Hearts Through Time

FIFTEEN

Good luck smiled on Nick. True, he didn't get to speak privately with Abby at the cemetery, but as he walked toward the Capitol One Associates building, which of course now housed the newspaper Abby's father owned—Sacramento Journal—the woman who'd taken him to the cemetery drove by, stopped, and offered a ride. Though she was probably older than him by ten years, she flirted like a young girl. He didn't want to encourage her, yet he needed her help. She told him her name was Mrs. Rebecca Downey. He introduced himself as Mr. Marshal.

"Where are you staying?" she asked, batting her eyes.

He didn't want to lie, so how could he word this? "Right now, I don't have a job or home in Sacramento, though I hope to change that." It was true since he was now in 1912.

Mrs. Downey's hand flew to her throat. "That's truly awful. We must find you a place to stay until you find something permanent."

"I would be much obliged, Mrs. Downey," Nick replied sincerely. "Your assistance is greatly appreciated, I assure you. Heaven knows what I'd do if I couldn't find a home or employment. We wouldn't want me to turn into a drunken bum, now would we?"

She blushed. "That would be mighty daring of you, considering drinking alcohol is illegal."

Inwardly, he groaned. Why hadn't he paid more attention to his history classes about the prohibition of alcohol? "You're right, ma'am, which is why I don't plan on becoming that sort of man."

Mrs. Downey's gaze wandered over his clothes. "Can I suspect you don't have anything to wear besides this?"

What was so wrong with what he wore? He happened to think he looked good in Armani. "Uh, you assume correctly, Mrs. Downey."

She patted his arm. "Not to worry. My late husband was just your size. I'll let you wear one of his suits." She stole another look at him before focusing on the street again. "I assume you have been searching for employment, too?"

"Uh, yes, of course. In fact, I plan on talking to Mr. Westland today about getting a job at the newspaper."

She nodded. "That's why you were on your way to the cemetery."

"Exactly."

The lady was more trusting than he'd expected, and she drove straight to her home. It wasn't fancy, but it wasn't humble, either. He prayed she didn't have other things in mind for him.

While sitting in her parlor, he acted the part of a gentleman. Mrs. Downey fawned over him, poured him some lemonade, brought him cookies, and then offered more cookies. When he declined the latter, she left the room, telling him she would get her late husband's clothes.

Nick stood and paced the floor, looking out the window from time to time. The street sign captured his attention, making him stop. If the street names stayed the same between 1912 and his time, he was only two streets from Abby's house.

When Mrs. Downey returned, she'd removed her big, floppy hat, and she carried an armful of men's clothes.

"This was my Johnny's favorite suit. I think it would look lovely on you." She laid the clothes on the sofa.

Nick walked over, picked up a jacket, and held it up to his body. Thank goodness she had judged his build correctly.

Mrs. Downey ran her hand up his arm. "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

He gulped. By the leering gleam in her eyes, he knew she had more planned than just eating. "Thank you, but no. If you would show me where the bathroom is located, I'd like to change."