The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance

Gwyn Cready The Key to Happiness

The man was nondescript, Kate thought. Pleasant but entirely nondescript. Grey hair, grey eyes, medium height and as old as her parents, if not older. A face in the crowd, if this were a movie. In fact it dawned on Kate, as he leaned in to speak, that he’d probably been seated next to her for most of Van Morrison’s “Moondance”, though she hadn’t noticed exactly when he’d slipped into the chair next to her.

“I imagine you enjoyed the cake.” He spoke a little louder than necessary, to be heard over the wedding band. He re-angled his seat a degree and smiled.

The statement was unusual. Not quite a come-on — well, certainly not a come-on, not from someone old enough to have danced to “Moondance” on vinyl — but not your usual conversation starter.

“I did, yes.” She took a quick glance at her plate. She’d eaten two-thirds of the slice — half the cake part and all the strawberries between the layers, but almost none of the frosting — not enough to be called out for overindulgence. She struggled with emotional overeating and had an immediate visceral reaction to any reference to her appetite.

But the man’s eyes held no irony or judgment. The tweedy flecks of blue and green in the hazy irises showed only polite curiosity.

“Strawberries are my favourite,” she said. “In fact, that’s how Carly — the bride — and I met.”

“Really?”

“We were in seventh grade, working the annual strawberry-sale fundraiser for our softball team. We ate more than we sold, I think. God, I was so sick. I threw up for three days.”

He smiled. The lines that appeared around his eyes gave him a warmth she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if he smiled a lot.

“That’s a nice dress.” He nodded towards the sateen bridesmaid skirt crinkling as she moved. “I take it the bride likes pink?”

“Oh, my God, it’s a good thing Carly didn’t hear you say that. This,” she said, gathering a handful of fabric, “is watermelon. Not pink. Not red. Watermelon.”

“Clearly, I’m not as familiar with the fruit colour wheel as I should be.”

“Pink is for NASCAR junkies and girls at their quinceañera,” Kate explained. “And red is for Detroit hockey fans and sluts.”

“Heavens, I see the bride has some strong opinions.”

“And the only possible accent colour,” Kate added, tugging at the dangling stones at her ears, “is a green you could only call, well …”

“Rind?”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve been through bridesmaids’ hell, I can see.”

“And the seventh circle is on the horizon.” She gazed at the knot of pre-teens gathering for the bouquet toss.

“I hope it goes with watermelon.”

“Oh, let me correct myself.” She held up a finger. “Not just ‘watermelon’. Carly considers it ‘frosted watermelon’ because of the shiny watermark-type things swirling around in the fabric.”

“Got it.” He nodded uncertainly.

“Am I scaring you?”

“If I’m honest, yes.”

Kate shook her head and sighed. “My wedding’s going to be on the steps of the City/County Building with, like, six people watching and me wearing my friend Rema’s sari.”

“Your mother will never go for it.”

She looked at him again. It was a comment with broad application, but there was something about the tone that suggested a specific understanding, not a mass market aside. “Do you know my mother?”

“Actually,” he said, “I’m here for them.” He gestured towards two men in their mid-twenties leaning back on their elbows at the bar. One was a groomsman, a broad-shouldered blond in his last year of law school at Columbia named Mark Donovan, and the other a shorter and slightly chunkier Irish-looking guy who had just elbowed his friend in the ribs and made an under-his-breath observation. Kate thought she’d been introduced to him as well, but she couldn’t remember. Mark caught her eye and gave her a lopsided grin. When they were introduced by Carly’s aunt before the ceremony, he’d made a joke about the likelihood of the band playing “Moondance”.

“Oh?” She straightened. “You know Mark?”

The man gazed down for an instant, then nodded. “For a long time.”

Mark reminded Kate of Robert Redford in The Candidate — a painfully handsome, world’s-his-oyster sort of go-getter who would pelt effortlessly across any finish line life put in front of him, six strides ahead of his closest competition. Kate, an aide in the mayor’s office, was a political junkie. She could already plot Mark’s rise from assistant district attorney to whiz-kid congressman with a penchant for fiscal responsibility and green issues. She had to admit she found his quiet confidence attractive.

“He’s in law school, I hear.”

“He’s going to make a great attorney,” the man replied, nodding. “I’m Patrick McCann, by the way.”

He held out a hand. Kate shook it.

“Kate Garrett.” His hand was firm and dry, and it seemed like he held their clasp a moment longer than necessary. She noticed for the first time that his clothes, while well tailored, were more the uniform of a traveller than a wedding guest. He wore a loose-fitting jacket, his pants were a lightweight fabric with cargo pockets and his white linen shirt was open-collared. He wore no wedding band. She was surprised she’d looked, but even more surprised at the ring’s absence because he radiated the relaxed ordinariness she’d come to associate with long-time married men, not the restless charm of players like her father. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t a ring wearer.

“Are you in town for the wedding?” She tucked an auburn tendril behind her ear.

He considered. “Yes. That and to catch up with a friend.”

