A Captive in Time Read online

  A Captive in Time

  by

  Sarah Dreher

  Copyright © 1990 by Sarah Dreher

  All Rights Reserved, worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, with out permission in writing from the publisher

  Published by New Victoria Publisher, Inc., Hereford, AZ 85615

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Dreher, Sarah.

  Captive in Time /by Sarah Dreher.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0934678-22-7

  I. Title.

  PS3554.R36C37 1990

  813' .54--dc20

  90-31304

  CIP

  For Audie

  with thanks to Lis and The Cowboy

  Chapter One

  Half-awake, Stoner dropped her hand onto the alarm button and silenced it. Her body felt like a waterbed, every cell firm and supple and a little bit alive. A familiar feeling, the aftermath of lovemaking. She opened her eyes.

  Gwen lay beside her, hair jumbled on the pillow. “What?” she mumbled through her sleep.

  “Go back to sleep,” Stoner said softly.

  “American History,” Gwen muttered.

  Stoner smiled. “It’s Saturday. You don’t have to teach.”

  “Travel.”

  “That’s right.” She touched Gwen’s face, gently moving her hair to the side with one finger. “Kesselbaum and McTavish, Purveyors of Travel Arrangements to the Citizens of Boston since 1981 is open for business. I have to go.”

  “Yuppies,” Gwen grunted.

  “Uh-huh. Saturday is Yuppie-Day.”

  Gwen rolled over onto her back and rubbed her eyes. “What would you do,” she asked drowsily, “if I quit teaching?”

  “Make love to you twenty-four hours a day.”

  “No good.”

  “Why not?”

  “Have to stop for coffee.”

  Stoner grinned. “I can take a hint.” She shoved back the covers and sat up. The cold floor against her bare feet jolted her awake. “Any particular kind?”

  “Jamaica Blue Mountain.”

  “Whoa!” Stoner said. “You must need some heavy-duty nerves.”

  “Mid-terms to grade. I think I hate teen-agers.” Gwen pushed herself up on one elbow and tried to bring order to her hair. “Why does my hair always look as if squirrels have been nesting in it?”

  Stoner rammed her feet into her slippers. “It doesn’t.”

  “It does in the morning.”

  “I like it.”

  “You have no standards.”

  “Do so.” She leaned down and kissed Gwen softly on the forehead. “I’ll bring your coffee before I leave.”

  “You spoil me.” Her eyelids fluttered shut. The skin on her face went smooth with lethargy. “I love you, Stoner McTavish.”

  “I love you.”

  Stoner watched her for a moment, then forced herself to face the day.

  Saturday. The rest of the world would be celebrating another weekend, while she and Marylou, McTavish and Kesselbaum, the Dynamic Duo, fought shoulder to shoulder against the forces of fouled reservations, lost luggage, and cruise bookings.

  She hated cruise bookings. Given a choice, she’d do all the charters, European Tours, FITs and DITs, even spring break at Disney World if it would get her out of cruise bookings. But cruise bookings were, after all, what made the Travel world go ’round, and Marylou couldn’t do them all.

  Especially not this year.

  This year, thanks to Hurricane Hugo, they had to do them twice.

  It was because they’d named it after a man, she thought as she slipped into the shower and let cool water-needles bring her fully awake. Nature had taken offense, and expressed Her outrage in the way She knew best—by ripping the roofs off everything in sight.

  All of the Caribbean cruises they had happily booked back in May and June were up for grabs. To make matters worse, calls to popular island resorts resulted in answers that were suspect at best. No one was willing to admit they were kissing off the tourist season for this year. Which was understandable but frustrating. Because, when Mr. and Mrs. U. S. Tourist arrived at their anticipated island vacation to find their hotel was a roofless pile of rubble, who were they going to blame?

  You guessed ’er, Chester. Kesselbaum and McTavish, that’s who.

