Now and Forever (34 page)

His dreams were of other times, and to deny those dreams would be to consign himself to an early grave and so he climbed into the basket just before it floated free of the earth's shackles and headed into the unknown.

The last thing he saw as the balloon rose up into the clouds was Emilie and Zane silhouetted in the window.

They were waving goodbye.

Chapter One

Somewhere over New Jersey

"Yo, man! Lookin' good!" The dark-haired wench in the basket of the green dragon balloon waved at Andrew as she drifted by.

Andrew wasn't certain what manner of address she used, but he nodded politely and lifted his hand to salute in kind.

Was that the sixth person to address him thus or the hundredth? He no longer remembered. Indeed it seemed he had scarcely ascended above the clouds before he was joined by balloons in the shapes of houses and half-moons and oddities for which he had no name. And to make matters even more perplexing, each balloon held a basket and each basket held a passenger bound for the same adventure.

Emilie and Zane might believe they had lived a miracle, but they were wrong. Traveling through time was as commonplace as riding the Post Road between Trenton and Princeton. They had said what happened to them was an act of fate, a once in a lifetime occurrence, but the evidence to the contrary was there right in front of his very eyes.

A balloon in the shape of an elongated dog drifted close. A man and woman waved to him from the bright yellow basket. "Party at the Forbes mansion at 9," the woman called out. "Champagne supper."

The man cupped his hands around his mouth. "Great costume! I have one like it at home."

No one had ever seen fit to comment upon his attire before. Andrew glanced down at his faded brown breeches and tobacco-colored waistcoat and found it to be a most ordinary outfit.

"What century would ye be from?" he called out but the flames beneath their balloon roared, and with it the basket rose up and away. They had the look of the future about them, but for all Andrew knew they were farmers from the commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

All things seemed possible.

He peered over the side but the clouds obscured his view of the ground below. Save for one heart-stopping view of the lighthouse growing smaller beneath him, he had seen naught but clouds and more clouds. And now to discover that he did not make the journey alone - it was enough to make him wonder if he would find himself back at the point from which he had begun, an hour older and much wiser.

A huge striped balloon of green and white crossed his path but the occupants were too engrossed in conversation to pay him any heed.
 
It would appear he was the only one on God's earth who found it unusual to sail above the clouds with nothing but the wind beneath him.

He wondered how it was that he would be returned to the ground below. Zane had suffered a broken arm when he and Emilie came down from the sky. All that stood between Andrew and a painful death was the fragile basket that shuddered beneath him.

The magic fire propelling the balloon sputtered, hissed, then finally died. Andrew, heart thundering inside his chest, gripped the edge of the basket as it began to drop. As a child he'd imagined clouds to be soft pillows of down suspended in the air but that was far from the truth. Each cloud hid an unpleasant surprise, rocking the basket to and fro, rattling him to his bones. He considered the wisdom of leaping to the ground but he had no idea how far away the ground might be or how many broken limbs such a feat might entail.

Gritting his teeth, he prepared to find out.

 
#

Shannon Whitney believed in three absolutes: the necessity for clean air, clean water, and the Sunday
New York Times.
Or, more specifically, the crossword puzzle from hell that was tucked away in the magazine section each week and whose sole purpose was to drive sane people to madness.

Of course, there were those who would say doing the puzzle in ink was the first sign of incipient lunacy and Shannon was among them. Still that didn't stop her from uncapping her favorite pen every Sunday morning and spending more time than she would care to admit wrestling with six-letter words for crustaceans and eight-letter words for undergarments worn by 17th century courtesans.

"Pantaloons...too long," she muttered, gnawing on the cap of her Bic. "Bloomers...too practical." She tossed the pen across the backyard and watched as it skittered along the flagstone path and rolled toward the pool. What was the point to trying to exercise her intellect when she could scarcely hear herself think over the rumble of propane tanks overhead?

Every year members of the blasted Central New Jersey Hot Air Enthusiasts club pleaded with her to allow them to use her land for their festival and every year she refused. "We won't hurt a thing," their president promised. "You have our word we'll leave your land exactly as we found it."

That, of course, wasn't the point but she didn't expect a man who spent the better part of his life flying around in a hot-air balloon to understand.

That was one of the many things wrong with the rich, she thought. The more money a man had at his disposal, the more ridiculous his toys. And what could be more ridiculous than flying over central New Jersey in a wicker basket suspended from a balloon filled with nothing but hot air.

She'd grown up in a world of privilege where polo ponies and private tennis courts were as common as guest rooms and finished basements, where grown men who should know better bet fortunes on the outcome of a chukker or the spin of a roulette wheel. People said that money couldn't buy happiness but Shannon wasn't convinced. Delinquent mortgages, bankrupt businesses parents unable to pay their children's medical bills - money could do a lot more than gather interest in a Swiss bank account.

She tilted her head and listened as the rumble came closer. Whether or not the members of the club understood her reasons, she'd made her stand perfectly clear. She valued her privacy and wasn't about to compromise her stand on the issue just because some idiots liked to take to the air like Dorothy in the
Wizard of Oz
. If the Wizard could give them brains, she might re-think the position but until then her land was off limits.