She nodded. The couples on the dance floor moved to the make-out session rhythm as the song neared its end, some intent on their partner, others on the band or the bride and groom. This was the third hour of the reception, and it was grinding to a close. She wondered if Mark danced. Maybe if the band started a more uptempo number she’d make her way on over to ask him. Shyness, thank God, had never been her problem. It wouldn’t serve in politics, where straightforwardness or at least fearless lying was a part of the job.

The man — Patrick — seemed to be on the verge of saying something just as a high-pitched, “There you are!” made her turn. Kate’s high-school friend and fellow bridesmaid, Becky Schaal, was scurrying towards her, arms outstretched. Kate jumped up to take advantage of the proffered hug. “They need me for a picture,” Becky cried, breaking away and waving. “See you on the conga line.” Kate hoped she was kidding. As she sprinted away she caught Kate’s eye and pointed to Patrick behind an open hand. “Cute!” she mouthed.

Cute? Kate looked again. He was cute in a sort of teddy-bear kind of way. There was something about middle age that lurked sexily beneath the surface of some men. Some men, like some women, didn’t earn their attractiveness stripes until much later in life. But he was way too old for Kate. What was Becky thinking?

Patrick was smiling. “A frosted watermelon blur.”

“Moondance” had ended. The guitar player hunched over the mic. “When a ma-an loves a woman …” Kate caught Mark’s eye. This was number two on his list of “Top-Three Overplayed Wedding Songs”. She grinned.

“Kate,” Patrick began.

“Would you mind?” She put a staying hold on his sleeve. “I’m going to pop over there to say hello. Watch my stuff.”

The tweedy hue in his eyes sparkled. “Will do.”

The only good thing about the dress, Kate thought as she made her way across the room, was the fact the overlapping folds of satin made her B-cup breasts look twice as big as they actually were — though that sort of trompe Voeil was definitely a doubled-edge sword if said breasts were called on to make a live appearance.

Mark put down his drink and straightened. “I called it.”

“You did,” she said. “Two in a row. Know any other party tricks?”

“Yeah, but the last time he did it,” Mark’s friend said, “the other ponies got jealous.”

Kate giggled, and Mark gave them both a good-natured smile. He sensed the infinitesimal pause and handled it deftly. “Kate, this is my room-mate at Penn, P.J.; P.J., this is Kate Garrett. Mayor’s office, right?”

Kate nodded and shook P.J.’s hand. “You going to law school, too?”

“I wish. Archaeology. All that logic stuff is beyond me. I’m more of a shovel man. If two sharp whacks with a blunt instrument doesn’t take care of the problem, it’s out of my league.”

Kate laughed again and P.J. beamed.

Mark offered his hand. “Can I assume you’d be interested in a few moments of living la vida loca?”

“My Spanish sucks,” P.J. said. “Do I need to deck him for you?”

“Gracias pero no,” Kate said and added to Mark, “I would love to.”

He led her by the hand to a relatively empty spot on the parquet and began to dance. While no Ricky Martin, he moved with exuberance and responded to Kate’s moves with a happy ease. He even managed to lead her through an under-the-arm twirl. Kate found herself smiling even more than she’d expected.

“I’m sitting next to the guy you came with.” Kate had to raise her voice as the band was bringing the song into its final lap.

“P.J.?” Mark was doing a very funny move as he avoided the violent rhythmic swinging of a beaded scarf belonging to a woman who’d apparently been waiting all her life to dance to “La Vida Loca”.

“No,” Kate said. “Him.”

But when Mark turned in the direction she pointed, the table was empty.

“Unless this guy hid in the trunk, I can assure you, it was just P.J. and I in the car.”

“He said he knew you. Older guy. Medium height, grey eyes, named, um — Oh, wait, there he is.”

But when Mark turned again, the scarf nailed him. He clutched his eye, wincing. “I think I got some spangle in my eye.”

Kate led him off the floor and scored some eye drops from one of the contact-wearing bridesmaids, but Mark kept closing his lid whenever he tried to apply it.

“Jesus, you’re worse than my three-year-old nephew,” she said.

“I–I — It’s my eye, you know,” he whined.

“Now you’re sounding like him, too.”

She ordered him on to his back on the floor and was pleased to see him submit without a complaint. Then she told him to close his eyes.

“The last time this happened,” he complained, “I ended up with a bad case of crabs and someone else’s shoes.”

“You’ll be pleased to know you are in danger of neither tonight.”

“I don’t know if ‘pleased’ is the word I’d use,” he muttered slyly, and she gave him a look.

She had to hang over practically on top of him to get the right angle. He smelled like the really expensive French-milled soap she once found in the bathroom of the re-election campaign’s biggest donor. She wondered if she’d ever smell as good. “Now, close,” she ordered, and when he did, she let one eye drop fall into the inside corner of each eye. “Open.”

“What? Now? There’s stuff on them.”

“Do it.”

“Arrrrrrrggghhh.” The drops floated glossily over his eyes and down his temples.

“There. Feel any better?”

“What I feel is strong-armed,” he said in a mock sulk. “Misused and strong-armed.”