  Then there were the cancellations and changes. Which left lots of room for mistakes, working as they were under extreme pressure. She could bear it once a year, but twice? And there were consequences to messing up. You can mess up a person’s work schedule, or bank account, even an occasional medical diagnosis. But Heaven help you if you mess up a vacation. Travelers who want to sail to Rio on Royal Viking expect to sail to Rio on Royal Viking, not end up headed for Mexico on the Cunard Princess. And when unhappy travelers get home, their first stop is...

  Right again.

  Marylou seemed to take it all in stride, happily chatting away on the phone, exchanging tickets as easily as shuffling cards, soothing ruffled feathers, dropping the word—on the q.t., of course— that this particular undeveloped bit of Mexican jungle would, within the year, be the vacation spot of the Western Hemisphere, and wouldn’t you feel smug, knowing you had found it first? All the while on the lookout for new and exotic restaurants, recipes, and men. And still finding time to lecture Stoner on Safe Sex.

  But for Stoner herself, Cruise Season, the Sequel was a nightmare. She was in a constant state of panic, convinced she’d screw everything up. Sleepless with worry. Cranky and irritable and good for nothing but watching old “Cagney and Lacey” tapes on the VCR.

  St. Croix was the worst. St. Croix was, post-Hugo, gone. They were going to have to deal with a lot of wealthy, disappointed people. And disappointment on a Yuppie has about the same effect as gasoline on a brush fire. Certainly Marylou wouldn’t trust her to handle St. Croix.

  Stoner wrapped a towel around her wet hair and glared into her closet. The day called for something practical, something no-nonsense. Clothes to Get Things Done In.

  She decided on the pale denim Liz Claiborne jump suit Gwen had picked out for her at the Outlet Mall in Kittery. If you’re going to deal with Yuppies, she told herself, you might as well come armed with designer labels. She wished she’d paid more attention to that video she’d seen at J.C. Penney, the one that showed you thirty ways to tie a Liberty scarf. She and Gwen had tried it when they got home, but the best she’d managed was some kind of cowboy-like arrangement that would do for robbing banks and not much else. Which caused them to break out in the giggles, and one thing led to another until they were prostrate on the living room floor, after which Gwen announced it was the first time she had ever made love under a card table.

  Stoner tried to appear cool, and claimed she had made love under card tables before, which Gwen declared a crock. She knew a card-table virgin when she saw one. So they decided to make love on, over, under, or in every piece of furniture in Gwen’s apartment. Stoner wondered if it was really appropriate behavior for two women in their thirties, but Gwen said she had missed out on all the fun in her twenties because she thought she was straight, and she was damned if she’d be deprived for an entire lifetime.

  She decided not to try the scarf today.

  Downstairs, Aunt Hermione was already puttering around the kitchen. Aunt Hermione worked on Saturdays, too, to accommodate those clients whose schedules didn’t allow them to take time off for frivolous pursuits like consulting clairvoyants and finding meaning in their lives.

  She ran a comb through her damp hair and trotted down to breakfast.

  Her aunt was standing by the stove in her nightclothes, scrambling e
ggs.

  Stoner went up behind her and gave her a hug. “Good morning.”

  “My goodness,” Aunt Hermione said. “The sex must have been fabulous last night.”

  “For Heaven’s sake!” She felt herself go red and turned quickly to search the refrigerator shelves.

  “What’s wrong, dear? You’re as pink as a boiled lobster. Are you having a hot flash?”

  She found the coffee in its neatly-labeled, air-tight container. “I am not having a hot flash. I’m at least ten years too young for hot flashes.” She brought the jar out and struggled with the lid. “It’s your language.”

  Her aunt pursed her lips and frowned thoughtfully. It made her look like a snowy owl. “I don’t know why you find it offensive, Stoner. Grace says it turns her on. I believe that’s the expression she uses— ‘frank language turns me on’. Yes, that’s an exact quote.”

  “Well, you and Grace are...” She tapped the jar lid against the sink. “...older.”

