Time and Again
By Nora Roberts
--1 Time Was (11-1989)--
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
He was going down. The instrument panel was a maze of wildly flashing numbers and lights, and the cockpit was spinning like a merry-go-round gone mad: He didn't need the scream of warning bells to tell him he was in trouble. He didn't need the insistent red blip on his computer screen to tell him the trouble was big. He'd known that the moment he'd seen the void.
Swearing, clamping down on his panic, he struggled with the controls, using one hand to shove the lever forward for full power. The vehicle bucked and shuddered, fighting the gravitational pull. The G's hit him like a wall. All around him metal screamed against metal.
"Hold together, baby," he managed to say as his lips stretched back over his teeth. The floor near his feet ripped open in a jagged line three inches long. "Hold together, you son of a-"
He jammed hard due east, swearing again when it seemed that no matter how cleverly he maneuvered he and his ship would be sucked into the hole.
The cockpit lights went out, leaving only the whirl of kaleidoscopic colors from the instrument panel. His ship went into a spiral, tumbling end over end like a stone fired from a slingshot. Now the light was white, hot and brilliant. Instinctively he threw up an arm to shield his eyes. The sudden crushing pressure on his chest left him helpless to do more than gasp for breath.
Briefly, before he lost consciousness, he remembered that his mother had wanted him to be a lawyer. But he'd just had to fly.
When he came to he was no longer spiraling-he was in a screaming free-fall. A glance at his instruments showed him only that they were damaged, the numbers racing backward. A new force had him plastered back against his seat, but he could see the curve of the earth.
Knowing he could pass out again at any moment, he lunged forward to knock the throttle back and turn the ship over to the computer. It would, he knew, scan for an unpopulated area, and if God was in His heaven the crash control in the old bucket would still be functional.
Maybe, just maybe, he'd live to see another sunrise. And how bad could practicing law be?
He watched the world rush toward him, blue and green and beautiful. The hell with it, he thought. Flying a desk would never be like this.
Libby stood on the porch of the cabin and watched the night sky boil. The wicked slices of lightning and the blowing curtain of rain were the best show in town. Even though she was standing under the overhang, her hair and her face were wet. Behind her, the lights in the cabin glowed a warm, cozy yellow. The next boom of thunder made her grateful she'd set out candles and kerosene lamps.
But the light and warmth didn't lure her back. Tonight she preferred the chill and the crashing power that was barreling through the mountains.
If the storm kept up much longer, it would be weeks before the north pass through the mountains was negotiable. It didn't matter, she thought as another spear of lightning split the sky. She had weeks. In fact, she thought with a grin, hugging herself against the brisk wind, she had all the time in the world.
The best decision she'd ever made had been to pack up and dig in at her family's hideaway cabin. She'd always had an affection for mountains. The Klamaths of southwestern Oregon had everything she wanted. A spectacular view, high, rugged peaks, pure air and solitude. If it took six months to write her dissertation on the effects of modernizing influences on the Kolbari Islanders, then so be it. She'd spent five years studying cultural anthropology, three of them in extensive field work. She hadn't let up on herself since her eighteenth birthday, and she certainly hadn't given herself any time alone, away from family, studies and other scientists. The dissertation was important to her-too important, she could sometimes admit. Coming here to work alone, giving herself a little time for self-study, was an excellent compromise.
She'd been born in the squat two-story cabin behind her, and she'd spent the first five years of her life here in these mountains, living as free and unfettered as a deer.
It made her smile to remember how she and her younger sister had run barefoot, how they had believed the world began and ended with them and their counterculture parents.
She could still picture her mother weaving mats and rugs and her father digging happily in his garden. At night there had been music and long, fascinating stories. The four of them had been happily self-sufficient, seeing other people only on their monthly trips to Brookings for supplies.
They might have continued just that way, but the sixties had become the seventies. An art dealer had discovered one of Libby's mother's wall hangings. Almost simultaneously her father had found that a certain mixture of his homegrown herbs brewed into a soothing and delicious tea. Before Libby's eighth birthday her mother had become a respected artist and her father a successful young entrepreneur. The cabin had become a vacation hideaway when the family had moved into the Portland mainstream.
Perhaps it was Libby's own culture shock that had steered her toward anthropology. Her fascination with it, with society's structures and the effects of outside influences, had often dominated her life. Sometimes she nearly forgot the times she was living in with her avid quest for answers. Whenever that happened she came back here or took a few days to visit her family. That was all it took to ground her in the present.
