So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) (15 page)

I gaze down at the sand and picture my grandfather as he walked away from me in the woods, the rain falling on his shoulders. He seemed so old in that moment, so broken. I know that I would do anything to stop him from hurting. And now there’s Mary, Dr. and Mrs. Bentley. If there’s some small chance that I can save Dean, I’ll only be making the future a better place for everyone.

But what will the consequences be if Dean never disappears? Will I even exist? Is that a risk I’m willing to take?

“You need to go home.”

I look up at Wes, startled out of my thoughts. “What?”

“I’ll take you. We can sneak into Camp Hero tonight.”

I open my mouth, then close it. “I’m not going back yet,” I say finally, surprising us both.

He stares at me for a minute. “Did you hear what I said? I’ll take you home, Lydia.”

Home. Safe. I think of Hannah, of my mother, my father, my grandfather. I miss them. But I’ll find my way back there soon, I know I will.

I’ve never believed in fate or coincidence. I’ve always thought that we determine our own destinies. But there is something fated about me ending up in 1944. I stumbled into a secret government project by accident, and then I pushed a button and it sent me to the exact time my great-grandfather is supposed to disappear. I
have
to believe this happened for a reason. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on Hannah and her signs.

Change isn’t always a bad thing, and the butterfly effect is unpredictable. Wes doesn’t even know what will happen if I stay and save Dean. Helping my family now might have
good
consequences. There are obviously risks, but the reward, if it works, would be great.

I take a step back, away from Wes. “I’m not going back yet.”

His eyes narrow and I wonder if he’s angry with me, or just confused. “If you stay here, you could change everything.”

“I know.”

I step away from him again. Wes sighs, turns his head, and looks out at the ocean. He looks like he’s in a snapshot from World War II: the soldier standing in the sun as the waves break white and foamy near his feet.

I try to capture the image in my mind. Neither of us belongs in this time, but it doesn’t mean we can’t fake it for a little while.

“Lydia, I can’t let you go.” He turns back to me, and his expression is hard, set. “You don’t understand how serious this is.”

“I
do
understand.”

“If you understood, then you wouldn’t be staying in this time period. You’d be coming back with me.”

“Wes, I—”

“Lydia!”

We both freeze and turn toward the voice. Mary is standing on a high dune, one hand shading her eyes as she gazes at us from across the beach.

“I have to go,” I say to Wes. I pick up my shoes and take another step backward.

“Lydia. Don’t.” His voice sounds ragged.

“I’m sorry.” I move farther and farther away from him. “I have to.”

Without another word, I turn and run back up the sand, where Mary is waiting for me.

“W
ould
you like more tea?” Elizabeth Bentley holds out a blue and white china teapot, steam drifting into the air.

“No, thank you.” Mrs. Bentley places a delicate teacup onto the saucer in her lap.

We’re sitting in Dean’s living room, in
my
house, though it looks nothing like how I’m used to it. There’s a hunter-green patterned couch in the middle of the room and a tall standing radio below the window. The walls are a soft, seafoam green, with gold leaf accents framing the ceiling.

Mary and I sit together on the couch clutching our teacups. It’s the morning after the fundraiser, after I ran away from Wes on the beach.
You could change everything
, he said. I look out the window, into the familiar backyard where the branches of a dogwood tree hang heavy with thin white flowers. Wes doesn’t know it, but his words have filled me with hope. I want to change everything. I want to fix my family.

But first I have to find out how—and if—Dean is connected to the Montauk Project.

Peter, my grandfather, sits on the floor in front of us playing war with small metal figurines. “Pow, pow, pow,” he murmurs, knocking one of the army men onto the rug.

When his mother disappears into the hallway, I ask, “Who’s winning?”

“The Allies.” He doesn’t look up from his toys. “We’re bumping off those Jerrys one by one.”

Mary fidgets in her seat. “I don’t know why we had to come over for tea,” she whispers to her mother. “Lydia and I were supposed to go to the beach with Suze and Jinx. You know I’m volunteering at Camp Hero later this afternoon. This was my only time to go.”

“Shh,” Mrs. Bentley scolds. “This is your brother’s home. Be polite.”

“My brother’s not even here....” She trails off as Elizabeth returns, carrying a tray of cookies.

“Help yourself.” Elizabeth places it onto the low wooden coffee table.

Mary snatches up one of the cookies and takes a bite.

“Ohhh,” she sighs, “real sugar.” She finishes the cookie and reaches for another one. “How is it that you always have so many rations? First the tea, then the sugar cookies.” She drops her voice. “It’s the black market, isn’t it?”

“Mary!” Mrs. Bentley exclaims. “The stories you come up with.”

Elizabeth’s pale skin stands out against the dark red of her high-necked dress. “Your brother brought tea, sugar, and white flour home the other day. He said the army gave him these supplies to pass on to his family.”

“Lucas never has stuff like this.” Mary eats the second cookie, closing her eyes as she chews.

Mrs. Bentley picks up a cookie from the tray. “I’m sure it’s only for the senior officers.”

“I thought we were all making do with less.”

“That’s for us civilians, not our soldiers. They’re making the ultimate sacrifice. We do what we can on the home front.” Mrs. Bentley touches Mary gently on the arm. “That means sacrificing in a different way.”

“Well, it just seems like some of us are sacrificing more than others.” Mary pouts.

