Hourglass (4 page)

Stalling, I twisted my napkin between my fingers under the table. Michael could see the same things I could, but he wasn’t freaked out. He came across as calm, comforting. Talking to him almost made the tightness in my chest go away. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to know why it was different for him than it was for me, because it obviously was.

“What was it like the first time you saw a vision from the past?” I asked in a low voice.

“My mom found a deal on a house in the Peachtree District of Atlanta. Civil War era.”

I thought of yesterday’s experience with Scarlett and couldn’t suppress my groan. Right after I started seeing things, I was forced to go on a field trip to one of the unfortunate Civil War reenactments we’re so given to here in the South. I’d had no idea who was dead or alive. I didn’t come out of my room for a week afterward.

“The things we see … what are they?” I met his eyes. “I mean, I have no idea why, but I never really thought of them as ghosts. But I don’t know what they are. Do you?”

Michael leaned closer. “I call them time ripples, rips for short. Almost like time stamps left by those who make a deep impression on the world while they’re alive. That’s the basic definition.”

“Isn’t that the same thing as a ghost?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“How?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” Michael answered, frowning and drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “It involves theoretical physics, but I’d be glad to—”

I held up one hand. “No, thanks. I’ll just believe you. For now.”

I thought about his definition. The man I saw yesterday came immediately to mind. I was sure he’d made impressions in his own way. “Time ripples. At least that explains why I see people from the past. It makes sense, as if crazy ever could make sense. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He frowned again. “I don’t want you to edit anything you say.”

“You won’t have to worry about that.” I gave him a bleak look. “Most of what comes out is complete truth. My edit button is broken.”

“Good.” Michael leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and stretching out his long legs underneath the table. His black biker boots were huge next to my small sneakers. “I’m a big fan of the truth. I hate it when people hide things.”

I knew all about hiding things.

“How many people know the truth about you?” I asked.

“My family, the Hourglass.” He cleared his throat and twisted the ring on his thumb. “A few good friends. A select few.”

I wondered if the select few included a girlfriend. I wanted to ask, but figured I should probably keep things professional. “Was it hard? Telling them about the things we see?”

“Not really. Some of them have special qualities of their own.”

“The same as us?” I liked grouping myself in his category. It was disturbing to realize how much I wanted to be the only one in it besides him.

“No.”

“So there are other people who have … special … things they can do?”

“More than you would think,” he answered, his gaze steady on my face.

“Hmm.” I rolled that around in my brain while concentrating on my empanada. Michael gave me the space I needed, returning to his newspaper.

The moment I started seeing things … ripples … I turned into a freak show. Then I became a freak show with no parents. When kids are orphaned—it happens—they might go under for a while, but they recover. I didn’t. I didn’t even resurface for air until I’d spent quality time in a private hospital with intensive therapy and nuclear-powered drugs.

Now Michael sat across from me, as normal as next Tuesday, claiming he was like me. Claiming that there were other “special” people out there. The idea that others existed with abilities, people I could possibly form relationships with—the thought both overwhelmed and comforted me. I could already think of one I wouldn’t mind forming a relationship with—and he was sneaking looks at me from behind his paper. I could almost believe he was checking me out.

But he was probably just waiting for me to go kooks and wanted to make sure he saw it coming.

“Okay,” I broke the silence. “What do I need to do?”

“It all goes back to my original question.” He folded his newspaper in half and placed it on the table. “What do you want?”

“I want to be normal, but I know that’s not possible.”

“Normal is overrated.” His grin was delicious.

“Well …” I faltered, distracted by his mouth again. “If normal isn’t an option, I guess I just want to be able to understand as much as I can about the way I am.”

“The way we are,” he corrected. “How about dinner tonight? You can take the rest of the day to think up more questions for me.”

Dinner. Tonight. Oh my. Yes. “I’ll get us a reservation at the Phone Company. I have an in. Seven?”

“It’s a date,” he said, smiling as he stood to leave. As quickly as his smile appeared, it faded away. “Um, not a date, exactly. The Hourglass doesn’t look too fondly on its employees mixing business with … pleasure.”

I smiled back as he walked away, but all the lovely butterflies in my stomach landed one by one in a cold, dead heap.