“Maybe write your congressman.” She helped him to his feet.

“Don’t think I won’t.” He test-blinked his bad eye. “You know there’s a name for someone like you.”

“Hero?”

“I’m too polite to say it.”

“Why do I doubt that? Is the eye better?”

“A little.” He smiled. “Thank you.”

“Bouquet!” cried Bethany, a junior bridesmaid in bare feet and a borrowed sweater, racing by. “C’mon, Kate!”

“Oh, crap.”

Mark stopped his eye rubbing. “Not a fan of the bouquet tradition?”

“Ranks right up there with the pencil in the eye tradition.”

“I could provide an excuse.” He gave her an interested look. “Cover, as it were.”

“Are we back to the crabs and shoes?”

“I was thinking a stroll in the courtyard, but, hey, I’m always open to suggestions.”

“Oh, that’s you, a real people pleaser.” She had to admit she was tempted, but she could just see Carly’s face if she wasn’t there. “I’m going to have to pass. The bride’s my best friend. I’m afraid I owe her this one last blow to my ego.”

“Ah, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that.”

She laughed. “Wish me luck.”

“Would that entail catching it or not?”

“I’d settle for avoiding the woman with the ninja scarf.” She picked up her skirt, but he caught her hand.

“Kate?”

“Yeah?” His eyes were a clear, bright blue.

“I’d really like to see you later.”

A marvellous tingle shot up her spine.

“Kate! C’mon!” The junior bridesmaid was back, clutching Kate’s other hand and pulling.

Kate shrugged, gave Mark an encouraging smile and scurried off after Bethany.

At the gathering for the bouquet, Kate found a spot at the back, close enough to look engaged, but far enough to the side for the possibility of actually catching the accursed thing to be remote.

Carly appeared, beaming, and turned to toss the bouquet. But Carly had been a shot-putter in high school and somehow managed to put enough English into the release to send it spinning towards the speaker mount where, with a tink, it careened straight towards Kate.

Kate flung up her arms to ensure the arrival didn’t come with the double humiliation of getting smacked in the face and, an instant later, a rousing cheer rose from the crowd.

Kate opened her eyes. Bethany clutched the bouquet giddily, aloft in the arms of Mark’s room-mate.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said and swung Bethany to the floor.

“Kate, look!” Bethany held the bouquet just like she’d seen Kate do it in the ceremony. The bouquet was half as big as she was.

“Amazing,” Kate said. “You look like a princess.” She gave P.J. a smile.

Mark was in the distance, chatting with other guests. He’d made an interesting offer, one she could spread like fresh blueberry jam

over the toast of the evening, savouring the crisp, sweet scent and glossy mounds of purple and blue whether she decided to partake or not.

“Are you staying for the foosball championship?” Kate asked Mark’s room-mate. Carly’s husband, Joe, was a foosball fanatic and had arranged a midnight tournament in the adjoining game room for those willing to stay the extra hour, and Kate could see Joe across the room, tie loosened, making the starting bracket on a sheet of paper taped to the wall.

“I agreed to collect the tuxes. I’ll be here until they lock the place up.”

The band started to play. Kate lifted a glass of champagne off a roving waiter’s tray, considered jumping into a conversation about the new light-rail line being considered in the city but elected instead to return to her seat, kick off her shoes and spend a few minutes rolling that blueberry taste around in her mouth.

Beside her, the seat was empty. She was reminded of the incident with the man — Patrick — who hadn’t come with Mark and P.J. as he’d claimed.

Weird.

She stretched her legs and let the strains of Billy Joel’s “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” roll over her.

This time she felt the emptiness beside her fill. She knew it was him, even without looking, though this time his presence seemed tinged with a different sort of emotion.

He didn’t speak, which surprised her and, when she gave him a sidelong glance, he seemed intent on the bottom of his wine glass. At last she straightened. “Great band, huh?”

“Yes. Good covers. I hate to say it, but they remind me a bit of the White Stripes — the guitar playing mostly, not the song choice.”

Kate smirked inwardly. Her freshman room-mate had managed to bring every musical conversation back to the White Stripes. She hadn’t thought of that in years, though it struck her as odd that a middle-aged man would make a White Stripes comparison.

“I never took my eyes off your purse, by the way,” he said.

“What? Oh. Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Suddenly, he pushed his glass away and looked into her eyes. “Kate, I need to ask you a favour?”

“Me? Sure. What?”

“Take my hand.”

Instantly, she retreated a few centimetres. “What?”

“I swear, I’m not a weirdo, but I need to tell you something and I can’t do it unless I’m holding your hand.”

She didn’t want to. She’d had enough bad experiences with men, but he looked so harmlessly earnest, she relented. Nonetheless, she was glad there were still a number of partygoers circulating.

Even after she nodded ‘yes’ though, he didn’t offer his hand. In fact, he appeared to be gripping the tabletop as if any movement on his part might scare her away. So Kate extended her hand. He took it gently, and she immediately felt a light charge, like the one she got touching her tongue to a nine-volt battery, only more pleasant.

“You gonna read my fortune?” she said with a nervous smile.

