Chapter Three
He was gone when she woke up. If she had not been sleeping on her brother's mattress, in her mother's night gown, Amelia would have assumed it was all a dream. She scrambled up and dressed quickly. He was not downstairs, either. The room was cold and empty. 'Please let him still be here,' she silently prayed.
Then she saw it on the table, the piece he had been inspecting last night. She picked it and tilted it into the morning sunbeam. She could see the problem, even though it was tiny. One of the silver lines was broken, a small part of it no longer properly connected. Her heart ached at the thought of the silver. She went out to do her morning chores, returning only to wrap up the leftover cornbread and to pour some of the milk into a jar. She took those along with the circuit board out to the crash site, hoping with every step that it would all still be there.
It was. She smiled as she came over the hill. Cooper was sitting on the ground, his knees bent up, his arms resting on them.
Amelia sat next to him. "You're not working. You even left your piece behind. I brought it."
He shrugged. "I can't do anything. Not without some silver."
The ache at the word silver again. Could she? No, she could not. "Well, you still need to eat. I brought milk and cornbread. It's not flap jacks, but it will have to do."
Cooper turned and smiled at her. "Do you like clementines?"
"What are clementines?"
"Small citrus fruits, like oranges."
"I think I would. I've only had an orange once, and I loved it. Why do you ask?"
His smile widening into a grin, Cooper got up. "Wait here." He went to the machine, opened the door, and rummaged around beneath the seat. He came back carrying two small orange spheres. "Clementines."
"Oh," Amelia breathed in. "Are they from California? Where it is summer all year long?"
"No, these are from South America, I think. I thought it was wise to bring along citrus to prevent scurvy from a vitamin C deficiency. It seemed prudent given the length of my journey." He put out his hand, one clementine resting in his palm.
Amelia took it from him with a smile. "Are you a doctor?"
"Yes. But not of medicine. All you have to do is peel the skin back, it's much easier than an orange."
"But you know so much about medicine!" Amelia said. He was right, of course, the skin easily tore away from the fruit inside. The sweet, sharp sent reached her nose, and she took a deep breath of it.
"I know so much about a great deal of subjects," he replied. Amelia knew that was a sin to be boastful, but she liked it when Cooper was. It didn't seem like a sin to her, to hear him talk about how intelligent and knowledgable he was. It seemed to be the truth.
She bit into a segment of the clementine and heard herself moan as the luscious nectar landed on her tongue. She quickly covered her hand with her mouth.
Cooper raised one of his eyebrows and said, "It is pleasurable?"
Amelia blushed fiercely and looked away. There was no limit to what this man did to her, the ways he looked at her, the things he said, the ways he made her feel. No, she could not let him leave her. She didn't know how she would explain it all to her parents when they returned, what Cooper would do here, how they would have any money, but he had to stay here, in this time, with her.
It startled her, the tiniest touch on her chin, turning her face back to him. "I'm sorry. They're very ripe, these clementines. The juice is running."
He rubbed his thumb along her chin, wiping away the ribbon of sticky moisture she did not know was there. She watched his face, and then he looked back up at her. They were frozen like that, leaning so close together, his thumb on her skin, electricity passing between them once again. No, she could not give him the silver.
She cleared her throat, "There aren't any seeds."
He leaned away from her, and she regretted her words. "No. They are not fertilized when they are grown commercially, so there are no seeds."
Amelia took another bite, chewing slowly to savor the rare treat. She didn't understand what he meant, so she said, "Tell me about Isaac Newton. Have you spoken before?"
There were no more tense moments that morning. Cooper talked about great scientists, then they returned to the cabin to eat lunch. She informed him that it was the day to make bread, and he surprised her, yet again, by being quite adapt at the making of bread. It was so pleasant standing at his side, mixing and kneading together.
After she had arranged the loaves inside the tiny oven, Amelia reached her arm up to wipe the sweat off of her brow. It was warm, so much warmer than usual for early November. It had turned into a beautiful day. Like it was summer . . . "all year long," she murmured to herself without realizing it.
"What?" Cooper asked.
"I was just thinking what a beautiful day it is, like summer." She peered out of the window. "Look at those beautiful clouds!" She turned to him, standing next to her. "In the future, do you ever just waste an afternoon, laying on the ground, imagining shapes and stories in the clouds?"
"We play video games to waste an afternoon. Although," he shrugged, "on a philosophical level, I can see the similarities."
"Come." She took his arm and led him out the door.
"What about the bread?" he asked. "How will we know when it's done?"
