alone in the back of the car as it shimmied down the track.

  He watched Elizabeth lean her head against the cool glass of the window. The dark scenery passed by in a blur. He’d done the right thing, he told himself. The only thing he could. He’d always walked along the periphery of emotion, never willing to submit. It was a lonely way to live, but it was the only way he knew. He was too old to change now, too afraid, if he dared admit it. His demons were too familiar, too insidious, killing him by inches instead of miles. A way of life that wasn’t living. A heart as little used as his couldn’t bear the strain. He’d have lost her eventually. He was sure of that. Better to stay that way from the start than be cleft in two.

  When the train reached the station, Elizabeth rose and walked out without so much as a backward glance. He deserved it. Far worse really. He waited for the other passengers to leave before making his way up the aisle. Passing the seat where Elizabeth had been sitting, he saw the small, stuffed tiger abandoned on the empty train. He nearly reached out to take it, but it was useless now. He’d made his choice. He left the train car and followed her home.

  He knew this journey into the past would be fraught with dangers. He just hadn’t realized that losing his heart would be one of them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elizabeth couldn’t bear to look at him, not without yelling, or worse, crying. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of either.

  The walk home was silent. She wanted to run; she wanted to run and hide and disappear. Her father’s voice was the only thing that kept her from losing it completely. Never let ’em know you’re scared. Eddie West’s kid didn’t run away. No matter what.

  The door to the apartment closed behind her. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest. It was so damn cold. Eighty-five degrees and absolutely freezing. She walked into the room and stood in the middle of the beige carpet with her back to him. For a fleeting moment, she wished he’d come to her. Say he didn’t mean it, that it was all a mistake.

  A mistake. How those words cut. She heard him pad over to the table by the window. He wasn’t going to take it back. He meant it. She was a mistake.

  She lowered her hands to her sides and tightened them into fists to keep them from
trembling and walked into the bathroom. She simply couldn’t be in the same room with him. Slamming the door behind her, she looked into the mirror.

  How was she going to face him again? The look in his eyes when he’d said it, shocked and appalled, almost angry. She’d put her soul into that moment, into that kiss. She offered him her heart, and he’d looked at her like she was a fly in his soup.

  Why was it the things you want to forget the most are the things that stay with you forever? She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill out. There were precious few times she missed her mother. Daddy was all she’d ever needed, most of the time. But what she wouldn’t give to have her mom, right here, right now.

  Elizabeth grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped her runny nose, sniffling back the tears that clogged her throat. There was no one here for her to talk to. No one was going to rub her back in those reassuring circles. No one to tell her it was going to be all right. And besides, it wasn’t going to be all right.

  What an idiot. How could she have done it? What the hell was she thinking? He’d spent a few dollars on a cheap stuffed toy, and she threw herself into his arms.

  She pushed away from the sink and slumped down onto the toilet. She was a complete fool. He’d been nice to her. Nothing more. Just nice, which, okay, for Simon was tantamount to a proposal. Or so she’d thought. A few looks, and she’d melted like butter. Was she that desperate for the illusion that he cared? Seeing things when nothing was there. A few longing looks that were probably all in her head anyway. Simon was right. Believing something doesn’t make it true. It just makes you look like an ass.

  Elizabeth ran a shaky hand over her eyes. God, if she could only take it back. Rewind, call a do-over. She replayed the scene in her head again and again. The way he looked at her right after she thanked him for the tiger. He wanted her, he felt something. Or was that revisionist history? Did she see desire because it was there, or because she wanted it to be? And the kiss. God. The kiss. She could remember every nuance, every place his hands had touched her. That was even more pitiful. It didn’t mean anything to him. He was caught up in the moment, she was there. Nothing more.

  Could she be more pathetic? She’d actually discovered a whole new level of humiliation. Maybe they’d name it after her, like Lou Gehrig’s disease. West’s Shame: not fatal, but you wished it were.

  But the way he’d held her. She could still feel his body pressed against hers, strong and protective. She could still taste him on her lips. He hadn’t fought her. He didn’t push her away. Not at first. He’d responded. She might not be a femme fatale, but she knew enough to know when a man was excited. There are some things you can’t hide. And it was more than that. This wasn’t just another kiss. She’d kissed enough horny underclassmen to know the difference. Lust was hands up your shirt and tongues down your throat. Simon caressed her, held her. It had been more than the twenty year difference in experience. It was passion, tempered. But tempered with what?

  He could have stopped it before it started, if it was such a big mistake. But he didn’t. He kissed her back. He wanted to kiss her. He felt something. She was sure of it. So what the hell was he doing pushing her away? What was he running from? Was the mighty Simon Cross afraid?

  She let out a long sigh and moved back to the sink. She turned the taps and let the water rush over her hands. The cold against her face made her gasp, but she wasn’t going to be red-faced and puffy-eyed if she could help it. Rivulets of water ran down her chin, and she rubbed them into her neck. She looked at herself in the mirror again, when a knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

  “Eliz— Miss West?” Simon’s voice came from the other side of the door. “Are you... Is everything all right in there?”