Starting tomorrow, she decided, if the storm was over, she would turn her computer on and get to work.
But only for four hours a day. For the past eighteen months she had too often worked triple that.
Everything in its time-that was what her mother had always said. Well, this time she was going to get back a little of the freedom she'd experienced during the first five years of her life.
Peaceful. Libby let the wind rush through her hair and listened to the hammering of rain on rock and earth. Despite the storm and the rocketing thunder, she felt serene. In all her life she had never known a more peaceful spot.
She saw the light race across the sky, and for a moment she was fooled into thinking it might be ball lightning, or perhaps a meteor. But when the sky lit up she caught a vague outline and a quick flash of metal. She stepped forward, into the rain, instinctively narrowing her eyes. As the object rushed closer, she raised her hand to her throat.
A plane? Even as she watched, it seemed to skim the tops of the firs just to the west of the cabin. The crash echoed through the woods, leaving her frozen to the spot. Then she was running back into the cabin for her slicker and her first-aid kit.
Moments later, with the thunder rolling overhead, she clambered into her Land Rover. She'd noted the spot where she'd seen the plane go down, and she could only hope her sense of direction was as keen as it had always been.
It took her almost thirty minutes of fighting both the blinding storm and the rain-rutted roads and logging trails. She gritted her teeth as the Land Rover plunged through a swollen stream. She knew all too well the dangers of flash floods in the mountains. Still, she kept her speed just above the point of safety, negotiating the twists and turns as much from instinct as from memory. As it happened, she almost ran over him.
Libby hit the brakes hard when her headlights beamed over a figure crumpled at the side of the narrow trail. The Land Rover skidded, spitting mud, before the wheels grabbed hold. Grabbing her flashlight, she scrambled out to kneel beside him.
Alive. She felt a surge of relief when she pressed her fingers against the pulse in his throat. He was dressed all in black, and he was already soaked to the skin. Automatically she tossed the blanket she was carrying over him and began to probe for broken bones.
He was young and lean and well muscled. As she examined him she prayed that those facts would work in his favor. Ignoring the lightning racing across the sky, she played her flashlight over his face.
The gash on his forehead concerned her. Even in the driving rain she could see that it was bleeding badly, but the possibility of a broken back or neck made her reluctant to shift him. Moving quickly, she went back for the first-aid kit. She was applying a butterfly bandage to his wound when he opened his eyes.
Thank God. That single thought ran through her mind as she instinctively took his hand to soothe him. "You're going to be all right. Don't worry. Are you alone?"
He stared at her but saw only a vague outline. "What?"
"Was there anyone with you? Is anyone else hurt?"
"No." He struggled to sit up. The world spun again as he grabbed at her for support. His hands slid off her wet slicker. "I'm alone," he managed before he blacked out again.
He had no idea just how alone.
Libby slept in snatches most of the night. She'd been able to get him inside the cabin and as far as the couch. She'd stripped him, dried him and tended his wounds before she'd fallen into a half doze in the big armchair by the fire. Periodically, she rose to check his pulse and pupils.
He was in shock, and she'd decided he undoubtedly had a concussion, but the rest of his wounds were relatively minor. Some bruised ribs and a few nasty scratches. A very lucky man, she mused as she sipped her tea and studied him in the firelight. Most fools were. Who else but a fool would have been flying through the mountains in a storm like this?
It was still raging outside the cabin. She set the cup aside to throw another log on the fire. The light grew, sending towering shadows throughout the room. A very attractive fool, she added with a smile as she arched her sore back. He was an inch or two over six feet, and well built. She considered it good luck for both of them that she was strong, accustomed to carrying heavy packs and equipment. Leaning against the mantle, she watched him.
Definitely attractive, she thought again. He'd be even more so when his color returned. Though he was pale now, his face had good bone structure. Celtic, she thought, with those lean, high cheekbones and that full, sculpted mouth. It was a face that hadn't seen a razor for a day or two. That and the bandage on his forehead gave him a rakish, almost dangerous look. His eyes were blue, she remembered, a particularly dark, intense blue.
Definitely Celtic origins, she thought again as she picked up her tea. His hair was black, coal black, and it waved slightly even when it was dry. He wore it too long to be military, she reflected, frowning as she remembered the clothes she'd taken off him. The black jumpsuit had a decidedly military look to it, and there had been some sort of insignia over the breast pocket. Perhaps he was in some elite section of the air force.
