And to Jacob, he realized as he studied his brother’s image. But to Jacob she’d passed along brilliance, as well. Brilliance wasn’t always a gift, Caleb thought with a grin. It seemed to make Jacob hotheaded, questioning and impatient. He remembered his mother saying that J.T., as his family called him, was more fond of arguing than breathing.
Cal decided he’d probably inherited his father’s more even temperament. Except he didn’t feel very even-tempered at the moment.
With a sigh, he sat on the bed. “You’d like her,” he murmured to the images. “I wish you could meet her.” That was a first, he thought. He’d never had the urge to bring any of his companions home for family approval. It was probably the result of spending the day with Libby’s parents.
He was stalling. Rubbing his hands over his face, Cal admitted he was wasting his time with busywork and self-indulgent analysis. He should already be gone. But he’d promised himself another day. There was Libby’s time capsule to do... that is, if she was still speaking to him.
She was bound to be angry about the little number he’d pulled on her before he’d left that morning. That was fine, he decided as he stretched out. He’d rather have her angry than smilingly urging him on his way. Lazily he checked his watch. She should be back in a couple hours.
Right now he was going to have a nap to make up for the long, frustrating and sleepless night he’d spent on her couch. Switching on the sleep tape beside the bed, he closed his eyes and tuned out.
***
Idiot, Libby thought, gripping the wheel tightly as she maneuvered the Land Rover along the winding switchback toward home. Conceited idiot, she clarified. He’d better have an explanation when she saw him again. No matter how she racked her brain, she could come up with no reason why he had kissed her in that furious, mean-spirited way.
Something to think about.
Well, she had thought about it, Libby reminded herself while she navigated the narrowing dirt road. It still made her furious. And it still didn’t make any sense. Then again, she had a twice-married neighbor in Portland who claimed men never made sense.
They always had to her—as a species, anyway, Libby thought grimly. And on paper. Now, for the first time, she was involved in a one-on-one with a flesh-and-blood member of the male genus, and she was baffled.
Libby bumped over rocks as she tried once again to solve the mystery of Caleb Hornblower.
Perhaps it had had something to do with the visit by her parents. But then, he’d been moody the morning before they had arrived. Moody, but not angry, she remembered, and they had made slow, quiet love by the stream during the afternoon. He’d seemed cheerful enough at dinner, perhaps a little withdrawn, but that was only natural. It must be very difficult for him to be around people when he had to concentrate on not saying anything that might give him away.
She felt a tug of sympathy and stubbornly ignored it.
That was no reason for him to take his frustration out on her. Wasn’t she trying to help him? It was killing her inside, but she was doing everything in her power to see that he got back to where he wanted to be.
She had her own life, as well. That fact soothed only a little as she barreled up a slope. She should be working on her dissertation and making the preliminary plans for her next field study. There was an offer of a lecture tour she had yet to fully consider. Instead, she was running errands—buying cameras and oatmeal cookies. For the last time, she decided huffily, but then she realized that it would indeed be the last time.
She stopped the Land Rover when the trail narrowed to a footpath. She hadn’t really meant to come out to Caleb. During the entire trip she’d told herself she would go back to the cabin and get to work. Yet here she was, letting herself be pulled back. At least there was something she could do for herself.
On impulse, she grabbed the new Polaroid from the shopping bag. After unboxing it, she skimmed over the directions, then loaded it with the first of the packs of film she’d bought. As an afterthought, she grabbed the bag of chunky oatmeal cookies.
From the top of the slope she studied the ship. It lay huge and silent on the rocks and the downed trees, like some strange sleeping animal. Deliberately she blocked out thoughts of the man inside and concentrated on the ship itself.
The sixteen-wheeler of the future, she decided, carefully framing it. The Greyhound bus or power van. All aboard for Mars, Mercury and Venus. Express trips to Pluto and Orion available. With what was more a sigh than a snicker, she took two pictures. Sitting on the edge of the slope, she watched them develop. Fifty years ago, she mused, the idea of instant pictures had been science fiction. She glanced back at the ship. Man worked fast. Very fast.
Wanting a few more moments to herself, she ripped open the bag of cookies and began to nibble.
Of course, she’d never be able to show the picture that was already taking shape in her hand to anyone. One was for the capsule, but the other was for her personal files. She wanted to believe it was the scientist who had taken it, who would label and file it along with other pictures she would take and the hard copy of the report she was writing on this isolated experience.
But it had nothing to do with science, and everything to do with the heart. She didn’t want to rely on her memory.
She slipped the pictures into her pocket, swung the camera over her shoulder and started down.
When she reached the hatch, she lifted her fist, then started to laugh. Did one knock on the door of a spacecraft? Feeling foolish with the ship looming over her, she rapped twice. A chipmunk scurried over the ground, scrambled onto the trunk of a fallen tree and stared at her.
“I know it’s odd,” Libby told him. “Just remember to keep it under your hat.” She tossed half a cookie in his direction, then turned back to knock again. “All right, Hornblower, open up. I feel like an idiot out here.”
She tried knocking, pounding, shouting. Once she gave in to temper and slammed the hull with a good kick. Favoring her sore toes, she stepped back. Furious with him, she’d nearly decided to turn back when it occurred to her he might not be able to hear her.
Stepping closer, she began to search for the device he had used to open the hatch. It took her ten minutes. When the hatch opened, she stormed inside, ready for a fight.
“Listen, Hornblower, I—”
He wasn’t on the bridge. Frustrated, Libby dragged back her hair. Couldn’t he even make himself available when she wanted to yell at him?