Of course they didn’t.

Chapter 6

O
n my way home I stopped by the Phone Company to make reservations. Thomas decided since everyone kept calling it the Phone Company, regardless of any name he tried to attach to it, he’d stick with it. He used the old logo and decorated with recycled hardware from the building. Very quaint, lots of shiny dark wood and polished metal. Nice, if you liked that kind of thing.

Apparently, a lot of people did, because without my connections I couldn’t have gotten us a table. I wasn’t shy about using them either, practically forcing the hostess to write my name at the very top of the reservation list. No way would I miss out on this date … dinner. I almost let a nervous giggle escape, but I swallowed it. The hostess looked up at me from the corner of her eye. I knew I was just providing more fuel for the town gossip fire. Fire it up.

Reservations in place, I walked across the square to the loft, willing myself to keep my eyes to the ground and go with the flow. I almost made it, but as I stepped up from the asphalt street onto the concrete sidewalk, I stepped
through
a 1970s hippie chick with love beads. She popped and disappeared in a tiny gust of air, just like ripples—at least I had a name for them now—always had.

I considered closing my eyes and feeling my way up to the loft, but I didn’t want to cause myself any unnecessary injuries before dinner. Silence greeted me when I opened the front door, and I was grateful for the chance to decompress and be alone.

Dru had decorated my room right before I came back to town, and it reflected my personality down to the last detail. Deep brown walls, a few shades lighter than my espresso from breakfast. White furniture with clean lines was accented by upholstery in soft corals that made the room come alive, and thoughtfully placed photos in frames made it feel like home. A leather chair and ottoman sat between two corner windows. Well-framed prints by John William Waterhouse lined the wall behind my bed. My favorite,
The Lady of Shalott
, resting in the exact center. A large mirror hung over a dresser topped with a small lamp.

Dru walked in without knocking, startling me.

“I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t know you were home.” She put a fluffy tangerine-colored throw that still had the tags attached on the edge of my bed before backing toward the door. “I saw this today and thought it would be nice to cover up with. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Stay. You know, you don’t have to keep buying me things.” I said the words softly as I sat down on my bed and pulled the throw into my lap. I wanted her to know she didn’t have to try so hard. “But I love it. Thank you.”

She blushed, her porcelain skin glowing even more than usual, pleased that I was pleased. I owed a lot to Dru. Not only had she accepted me into her life as a surrogate daughter when still newly married to Thomas; she’d gone out of her way to make sure I felt loved when I had to come back home. She made me feel like leaving school didn’t mean I was a failure—constantly reminding me that it wasn’t my fault my scholarship had been cut.

“So,” she said, dropping into the leather chair in the corner, “will you tell me about Michael? He’s not exactly like the others, is he?”

I tried for about a half a second to keep my opinion to myself.

“I can’t stop thinking about his mouth.” Time to get my edit button repaired. I hadn’t meant to be
that
honest. I felt my eyes get huge and my face go hot, and I hoped frantically that Dru hadn’t heard me clearly.

She had.

“
What?
Emerson Cole, I have never heard you say anything like that in your entire life!”

I bit my lip, but the giggles escaped anyway. It felt completely normal, unlike me. Dru joined in.

“Well”—she wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve—“your brother might not be, but I’m glad to hear it. You’ve dealt with a lot in the past few years,” she said, her voice growing serious. “More than most people deal with in a lifetime.”

As much as I didn’t want to talk about the past, it kept coming up today. Time to work in some more avoidance. I kicked off my shoes and pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. “Michael and I are going to have dinner later.”

“It’s not a date, is it?”

I rolled my eyes. “I wish. He was careful to make the point that the Hourglass doesn’t allow employee/client
privileges
.”

It was Dru’s turn for an eye roll. “I know all about that. Thomas clarified it with Michael several times before he hired him. But still … I saw Michael looking at you last night.”

“I dropped a glass and almost hyperventilated in the middle of your party. Everyone was looking at me.”

“No, before that.”

I’d seen it, too.