She shrugged and settled into the chair. Then again, he'd worn old, scuffed high-top sneakers, as well. Sneakers, and a very expensive-looking watch-one with a half-dozen tiny dials. The only thing she'd been able to figure out on it after a brief look was that it wasn't keeping the right time. Apparently both the watch and its owner had been damaged in the crash.
"I don't know about the watch," she told him over a yawn, "but I think you're going to be all right." With that she dozed off again.
He woke once with a splitting headache and blurred vision. There was firelight, or a first-class simulation. He could smell the woodsmoke- and rain, he thought. He had a misty memory of having stumbled through the rain. The most he could concentrate on was the fact that he was alive. And warm. He remembered being cold and wet and disoriented, afraid at first that he had crashed into an ocean. There had been- someone. A woman. Low, quiet voice- soft, gentle hands- He tried to think, but the drumming in his head made the effort too painful.
He saw her sitting in an old chair with a colorful blanket over her lap. A hallucination? Maybe, but it was certainly a pleasant one. Her hair was dark, and the firelight was glinting off it. It appeared to be chin-length and very full and was now tousled appealingly around her face. She was sleeping. He could see the quiet rise and fall of her breasts. In this light her skin seemed to glow gold. Her features were sharp, almost exotic, set off by a wide mouth that was soft and relaxed in sleep.
As hallucinations went, you couldn't do much better.
Closing his eyes again, he slept until sunrise.
She was gone when he surfaced the second time. The fire was still crackling, and the dim light coming through the window was watery. The pain in his head hadn't dulled, but it was bearable. With cautious fingertips he probed the bandage on his forehead. He realized, he might have been unconscious for hours or for days. Even as he tried to struggle upright, he discovered that his body was weak and rubbery.
So was his mind, obviously, he decided as he used what strength he had to take in his surroundings. The small, dimly lit room appeared to be fashioned out of stone and wood. He'd seen some carefully preserved relics that had been built of such primitive materials. His family had once taken a vacation west that had included tours of parks and monuments. He turned his head enough so that he could watch the flames eat at the logs. The heat was dry, and the scent was smoke. But it was hardly likely that he would have been given shelter and care in a museum or a historical park.
The worst part was that he didn't have a clue where he was.
"Oh, you're awake." Libby paused in the doorway with a cup of tea in her hand. When her patient just stared at her, she smiled reassuringly and crossed to the couch. He looked so helpless that the shyness she had battled all her life was easily overcome. "I've been worried about you." She sat on the edge of the couch and took his pulse.
He could see her more clearly now. Her hair was no longer tousled, but was combed sleekly from a side part. It was a warm shade of brown. Exotic was exactly the right word to describe her, he decided, with her long-lidded eyes, slender nose and full mouth. In profile she reminded him of a drawing he'd once seen of the ancient Egyptian queen Cleopatra. The fingers that lay lightly on his wrist were cool.
"Who are you?"
Steady, she thought with a nod as she continued to monitor his pulse. And stronger. "I'm not Florence Nightingale, but I'm all you've got." She smiled again and, holding each of his eyelids up in turn, peered closely at his pupils. "How many of me do you see?"
"How many should I see?"
With a chuckle, she arranged a pillow behind his back. "Just one, but since you're concussed, you may be seeing twins."
"I only see one." Smiling, he reached up to touch her subtly pointed chin. "One beautiful one."
Color rushed into her cheeks even as she jerked her head back. She wasn't used to being called beautiful, only competent. "Try some of this. My father's secret blend. It isn't even on the market yet."
Before he could decline, she was holding the cup to his lips. "Thanks." Oddly, the flavor brought back a foggy memory of childhood. "What am I doing here?"
"Recovering. You crashed your plane in the mountains a few miles from here."
"My plane?"
"Don't you remember?" A frown came and went in her eyes. Gold eyes. Big, tawny gold eyes. "It'll come back after a bit, I imagine. You took a bad hit on the head." She urged more tea on him and resisted a foolish urge to brush the hair back from his forehead. "I was watching the storm, or I might not have seen you go down. It's fortunate you're not hurt more than you are. There's no phone in the cabin, and the two-way's in being repaired, so I can't even call for a doctor."
"Two-way?"
"The radio," she said gently. "Do you think you could eat?"
"Maybe. Your name?"