But however pleasant the current she was feeling, it was clear he was feeling something else. He gazed at her hand, face tight with emotion.

“Patrick?” she said after a beat.

“Sorry, it — do you feel it, too?”

“Yes.”

“It’s OK, though?”

“Yes.”

His hand was cool and dry, and he let her do the gripping.

“Kate,” he said, “I know things about you.”

Kate’s heart seized. He was going to try to get her to join his church or his cult or his drive to eliminate the secret magnesium vapours the government was putting in our food.

She began to pull away. “Ah, Patrick, um —”

He caught her. “You have a dog named Klondike, your sister’s name is Liz and you hate the White Stripes.”

Kate blinked, alarmed. He was right — on all counts. He saw her attempt to cover the surprise. “Anyone could have told you that,” she pointed out carefully. “Besides, doesn’t everyone hate the White Stripes?”

The flecks of green danced in his eyes. He liked her sense of humour, which lowered the creep-out quotient considerably. She’d let this go on a little longer. “So, you’ve been asking questions. This is election year. You’re, like, what? Part of the opposition?”

He relaxed his grip, flashing an apologetic look. “In a sense. But this has nothing to do with politics.”

“My sister and my dog. Not exactly Harry Houdini stuff, OK?”

The corner of his mouth rose, buoyed by her challenge, and his eyes narrowed in a calculating squint. “I’m walking a fine line here between trying to convince you and trying not to scare you,” he said after a long pause.

“Oh, you passed that line a few minutes ago, my friend.” She gazed at the bronze of his skin and the intricate pattern of hairs peeking from his sleeve. His was a fine hand to hold, she noted objectively, strong and generous, and that odd tingle of connection still burned pleasantly across the surface of her palm. That, more than anything, made her curious enough to continue.

He gestured to her clutch. “Are your keys in there?”

She nodded.

“You stuff your purses with Kleenex to make them hold their shape, you always carry some kind of lime-green-coloured lip balm, and your keychain has a Powerpuff Girl on it — Buttercup, I believe — which, for a reason I have never understood, seems to represent both empowerment and revolution to you.”

He picked up her purse. “May I?”

She was too shocked to do anything but nod. He gently shook out the contents of her bag: about a dozen crumpled tissues, Buttercup on the ring that held her keys, Bonne Bell Kiwi Lip Smacker lip balm, a twenty, a Triple A card and her cell phone. He picked up the keys with his free hand. “More?”

“You had access to my purse,” she pointed out. “I left it on the table.”

“Fair enough. You went to Sarah Lawrence and majored in politics,” he said, “though you should’ve probably majored in literature, since you’re a voracious reader, mostly historical fiction and mysteries, though when no one’s looking you pull out one of the romances you keep hidden under your bed. There’s some tiresome character named Jamie in one of them you wish all men would emulate. You drive a shiny new Subaru; you made the down payment on it with your first pay cheque, which is one of the things that first made us friends, because I drive one, too. You love to rollerblade, and you always wear a helmet, but a knee injury from ninth-grade tennis tends to make you look like a penguin on wheels, and you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life.”

Kate exhaled, her mind racing in every conceivable direction. Was this a trick? These things weren’t impossible to know, and yet, why would anyone bother? “I … I … don’t believe you.”

“About the mistake?”

“About any of it.”

“Kate, your mother had a lump removed from her breast. You feel guilty because it happened while you were doing your finals senior year and you think you should have been there, and your worry for her is something that’s always in the back of your head.”

“What do you want?” He’d gone too far. Her shock had boiled into anger. “This is rude.”

“But she’s going to be OK,” he said quickly. “All right? She’s going to be OK. I promise.”

She froze, the thin layer of defence that keeps our emotions at bay torn away, and against her will a tear striped her cheek.

“It doesn’t come back, Kate. She’s cancer free at five years and, at ten, the cancer is something you hardly think about any more — either of you. She’s there for you, Kate. She’s always there. And I know this because I lived through it with you. Not the college stuff — I didn’t meet you until later — but all the rest.”

Her heart ached, so badly did she yearn to believe what he said. “I haven’t told this stuff to my best friend.”

“But you told it to me. I’m not your best friend, but I’m close.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” Her words were hot. She hated feeling exposed.

“I … I …” He stole a glance at her, evidently considering the limits to which he might go. “I come from the future and —”

“Bullshit.” She nearly yanked her hand away, but the temptation to hear more was too strong.

“I understand why you’d not believe, Kate. I do. What I’m doing is something almost no one ever gets to do.”

“So you’re special.”

“Lucky,” he corrected. “I guess.” He gazed at his shoes.

“Lucky” was not the emotion he was radiating.

“So what is this mistake?”

“Are you sure? I mean, do you believe me?” He worked the key ring in his palm like Queeg in The Caine Mutiny.

“‘Believe’ is a strong word. Let’s say I’m willing to prolong the, well, whatever this is. Go on. You have my attention.”

He chewed his lip. At last he leaned forwards. “The man you were just speaking to—”

“Mark?”

He flushed deeply. “After him.”