Maybe he was just happy to find someone else like him, or maybe the whole opposites-attract thing was baloney. I wouldn’t know. I’d been so busy hiding out the past few years I’d never been out on a normal date. Group dates, sure, which were their own particular brand of hell if I didn’t know everyone, but never a regular date and certainly never a blind date. Yeesh. Anyway, whether I wanted it to be or not, tonight wasn’t a date.

“Tonight isn’t a date.” I said it out loud, reminding myself. “It’s a business dinner—he’s getting paid to take me out. Thomas hired him. It’s not like Michael turned up and asked for an introduction.”

Dru didn’t meet my eyes. “What are you going to wear?”

I could practically see her fingers twitching, desperate to help me clothe myself. “How about I leave it up to you?”

Two minutes later she handed me another pair of killer heels and a dress in a shimmery copper color. “This. It’ll make the green in your eyes stand out. I’m going to make a call. I want to make sure you two get the perfect table. And we got a wine shipment, so I’ll be there tonight. But I swear I’ll act like I don’t know you. Now scoot!”

It was a testament to how much I loved her that I let her boss me around that way.

When I was at boarding school I would have killed for a bathroom like the one I had now. Heaven. All the times I crammed myself into one of the tiny shower stalls with their dinky plastic curtains or waited for an empty sink so I could brush my teeth simply floated away, completely forgotten. I luxuriated in the spray of the shower heads—three of them, and all adjustable. They felt amazing once I’d figured out how to aim them so that I wouldn’t drown. I resisted the urge to linger. As seductive as the shower was, it couldn’t compete with the evening I was anticipating.

Or rather, the company I was going to keep.

I walked into my bedroom in my towel and submitted before she asked, sitting down in front of Dru. She was armed with her makeup bag and various hair-styling instruments. It was all art to her, from applying makeup to dressing people to decorating buildings. She had the aesthetic thing nailed. I knew firsthand that she excelled at taking care of people.

When she finished, I put on the dress and looked in the mirror. My eyes did look greener than usual. My hair felt like silk flowing over my bare shoulders. Dru dusted my collarbone and upper chest with some sort of luminous-looking powder that smelled like spun sugar, and between it and the metallic dress I felt really shiny. She had done my makeup in soft iridescent colors that also made me feel very … shiny. Like one of those reflective Christmas globes.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked.

“Trust me.” She apparently never heard the trust-me rule either. At my doubtful look Dru said, “No, I’m serious. The lighting in the Phone Company is very soft, lots of candlelight. You’ll glow.”

“Aliens glow.”

“Not like that. Here.” She turned on the small lamp on my dresser and turned off the overhead light, pulling my now straight curtain of blonde hair back from my face. I looked in the mirror again. An exotic stranger stared back at me.

“He’s going to think I tried too hard.”

“He’s going to be too busy looking at you to think much of anything.”

And that didn’t make me nervous at all.

Chapter 7

I
arrived at the restaurant early to wait for him, thinking I’d be more comfortable if I were seated first. The maître d’ led me to an intimate little table for two, tucked into a cozy alcove and illuminated by two brushed metal sconces. I felt like some kind of seductress and considered switching tables, but that changed when I caught a glimpse of Michael walking toward me.

His crisp white shirt complemented his olive skin perfectly. Khaki slacks rode low on his hips and accentuated his muscular build. In the soft light he looked like some kind of dark angel, his eyes almost as black as his hair. They met mine before flickering over my face and neckline. I felt uncomfortable until he let out a low whistle. Then I felt uncomfortable in a whole different kind of way.

“Hey.” The word came out on a wispy breath of air. I sounded like I was trying to imitate Marilyn Monroe.

Michael didn’t answer, only smiled and took his seat. I caught the scent of his cologne: light, crisp, and citrusy. Tempting me to move closer.

I started to bite my lower lip, thought about the gloss Dru had so artfully applied, and stopped myself. “How was your afternoon?”

“Productive,” he answered, pulling his napkin into his lap. “Yours?”

“The same.”

“I talked to Thomas about taking one of the lofts in your building. My roommate from last year transferred, and I’d rather live alone than play the live-in lottery.”

I was really glad I didn’t have anything in my mouth, because I’m certain I would have choked on it. Iced tea streaming out of my nose—not pretty.