"Liberty Stone." She set the tea aside, then laid a hand on his brow to check for fever. She considered it a minor miracle that he hadn't caught a chill. "My parents were in the first wave of sixties counterculture. So I'm Liberty, which is better than my sister, who got stuck with Sunbeam." Noting his confusion, she laughed. "Just call me Libby. How about you?"
"I don't-" The hand on his brow was cool and real. So she had to be real, he reasoned. But what in the hell was she talking about?
"What's your name? I usually like to know who it is I've saved from plane wrecks."
He opened his mouth to tell her-and his mind was blank. Panic skidded along his spine. She saw it whiten his face and glaze his eyes before his fingers clamped hard over her wrist. "I can't-I can't remember."
"Don't push it." She swore silently, thinking of the radio she had so conscientiously taken for repairs on her trip in for supplies. "You're disoriented. I want you to rest, try to relax, and I'll fix you something to eat."
When he closed his eyes, she got directly to her feet and started back into the kitchen. He'd had no identification, Libby remembered as she began to prepare an omelet. No wallet, no papers, no permits. He could be anyone. A criminal, a psychopath- No. Laughing to herself, she grated some cheese over the egg mixture. Her imagination had always been fruitful. Hadn't the ability to picture primitive and ancient cultures as real people-families, lovers, children-pushed her forward in her career?
But, imagination aside, she had also always been a good judge of character. That, too, probably came from her fascination with people and their habits. And, she admitted ruefully, from the fact that she had always been more comfortable observing people than interacting with them.
The man who was wrestling with his own demons in her living room wasn't a threat to her. Whoever he was, he was harmless. She flipped the omelet expertly, then turned to reach for a plate. With a shriek, she dropped the pan, eggs and all. Her harmless patient was standing, gloriously naked, in her kitchen doorway.
"Hornblower," he managed as he started to slide down the jamb. "Caleb Hornblower."
Dimly he heard her swearing at him. Shaking off his giddiness, he surfaced to find her face close to his. Her arms were around him, and she was struggling to drag him up. In an attempt to help her, he reached out and sent them both sprawling.
Winded, Libby lay flat on her back, pinned under his body. "You'd better still be disoriented."
"Sorry." He had time to register that she was tall and very firm. "Did I knock you down?"
"Yes." Her arms were still around him, her hands splayed over a ridge of muscle along his back. She snatched them away, blaming her breathlessness on her fall. "Now, if you don't mind, you're a little heavy."
He managed to brace one hand on the floor and push himself up a couple of inches. He was dazed, he admitted to himself, but he wasn't dead. And she felt like heaven beneath him. "Maybe I'm too weak to move."
Was that amusement? Yes, Libby decided, that was definitely amusement in his eyes. That ageless and particularly infuriating male amusement. "Hornblower, if you don't move, you're going to be a whole lot weaker." She caught the quick flash of his grin before she squirmed out from under him. She made a halfhearted attempt to keep her eyes on his face-and only his face-as she helped him up. "If you're going to walk around, you're going to have to wait until you can manage it on your own." She slipped a supporting hand around his waist and instantly felt a strong, uncomfortable reaction. "And until I dig through my father's things and find you some pants."
"Right." He sank gratefully onto the couch.
"This time stay put until I come back."
He didn't argue. He couldn't. The walk to the kitchen doorway and back had sapped what strength he'd had left. It was an odd and unwelcome feeling, this weakness. He couldn't remember having been sick a day in his adult life. True, he'd bashed himself up pretty good in that aircycle wreck, but he'd been, what-eighteen?
Damn it, if he could remember that, why couldn't he remember how he'd gotten here? Closing his eyes, he sat back and tried to think above the throbbing in his head.
He'd wrecked his plane. That was what she-Libby-had said. He certainly felt as though he'd wrecked something. It would come back, just as his name had come back to him after that initial terrifying blankness.
She walked back in carrying a plate. "Lucky for you I just laid in supplies." When he opened his eyes, she hesitated and nearly bobbled the eggs a second time. The way he looked, she told herself, half-naked, with only a blanket tossed over his lap and the glow of the fire dancing over his skin, was enough to make any woman's hands unsteady. Then he smiled.
"It smells good."
"My specialty." She let out a long, quiet breath, then sat beside him. "Can you manage it?"
"Yeah. I only get dizzy when I stand up." He took the plate and let his hunger hold sway. After the first bite, he sent her a surprised glance. "Are these real?"
