Until We Meet Again(36)
about her lame party.”
“Another party, huh?”
“Yeah, she does it every year. Her Great Gatsby party.”
I choke a little on my water but swallow before I make too
much of a spectacle. “Great Gatsby?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of a nineteen-twenties thing. Nineteentwenties costumes, nineteen-twenties music.”
This is unbelievable. In spite of my greatest efforts, I can’t
escape Lawrence. First, there was the movie on TV about the
two time-travelers who make a mess of things. Then, yesterday,
when I talked with Jade, she kept going on and on about the
surrealists living in Paris in the Twenties. And now this.
I am supposed to be forgetting Lawrence, but thus far, I’m
failing quite spectacularly.
“Sounds like a swell time,” I say, my heart aching at the phrase.
Brandon keeps talking, but my mind races away from this
conversation. Away from the clanking silverware and stuffy
food smells and buzz of a hundred conversations in this restaurant. And I let myself go to the beach, with the gentle crash of the ocean and the soft wind and the clean sea smell. And
Lawrence standing beside me, his eyes dark and thoughtful. In
careful detail, I replay how he took me in his arms, how his lips
pressed to my cheek. I savor the memory, each moment of it.
Poor Brandon doesn’t stand a chance. I’ve just checked out of
this date entirely.
Later, after he’s dropped me off, I lie on my bed and stare at
the moon, which is framed perfectly in my window. I wonder
if Lawrence is looking at it as well. Is he really waiting on the
beach, like he said he would? The urge to find out pulls at me. I
envision myself tiptoeing down the stairs, across the lawn, and
through those bushes. It would be so simple. One quick peek.
I puff out a breath. No, Cass. Think about Travis. I can’t risk
that happening again.
It really is over. There’s just no other way. The thought unreasonably depresses me. I roll to my side, pulling my blanket over my shoulders. I think I’ll sleep the rest of the summer. Or at
least lie here in bed feeling sorry for myself.
I wish I’d at least taken that poem. I could have had something to remember him by. I sigh deeply.
And then a thought occurs to me: what if there was another
way? Lawrence is from the past. There has to be information
about him somewhere. Surely it won’t mess with any timespace continuum to look him up. I sit up in bed, the idea lighting within me like a sudden flame.
I don’t know why I never thought of it before. But there’s got
to be some form of information out there. Maybe a class photo
from his graduating year of high school. A family picture.
Something. Anything. I feel light and tingly at the possibility.
Seeing him again, even in a grainy black-and-white photo,
would be a dream. It’s going to require all of my research-nerd
skills. No Internet search will do. This is a job for an archives
sweep. First thing in the morning, I’m heading straight to the
Crest Harbor library.
I flop back on my bed, my heart light. Tomorrow. Tomorrow,
I’ll see Lawrence again.
h
The Crest Harbor Library rests in a bed of trees, tucked in the center of the old downtown. Cozy little coffee shops and crafty boutiques surround it. Finding a parking spot proves frustratingly difficult, which puts me in a cranky mood.
I find the closest librarian. She gives me a surprised look when I ask where I can find microfilm from the 1920s, but sends me to the basement.
I pour the next few hours into scanning every newspaper and document from the Twenties I can get my hands on. If only I could have applied myself like this in history class. I’m absolutely diligent. You never know where there might be a mention of him.
I can’t really say why I’m so tense. It’s almost as if I know there’s something I’m supposed to find. Some piece of the puzzle that will help this whole crazy situation make sense.
And then I find it.
A few lines on an inner page. Dated August 9, 1925. A few lines that strike me like a bullet in the throat. 11544 Seaside Estates to enter foreclosure. Owner, local banker Edward Foster, seeks short sale, following the tragic murder of his nephew, Lawrence Foster, on the property’s private beach. The death has stumped local authorities, who are still investigating possible suspects.
The crime was committed August 5. That’s only two weeks away.
Chapter 14
Lawrence
T he streets of Manhattan are like bathtub gin: fast, cheap,
and intoxicating. It’s the perfect place to escape to forget
Cassandra. Ned invited me to come along with him on a business trip for a few days. I agreed. Anything would beat sitting alone on the beach, waiting for a girl who never comes, a girl
who very possibly was just a dream.
So, Manhattan it is. The lights and noise engulf me. Meeting
Ned’s business associates has turned into one party after
another, congregating at basement joints that serve bootlegged
hooch. I’m not sure why he bothers to do business with those