 
#

Disappointment clogged Andrew's senses as he brushed dirt and twigs from his hair and clothing. The adventure of a lifetime had turned out to be another folly in a lifetime of abundant folly.

There was nothing exciting about falling through the branches of a silver maple tree and landing with a thud on the ground. In truth he was fortunate to have escaped with his limbs intact but he took little consolation from that fact.

When the clouds had finally given way he'd been granted a clear view of the Raritan River and of a landscape most familiar to him, even from this peculiar vantage point. He sailed over roof of a house identical in form and size to the houses he'd left behind. The only unusual sight was the rectangular pond behind the dwelling. He'd heard sailors speak of the turquoise waters of the Caribbean but he had never thought to encounter such a thing.

He wasn't in the glittering world of the future Emilie and Zane had beguiled him with. He wasn't even in another colony. He was still in New Jersey, perhaps no more than a few miles from where his journey had begun.

The basket had come to rest upside down in a thicket while the deflated balloon dangled from the branches of a towering silver maple. There was no sign of the contraption that fired the mechanism that kept the balloon aloft. Whatever it was, it had been lost in the plummet to earth.

"'Tis of no consequence," he said, heading for the footpath that led to the house. His chance to leap forward through the centuries had passed him by. He tried to tell himself it was not meant to be but the words held cold comfort.

He would inquire of his whereabouts, partake of a cool cup of water, then be on his way. If he put a good foot under him, he might be able to reach the lighthouse before nightfall. He had much he wished to discuss with Emilie and Zane.

There was an odd smell to the air, he noted as he made his way along the path. The wet rich smell of rotting leaves and earth mingled with something heavy and sharp, something he'd never smelled before. Smoke? The tang of pine teased his nostrils but not the sting of burning wood. This was something different, something that made his eyes feel scratchy and his throat ache.

He glanced up through the canopy of trees. Indeed the sky held a yellowish tinge that was unfamiliar to him. He was not a man who spent time contemplating the wonders of the natural world yet even he could see that all was not as he knew it should be.

The balloons,
he thought. Fires had propelled them into the air. Surely those fires were responsible for the strange yellow haze that blanketed the sky. He felt a surge of relief that a logical answer could be found to explain the occurrence.

The path narrowed as he neared the house. The hedgerows were neatly trimmed along this section of the path and he noted bundles of firewood stacked at equal distances apart. Only a person of great personal wealth would lavish such care on the back end of his property and Andrew found his gut twisting with suspicion. Persons of great wealth invariably found themselves on the side of the British and he prepared himself for a confrontation.

He had no doubt that the owner would greet him with a loaded musket and questions he couldn't answer.

 
#

Shannon dangled her feet in the swimming pool and waited. The balloon went down somewhere on her property and she knew it was simply a matter of time before the hapless pilot made his way to the house in search of something cold to drink, a trip to the john, and a comfortable place to wait for the spotters to show up. She knew the drill as well as she knew her own name and she dreaded it.

The fact that she was alone at the house didn't disturb her although she supposed it should. Mildred and Karl, the couple who took care of things, had the summer off and, for a welcome change, the safe houses Shannon maintained for battered women and their children were vacant. Of course that was a temporary condition. In the next day or two another terrified woman would stare down her fears and take that first step toward an independent life, same as Shannon had more than three years ago.

Walking out the door and leaving the violence behind was how it began for her. Facing her husband across that crowded courtroom and speaking the truth for all to hear had freed her from the last of her fears and she would let no one and nothing intimidate her ever again. Not even the fact that Bryant had been paroled six months ago was enough to rob her of her independence.

If only it were that easy to conquer the aching loneliness deep inside her heart.

Every now and again she managed to convince herself that she'd grown accustomed to being alone, to being satisfied that what she had was all she'd ever need. But then she would see a man and woman walking hand in hand or hear the soft laughter of lovers and she'd be struck anew by how the best part of life continued to elude her.

And probably always would.

A difficult truth but one she could no longer deny. She was almost thirty. She had been married and divorced. She had learned firsthand that when it came to the rest of your life you didn't settle for anything less than the man of your dreams.

The fact that the man of her dreams existed only in her imagination was proof positive that she'd end her days alone. She wanted a man of strength and character. A man who could take charge of a situation without losing sight of her needs and desires. A man who would love her above all else and recognize the gift she gave when she loved him in return.

All in all, she might as well pray for Aladdin's lamp and three wishes because that was the only way she could ever conjure up such a paragon of masculinity.

She heard a rustle of branches then turned toward her right. A man stood in the shadow of the silver maple tree.

"Took you long enough," she commented as he moved into the waning sunshine. "I was about to give up on you."

He strode across the lawn toward her, as if he owned the property and everything on it. He was clad in a scruffy version of some old uniform from the Revolutionary War period: faded brown breeches, a rough shirt of tan cloth, a leather waistcoat, and worn boots. As costumes went it was almost painfully authentic. She found herself wishing for a touch less realism and a bit more theatricality.

He stopped some ten feet away from her and stared down as if he'd never seen a woman before.

"Doesn't anyone in that blasted balloon club of yours understand the concept of private property?"