"Real? Of course they're real."
With a little laugh, he took another forkful. "I haven't had real eggs in-I don't remember."
She thought she'd read somewhere that the military used egg substitutes. "These are real eggs from real chickens." The way he plowed his way through them made her smile. "You can have more."
"This should hold me." He looked back to see her smiling as she sipped her ever-present cup of tea. "I guess I haven't thanked you for helping me out."
"I just happened to be in the right place at the right time."
"Why are you here?" He took another look around the cabin. "In this place?"
"I suppose you could say I'm on sabbatical. I'm a cultural anthropologist, and I've just finished several months of field research. I'm working on my dissertation."
"Here?"
It pleased her that he hadn't made the usual comment about her being too young to be a scientist. "Why not?" She took his empty plate and set it aside. "It's quiet-except for the occasional plane crash. How are your ribs? Hurt?"
He looked down, noticing the bruises for the first time. "No, not really. Just sore."
"You know, you're very lucky. Except for the head wound, you got out of that with cuts and bruises. The way you were coming down, I didn't expect to find anyone alive."
"The crash control-" He got a misty image of himself pushing switches. Lights, flashing lights. The echo of warning bells. He tried to focus, to concentrate, but it broke apart.
"Are you a test pilot?"
"What? No- No, I don't think so."
She put a comforting hand on his. Then, unnerved by the depth of her reaction, cautiously removed it again.
"I don't like puzzles," he muttered.
"I'm crazy about them. So I'll help you put this one together."
He turned his head until their eyes met. "Maybe you won't like the solution."
A ripple of unease ran through her. He'd be strong. When his injuries healed, his body would be as strong as she sensed his mind was. And they were alone- as completely alone as any two people could be. She shook off the feeling and busied herself drinking tea. What was she supposed to do, toss him and his concussion out into the rain?
"We won't know until we find it," she said at length. "If the storm lets up, I should be able to get you to a doctor in a day or two. In the meantime, you'll have to trust me."
He did. He couldn't have said why, but from the moment he'd seen her dozing in the chair he'd known she was someone he could count on. The problem was, he didn't know if he could trust himself-or if she could.
"Libby-" She turned toward him again, and the moment she did he lost what he'd wanted to say. "You have a nice face," he murmured, and watched her tawny eyes turn wary. He wanted to touch her, felt compelled to. But the moment he lifted his hand she was up and out of reach.
"I think you should get some more rest. There's a spare bedroom upstairs." She was speaking quickly now, her words fast and edgy. "I couldn't get you up there last night, but you'd be more comfortable."
He studied her for a moment. He wasn't used to women backing away from him. Cal mused over that impression until he was certain it was a true one. No, when there was attraction between a man and a woman, the rest was easy. Maybe all his circuits weren't working, but he knew there was attraction on both sides.
"Are you matched?"
Libby's brows lifted into her fringe of bangs. "Am I what?"
"Matched? Do you have a mate?"
She had to laugh. "That's a quaint way of putting it. No, not at the moment. Let me help you upstairs." She held up a hand before he could push himself up. "I'd really appreciate it if you'd keep that blanket on."
"It's not cold," he said. Then, with a shrug, he hooked the material around his hips.
"Here, lean on me." She draped his arm over her shoulder, then slipped her own around his waist. "Steady?"
"Almost." When they started forward, he found that he was only slightly dizzy. He was almost sure he could have made it on his own, but he liked the idea of starting up the stairs with his arm wrapped around her. "I've never been in a place like this before."
Her heart was beating a little too quickly. Since he was putting almost none of his weight on her, she couldn't blame it on exertion. Proximity, however, was a different matter. "I suppose it's rustic by most standards, but I've always loved it."
Rustic was a mild word for it, he mused, but he didn't want to offend her. "Always?"
"Yes, I was born here."
He started to speak again, but when he turned his head he caught a whiff of her hair. When his body tightened, he became aware of his bruises.
"Right in here. Sit at the foot of the bed while I turn it down." He did as she asked, then ran his hand over one of the bedposts, amazed. It was wood, he was certain it was wood, but it didn't seem to be more than twenty or thirty years old. And that was ridiculous.
"This bed-"
"It's comfortable, really. Dad made it, so it's a little wobbly, but the mattress is good."
Cal's fingers tightened on the post. "Your father made this? It's wood?"
