Page 98 of Flirting with Forever

Forty-three

Mertons landed in the small studio and straightened his coat. Peter, he noted, hardly looked up from his painting. It seemed to be all the man ever did.

“The Guild has asked me to make a final plea.”

“No.”

“Peter—”

“We’re not done here.”

“‘We.’ Ha. Do you ever get tired of having the rest of us focused on your needs?”

“It’s not about my needs. It’s about Ursula.”

“That’s a lie. It’s about revenge. You’re hurt, and you want to hurt her in return.”

“No. No. I wanted to stop her. I didn’t tell the reporter her name. I would never have hurt her willingly.”

“Really? Then maybe you’ll want to look at this.” He dropped a sheaf of papers on the table.

Peter regarded them suspiciously.

“I told you messing about in the future was dangerous. The most recent calculations have come through. You’ve changed Campbell’s future—and I don’t mean your paintings. I mean something important.”

“What?”

“A child.”

Peter stilled.

“That’s right. There is supposed to be a marriage and a child in her future.”

“Of course there is. She’s a young woman. ’Twould be natural to expect such things.”

“But that marriage is gone now, Peter. Don’t you see? That child is gone. The original calculations on her future, the ones I ran after I found you here, showed them.” He tapped the papers. “Today’s do not. That’s what this nonsense has gotten you. Is that what you were planning? To take away her future?”

Peter sunk into his chair. “No.”

“You of all people should know what that’s like. You must leave this place. You must leave before you hurt her more.”

Forty-four

Cam moved the little name cards around the diagram of tables distractedly. Today had been a Calamity Deathmatch. What was going to bring Cam to her knees first—Helga: The Swimsuit Issue or Anastasia Zhivago, Russian tormentor from hell? Cam had a vision of herself as Catwoman, sliding perilously down the side of the crevasse, nails dug like knives into the edge to keep from falling, with Anastasia, standing over her in a far better Catwoman suit, tapping the toe of her boot on Cam’s fingers, and shouting for Cam to throw her the keys to the director’s office in order to save herself. And somehow Jacket is dangling below Cam, clutching her foot, trying to save her or pull her down with him, Cam can’t tell which.

“Cam?”

She jumped. “What?” Jeanne had arrived unnoticed with an armload of mail.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Just wanted you to know I was here.”

“Got it.” She returned to the seating chart. Micki Catterman regularly got drunk enough to spill full glasses of wine into her purse or fall into her dinner companion’s lap. A little self-control, Cam lectured silently as she tapped the sticky note that held Catterman’s name. We’re talking a museum gala here, not a fraternity rave, okay? It was probably not a good idea to seat her next to Sister Rose McNair. Cam picked up Catterman and let her hover over the empty seat next to Dick Bolton, the insufferable bore who was making her friend Seph’s life miserable over at Pilgrim Pharmaceuticals, Poetic justice? A little more of that in this world would certainly be appreciated. Where was the handsome, artistic Batman to rescue her? “Who are you moving?” Jeanne dumped the mail on the corner of her desk.

In her mind, Cam flung the keys and caught Batman’s gloved hand, all in one graceful movement. “Oh, Catwoman.”

“Catwoman?”

Cam frowned, the spell of her daydream broken. “Catwoman? Why did you say that?”