“Oh Mary, have another cookie.” Elizabeth hands her the plate. She sounds like she’s trying not to laugh, even as Mary glares at her. “We can all benefit from your brother’s important position.”

Speaking of Dean
. I glance toward the hallway. Mary might have been disappointed about this tea, but the minute Mrs. Bentley told us we were going, I started to plot. To find out what Dean really does at Camp Hero, I’ll need to become the spy he originally accused me of being. What better place to start than in his own house?

I stand up, smoothing the fabric of my narrow blue skirt, another castoff from Mary. “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”

“Of course.” Elizabeth’s tone is cool but polite. “It’s down the hallway, to the right of Dean’s study.”

“Thank you.” As they start to talk about the upcoming USO dance, I walk out of the room. Dean’s study is across the hall from the kitchen and I find it easily. The door is slightly ajar. I check the hallway to make sure I’m alone, and then I slip into the room.

The blackout curtains are pulled tight across the small window, the only light coming from the open door behind me. There’s a wide wooden table in the center of the room, with two straight-back chairs flanking it. Neat stacks of paper rest on its surface. A large black-and-white map of the world covers one wall, with careful lines drawn across it, marking where the Allies are advancing through Europe. Another large writing desk takes up half of the opposite wall, with open compartments built into the top and drawers along one leg.

I carefully rifle through the papers on the table. Most of the sheets are blank, and I put them aside, turning to the desk. The compartments are filled with letters, stamps, and envelopes. Moving quickly, I pull open the drawers. The top one is filled with pens and paper. The middle drawer has bills and receipts. I yank at the bottom one, but it’s stuck. I pull harder. The wood creaks, then pops open.

I glance at the door. I’ve only been gone a minute or so, but I need to be careful. I don’t know what Dean would do if he heard I was snooping through his stuff, but I know he wouldn’t be happy. The top of the drawer is filled with papers, a deed to the house, a recent bank statement. I pull out a smaller stack of papers. They’re covered in Dean’s neat handwriting.

“The fuse box is in the basement near the furnace,” the top one reads. “Flip the switch if one is blown.” I rifle through the sheets. They’re all like that—instructions on how to fix the furnace when it overheats, on how to refill the oil in the hot water tank.

Why is Dean leaving his family instructions on how to maintain the house? Is he
expecting
to disappear? Perhaps every soldier does this in order to prepare his family for the worst.

I put the papers back but notice a strange bundle in the very bottom, hidden underneath a file. I pull it out. It’s a small stack of magazines, held together with twine. I cut the twine with a letter opener from Dean’s desk. All six magazines are the
Electrical Experimenter
from 1919. One cover shows a red plane crashing into the sea. One is of a scientist holding a glowing lightbulb under the words
THE TESLA WIRELESS LIGHT
.

So this is Nikola Tesla. His face is thin, and he has a neatly trimmed mustache. I open the issue. The article on Tesla is dog-eared. It’s the beginning of a six-part series called
My Inventions
written by Tesla himself. I quickly rifle through the other issues. Each one has another part of the series, and each one has been bookmarked. Anywhere Tesla mentions magnetic theory, specifically his discovery of a rotating magnetic field, Dean has drawn a black line under the words.

According to conspiracy theorists, Tesla realized that if the rotating magnetic fields were charged enough, then time and space could be altered … which led to the development of the time machine.

Is this what I need to link Dean to the Montauk Project?

I hear a noise coming from the front of the house. A door opening. “Hello?” Dean’s voice calls out.

I stuff the magazines back into the drawer and slide it shut. I tiptoe to the doorway and strain to hear what’s happening in the hallway.

“We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow,” Elizabeth says.

“They let me go early. I report back on Sunday, twelve hundred hours.”

“Two-day leave? You said it would be longer than that.”

I peer around the door. They’re standing in the entryway, facing this direction. I jump out of sight, frantically looking around the room. There’s nowhere to hide if he comes back here.

“Something was changed. You know I can’t talk about it.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I’m going upstairs. I’ll be down in a second.” Dean’s boots are heavy as he starts to climb the stairs.

“Let me make you something to eat,” Elizabeth calls out to him, and I stare at the door in horror. If she walks to the kitchen, she could find me in here.

There’s a pause, and I risk peeking out again. The hallway is empty. Elizabeth must have gone back into the living room, presumably to get the remains of the tea. I slip out of the study and make my way toward the living room.

“There you are!” Mary says as I rejoin them.

“Dean is home!” Mrs. Bentley claps her hands together. “Isn’t it lucky that we caught him?”

I take a seat on the stuffed couch and reach for a cookie, hoping they don’t notice my shaking hands. “Very lucky.”

A while later I stand on the back porch, watching Peter run through the yard. He’s holding a toy airplane, similar to the ones flying over Dean’s childhood bed. “Vrooom,” he calls out as he dips and twists the plane. It’s humid and cloudy out. I slap at a mosquito on my arm.

The door opens behind me and Dean steps out onto the porch. We stand side by side, not speaking.

“That’s a Warhawk,” he says after a minute.

“What is?”

“The plane. A Curtiss P-40.” He takes a cigarette out of a pack and offers it to me. I shake my head. He sticks it in his mouth and lights it, pulling in the smoke. I wrinkle my nose as the smell hits me, not used to the thick, bitter scent. Aside from my grandfather with his pipe, I hardly know anyone who smokes.