“A loft? In my building? Wow, really? Wow.” I cleared my throat. “So you’re planning on sticking around for a while.”

“As long as it takes.” Michael’s eyes searched my face, lingering on my mouth a fraction of a second too long. Again, I fought the urge to bite my lip.

Tried really hard not to think about biting one of his.

“So,” he asked, leaning closer to me from across the table, “did you come up with some more questions for me?”

Time to get down to business. My list was in the front pocket of my purse, but I doubted I’d have to refer to it. Feeling fidgety, I reached out to play with a tiny pink rosebud in a vase on the table. “Well, I was thinking about what happened last night. What I see is getting stronger. I mean—a jazz trio? Fully equipped with a grand piano? Did it gradually get worse for you?”

He was silent for a moment before answering. “I can’t explain what you saw yesterday. Rips that come with scenery are new to me, too. I wouldn’t worry. My guess is that it has something to do with our ability growing stronger as we age.”

“Your guess? That’s comforting.” I laughed in disbelief. “Are you serious? I’m not supposed to worry when you can’t even give me a decent answer to my first question?”

Michael focused somewhere over my left shoulder. His voice was firm when he spoke. “I’ll get the answer. Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” I said, doubt almost crowding out curiosity in my mind. “Have any of the rips ever known anything about you?”

“What do you mean?” His gaze returned to my face.

“Like your name, or …” I trailed off. Maybe I should keep that specific incident to myself. I pictured the list of questions in my mind. “Um, when you know you’re seeing a rip—how do you approach it?”

“Very slowly.” Michael grinned, breaking the tension.

I was still fiddling with the rosebud in the vase. Sidetracked by his smile, I stopped paying attention and tipped it over, spilling water onto the table.

Good thing I wasn’t on a date. I might’ve been embarrassed.

We reached to pick up the vase at the same time, and our fingertips touched. A current of energy pulsed through his hand to mine. My skin felt too small, stretched too tight, as if searching out more exposure to his. I heard several pings, and the table went dark.

Something was very, very off.

I slowly raised my eyes to meet Michael’s. The muscles in his face tensed; his expression was completely unreadable. Confused, maybe scared, I pulled away. I could still feel the way electricity had flowed through his fingers to mine, all the way to the roots of my hair. The remaining lights returned to normal.

I could’ve sworn I was twitching. Michael tucked his hand under the table and stared down at his menu.

“Um … what was that?” I asked, my voice wispy air again as I watched the water from the vase soak into the white tablecloth.

“It’s kind of complicated.”

So it really happened. “Did we cause it?”

He nodded, his face poker straight.

“Have you ever experienced that before?”

“Not exactly.”

The waitress arrived to take our orders. The interruption did nothing to resolve the tension. I just wanted her to go away so I could touch him again. Instead, I held my menu up in front of my flaming face, willing my body back to normalcy. Michael ordered the special, and without even looking to see what it was, I did the same.

“I’ll have that right out,” the waitress said, taking our menus. She eyed the sconces above the table, her hot pink lips pursed. “And I’ll bring y’all a candle … it’s dark over here, isn’t it?”

Neither of us answered, and she walked away. I felt exposed without my menu to hide behind.

“Are we going to talk about what just happened?” I asked.

“Would you believe me if I told you it’s better to leave it alone for now?”

“Is there another option?”

“Probably not.” He lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile, but his eyes didn’t get the memo. “Maybe you could go ahead and ask me your other questions.”

“How about ‘what the hell was that?’”

His expression practically hung out a shingle announcing the topic was off-limits.

“Fine.” I tried to catch one of the thoughts racing through my mind so I’d have something to say. I couldn’t, so I retrieved my list and laid it on the table in front of me. “How do you tell the difference between real people and time ripples?”

“You mean besides punching them in the stomach?”

I blushed, not because I’d hit him, but because I was thinking about his abs. “Besides that.”

“There’s the way they disappear into solid objects.” He tapped his lips. “Also, I … um … I’ve been seeing rips for so long now I have a way of sensing them.”

I could see how that would be helpful.

“How do you make them go away?” I asked, referring to my list again. “I mean, not forever, but when you see them—if they’re in your path?”

