“That’s what Eve was talking about, then?”
I nod. “Prudence told me to stay away from Kiernan. But that’s hard to do, since he’s the only other person on our side who can use the medallions. And he has information on what we tried before in the other timeline, and—”
“Okay, he was in love with that other Kate. Is he in love with you?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. Is he in love with me? Or with a ghost who looks like me?
“I don’t know, Trey. He’s definitely still in love with her. He wishes I was his Kate, that she was still here. And I’m pretty sure he thinks if things were different, I could become that other Kate, but . . .”
“Could you?”
I shake my head. “I’ll admit I care about Kiernan. It’s hard not to. He saved my life. I guess I saved his as well, although he’d never have been caught in Holmes’s hotel as a kid if he hadn’t been helping me. I can definitely see how that other Kate fell in love with him in different circumstances. But in order for me to be that Kate, I’d have to give up everything. I don’t want to live in 1905. I don’t want to give up my family.”
“I can understand that.”
“But aside from all of those issues,” I say, looking deep into his eyes, “there’s one other major impediment, Trey. I’m already in love with you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a really long time, and when he finally speaks, his face is troubled. “I don’t like it. I don’t like that this guy is going to be hanging around. And I really don’t like that he can help you when I can’t.” He squeezes my hand. “But, that said, if I could help you, it would blow my compromise with Dad and . . . while I suspect you can generally take care of yourself, the fact that there’s someone watching your back, someone who would risk his life to save yours? It makes me breathe a little easier. Does that make sense? Jealous as hell but also a little grateful?”
“Yes. If this were reversed, I’d feel the same way. But you said before that you want to know what I’m doing, and I’m wondering—would it be easier if I didn’t mention things involving Kiernan? I don’t want to make you feel jealous. I wouldn’t like thinking about you with some girl who . . . feels about you the way that Kiernan does about me.”
He shakes his head. “Open and honest, even when it hurts. That’s the only way this can work, Kate.”
I pull in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Then I guess I need to tell you that I’ll be seeing him tomorrow. We have to go to Depression-era Georgia.”
“Well,” Trey says, “at least he makes it easy for me to take you places that are more fun.”
“I think I’d prefer 1938 Georgia to another barbecue at Eve’s house.” He laughs, and I add, “And this isn’t a date. It’s work.”
“Okay,” he says. “When?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Here’s the deal, then. You do what you have to do, but after you get back from this . . . assignment . . . or any other time you’re going to be working with this guy, you call me, so I can come right over. Or better yet, call me before you go.”
It will take some creativity. Katherine would have a fit if Trey came by during a jump, and I don’t want to upset her. But it’s definitely doable. “Okay,” I tell him. “But . . . why?”
“Because I don’t want him on your mind for too long. That seems a little dangerous to me. I know you said you’re not his Kate, but I want equal time to make sure you remember you’re my Kate.”
∞11∞
The alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, but I’m still in bed, trying to organize my brain. Thoughts of the party and the clash with Eve compete with much more tempting memories of the final part of the evening with Trey. He delivered me to the doorstep a few minutes before twelve, as promised, and gave me the final, chaste kiss he seemed to feel was appropriate, just in case anyone was peeking out the windows. The act might have fooled a casual observer, but we were both still breathing a bit heavy from a long interlude in a secluded parking area overlooking Cabin John Creek.
Aside from Dad, who was dutifully parked on the couch with a book when I walked in, the rest of the house was quiet. I gave him the brief answer to his “Did you have a good time?” (Yes, wonderful! along with a kiss on the cheek) and then floated up the stairs.
But it is now morning, and I need to report back to the team on the elements that weren’t so wonderful.
First, however, I run a Google Image search on “Prudence” and “Cyrist.” There are no photographs, but there are dozens of drawings and paintings, all very similar, including quite a few of her in the late stages of pregnancy. Even in the clip art, the face is clearly defined, the hair long and curly, and the entire package disturbingly like me. Not identical, however. Most of the paintings show a face that’s a little wider than mine, especially across the brow. Her nose is a bit shorter, the shape of her lips slightly different. Her breasts are definitely larger, but then she’s pregnant in most of the paintings and being depicted as a fertility goddess in others, and I’ve never seen a fertility goddess with normal-sized boobs.
Out of curiosity, I run a similar search for other religions. There seems to be a bias against redheaded Marys, but you have blond Marys and brunette Marys and Marys of almost every ethnicity. Depictions of the various Hindu goddesses don’t have the same range, but their appearance varies at least somewhat from one picture to the next. I have a feeling no one’s plagued by constantly being told she looks like Mary or Lakshmi or any other religion’s demigod or patron saint.
I take the iPad down to the kitchen, still in my pj’s. Daphne’s at attention at the far end of the counter. She’s too well trained to snatch anything, but it looks like she’s trying to will a slice, or maybe even the entire platter, to jump off the counter and onto the floor. So far, it isn’t working.
Dad, who’s chopping vegetables by the sink, has put Connor to work mixing the eggs. But Connor is stirring them instead of whisking them, which means we’re going to end up with rubbery omelets. I set my tablet down on the other side of the bar and hold out my hands for the large silver bowl. “I believe that’s my brunch assignment. But you can make yourself useful and pour the sous chef some coffee.”
“With pleasure.” Connor gives me the bowl and grabs a mug from the cabinet. “Did you and Trey have a good time?”
“We had a very good time, but . . . also a rather complicated time. Is Katherine eating with us?”
“Not sure. She was still asleep when I . . . checked on her.”
“I know, Connor,” I say with a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay. I’m not a little kid. You guys don’t have to hide it anymore.”
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to clear that with your grandmother. And I suspect you don’t want to have that conversation with her, right?” He gives me a tight little grin as he hands me the coffee.
I respond with a point-taken look.
“So, why were you wondering about Katherine?” Connor asks.
“Just debating whether to wait and fill everyone in when she’s here, too.”
“Her sleep is off due to the change in her medications, so I’ll just give her the highlights later.” The upside of Katherine’s outburst at our pizza summit the other night is that it finally convinced her to see the doctor to adjust her meds.
“Okay.” I grab the milk from the fridge and pour a bit into my coffee, then add a larger splash to the eggs and start whisking again, putting a bit more muscle into it this time so that the omelets will be nice and fluffy. “So, Dad, did you know that Carrington Day was Cyrist?”
He looks over his shoulder from the stove. “Uh, no. That’s something I’d definitely have mentioned.”