Kate frowned, thinking. “Mark’s friend? One of the ones you said you came with?”

“What I said was I came for them.”

Then it hit her, and her heart kicked like a rabbit in her chest. “You look like him.” Medium height, medium build, same grey eyes.

“There’s a reason for that,” Patrick said softly. “And what I said was a lie. I came for you.” The keys stopped moving, and he gazed at the place her thumb met his palm.

“What’s your name? Your whole name?”

“Patrick McCann. Patrick John McCann.”

P.J.! He had to be P.J.’s father. There couldn’t be any other explanation, or rather, there could be, but her mind simply wouldn’t process it.

“I don’t have kids,” he said, answering the look in her eye. “I also don’t have brothers or a nephew — well, except one, but he’s half Filipino and lives in Singapore. I come from the future, our future, where I’m the best friend of your husband.”

Kate’s eyes bulged. “I marry Mark?!”

The key ring began to rattle. “Yes.”

She sat up to put her hand on his arm, and he caught it. “You can’t let go, Kate. The things I can tell you, I can only tell you with your hand in mine.”

“Why?” Her head was reeling from what he’d already told her.

“Because,” he said carefully, “telling you about the future is very dangerous, or so I’ve been told. I can tell you what I tell you for one simple reason: so long as our hands are clasped, you’ll remember what I’m saying, but as soon as you let go, it will all be gone.”

“Gone?” She thought of her mother.

“Gone.”

She was dizzy with questions, though the sceptic in her, whose voice was fading fast, kept a low “uh uh,” rumbling in her ear.

“Mark, then? Where do we live? Is he a politician? Am I a strategist? Am I successful? Are we happy?”

He gave her a weak smile. “That’s a lot of questions. Let’s see …” He lowered his gaze to her hand, as if reading her fortune in the topography of knuckles and minute lines. “You live here, in Pittsburgh, in an immense condo overlooking the river, where you host a lot of parties. Mark is a partner at a law firm, though he’s a power broker in politics here and in the state.”

Kate frowned. A power broker was hardly the idealist she’d visualized in that flash of imagining. Nonetheless, they were still in the thick of it. “And me?”

“You run a not-for-profit — disadvantaged kids, that sort of thing. You’ve made a huge impact in the city,” he said with an obvious pride, “and it keeps you very busy.”

This was like going to your high-school guidance counsellor to find out what job the vocation test says you’re suited for and discovering it’s some vaguely improbable position at the top of a corporate food chain. Admirable, maybe, but for someone else.

“Really?”

“You do a great job, Kate.”

“But why not politics?”

The odd distracted reflection washed over him again. “I could speculate, but … but I think I should stick to what I know.”

“You’re supposedly one of my closest friends.” The voice in her head was growing louder. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“What you told me was that politics was a place for the coldblooded.”

“I said that?” She’d never been a cynic. Not about politics.

“Yes. And I can see you’re disappointed,” he added quickly, “but I can tell you, you never look back. Your work brings you immense joy. Immense.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to convince me.”

“No,” he said, agitated. “What I’m trying to do is be fair.”

“Fair?”

“Kate, I’m about to ask you to give it all up, and I don’t ever want it to be said that I didn’t present the case fairly.”

It was almost too much, she thought, to have pictures of her life laid out before her and then immediately snatched away. “Give it up? What are you asking me to give up? And why?”

Before he could answer, Mark appeared in her peripheral vision, and instinctually she withdrew her hand.

Patrick felt the cool air on his palm. All for naught, he thought with a philosophical chuckle, looking at that gorgeous, strong profile as she turned her gaze towards Mark. He stood at the centre of the remaining wedding guests, riveting them with a story. But it wasn’t Mark to whom Patrick’s eyes went when he’d finished feasting his gaze on the full, knowing lips he’d never know and the long, pale neck, fringed with dark blonde hairs that fell from her effortless French knot; his eyes went to himself, albeit a much younger version, standing to the side of the circle, eyes fixed on Kate.

Ah, my friend, if only you’d find the courage to approach her now, before that fated foosball game, he thought, and ached with the memory of how that longing felt.

But though the decades had given him the confidence he lacked then, even now, at fifty-six, after years of being there for her whenever she called, of sharing every step of her personal and business life, of being the recipient of all but her most precious secrets, he knew he’d never have the confidence — ever — to believe he could possess her. And yet, here he was, certain that what he was about to do, an act that would not only ensure he didn’t possess her, but almost certainly tear her from him for ever, was the only choice he had.

He’d been given one hour. How it worked, he didn’t know, but the woman in the souk with the coal eyes and the hookah pipe did, and in exchange for a thousand Egyptian pounds and his silence on the matter of the stolen cartouche, she told him the rules: Yo u may tell the girl what you wish about her future so long as her hand is in yours, though nothing you say will be remembered. After an hour you will awake as if from the worst sort of drunken indulgence. Under no circumstances are you to make contact with your younger self.

When he asked if it was possible to change what would happen — his past, her future — the woman pulled a long drag from the pipe, grinned a horrible, black-toothed grin and said, “Changing the world is an effort of the heart, Yankee Doodle, not the mouth.”

