“Last night in the Facility I discovered that Dean is going on a mission to kill Hitler.” I keep my tone deliberately even, though I feel like I’m breaking apart inside. “If Dean survives the TM then he’ll be stuck in the twenties forever. I’m going to stop that from happening because I want to help the people I care about. Because I have to.”
My voice gets louder. “I thought you were starting to understand.” I press both hands to my forehead. “I’m such an idiot.”
I feel his gaze on me, but I refuse to look up.
“Lydia …” He trails off.
I lower my hands and finally turn to him. He’s standing perfectly still, his arms loose at his sides. “What?” I prompt. “What do you want to say?”
He reaches up and rubs at his chin, then takes a step away from me. He doesn’t say a word.
“Right. Good night, Wes,” I say coldly.
I leave him and walk back toward the dance. I so badly wanted to believe that he felt the same way about me. Now I just feel used, and a little embarrassed that I kissed him like that.
I’m almost out of the tree line when I pause. I can’t help it. I look back at him. He hasn’t moved at all—a black silhouette against the forest.
I turn away.
CHAPTER 17
Iget dressed in the late morning as the sun starts to pour through my window. I walk downstairs and into the kitchen, picking up an apple from a bowl on the counter. The Bentleys’ kitchen is modern for 1944, with a red, diner-style table, a refrigerator with round sides, and white and red tiled counters.
Feeling restless, I walk through the ground floor of the house until I come to the only place I haven’t been in yet. Dr. Bentley’s study. I knock on the door, and it swings open into an empty room. I notice floor to ceiling bookshelves and a heavy wooden desk with piles of paper spilling over it. The dark green wallpaper, framed medical degrees, and blackout curtains make it feel serious and grown-up.
I take a bite of the apple and move toward the shelves to study the rows of books lining the walls. When I’m home I like to read for hours. I touch the stiff spines with my fingers, wishing I had time to do that now. But I stop. Thinking of relaxing with a book makes me think of my ruined night of fun, which makes me think of Wes. And I really don’t want to think about Wes right now.
“There you are,” Dr. Bentley says from behind me.
I jump, turning toward him.
“Were you looking for a particular book?” He walks into the room and places some papers on the desk.
“Not really. I was just curious.”
“You’re welcome to read anything on these shelves. The fiction is to the right. You’ll want to stay away from that one.” He gestures to the bookshelf closest to the window. “All medical journals.”
“Thanks.” I take a step closer to the shelves of fiction, still clutching the half-eaten apple. “I love to read.”
“That’s nice to hear.” He leans against the desk and smiles at me above his salt-and-pepper beard. My dad hasn’t gone gray yet, but I imagine he’ll look like Dr. Bentley when he does: distinguished but approachable. “You’d be one of the only readers in this house. Mrs. Bentley and Mary don’t seem to have the patience for novels. They’d rather be out having their own adventures than reading about someone else’s.”
“When I was in school I wrote for the paper,” I say absently as I examine the bookshelf. “I want to be a journalist.”
“Have you thought about college? There’s Barnard, in New York. Right next door to Columbia, my alma mater. Mary thought about applying, but now she’s set on joining the army to become a nurse.”
I look up, surprised by his tone. “Do you not want her to enlist?”
“It’s her decision. I want her to be happy. And she’s happiest when she’s helping people.” He shrugs and picks up a pipe from the cluttered desk. “And when she’s drawing. That’s how she relaxes. Mary has an artistic soul. She’s very sensitive.”
I bite the apple again, chewing thoughtfully. “I know. I’ve seen her sketchbook.”
“Really?” Dr. Bentley raises his bushy eyebrows, and he brings the pipe to his mouth. He lights it with a match, puffing on the end as the flame disappears into the wide rim. “She must trust you. She doesn’t show her work to many people.”
“But she’s so talented!”
“She is.” He puffs twice and smoke curls toward the ceiling. It smells warm and spicy and safe somehow. I think of my grandfather and wonder what he’s doing right now. Is he smoking his pipe? Is he looking for me? Has time stopped while I’ve been gone?
“I hope I can admit now that I had my doubts about you staying here, Lydia. But I know that Mary feels so close to you. And now that Dean has left …”
I freeze, one hand resting on an old leather-bound book. “What did you say?”
“Mary’s really come to care about you.”
“No, about Dean. What do you mean, he left?” My hands clench automatically, and apple juice squeezes over my fingers. It drips onto the wood floor.
He sees my stricken expression and cocks his head at me. “It’s only for a few days, most likely.”
“But I thought he wasn’t leaving until tomorrow. That’s what he said at the picnic. Not until tomorrow, the fifth.” I can’t seem to stop talking as I try to digest this news.
“Are you feeling all right?” Dr. Bentley looks at me with concern. “You’re pale. Come sit down.” I let him lead me over to the large leather chair behind the desk.
“You’re sure he’s gone already?”
Dr. Bentley nods.
“Why did he leave early?” My chest feels heavy. Dean isn’t supposed to disappear until tomorrow. What does it mean that he left a day early? Has my grandfather had the date wrong all these years,
