Somewhere in Time (The Crosse Harbor Time Travel Trilogy) (2 page)

He was almost at the Ben Franklin Bridge when he noticed the needle on his gas gauge was hovering around E. He whipped into the first gas station he saw and couldn't help grinning at the crowd of attendants who swarmed the sports car.

"Fill it," he said. "And it's okay if you want to check under the hood."

He was thinking about where he'd stashed his passport after his weekend in London last month when out of nowhere he heard Sara Jane's voice.

You didn't think I was going to let you get away without a fight, did you?

He jumped, cracking his elbow against the gear stick. Sara Jane? Ridiculous. It was probably his guilty conscience speaking.

It's not too late, Zane. Open your eyes to what's around you and your heart will soon follow . . .

What the hell did that mean? It sounded like something he'd read in a fortune cookie.

He glanced toward the package resting on the seat next to him. Experience had taught him that the best way to handle anything from a hangover to a guilty conscience was the hair of the dog that bit you. He might as well get it over with while he waited.

"Okay," he said out loud, unknotting the string then folding back the brown paper. There was nothing scary about a moth-eaten hunk of fabric, even if he was hearing voices.

So what are you going to do, Zane, toss it in your closet and forget it the way you forgot everything else? You owe my memory more than that. Do the right thing this time.

Okay, now it was getting weird. If he didn't know better, he'd swear Sara Jane was sitting in the car with him. He didn't have time for any of this..

Make time! Wasn't I the only one who ever made time for you?

The truth hurt. Sara Jane was the one person he'd been able to count on when he was growing up, the only one who'd never let him down.

Maybe he was crazy. Maybe she really was contacting him from another plane of existence. Or maybe it was just that guilty conscience of his speaking up. Whatever it was, two hours and six phone calls later, he was on his way down the Jersey shore.

It wasn't possible. He knew that as well as he knew his own name. The odds against it were just too overwhelming. But time and again he'd heard the same thing: "Emilie Crosse is the one you need to see." From Professor Attleman at Rutgers to Deno Grandinetti at the Smithsonian, every historian he contacted all sang the praises of the woman with the old-fashioned name and outdated occupation who just happened to be his ex-wife.

The woman who had broken his heart when she walked out the door one soft spring evening and never looked back.

"You play dirty, Sara Jane," he said as he raced south along the Garden State, "but it's not going to work. I'm dropping off the uniform and then I'm leaving for Tahiti, understand?"

It's a start, dear boy,
the familiar voice said with a laugh.
It's a start.

#

Crosse Harbor, New Jersey

At the moment her life changed forever, Emilie Crosse was balanced on a stepstool on her front porch, watering a flowering begonia plant that had seen better days. She was considering whether or not to put the poor thing out of its misery when the deep roar of a car engine brought her up short.

She wasn't expecting anyone. The most traffic her dead-end street usually saw was the appearance of the red-white-and-blue US mail truck every morning and the truck's engine sputtered rather than roared.

She climbed down from the stepstool and, wiping her hands on the sides of her pants, glanced toward the street as the sound grew closer. A shiny black foreign car rounded the corner and she felt the kickstart of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. It didn't take an automotive genius to figure out you could run the Crosse Harbor school system on what the driver had paid for that sleek beauty.

It also didn't take a genius to figure out where the car was headed. Hers was the last house before you hit the water.

The car roared up her driveway as if it were the home stretch of the Indianapolis 500 and screeched to a stop aggressively close to her dumpy old Chevy.

She'd only known one person in her life who wouldn't be overshadowed by a car like that and she'd been crazy enough to marry him

The car door swung open and she pinched herself sharply on the inside of her arm then looked again. No doubt about it. Striding up the driveway was Zane Grey Rutledge, the Main Line Philly son with the Wild West name who had captured her heart back when she still believed in happy endings.

"Been a long time, Emilie," he said in a voice so rich with testosterone that it made her knees buckle. "You look great."

"You too," she said, shaking her head at the understatement. "So let me guess: you were in the neighborhood and decided to pop in and say hello.”

He smiled but the look in his eyes gave her pause. "I would've called but you're not listed."

"Emily Crosse Restorations. I'm in the book."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"You're not going to ask me in?"

"You're here for a reason, Zane, and it isn't to talk about old times." She sounded cool and collected. He'd never in a million years suspect the way her heart was thundering inside her chest in an approximation of flat-out, unadulterated, completely ridiculous joy. "What do you want?"

"Your professional opinion."

She barked a laugh that embarrassed her. "You're kidding."

He didn't look like he was kidding. To her surprise she caught a flash of vulnerability behind the movie-star smile and her defenses started to melt.

"I have a package in the car that I'd like you to look at," he said, shifting his weight to his left foot.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"Trust me, Em, it's no joke."

