Page 36 of Stolen Time

“I wondered who lived there,” I said, doing my best to sound casual. “It’s such a beautiful house.”

“I suppose it is,” Abigail replied, although her tone sounded almost absent.

The world’s greatest conversationalist, she was not. I had to wonder how someone so listless and pale would make a goodprima,but I supposed that was a problem for the 1920s McAllisters to ponder, and none of my business. I did my best to smile and say, “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before, since you’re just down the street.”

Abigail tugged at the edge of a crocheted glove. “Oh, I don’t get out very much. But it felt a little cooler today, so I thought I’d take a short walk.” She stopped there to tilt her head up at the sun, expression now almost accusing. “But it’s starting to feel hot, so I’d better get back inside. It was very nice to meet you, Miss Rowe.”

She turned away and began walking slowly back toward theprima’shouse. It didn’t seem as if she was in too much of ahurry to get out of the sun, but maybe she was just someone who naturally dawdled.

If she didn’t go outside too often, that might explain why she looked so languid and pale.

I shrugged, then continued in the opposite direction, toward Main Street and Seth’s bungalow just a block or so below. In the funny little bag Ruth had given me, just big enough for a tube of lipstick and a few folded dollar bills, was my reply to his note.

Dear Mr. McAllister,

I completely understand being busy. Friday night in Cottonwood sounds like an enjoyable evening. We can meet at six-thirty at your Aunt Ruth’s house and go from there. If that time doesn’t work for some reason, please just send me another note, and we can arrange for a different meeting time.

Yours,

Deborah Rowe

Of course, I wasn’t Seth’s, not really. And I’d had to rewrite the note three or four times, trying to get the cursive I hadn’t used since grade school to look like something someone from this era would have written. Eventually, though, I thought I got it close enough to resemble handwriting that wouldn’t rouse too much suspicion.

Now all I had to do was wait until Friday night.

I hadn’t received a note telling me that six-thirty wouldn’t work, so I went ahead and got ready for my date with Seth, brushing my hair and placing it in a fresh bun, and putting on the prettiest of the dresses Molly McAllister had given me, the one in a deep burgundy shade with a sash across the hips and lines of vertical pintucking. The color was a good one for me, if maybe a littledark for June, but I still thought it the best thing to wear out to dinner.

And sure enough, Seth pulled up to the house promptly at six-thirty, driving a little black roadster I’d never seen before. After greeting him — and telling Ruth I wouldn’t be out too late — I climbed into the convertible and jammed my cloche down on my head, hoping it would be enough to keep my hair from going completely cattywampus during our drive down the hill.

“Is this really yours?” I asked Seth as he sat down in the driver’s seat.

“It is,” he replied. “I bought it from one of the foremen at the mine when he got married and needed something a little more practical.”

We pulled away from the curb, and I said, “I’ve never seen it before.”

Those words might have come out a little too accusing, but Seth only smiled. “Well, I don’t drive it much if I’m just here in town. My bungalow has a garage I built out back, and that’s where it stays during the week. But obviously, we need a car to drive to Cottonwood.”

That was for sure. Even now, we were passing through downtown Jerome, past the restaurants and bars and boarding houses, and then starting down the hill toward the high school. After that came a real hairpin curve, one that led us to the section that sloped downward for quite a ways before we once again made a ninety-degree turn and were now pointed right toward Clarkdale and Cottonwood.

It was a drive I’d made plenty of times before — even in my day, Jerome didn’t have anything resembling a grocery store, so I had to go down the hill any time I needed to stock up — but it felt utterly different in Seth’s convertible, with the noisy engine banging away under the hood and the warm wind doing its best to pull my hair free from underneath the close-fitting hat I wore.His car didn’t seem to have a radio, but if it had, I would have asked him to turn up the tunes so I could enjoy even more of the experience.

Soon enough, though, we drove through the outskirts of Clarkdale, which did look very different from its modern-day incarnation. Gone were the suburbs that had been built in the early twenty-first century, or the scattered custom homes in the hills. The only things that appeared the same were the park and the buildings clustered along its one main street, although now they were shiny and fresh and new, obviously built to accommodate the overflow of miners from Jerome and the people who worked at the smelter just outside town.

More open land between Clarkdale and Cottonwood, since those areas wouldn’t be developed for probably another fifty or sixty years, but, just like in Clarkdale and Jerome, the storefronts along Main Street in Cottonwood were recognizable enough, even if the businesses that occupied them were very different from the ones in my time.

Seth stopped in front of a building that would house a real estate office a century from now. At the moment, though, it had a sign up top that said “Copper Café,” and the friendly smells that wafted out every time someone opened the front door told me it had a very different occupant in 1926 than it did in my time.

“It’s nothing fancy,” he said as he opened the car door for me and then offered a hand to help me out. “But the food’s really good, and at least it’s a change of scenery from Jerome.”

“I’m not much into ‘fancy,’” I told him as we walked toward the entrance to the restaurant, a statement that was as true for me now as it had been in the twenty-first century. “So I’m sure if you like it, I’ll like it, too.”

He ducked his head at that comment, as if a little embarrassed by my vote of confidence, although that didn’t stop him from reaching out and opening the front door to let meinto the small waiting area. Ceiling fans churned away overhead, making the interior comfortable enough, if not the same as having real air conditioning.

And although maybe it wasn’t the Ritz or anything, the restaurant was definitely a step up from the English Kitchen, with tables rather than booths and fun mosaic tile on the floor. A cheerful-looking woman in her forties and wearing one of the now-familiar drop-waist dresses came up to us. Her gaze was faintly speculative as she looked me over before saying, “Evening, Seth. I have a nice table by the window, if you’d like.”

“Thanks, Marie,” he responded. “That would be wonderful.”

She led us over to the table in question, then handed us a pair of menus made of stiff cardboard. From what I could tell, this seemed to be the 1920s version of a steakhouse, with lots of beef and a few chicken and pork selections.