The River of No Return (48 page)

T
hey had walked up to this spot together without exchanging a word. Now they stood in the cold rain, at the edge of the woods, at the exact spot where they had met on the day of the Seventh Marquess’s funeral. Where they had met again not so long ago. And then a third time, for that searing kiss up against a tree . . . Nick felt for the acorn in his pocket. He turned to look at Julia, and she was smiling up at him. She reached up, put her hands behind his neck, and drew him down for a kiss. Her lips were wet again with rain again, cool and perfect. He put his arms around her waist and drew her to him, slowly, feeling the way her body fitted against his so exactly, even through their rain-soaked clothes. He ran his hand up her back until he cradled her head, and then he broke the kiss and stared down into her smiling dark eyes.

“You know now that I have no mistress,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And when I said I loved you, that day in the cupola, I meant it.”

“I think I always knew that,” she said.

“But in the cupola, you lay with me—and all the while you thought that Alva was my lover.” He searched her face. It was serious and yet there was a laugh lurking there, too, as if she found him comical, somehow.

“Hush.” She put a finger up to his mouth, then dropped her hand to his chest.

She was right. Words were pointless. He lifted her toward him, helping her reach his kisses.

When they eased out of the embrace, Nick took both of Julia’s hands in his, and her fingers closed around the object he’d been holding. “What is this? I’ve seen you with it before.”

“It’s an acorn.” He glanced up at the trees. “From one of these oaks. I picked it up that day, after we first kissed. I’ve carried it with me ever since.” He handed it to her.

She rolled it between her fingers. Her eyes were deep and dark, like the woods behind her. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “May I have it?”

“Yes.” He spoke without thinking, but then, when he saw her toss it from her, out into the open field, he gasped. “Wait!”

“No.” She held his hand and kept him from going after it. “I want you to do this with me.”

“What?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” She smiled. “Because I want my first time to be with you.” She kissed him quickly and gripped his hand. Then, without another word of warning, she jumped, and dragged him along with her.

* * *

It was nothing like the time he jumped from the battlefield, or the time he jumped with Arkady. This felt like falling into a featherbed, or rather, falling out into an ocean of feathers, falling forward and up into a glowing softness.

Then the world resolved itself again around them, and they stood together in bright evening light, on the same hillside, under the spreading limbs of a magnificent oak tree. The forest that had been at their back was gone, and the single tree dominated the hill, a glorious monument to time itself. Nick dropped Julia’s hand and turned in a slow circle. Down across the fields was Falcott House, and away in the other direction he could see Castle Dar. Castle Dar, which hadn’t been there in the future he had known, when he had driven across Devon with Arkady. In its place he had seen the enormous shed of combine harvesters. Now, sprawling and ancient, there it stood. Castle Dar.

Were they in the past? But no. This was the future. In the distance he could see the lazily spinning turbines of a wind farm. Their blades glowed pink in the evening light.

Nick took Julia’s hand again. She was staring around her, a little afraid, a little proud. “Is this what the future looks like?”

“No,” he said softly. “Or at least, not the future I knew.”

“The oak tree wasn’t here in that future,” she said, her dark eyes shining.

“No.” Nick clasped her fingers. “No, my love, it wasn’t.”

To Tina Bennett; thank you for quietly enabling yet another happy chapter in my life. To Alexandra Machinist, thank you for grabbing the future by the collar; you are the best agent in this universe and any other. To Alex Clarke across the pond but still somehow in my backyard—thank you. To Trevor Horwood, the king of copyeditors, thank you. And to Denise Roy, for elbow grease, kindness, and X-ray vision—you are a genius and I’m so grateful.

To Holly Kosisky, who read and reread the ever-changing manuscript; thank you for being my Bip.

To family, friends, and mentors without whose contributions, large or small, this stone soup would never have been boiled—thank you. Pinckney Benedict, Duncan Black, Suzanne Brennan, Megan Brown, Eiren Caffall, Kim Cassidy, Margaret Clardy, Lindsay Feldman, George the Germ, Peter Gervickas, Laura Hawley, Gail Hemmeter, Tom Hemmeter, Jen Hill, Jeremy Hornik, Sarah Kavanagh, Deanna Kreisel, Joan Logan, Antonia Losano, Imke Meyer, Michael Moon, Margaret Robison, Jen Roder, Jordana Rosenberg, Mark Rounds, Heidi Schlipphacke, Laurel Schneider, Pat Schneider, Paul Schneider, Peter Schneider, Rebecca Schneider, Rosi Song, Georg Steinmeyer, Ellen Summers, Elizabeth Thomas, Michael Thomas, Sharon Ullman, Lelah Ridgway Vought, Matt Wright, David Young, and Sandy Zagarell.

To my students, who are ferocious and stubborn and brilliant and the best readers I know—thank you for loving books and for keeping me nimble.

And to Katie, whose insights and ideas are scattered throughout this novel like acorns.

BEE RIDGWAY
was born and raised in Amherst, Massachusetts. After various adventures in the United States and the United Kingdom, she has finally come to roost in Philadelphia. She is an English professor at Bryn Mawr College. This is her first novel.