Then she’d mixed him his own hookah cocktail and handed him the pipe. That was the last thing he remembered.

He returned Kate’s keys and other items to her purse surreptitiously. An instant after he closed it, Kate turned back to him. He gave her a polite smile. She’d forgotten everything he’d told her.

“Oh, sorry,” she said with a start. “You were saying something about the … White Stripes?”

“The guitar player, I said. He gives it a sort of White Stripes sound.” Of course, at this point, the band had finished with Billy Joel and was a few bars into “In Your Eyes”, so the comparison made considerably less sense than it had before. Nonetheless, she pursed her lips again in that way she had, and he knew she was thinking of Robin, the miserable freshman room-mate he’d heard her mention over the years. He’d always been able to make her laugh with a White Stripes reference. He’d miss that.

He looked at her hand, considering.

“Kate, could I interest you in a dance?”

She felt the touch of his hand on her elbow as he led her to the floor. There was something both intriguing and protective about it. He was like the sexy uncle your girlfriend always wants to chat up at parties.

“In your eyes, the light, the heat. In your eyes, I am complete …”

He took her waist and held out his hand. She placed her palm on his, and a warm rush went through her, like the shower of sizzling sparks after a sky-filling firework.

She made a small mewl of surprise. “You told me things,” she gasped.

“You remember.” He laughed. “I didn’t know.”

Mark, disadvantaged kids and her mother’s cancer, the ideas tumbled through her mind — narrow, concrete glimpses of a future that had until now been vast and ill-defined. “You wanted me to give something up. What?”

“All of it.”

“What?”

“Kate, I don’t have much time.” He glanced at his watch as they moved. “To the end of this song, maybe a few minutes more, so I want you to listen. When that foosball game ends, Mark, my friend, is going to ask you out for a drink. Don’t do it. Tell him you’re tired; tell him you’re dating someone else, whatever you want. Just don’t go with him.”

“You said we were getting married. You said we were happy.”

His face contracted, and she felt her stomach knot.

He hadn’t said they were happy, had he? “What happens?”

He lowered his eyes.

“Patrick, you’re supposed to be my friend.”

A long sigh. “Look, I’m not going to tell you this unless I can be completely fair. He’s a good man. He shares your love of travel. You hold his hand at dinner parties. For years you guys would have won couple of the year.”

“And then?”

“A woman.”

“A slip.”

He met her eyes.

“Does he leave me?” she asked, slightly ill.

“No,” he said sadly. “Though I wish he would.”

“Like my father, then?”

“Kate, I watched you fold in on yourself. I watched the Kate who set the room on fire everywhere she went just go out, like someone shot out a porch light with a twenty-two. It was like an eclipse, Kate. The spark was gone.”

She refused to believe she could let that happen. She refused to believe she’d have invested so much in a man like her father. All her life had been about feeling strong and empowered. “How do we know I can’t change it? How do we know?”

“I have to be honest, Kate. I don’t know. I hope it is possible to change things. After all, that’s the reason I’m here.”

She looked at P.J., trading quips with Mark. “I can’t believe the Mark I’ve met would do that, and I really can’t believe I’d be attracted to that kind of man.”

“People change, Kate. I told you.”

“Did you?” She wondered what his story was.

“No.”

“Did you marry?

“Yes, once. For six years. But it was mistake.”

“Why?”

He turned his head. “The usual reasons.”

“Why?”

“Kate.”

“Why, Patrick?”

He led her into an unexpected turn. “I was in love with someone else.”

Her eyes came to rest on P.J., who was looking straight at her. When their gazes met, he pivoted and took a long swallow from his beer. She wondered what else she had missed tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she said honestly. “I didn’t know.”

Patrick shrugged good-naturedly.

“Am I nicer to you in the future than I am tonight?”

He laughed. “Yes. Much.”

“I’m glad.” She looked into those grey eyes. “Do I love you then?”

A flash of pain crossed his face. “Er, not that way, no.”

She considered the courage and immense love it took to come so far for someone who didn’t return your feelings. “So why don’t you talk to him?” She indicated his younger self.

“Not allowed. Causes some kind of cosmic run-time error.”

“And you’re not willing to risk it?”

“I was told my time here would end instantly if I did, so, no,” he said with a significant look, “I wasn’t willing to risk it.”

The music soared, and the singer made Peter Gabriel’s lyrics her own.

“If you could,” she asked, “what would you say?”

“Oh, gosh.” He looked into the distance, his face breaking into the first truly unburdened smile of the evening. “Don’t be such an idiot. Don’t use Mark as an excuse to not at least try for what you want. Don’t underestimate your own overpowering potential with women.” The smile turned lopsided, and he dipped her with a flourish. “Oh, and do not bet against the Pirates in the ’22 World Series.”

She lifted a sly brow. “That last bit, good to know.”

“Yeah, enjoy it for the next four minutes.”