“I try to ignore them. Since I recognize what they are now, they’re easier to avoid, but if I need them gone for some reason, I touch them. Not that there’s really anything to touch. How about you?”

I nodded, unable to stop myself from staring at his fingers. Unable to stop thinking about how badly I wanted him to touch me again.

Dinner arrived, saving me from my own mind. I tucked my list back into my purse. Once I smelled the food I regained my appetite; it was some kind of glazed salmon and grilled asparagus. Michael took a few bites before pushing his plate to the side. Propping his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together church and steeple style, he said, “Dealing with the ripples will get easier. Hasn’t it already? Since you first started seeing them?”

Easier? “I guess.”

“How did it start for you?”

I hedged a little, chasing a wayward asparagus stalk with my fork. “How much do you know about me?”

“Thomas told me part of your story—you started seeing things just before your parents died. His renovation sites seem to trigger it.”

“Anything else?”

Michael took a deep drink of iced tea before speaking, appearing to choose his words carefully. “He mentioned that you had a pretty rough road.”

I stared at my plate, too self-conscious to look at him. “Did he tell you I was hospitalized for a while?”

“He did. But he didn’t tell me why. I asked him to leave it up to you.” His voice was quiet, comforting.

“It was for depression. Mostly.” Keeping my eyes down, I picked up what was left of my dinner roll and began to tear it into small pieces. “I started seeing rips. Not too long after that, my mom and dad … died. I kind of went over the edge. It wasn’t pretty. I was committed and medicated. Heavily medicated. Everything went away. Not just what I could see—the rips—but my personality, my desires, all of it. I was like a shell.”

Less than a shell.

“It was good for a while, being empty. I didn’t hurt anymore. But as time went on, it was like I could hear myself from far away, begging for permission to come back.” I tore the small pieces of dinner roll into smaller pieces. “Once I was released from the hospital and away at school, I found a counselor, Alicia. It helped to be able to talk to someone, tell her everything.”

Almost everything, anyway.

“I stopped taking the meds last Christmas.” I couldn’t believe I was telling him so much, but the words kept spilling out. Something about his eyes and the way he seemed to look right into me without judgment made me talk. “Thomas and Dru don’t know. I don’t want them to worry about me, and they will if they know I’ve gone ‘all natural.’”

“Unless you’re trying to make a pile of bread crumbs to find your way home, you should probably give that roll a break.” Michael’s voice barely hid his concern. My heart stumbled a little, but the tenderness in his voice kept me from falling.

I dropped the remains of the bread, crossed my arms over my chest, and continued. “As the chemicals left my system, I started seeing things again. It only happened a couple of times last semester. I saw a rip at my friend Lily’s place earlier this summer. Then yesterday I saw a Southern belle in a hoopskirt and a guy in my living room, and then last night, there was the …”

“Jazz trio, yeah.” He twisted the silver ring on his thumb. “Are you glad you aren’t taking the medication anymore?”

“I hated it. I never felt like I was in control, although crazy people don’t generally get to claim self-control as a personality trait.”

“Stop.” Michael’s voice wasn’t loud, but the word was a command. “You are not crazy. What you see is real, Emerson. It’s valid; you’re valid. What you went through was horrible—losing your parents.”

Losing my mind.

“All I’m saying is … please don’t be so hard on yourself.” He reached as if he were going to touch my hand but pulled back. “Cut yourself some slack.”

His words sent a wave of relief through me. Not just what he said, but the way he said it, as if he wouldn’t accept any other alternative. Some of the anxiety broke loose and flowed away, and the release was sweet. Tears filled my eyes.

“Oh, damn. I’m not a crier, I swear. I never cry. I
hate
to cry.” I wiped my eyes on my napkin before any of the tears fell. He flagged down the waitress and asked for the bill, giving me some time to regain my composure.

“It’s on the house,” she said brightly, her eyes flicking briefly to me before giving Michael a tentative smile.

“Thanks.” He smiled back. When she walked away, he dropped a twenty on the table.

Nice tipper. Always a good character trait.

After a few seconds I looked up at him. “Thank you.” He nodded. I knew he understood I wasn’t thanking him for dinner.

“You want to get out of here, go to your place?”