  “Considerably. And more liberated. It comes with being witches, I suppose. One knows how to enjoy.” Aunt Hermione scooped the eggs onto a plate already festooned with bacon, home fries, and buttered grits. She offered it to Stoner. “Would you like this? I can make another.”

  “No, thanks.” She pressed down on the jar lid with the palm of her hand and twisted. The friction scraped her skin. “Damn.”

  “If you don’t mind a personal comment...”

  “Why should I mind a personal comment? I’ve lived with you for sixteen years...”

  “Seventeen.”

  “...and it’s been seventeen years of non-stop personal comments.” She glared at the jar. “What’s one more personal comment?”

  “If you could develop a more free-wheeling attitude toward the Material Plane, I’m sure it wouldn’t give you so much trouble.”

  She took a deep breath and twisted. The lid gave, popped off. Coffee beans spewed in all directions. “That’s right,” Stoner said as she knelt to scoop them up. “Blame the victim.”

  “I do hope I’m not doing that.” Aunt Hermione nibbled on a slice of bacon. “I only mean you so often seem at odds with the Things of this world. As a Capricorn, of course, you do have an attraction for objects and a love of order. But I wish you’d try to enjoy it a little more.”

  Stoner tossed the handful of beans into the garbage can. “I try. Really, I do. But Gwen wants Jamaica Blue Mountain and...”

  “The last time Gwyneth wanted that,” Aunt Hermione said, “I just made regular and tossed in an extra half teaspoon of instant. She didn’t know the difference.”

  Stoner had to laugh. “You really did that?”

  Her aunt nodded.

  “No wonder she doesn’t want to move in here.”

  “She doesn’t want to move in here because she doesn’t want you to have to put up with her bad moods. She told me.”

  Stoner measured the coffee beans into the grinder and gritted her teeth in anticipation of the noise. “I thought it was my bad moods she was afraid of.”

  “Well,” said Aunt Hermione as she stirred her tea, “when the time is right, you’ll be together.”

  She pushed the button on the grinder. It sounded like gravel being chewed. “God, I hate that noise.”

  “You always have. Even as a child, you hated loud or unpleasant noises.” The older woman smiled. “Any time your mother ran the garbage disposal, you clapped your hands over your ears and scurried from the room.”

  “I was afraid she was going to put me in it,” Stoner said as she filled the coffee pot and plugged it in.

  “Why was that?”

  “She used to threaten to.” She glanced at her aunt, who looked ready to commit mayhem. “She was just teasing.”

  “What adults find amusing is seldom funny to a child. Children know things. They bring the wisdom of Spirit to the world, until we humiliate them into forgetting. I’ve often felt it would be a much more livable world if children were in charge.”

  Stoner felt a sudden upsurge of affection for her aunt. She put her arms around her. “I love you, Aunt Hermione. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d probably have killed myself before I was twenty.”

  Aunt Hermione squeezed her hand. “When I took you in, I thought I was only saving you from my wretched sister and her useless husband. You’ll never know what unexpected joy you’ve brought into my life.”

  They held one another for a moment. “Stoner,” her aunt said at last, “something’s going to happen to you in the next few days. I’m not sure what it is. I only have an impression. Please, promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Stoner drew back and looked at her. “Careful of what?”

  “I wish I knew. But I sense danger around you. An odd kind of danger. It’s very confusing.”

  She felt a tingle of apprehension, and tried to brush it off. “I’ll be careful.” She forced a laugh. “I’ll bet I know what it is. Cruise bookings.”

  Marylou was up to her shoulders in the dreaded cruise bookings by the time Stoner pushed her way through the travel agency door.

  “Thank Goddess the Cavalry has arrived,” Marylou sighed. She reached for a bagel with cream cheese and lox from the Deli down the street.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” Stoner hung her coat in the closet and checked her reflection in the mirror for wind damage. “Gwen slept over.”

  “Ah! The delectable Widow Owens. Tell me everything.”

  “Yes, we made love. Yes, it was great.”