She laughed, but suddenly four minutes didn’t seem like enough — not nearly enough. “What do I look like then?” She wondered if she were still battling a weight problem. It was a stupid question, but somehow she felt if she knew, some of the rest might be easier.

“You’re asking the wrong person.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“OK, here’s what I see,” he explained. “You walk in a room, fireworks go off. Your hair sends off sparks of gold like a halo. I see your smile, of course — at least when you were smiling. And a body that just exudes—”

“Hey!”

“Let me finish. That just exudes this sort of grace and openness to the world. And, well, let’s face it, curves that just won’t stop.”

He squawked as she elbowed him.

“I am a man, all right?”

She let her hand drift to his lapel. He felt so solid, so constant. She’d never felt that before.

“I want that grace and openness for you always, Kate. That’s why I’m here.”

A thickness in her throat made it hard to speak. She didn’t know this man, really. And yet he spoke in a way she’d barely allowed herself to imagine she might be spoken to someday. She must do something right to deserve a man like this in her future.

“What do you become?” she asked.

“Other than a slave to unrequited love?”

She grinned. “Yes.”

“Um, an archaeologist. I think I, er, he might have mentioned that.” He gestured toward P.J.

“Geez, am I that self-absorbed?” She chucked her forehead. “Why can’t I remember what you told me?”

“Because you, my friend, have just entered the altered psychological state known as Mark Donovan. It’s like cocaine, only more enthralling. P.J. McCann, on the other hand, makes up in longevity what he lacks in luminosity. Mark’s like the spotlight at a movie premiere. I’m like a glow-in-the-dark rock. Four-point-five billion year half-life.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, feeling the soft weave of his jacket and the softer chest below. Four-point-five billion years. She liked that.

The singer, while no Peter Gabriel, brought a heartfelt yearning to her desire to come back to the place her love was.

“I’m seeing just one problem,” she said.

“Just one?” The rumble of his chuckle tickled her cheek.

“Just one. When I let go of your hand, I’m not going to remember any of this. Not one word.”

“I guess,” he said slowly, “I’m hoping for a miracle.”

“Like the ’22 Pirates?”

“Yeah, but this one, I’m not betting against. In fact, I’ve pretty much put all my chips on it.”

“Well, at least I’ll still have you. Do you think, I mean, is it possible, we’ll fall in love if we change things?”

He was silent so long she lifted her head.

He looked wretched. “We won’t.”

“But it’s possible, right? I mean, anything’s possible, right?”

“Not with us.”

“But if someone can — wait,” she said. “I still have you, don’t I?” Her head spun toward P.J. and back to him. “I still keep you, Patrick, even if I lose Mark. I mean, you’re right there.”

“Kate …”

“Tell me!”

“Think about it. I’m from Boston, which is where I — the younger I — at least at present, am planning to find an assistant professor position. I take the job at Pitt when I graduate for one reason: to be near you. And the only thing that impels me to do that is that I’ve fallen in love with you while you’re dating Mark. No Mark tonight; no P.J. later.” He shook his head sadly. “Dominoes, Kate.”

“But you’re standing right over there. Can’t we just connect?”

But she already knew the answer. As soon as Patrick released her hand and this conversation was wiped from her head, she’d be too drunk on the thought of Mark to take the slightest notice of his pleasant but unremarkable friend.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “It’s me, too. Look at me over there, for God’s sake. I try to work up the courage to talk to you all night and never do. I have to collect the stupid tuxes, so I’m the last person here. I watch you leave with the final bunch of partygoers. I actually stand in the parking lot and watch Mark get in the car with you. How sad is that?”

She gazed across the nearly empty dance floor, out beyond the ballroom windows. It seemed so unfair. How could she be given such a gift for such a tiny period of time?

“I won’t do it,” she said simply. “I won’t change what happens if it means I lose you.”

He stopped so abruptly she nearly stumbled. “Kate, why do you think I’ve come here? I’m not trying to keep you from some pain. I wouldn’t dare — hell, I wouldn’t need to! You’re one of the strongest women I know. I would have happily stood at your periphery for

the rest of my life as you worked through it. I came because you’re gone, Kate. Kate the woman who lit any room she walked into is gone. And I can’t live with that.” Tears appeared in his eyes. “When it happens, it obliterates you, Kate. It absolutely obliterates you.”

She touched his arm, stunned. “So you’re giving up your own happiness to save me.”

“No courage required, Kate. You’re already gone.” He averted his face and dragged a sleeve across his cheek. “Jesus, look at me.”

She thought he meant his tears until she spotted P.J., who stood at attention, beer forgotten, his eyes cutting between Kate and Patrick.

“Let’s dance,” Patrick said. “He’s afraid you’re in trouble.”

She returned her head to Patrick’s shoulder, navigating the apprehension of a sacrifice so selfless she wondered if she would experience it again in her lifetime. Oh, how she was dreading the end of the song.

The singer had reached the place where, alone and stripped of her pride, she’d reach out with all her heart and hope her love was returned.

“Promise me,” he said huskily.

“What good is a promise,” she cried. “I won’t even remember.”

“It’s the only hope I have.”