"I'm pretty busy," she said, "but if you make an appointment I'd be happy to see what I can do."

"I can't. I'm leaving for Tahiti tomorrow morning."

Instantly her defenses started to regroup. He'd always been on the way to Tahiti or Aspen or the dark side of the moon.

And he'd always been able to turn her into a hopeless romantic with a soft spot for happily-ever-after endings that never came true.

"Then it can wait until you return."

He didn't hear a word she said. He was already halfway to his Porsche, his long legs eating up the ground with each stride. She watched, awash in a weird combination of appreciation and annoyance. Time had been unfairly kind to him. He cut a dashing figure in his tailored grey slacks and white shirt of silky Egyptian cotton. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Powerful legs.

Definitely the poster boy for pirate fantasies.

Too bad a good marriage required more than great sex and a well-worn passport.

"Okay," he said, as he mounted the porch steps and rejoined her. "When can you start?"

"When you come back from Tahiti."

"I'm not coming back."

"Then time shouldn't be much of an issue."

"I need to take care of this before I leave."

"You should have thought about that sooner."

"Wish I could have, Em, but this all happened a few hours ago."

She eyed the package as an unexpected thrum of excitement began to move along the base of her spine. "What exactly is this?"

He hesitated just long enough for her to notice. "Clothes."

"Jeans? A Dior ball gown? Help me out here, Zane."

She heard the quick intake of breath before he spoke. "Some kind of uniform."

"A uniform." The low thrum turned into a buzz. "How old?"

"Two hundred plus a decade or two."

Her breath caught in her throat. "Revolutionary War era?"

He nodded. "That's what they say."

"Who says?" she demanded. "Where exactly did you get this from?"

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're worrying about."

She stared up at him, her mind ablaze with excitement. "Rutledge House?" The glorious family mansion near Philadelphia that had housed generations of his family's secrets and dreams.

"Lucky guess," he said with a shrug.

"I read that you were turning it into a museum."

"That's what Sara Jane would have wanted."

She shot him a look but held her tongue. From everything he'd told her about his grandmother, what Sara Jane Rutledge would have wanted was to see Zane married and settled down, filling the grand old house with children and grandchildren who would carry on the family name.

"I was very sorry to read about your grandmother's death." The passing of one of the last great ladies of Philadelphia society had made news all across the tri-state area.

He struggled for nonchalance but failed visibly and once again her heart softened toward him. "She was ninety-three," he said, stumbling just a little over his words. "Ninety-two of those years were great."

"I wish I'd met her," Emilie said. "She must have been one terrific woman." Sara Jane had been traveling China during their whirlwind courtship and brief marriage. "You must miss her terribly."

Sara Jane had been his only family, the woman who took him in after his parents died when he was still a boy. She watched as he pulled in the reins on his emotions.

"Are you looking for an appraisal?" she asked, to break the silence. What other reason could there be?

A slight smile tilted the right side of his mouth. "Sounds good."

"I usually charge $500 for a comprehensive insurance appraisal."

"Not a problem."

"Just so you know. I don't want there to be any surprises."

"I made a few calls and everyone agreed you're the one to see." Again, the quick smile.

"Who did you call?" The thought of Zane researching anything to do with her line of work would have been enough to knock her off balance all by itself

"Attleman, Grandinetti –"

"You did your homework." She studied him for a long moment and suppressed a smile. All that research and he couldn't find a phone number? Not very likely. So why did that make her so ridiculously happy?

#

The house was cool and quiet, gently fragrant with the scent of her perfume and something indefinably Emilie. She led him down a small hallway and into her studio where the explosion of color and texture rocked him back on his heels.

Colonial samplers vied for wall space with Erte prints and a Renoir poster of an extremely healthy female nude. Despite the 20
th century intrusions, however, there was no mistaking the fact that the love of Emilie's life was the Colonial era in American history. Back when they were first married, he had teased her about living in the past. Now she did it for a living.

She approached the work bench with the edgy excitement of a high roller at a no-limits table. Except no high-roller worth her weight in chips would have hands that trembled the way hers did as she untied the string.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath as her slender fingers worked at the knot. He'd already noticed she didn't wear a wedding ring, a fact that made him absurdly happy.

"Need some help?"

"I need scissors," she said, gnawing at her full lower lip. "The red ones on the pegboard."

"Real authentic," he teased, as he handed them to her. "Made in Taiwan."

"Not funny," she said, not looking at him. The string fell away at the first touch of the blade then she moved to fold back the thick brown paper, exposing dark blue fabric.

An odd sensation moved its way up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Sweat broke out at his temples as an almost unbearable sense of destiny gripped him by the throat and refused to let go. He could almost feel the weight of the garment across his shoulders, the pull of something way beyond his control.