  Marylou left her desk and cornered Stoner in the closet. “Details!”

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “You’re with her nearly every night. You never tell me anything.”

  “There’s hardly anything to tell. Most of the time she falls asleep.”

  “While you’re making love?” Marylou was horrified.

  “While we’re watching television. She even falls asleep during ‘China Beach’.”

  Marylou “tsked” sympathetically.

  “It’s the teaching. The September-to-Thanksgiving Hell Marathon at Watertown Junior High.”

  “No problems between you, then?”

  Stoner smiled, remembering the morning, remembering last night. “No problems.”

  “Hot night, huh?” Marylou licked cream cheese from her fingertips.

  “You could call it that.”

  “Will you tell me if I do all the cruise changes?”

  Stoner was tempted. “No.”

  “Stay in the closet, then,” Marylou said with a pout, closing the door and leaving Stoner in darkness.

  Stoner opened the door and followed her to her desk. “You know I can’t talk about that personal stuff, Marylou.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.” She rummaged through the brown paper sack until she found a poppy seed bagel and handed it to Stoner. “You had a chance to brighten my drab, miserable day with a little spice. But never mind. I’ll just have to suffer.”

  Stoner tore off a chunk of bagel and spread it with cheese. “What’s wrong? The cruises?”

  “The cruises are under control. It’s my mother.”

  Stoner looked up. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. The eminent psychoanalyst Dr. Edith Kesselbaum is fine. The eminent psychoanalyst Dr. Edith Kesselbaum is just ducky. The eminent psychoanalyst Dr. Edith Kesselbaum is in her glory. The rest of us are in pain, but not Dr. Edith Kesselbaum.”

  “Marylou...”

  “My mother,” Marylou announced to the jangling of silver bracelets and imitation tearing of hair, “has decided to start cooking.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “My mother, the Queen of fast-food, the darling of Pizza Hut, Burger King’s Poster Child, has decreed that the ’90s will mark the Return to Traditional Values...”

  “That was the ’80s,” Stoner interrupted.

  “You know my mother. She marches to a different drummer. Anyway, to commemorate R.T.V...as Max an
d I call it...we’re supposed to have no fewer than three family meals a week, which she will prepare.”

  “I don’t know,” Stoner said. “She doesn’t strike me as the June Cleaver type.”

  Marylou rolled her eyes.

  Stoner chewed on another chunk of bagel. “I give it a week. Ten days at the most. What about Max?”

  “So far he’s as appalled as I am. But I think he’s starting to get ideas about backyard barbecues. Stoner, do you realize what this means?”

  Stoner shook her head.

  “The Kesselbaums,” Marylou said in a slightly hysterical tone. “The Kesselbaums are, at this moment, poised on the brink of the 1950s.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Stoner said. “You’d be a knockout in a poodle skirt and saddle shoes.”

  Marylou scowled. “Get to work.”

  She went to the brochure shelves and moved Trans-Canada Railroad Tours from Europe, where someone had left it, to North American where it belonged. “Uh, Marylou...”

  “No, you don’t have to help with the cruises today.”

  “Other stuff is piling up, you know,” she said guiltily, and tossed “Visit Charming, Historic Charleston” into the waste basket.

  “I know.”

  “FITs and DITs particularly...”

  “Yes,” said Marylou. “In fact, as I was coming through the door this morning, I said to myself, ‘Today would be the perfect day for Stoner to take care of the Foreign and Domestic Independent Tours.’ Those were my exact words to myself.”

  “I’m good at it. I like to look things up.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I like sitting down with people and finding out what they like and making it happen.”

  “That’s why you’re so good at it,” Marylou said.

  “It’s probably why I went into the travel business, to do FITs and DITs.”

  “I’ve always thought so.”

  “So maybe I should…”

  “Stoner McTavish!” Marylou shrieked. “Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

  “Huh?”

  “The FITs and DITs are on your desk!”

  “Oh.” Stoner glanced up and grimaced sheepishly. “Thank you.”