What could she say to a man who’d come from half a lifetime away? There was only one choice, and he had earned it. “I promise.”

He took her in his arms as the singer began the last, lingering chorus. She clutched Patrick’s shoulder, trying to absorb enough of him not only to carry her through tonight, but through a lifetime. She could feel the flutter of his breath in her hair. They had not even kissed. She laced her fingers into his.

The keyboardist played the last plaintive chord, which drifted and drifted until it was gone, and the room fell silent.

“That’s it, kid.”

Another moment, she wanted to scream, but she knew he deserved her strength. “Yep.”

“Foosball, Kate!” Carly waved at her from the entrance to the game room. “It’s our turn.”

“Here’s to changing the world,” he said.

He released her waist. Their fingers, intertwined, relaxed. She drew hers down his palm, prolonging that last electric touch. “To changing the world,” she agreed, and he withdrew his palm.

Carly, thank God, was as wired as a dollar-store Christmas tree, for Kate felt like she’d had way too much champagne, though she could only remember drinking two glasses. Nearly every foosball shot taken and every attempt defended was the work of her teammate. The best Kate seemed to be able to do was to keep from stepping on Carly’s train.

She was so muzzy-headed, in fact, she decided she must be seeing things when she spotted that nice man at her table — was his name Patrick? — going through the pockets of the coats on the coat rack. He seemed to find what he was seeking, however, for when she gave him a questioning look he held up a set of keys and smiled. Probably too drunk to find his coat. Drunk at a wedding reception? Imagine that. The next time she looked he was gone.

They won that round and two more, but they lost in the finals to Joe and Mark, who aimed every shot at Kate, sending her into uncharacteristic giggles, which she also blamed on the champagne.

“A gentleman,” she said to him as they were gathering their coats, “would have let the drunk girl win.”

“No one ever accused me of being a gentleman — especially with a drunk girl.”

She laughed. He helped her on with her coat. He had changed into street clothes now, and he was looking great in jeans and a blazer.

“I, ah, don’t suppose you’d be interested in one last glass of wine? There’s a wine bar next door to my hotel that looked kind of interesting.”

There it was, just like she’d been waiting for. She snapped open her purse. A glass of Cabernet on this chilly night. Knees touching at the bar. A pair of strong arms and soft lips.

“You know,” she said. “I think … I think I’ll take a pass.”

He looked surprised. She felt surprised. But something in her head just kept saying no. And she’d been trying to teach herself to listen to that voice. Tonight, it was stronger than it had ever been. She’d make the right choice. No doubt. Nonetheless, when he gave her a goodnight kiss, she felt as if she was making a turn on a street she thought she’d follow the rest of her life.

She fished out her keys, and they made their way out to the parking lot. Mark lassoed a couple of others to join him for a glass. Kate waved as she headed to her car. She heard them drive off. The moon was out, which made the thin layer of snow sparkle. She tried to slip the key into the lock, but it wouldn’t go in. She pulled it out and tried again. Nothing. The lock couldn’t be frozen. It hadn’t snowed in a day, and it was close to forty out. She tried one more time. It wouldn’t budge.

She gazed around the lot. She could walk back to the hotel, she supposed, and try Triple A, but she spotted Mark’s room-mate, ah, ah … She scoured her memory banks. P.J.! There! I’ve remembered something at least.

“P.J.!”

He had an armload of tuxes, though it looked like he’d been standing just outside the hotel exit.

“Need some help?” He trotted over, transferring the bundle to one arm.

“Yeah, apparently I’m too drunk to get my key to work.”

“Wow. Who knew Subarus offered such hi-tech safety features?”

She laughed.

“You must have the premium model,” he said. “Mine just flashes a light that says, ‘Pull him over, officer.’”

“You have a Subaru?”

“Damn right, sister. Best cars ever.” He dropped the clothes on the trunk and extended his hand for the key.

But he was no more successful than she’d been. He tried the passenger door and the trunk. Nothing budged. Then he fished his keys out of his coat pocket.

“What the hell, right?”

“What the hell is right,” she said. “It’s either that or walk. And I live eight miles from here.”

“Well, I could drive you.” He slipped his key in — and it worked.

“Wow,” she said. “That’s weird. Though now that you mention it …”

“What?”

“I probably shouldn’t drive.”

He chuckled. “C’mon. Where do you live?”

She picked up a handful of tux and started heading towards the only other Subaru in the lot. “South Hills. Mt Lebanon.”

“It’s right on my way.”

“Really? Where do you live?”

“The North Side.”

“That’s nowhere close.”

“Depends how you define ‘on my way’. I have to circle the city three times before I can sleep. I’m very doglike in that way.”

His car was white, just like hers.

“Best colour,” she said, pulling up to the passenger door. “Best colour, best car.”

He leaned down to unlock her side. “What the hell?”

“What?”

“Now my key doesn’t work.” He dropped his armload on the trunk again.

“Well, I suppose we could use your key to drive my car to my house.”

“Give me your keys.”

She put them in his hand.

“Cross your fingers,” he said.

She did. And the door opened. Like magic.