"Solid oak, and heavy as a truck. Believe it or not, I was born in it, since at that time my parents didn't believe in doctors for something as basic and personal as childbirth. I still find it hard to picture my father with his hair in a ponytail and wearing love beads." She straightened and caught Cal staring at her. "Is something wrong?"
He just shook his head. He must need rest-a lot more rest. "Was this-" He made a weak gesture to indicate the cabin. "Was this some kind of experiment?"
Her eyes softened, showing a combination of amusement and affection. "You could call it that." She went to a rickety bureau her father had built. After rummaging through it, she came up with a pair of sweatpants. "You can wear these. Dad always leaves some clothes out here, and you're pretty much the same size."
"Sure." He took her hand before she could leave the room. "Where did you say we were?"
He looked so concerned that she covered his hand with hers. "Oregon, southwest Oregon, just over the California border in the Klamath mountains."
"Oregon." The tension in his fingers relaxed slightly. "U.S.A.?"
"The last time I looked." Concerned, she checked for fever again.
He took her wrist, concentrating on keeping his grip light. "What planet?"
Her eyes flew to his. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn the man was serious. "Earth. You know, the third from the sun," she said, humoring him. "Get some rest, Hornblower. You're just rattled."
"Yeah." He let out a long breath. "I guess you're right."
"Just yell if you need something."
He sat where he was when she left him. He had a feeling, a bad one. But she was probably right-he was rattled. If he was in Oregon, in the northern hemisphere of his own planet, he wasn't that far off course. Off course, he repeated as his head began to pound. What course had he been on?
He looked down at the watch on his wrist and frowned at the dials. In a gesture that came from instinct rather than thought, he pressed the small stem on the side. The dials faded, and a series of red numbers blinked on the black face.
Los Angeles. A wave of relief washed over him as he recognized the coordinates. He'd been returning to base in L.A. after- after what, damn it?
He lay down slowly and discovered that Libby had been right. The bed was surprisingly comfortable. Maybe if he just went to sleep, clocked out for a few hours, he would remember the rest. Because it seemed important to her, Cal tugged on the sweats.
What had she gotten herself into? Libby wondered. She sat in front of her computer and stared at the blank screen. She had a sick man on her hands-an incredibly good-looking sick man. One with a concussion, partial amnesia- and eyes to die for. She sighed and propped her chin on her hands. The concussion she could handle. She'd considered learning extensive first aid as important as studying the tribal habits of Western man. Fieldwork often took scientists to remote places where doctors and hospitals didn't exist.
But her training didn't help her with the amnesia. And it certainly didn't help her with his eyes. Her knowledge of man came straight out of books and usually dealt with his cultural and sociopolitical habits. Any one-on-one had been purely scientific research.
She could put up a good front when it was necessary. Her battle with a crushing shyness had been long and hard. Ambition had pushed her through, driving her to ask questions when she would have preferred to have melded with the background and been ignored. It had given her the strength to travel, to work with strangers, to make a select few trusted friends.
But when it came to a personal man-woman relationship-
For the most part, the men she saw socially were easily dissuaded. The majority of them were intimidated by her mind, which she admitted was usually one-track. Then there was her family. Thinking of them made her smile. Her mother was still the dreamy artist who had once woven blankets on a handmade loom. And her father- Libby shook her head as she thought of him. William Stone might have made a fortune with Herbal Delights, but he would never be a three-piece-suit executive.
Bob Dylan music and board meetings. Lost causes and profit margins.
The one man she'd brought home to a family dinner had left confused and unnerved-and undoubtedly hungry, Libby remembered with a laugh. He hadn't been able to do more than stare at her mother's zucchini-and-soybean souffl‚.
Libby was a combination of her parents' idealism, scientific practicality and dreamy romanticism. She believed in causes, in mathematical equations and in fairy tales. A quick mind and a thirst for knowledge had locked her far too tightly to her work to leave room for real romance. And the truth was that real romance, when applied to her, scared the devil out of her.
So she sought it in the past, in the study of human relationships.
She was twenty-three and, as Caleb Hornblower had put it, unmatched.
She liked the phrase, found it accurate and concise on the one hand and highly romantic on the other. To be matched, she mused, was the perfect way to describe a relationship. She corrected herself. A true relationship, like her parents'. Perhaps the reason she was more at ease with her studies than with men was that she had yet to meet her match.
Satisfied with her analysis, she slipped on her glasses and went to work.
The rain had slowed when he woke. It was only ...
sinderella