  She stared into her reflection and felt a new heat rising in her. Anger. It was a damn sight better than the abject humiliation of a few minutes ago. If he wanted to be a repressed schmuck, he could do it on his own damn time. You don’t make someone feel something and then pull the rug out from under them. You just don’t do it.

  Her T-shirt was hanging on the thin clothesline over the tub. Thank God she’d done laundry earlier and didn’t have to go back into the room to get her clothes. She wasn’t about to wear the top of their matching set of pajamas. Shrugging off her dress, she pulled the tiny shirt over her head. The hem fell slightly above her panties and she started to tug it down, but the hell with it. What did it matter now anyway? She grabbed a towel and dried her face. Taking one more steeling breath, she opened the door.

  Simon took a step back and shifted nervously.

  She glared at him for a moment until he had the good sense to look away. She walked over to the bed and pulled the coverlet down on her side. It was probably foolish to even ask why, but she couldn’t help herself. And maybe in the asking she could find a little bit of control.

  “There’s only one thing I want to know,” she said, as she turned to face him. “What are you so afraid of?”

  Simon frowned and shook his head. “I... I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” She waited for more, but he just looked at her with those shuttered eyes. That was all he had to say? She tensed her jaw and fought the urge to shake him. He could barely look at her. He should at least have the decency to look her in the eye. A screaming match would have been better than the defeat, the complete lack of anything. Was he that shut down? Maybe it all wasn’t a façade. Maybe he really was a cold-hearted bastard.

  They stood in an awkward silence for a painfully long moment before she shook her head with undisguised pity.

  “Fine. You be sorry. You can do whatever the hell you want. I’m going to bed.”

  * * *

  Simon turned the corner onto Mulberry street, already planning his next move. If she wasn’t there, he’d try Saint Patrick’s then go back uptown and retrace their steps from earlier in the week.

  Damn that woman.

  The last thing he’d wanted was the one thing he’d gotten. She’d been gone that morning when he woke up. No note, nothing, except an empty bed. It was just like her. To rush off to God knows where.

  He rolled his neck, trying to work out the kinks. A night in the little wooden chair had done little to help his mood. Now, his body was twisted in the same knots as his heart.

  He went from store to store, pushing his way through the crowd. She had to be here. This was the sort of place she’d seek. Get that canoli she’d talked incessantly about. Pastry shop after pastry shop and still no Elizabeth.

  Could he have made a bigger cockup of the situation? He’d behaved like a fool. He should never have let things get as far as they had. Never should have given in for one moment of perfection. One blissful moment when everything else faded away, except the feeling of her in his arms.

  Damn her. She should have, at the very least, had the decency to tell him where she was going. She could be anywhere in the city. Anything could be happening to her.

  With a force of will, he pushed that thought aside and continued through the crowd. He’d find her sooner or later. Not that he had the slightest notion of what to say when he did. His stuttering apology last night only drove her further away. What could he say? How could he keep her only at arm’s length when the feeling of her by his side was all he thought about?

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the cool, embossed metal of his grandfather’s watch. His fingers ran over the surface. Odd, how in only a few days it had become a talisman. An anchor to reality. But it was nearly meaningless without her. He gave a short painful laugh. What wasn’t?

  As he neared the end of the block, he mentally mapped out his next move. Take the subway uptown and work his way back. Surely she wouldn’t leave the city. No. He had the watch. She’d come back to him, if for no other reason. Cold comfort.

  He was about to reverse his course when he felt someone watching him. He turned around quickly, scanning the crowd, hoping to see a glimpse of her. The hairs on the back
of his neck prickled.

  No Elizabeth. Who’d been watching him? He was sure he’d felt the weight of someone’s eyes on him. In the shadows of a doorway stood an old woman, arms wrapped under a black shawl, dark eyes boring into him.

  Then he noticed the hand-painted sign that adorned the window next to her—Rosella: Spiritualist and Medium. Undoubtedly, one of the many charlatans that had found a way to profit from people’s suffering. A legacy of the first World War.

  After the war, after any time of great sorrow, people looked for answers. So much loss led to questions about life, death and what lay between. Some turned toward religion, and people like Aimee Semple McPherson came into power. Some turned away from everything, and others turned toward the slightly less ordinary.

  Spiritualism had been reborn. Finally out of the back rooms and dark alleys, the movement was big business. From the average housewife to the cream of society, nearly everyone embraced the prospect of speaking to a lost loved one.

  Simon eyed the old woman with undisguised disdain. His years in the occult had led him to more than his share of impostors. He’d even, for a brief time, considered following in Houdini’s footsteps and spending his life debunking those who’d gain from other’s pain. But he’d had his own battles to fight and had forgotten about it, until now.

  “You have lost something?” the woman said, in a thick Italian accent.

  It hardly took a clairvoyant to see that. “I know your type,” Simon said. “Don’t waste your time on me.”

  Rosella narrowed her eyes. “Ah, but your time is not your own, is it?”

  Simon felt a cold shiver, but ignored it. Vague remarks were the hallmark of her kind. The subject’s imagination was key in any deception, and he wasn’t about to be drawn in by her games. “I don’t see—”

  “You do see, what will be,” she said and then spat on the sidewalk. “La malvagità disegna vicino. Near to the one you love.”