Timeless (30 page)

Michele looked at her and found that she couldn’t lie anymore. “No, I’m not,” she confessed. “The truth is … I’m from
the future. From the year 2010. And … I’m your great-granddaughter.”

Lily’s jaw dropped, and she stared at Michele in astonishment. That was when Michele felt Time calling her back, as Lily and the dressing room became hazy, and the ground began to shake. But just before 1926 vanished, Michele caught a glimpse of Lily smiling in wonderment as she watched Michele—the girl who Lily now knew as her future great-granddaughter—fading back to her own time.

“Go and chase your dreams, you won’t regret it. Anything can happen if you let it.”

Michele landed jarringly in her seat beside her grandparents at the New Amsterdam in 2010 only to find that everyone was on their feet, clapping to the rhythm and cheering.
It’s the curtain call
, Michele realized.
Was I only gone for one song? How is that possible?
She staggered into a standing position.

Dorothy gave her a relieved look. “There you are! Where did you go?”

“Oh … I had to go to the bathroom,” Michele improvised. “I snuck out during the song.”

As the curtain fell, Michele glanced down at her ring finger and sucked in her breath. There it was—the signet ring from Philip!

O
n the way home after dinner, Michele suggested to her grandparents that they listen to one of Lily Windsor’s records together before bed. “Seeing her poster up in the theater just made me want to hear her again.”

“That’s a great idea, Michele,” Walter said, looking pleased. Once they reached Windsor Mansion, he led the way to the drawing room, where the vintage record player was kept. He rummaged through the stack of records until he chose
Lily Windsor at Carnegie Hall, May 1935
. After setting the dial on the record player, Walter plopped into his easy chair by the window, and Dorothy and Michele shared the couch.

The first song on the album was the one from Lily’s
composition book, “Born for It.” Michele closed her eyes and listened to the vintage sound of old-time jazz filling the room.

“Make them feel, make them fly
Send their stories to the sky
I’m singin’ it
Ooh, I was born for it
“When that trumpet starts to play
All the world’s cares fade away
I’m livin’ it
I was born for it.”

“This was actually the first song she ever wrote,” Walter remarked. “She was just your age.”

Michele smiled, overcome with emotion. “I thought so.”

As the second song began, Michele froze; it sounded just like Philip’s piano intro to their song “Chasing Time.” Sure enough, Lily’s bluesy voice began to sing the chorus.

“I can’t live in the normal world
,
I’m just chasing time …”

The orchestra joined in, and it was too much. This all went beyond Michele’s wildest dreams.
Mom would never believe this—Lily Windsor singing one of my songs at Carnegie Hall!
she thought with an incredulous laugh.

“Michele! Why are you crying?” Dorothy asked in alarm.

“Oh, it’s just … I love this song,” she said, now half crying and half laughing. “Sorry, I’m a little … sensitive.”

It seemed unfathomable that her travels back in time could have affected history so much—others’ histories as well as her own—but they had. In fact, it was beginning to feel like all time periods were happening at once, in layers, like the layers of a cake. Below her were previous time periods, playing and replaying themselves, and above her was the future. And somehow, for some inexplicable reason,
she
had been chosen to live between the layers.

She wiped her eyes, listening alertly to the piano. “Who is that playing, do you know?”

“Of course. That’s Phoenix Warren. This was quite a star-studded show,” Walter said proudly.

“Phoenix Warren! You know my mom named me after his composition, ‘Michele,’ right?”

“No. No, we didn’t know that,” Walter said, looking down. Dorothy’s face was pained.

“You miss her … like I do,” Michele realized, after a beat.

“Of course we do,” Walter said, his voice quietly intense.

“I’m sorry for—for always assuming …” Michele’s voice trailed off. She was unsure how to phrase what she meant. But her grandparents seemed to understand.

“Thank you, dear,” Dorothy said kindly.

Walter glanced at the mantel clock. “It’s getting late. We’d better head up to bed. You have school in the morning.”

Michele nodded. “Okay. Thanks again for tonight. I had a really great time.”

Her grandparents smiled at her, and Michele was glad to see that their smiles reached their eyes.

That night brought a series of dreams, vignettes unfolding one after another.…

Michele was alone in a cold, silent graveyard. She didn’t know how she had gotten there and she was desperate to get away, but she felt herself being pushed forward, toward something she didn’t want to see. She moved, trancelike, until her shoe touched a hard surface. She jumped back and saw that she was standing before a simple white headstone.
IRVING HENRY
, it read. 1869–1944
.

