Page 38 of Stolen Time
“Thank you for dinner,” I said. “It was lovely.”
And it was. I had no idea why I’d thought restaurants in the 1920s would be some sort of primitive affairs — it wasn’t as if they didn’t have real appliances and gas and electricity and all the other necessities — but for some reason, I hadn’t been expecting a meal that was every bit as good as anything I could have eaten at one of Sedona’s fancy five-star restaurants.
“We’re a quiet corner of the world, but we do have good food,” Seth replied. “Most people eat at home, though. The restaurants are a special night out for most folks.”
Well, I could see that. The world in 1926 was a very different place from the mid-twenty-first century, when a few taps on your phone could have all sorts of food delivered to your door. I liked the idea of a night at a restaurant as an occasional treat, however, and not something you had so often that it became commonplace.
The two of us were quiet as we zigged and zagged our way up the road leading to Jerome. Driving in the convertible with the top up was a very different experience, more intimate, and definitely not as noisy. The engine was loud enough, though, making me appreciate the electric cars of my own time that much more.
Seth pulled up in front of Ruth and Timothy’s house, then shut off the engine before turning toward me. Almost shy, he said, “I had a good time.”
“So did I.” A pause as I pondered whether to ask him if he wanted to talk about what seemed to have been weighing on his mind at the beginning of our meal, and then I decided to put it aside for now. If he’d wanted to discuss the matter…whatever it was…then he would have brought it up, and even though we seemed comfortable enough with each other, it wasn’t as if we’d reached a point in our relationship where he would be okay with divulging his deep, dark secrets. “Thank you for asking me to dinner,” I added, since the silence now felt positively fraught, very different from the companionable quiet of our drive here.
He hesitated, and I wondered if he was going to lean over and kiss me.
No, scratch that — I wanted him to reach out and cup my cheek, bring me closer so he could place his lips across mine. Never mind that sharing a kiss was absolute madness. I shouldn’t be allowing myself to care for him, not when I wasn’t even supposed to be here at all.
But I knew I did have feelings for Seth McAllister, even after these brief moments stolen together…even when I knew so little about him.
Even though he would have been dead long, long before I was born.
“I’ll come around and open your door,” he said, and hope deflated in me like a popped balloon.
Somehow, I managed to thank him, and to wait in the passenger seat while he got out and opened the car door for me, then walked me up the porch steps. I had a feeling that if he wasn’t going to kiss me in the privacy of his car, then he definitely wasn’t going to do so here, where we’d be in full viewof anyone — namely, Ruth McAllister — who might be peeking through the curtains.
Not that I’d seen any sign of her, but still.
“Thank you again for dinner,” I said.
He made a dismissive movement of one hand, then said in low tones, “I wish I could do more for you. I wish — ”
The words broke off abruptly, and then he took my right hand in his and brushed his fingers across mine, very gently, before turning and hurrying back down the steps.
Even that slight touch was enough to send heat spinning through me, and I pulled in a startled gasp. If Seth could affect me like that with a simple touch of his fingers against mine, what would it be like if he actually kissed me?
I could only hope I’d find out…very soon.
12
CONSORT COMPLICATIONS
All day Saturday at work,Seth kept playing over and over again in his mind moments from his dinner with Deborah — the quick flash of her smile, the way she seemed interested in every single small, silly detail he’d related to her about Cottonwood and Jerome and the Verde Valley in general.
The softness of her skin when he’d reached out to touch her as they said goodbye on Ruth’s front porch.
He probably shouldn’t have done that, but he hadn’t quite been able to help himself. There had been a moment in his car when it truly looked as though she’d wanted him to kiss her, and he’d almost succumbed. Then reason had reasserted itself, reminding him that he hadn’t known her for very long and that it was far, far too soon for a goodnight kiss.
Still.
Lionel Allenby didn’t appear to be at work that day, and Seth found himself grateful for his absence. Having to continually avoid seeing the man was stress he didn’t need, not when he couldn’t be sure of the mine superintendent’s involvement in the bootlegging operation and also didn’t know whether he should try investigating further.
Probably a bad idea. Seth had to admit that he wasn’t philosophically opposed to drinking, as long as it was done in moderation. But with Prohibition the law of the land, it just seemed smarter to play by the rules rather than attract any untoward attention.
At any rate, he’d made something of a bargain with Charles. Not one he was overly happy about, but it was better than nothing, and at least it had a set endpoint. His brother would buy the house on Paradise Lane, and he would woo Mary — and her family back — and then he would have no need to be part of the bootlegging operation any longer.
Problem solved.
However, when he returned to his bungalow at the end of yet another long day, Seth was surprised to see a note slipped under his doormat. His heart began to beat a little faster as he wondered if the note was from Deborah Rowe…but as soon as he picked it up, he recognized his mother’s neat, copperplate handwriting and realized the missive was from an entirely different source than the one he’d hoped.