Page 51 of Timeless
Deb moved to lie on top of her, and they stayed like that while the fire they’d started hours ago died out.
Abby didn’t want to type it, but the scene was so specific, and she might need it later, so she opened her laptop again, created a new doc, and started writing down word for word what she’d just thought of. She wasn’t sure if she’d use it or not, but it was always better to have more than less when it came to writing. Her editor might ask for more of Deb and Harriet after the war or suggest a different ending entirely, so she should be prepared.
After she finished, she decided to pull the listing back up and risk another scene coming to her brain because she had to know. She went to look up the address on the public records page she’d found before even confirming the realtor with Quinn. The house was owned by a family who had only lived there for about ten years. If the farm she kept imagining was this one, it had been sliced up and sold off at some pointbecause, in Abby’s tale, the farm was many, many acres of fields with different crops, cattle, chickens, and pigs, and it led to the woods where Harriet and Deb often disappeared to be together. The current property was about three acres, with other houses and small farms around it, and it was for sale. Abby skipped down to where she saw a name that she recognized, which made her cover her mouth when she saw it. A man named John Paul Stevens had owned the farm for many years since 1956. Before that, it had been briefly owned by a woman named Deborah Mary Stevens, née Wilson, and before that, John David Stevens. There wasn’t a record listed before that, but if she could go back further, Abby knew what she’d find: John David’s father, and grandfather before him, had owned the property.
“He would’ve been eighteen,” she said to herself, trying to think about the year she had Paul being born in her book. “1938. He inherited it from his mom in 1956, probably on his eighteenth birthday, like John David had in his will. Oh, my God…”
Abby had no idea what to do now. This was evidence that unless Quinn was playing some pretty elaborate prank on her, including falsifying property records, Abby’s story was real. It had actually happened. That simply couldn’t be.
“A prank wouldn’t explain how you know the house so well,” she said to herself.
She tried to think back to her childhood in this town, and she couldn’t remember ever going to this place. There would be no reason for her to know what it looked like inside or the color the paint had been in the 1930s and 40s. She shouldn’t have known that it used to be a much larger farm than it was today. She knew she could just drive over there and visit the house, but it felt too soon somehow, which she also couldn’t explain.
How she’d gone from being a woman who was practical to one who was going off vibes she shouldn’t even have was beyond her, but she closed her computer once more, left her chair and her office, and went into her bedroom to change.Once she was dressed and ready to go, she got into her car and drove quickly, not exactly following the speed limit but not caring until she arrived at the diner’s parking lot. There, she got out of her car, went inside, and ordered lunch for herself and for Quinn because she had a story to tell. Maybe Quinn would think that she was crazy, but Abby knew that she had to talk toherabout this and no one else, so as soon as she had their orders, hoping Quinn hadn’t eaten yet but also not really caring, she walked as quickly as she could without losing the two sweet teas she was carrying in the process and arrived at the antique shop.
“Harriet, I–” she stopped herself, her words catching in her throat because she’d just called Quinn by the wrong name, and it had felt so right to call her Harriet, that it felt almost wrong to call her Quinn in that instant. She closed her eyes and tried again. “Quinn, I need to talk to you.”
“Ouch!”
Abby heard it and made her way to the back of the shop without asking permission, promptly crashing into Quinn, who had been on her way up front and had bumped into a box on her way there. The contents of two sweet teas ended up mostly all over Quinn, but a little landed on Abby, too, and the rest ended up all over the floor.
“Jesus, Abby! What the hell?”
“Shit. Sorry,” she said. “I’ll clean it up. I…”
“I need to change,” Quinn replied, taking a step back. “I have another shirt here somewhere, but no pants, so I’ll just smell like sugar for the rest of the day, I guess.”
“What’s that?” Abby asked when she saw something sitting on Quinn’s desk that had a few things on it but was still relatively clean.
“What?”
“On your desk.”
“Oh. Mr. Potter sometimes barters for stuff in here. His wife made a pie, and he wanted one of the coins I have for it. It wasn’t worth much. I think he just likes someone to talk to, so I let him have it for the pie. Why?”
“What kind of pie is it, Quinn?”
“What? Abby, I’m drenched in sweet tea here, and so is my floor.”
“What kind of pie is it, Quinn? It’s important.”
“Well, whatever, I guess. It’s blackberry. Mrs. Potter knows it’s my favorite. Why? You want a slice?”
CHAPTER 20
“Abby, do you want a slice of pie?” she asked again.
“Why is blackberry your favorite kind of pie, Quinn?” Abby replied.
“What, are you an apple pie snob or something?” Quinn asked as she hurried to find her bag, where she was pretty sure she had a T-shirt she could change into.
The tea had been over ice, which meant that she was now wetandfreezing, but she was also very grateful that it wasn’t hot tea or coffee.
“Not an apple pie snob. Just wondering something.”
“I guess I was just born this way. Kind of like I was born gay, you know? Gay and a blackberry pie fan. Thank God!” she exclaimed as she found and pulled out a vintage T. “I only have one shirt in here. How wet are you?”
Abby’s eyebrow lifted, and that was more than enough to make Quinn blush, but she cleared her throat and returned to the task at hand, which wasnotthinking about Abby being wet for reasons other than their crash with sweet tea.