Suddenly, the scene changed, followed by far calmer dreams of turn-of-the-century cotillion dances, jazz clubs, and the sea in Newport. And then she saw Philip.

He was standing by the fire in an elegant hotel room—and he was reading her letter. Now in his thirties, Philip was even more handsome than before. He had grown taller and stronger; his face was more defined; his intense eyes were somehow even deeper and bluer than before. He reminded Michele of those movie stars from the golden age of Hollywood—Clark Gable and Errol Flynn
.

“I’ll do what you ask, Michele,” he said to himself. “I will move on, for you. But no matter what, I will find a way back to you. I promise.”

Michele woke with a lump in her throat. She had never longed to reach out and touch Philip, hold him, more than she did now. She was tempted to take back her words, to try to go back to him for just one more night. But she knew that she couldn’t. Before meeting Philip, Michele had never really understood when people talked of being so in love that they would put the other person ahead of themselves. But now
Michele understood. She would give up all her own chances at happiness for him, to protect him.

The frightening dream about the graveyard flooded back to Michele, and she shuddered. It was clear that Irving Henry was trying to tell her something. But was she ready to hear it?

“Oh
, my God!” Caissie grabbed Michele’s hand and stared at the ring the next morning in front of her locker. Michele had just finished filling Caissie in on her latest adventures in time. “And you’re wearing it on your wedding finger, I see!”

Michele pulled her hand away, blushing. “Yeah, well …”

“How in the world are your future boyfriends going to measure up to this whole affair?” Caissie wondered as they started walking to class. “Like, say, Ben Archer, for example?”

“Excuse me?” Michele stopped to give Caissie a look.

“I overheard one of the cheerleaders talking about how he’s taking you to Autumn Ball,” Caissie admitted. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because we’re just going as friends. It’s so not a big deal,” Michele told her. “Honestly, I’d rather not go at all. I just think he’s a cool, nice guy and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so …”

“Hold up.” Caissie stared at Michele, hands on her hips. “Are you saying Philip is it for you? You’re not going to give anyone else a chance, you’re just going to live the life of a nun from now on?”

“No, I just … You don’t understand. I feel like he’s … like he’s waiting for me,” Michele said sheepishly.

“Michele, he’s not even
alive
!”

“You don’t need to remind me,” Michele said hotly. “And I didn’t mean it like that—I don’t know what I mean.”

“You’re the one who encouraged Philip to move on,” Caissie pointed out. “So you should too. You can’t exactly settle down with a 118-year-old ghost, can you?”

“Says the girl who still hasn’t asked Aaron out yet,” Michele retorted.

Caissie’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Come on, you know you can be honest with me,” Michele said in a gentler tone. “I’ve seen the way you guys act around each other. It’s so obvious you’re into each other, but too nervous to admit it.”

Caissie’s face had turned red. “I’m not so sure he would agree with that.… You swear you won’t say anything?”

“I swear,” Michele said. “But I just know he feels the same way.”

“Come on. We’re going to be late,” Caissie said, in an obvious bid to change the subject. “Let’s take the shortcut.”

As they cut through the administration office to class, Michele stopped short in astonishment. Someone who looked like the teenage
Philip
was studying a school map.

“Caissie!” she cried.

Caissie, who was in the middle of sending a text message, looked up a second too late. He had turned the corner, and as he walked past, Michele saw that it wasn’t her Philip at all. He didn’t have that purposeful stride that Philip always had when he walked. In fact, how could it have been Philip?
I’m the time traveler, not him
, Michele reminded herself.

“What?” Caissie asked, following her gaze. “What are you looking at?”

Michele bit her lip. “Nothing, I thought … well, never mind.”

Michele sat at her computer that afternoon, frozen in shock. Wikipedia and every other online source she had just checked still had no listing or information about Philip Walker. There was no triumphant body of work from the composer of “Bring the Colors Back.” There were no news articles about him, no records, nothing—as if his life had never been.
What happened?
she wondered, feeling dizzy.
I saved him—he had all these plans—how could there be no trace of him now? What
became
of him?

Michele got up, desperate to talk to Caissie. There had to be something she could do or some kind of scientific explanation Caissie might come up with. She raced downstairs, but as she headed toward the door, something caught her eye: an odd, hazy glow coming from the library.