"We'll lay just right here, close by. We'll smell it," Amelia explained.
They laid in front of the cabin, watching the sky, pointing out shapes, Cooper telling her they looked like things she had never heard of, and he would explain them to her. Amelia made up a little story for him about her shapes, and he listened quietly.
"Wow," he said when she had finished, "you have a gift for this, I think. Telling stories."
"I love it," Amelia admitted. "I would love to write someday. But I don't think I have anything exciting to tell. Nothing exciting has ever happened to me. Well, until now."
Without words, Cooper took her hand, threading her fingers between his. It took Amelia's breath away.
"You know I can't stay," he whispered. "I could give you seventy-three reasons, but I suspect you know the most important ones already. I have to find a way to make some money and go to Kansas City and buy some silver. I have to go back to the future. I could never belong here."
With her free hand, Amelia reached up to brush a tear away. She knew. She had known all along. She also knew what she had to do.
They did not speak anymore. They laid on the ground, holding hands, watching the clouds, each lost in their own thoughts, until Amelia smelled the bread. They got up together, silently, and went into the cabin to take the bread out.
Cooper sat in the chair at the table again, the one he always sat in, the one Amelia was starting to consider his spot. She noticed he was looking into the middle distance again, toying with the circuit board he had taken out of his pocket, the melancholy look back on his face.
Before she changed her mind, she climbed the ladder to the loft, opened the trunk that held the ghosts of her trousseau and took it out. She mouthed, "Forgive me."
It was so thin and delicate, it didn't even made a sound when she set in down in front of him, her heart pounding. He picked it up, and the way his nimble hands held it, the care he took with it, made her chest hurt. He looked at her, and she had to turn away, to look out the window.
"It's pure silver," she said, sharply.
"Is this . . . was it meant to be . . .?" he whispered.
"Yes, it was meant to be my wedding ring. But it's just an object now. It doesn't have any power. It's not binding me to one man forever."
"I can't take this."
"You must. You don't have a choice. This is all a mistake, correct?, this was not your plan. You are not bound to this time."
To me. The words were not spoken, but they hung in the air between them, nonetheless. And then she ran out onto the prairie, tears streaming.
He was asleep in her parents bed, or at least feigning to be asleep, when she returned, well after dark. She had stayed on the prairie until sunset, and then gone the barn to complete the nightly chores. Instead of bringing the milk in, she had poured it out in the lid of milk can for the barn cats. She sat and smiled at their joy, the way they purred and tumbled over each other for it, and brought their cream covered faces up to her as she ran her hands along their fur. After their little tummies were full, they curled up on her and around her and slept with a peace Amelia knew she would never find again.
Maybe it was all an illusion or a dream, maybe it wasn't really happening, certainly no one would ever believe her, but she had seen the world and the future in those words that Cooper had woven for her, and there was no way her life would ever be the same again. Even though she didn't think she could ever understand every amazing thing he told her, she felt she had finally found an equal, that these two days had been a true meeting of the minds.
Back inside, she looked around the cabin, and saw that he had been busy while she was gone. All that was left of her ring was a small bead in the bottom of the cast iron skillet. The rest was, she knew, on the circuit board lying on the table. She didn't bend down to look. She knew it was ready, that tomorrow morning he would slide the part in place, step into the machine, and leave her forever. Somehow, knowing he had been busy, that he had done it so quickly, that he had not wasted any time, hurt more than anything else.
Cooper did not belong here, and he did not intend to stay any longer than he had to. Even knowing it was for the best, that her parents were due back late tomorrow evening, did not lessen the pain. She brushed a tear away. She had to remember what she had told him herself earlier when she was pretending to be strong: they were not bound together, regardless of the presence of a silver wedding ring.
Amelia looked over at the bed, Cooper's back turned toward the room. She could make out his broad shoulders and the jutting of his sharp hip. He was already distancing himself from her. She walked over to the edge of the bed, willing him to roll over and look at her once more. She needed him to know before he left what he meant to her, that he had touched her mind and opened her imagination to countless possibilities. But his form did not move. She noted the neat stack of his clothing setting on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Had he wanted another bath? He told her how clean he liked to be. She would have drawn another one for him, even though a daily bath was an almost unheard of luxury. Maybe . . . maybe she would have let him clean her this time. Maybe . . . maybe she was not content with just the touching of minds.
She extinguished the lamp. She untied and removed her apron, folding it and stacking it with his clothes. She took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and released the top button of her dress.
To be continued . . .
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