Nellie leaned forward across the table, so Tate excused her to go watch Lita draw. He set to work clearing the table, sure he hadn't eaten so much in a great while. He was glad to help with the clean-up, smiling as he set the empty tureen in the sink. And if I force her back in here, she may strip down to that swim dress again.
He shook his head as he filled the sink with water and rolled up his sleeves. He never knew what to expect anymore when he walked through the door to his own home. He couldn't imagine what Mrs. Kettler would think of their unconventional dress in the kitchen—or the meal itself, for that matter— but one thing was obvious—Nellie was blossoming under Lita's care.
Mrs. Kettler made sure Nellie was dressed and fed and safe, but Lita engaged her mind and her spirit. If only he could loose her from her time traveling fantasy, he'd gladly welcome her into his home and into his heart. He scrubbed a few strands of stuck-on spaghetti off the bottom of the pot. And I would not try to force her to be something she's not. He bent his head back, looking up at the ceiling. "I promise," he whispered.
As he went back to the dining room to gather the rest of the dishes, he wondered about the fact that he'd never actually seen Augusta in that swim dress. He supposed she had worn it on the beach back east before she moved to Denver. He hadn't really thought about it before, but it seemed a very bold move for one so reserved, to move to Denver all by herself after her parents' deaths.
Pausing with plates in hand, he looked over Lita's shoulder and was surprised again at her skill. "You have a talent for drawing."
Lita didn't look up. "I just goof around." She added a final flourish to her model's hair then sat back. "What do you think? Some of the formal wear of the day doesn't seem to be concerned with a bit of décolletage showing or going practically sleeveless, so why not in the kitchen where we're frying while we're frying, if you know what I mean." She went over the lines of the skirt with the pencil. "And the walking skirt will hit stores before long anyway—maybe five or six years."
Tate inwardly sighed at yet more future predictions as he studied her design. He had been afraid to see what she would come up with, but her new design wasn't as immodest as he expected. The fitted bodice had a scooped neckline and short sleeves with no fullness at the shoulder. The skirt still extended to the toes but employed a simple A-line shape with only slight gathers in the back.
He pictured Lalita in it, her cross necklace laying against bare, bronze skin, and Augusta's perfume once again wafted up to his nose. He wondered if she'd used the whole bottle. He turned and escaped to the kitchen, throwing his comments back over his shoulder. "Lengthen the sleeves and raise the neckline, Lita. Those in the kitchen shouldn't be enticing the men of the house."
As soon as it was out of his mouth, he realized that he had just broken his vow. He hung his head as he set the plates in the dish water. But how far can I let her go? There has to be a limit, doesn't there?
Lalita scowled at Tate's criticism. What a prig.
She sketched a slightly longer sleeve down to the elbow and gave it a little bit of a poof at the shoulder to fit in more with the style of the day. She took the neckline up a bit, then added an apron that would hide the "enticing" servant's shape. "What do you think of that, Nellie?"
She nodded. "Are you going to make it out of your new fabric?"
"No, I think I'll practice on one of the old dresses. We can take one apart, and I bet we'll have enough fabric left in the skirt to make you a dress also."
"Arabella, too?"
"Is she going to help cook?"
Nellie nodded.
"Well then, I suppose she'll need one. Why don't you go give her the news?"
Nellie turned and ran for the stairs, nearly running into Tate as he came out of the kitchen. "Slow down, Nellie. Ladies don't run."
Lalita rose and stepped away from the table, feeling peeved at Tate and uncomfortable with the beach wear under her clothes. "Sometimes they do, Doc. Sometimes they run really fast and win Olympic medals."
A crease appeared between Tate's brows. "Olympic? As in the ancient games in Greece? Women weren't allowed in the Olympics. What would they do?"
She frowned. Seriously? She thought a moment about what she knew of the history of the Olympics. "Oh yeah, the modern games haven't started yet," she conceded. "Well, it won't be long." She snatched her drawing off the table, feeling cross, and moved past him toward the door.
"Did you make any changes to your design?"
"Yep."
He followed her out. "Can I see?"
"Nope." She started upstairs.
"Lita…"
She stopped and sighed, turning. "I'm tired, Tate. I'm going to take a cool bath and head to bed. We can talk about it tomorrow."
He nodded up at her. "Excellent idea. Thank you for the meal, Lita. I appreciate it."
He waited until he heard the bathroom door close, then tiptoed up the stairs and made his way to her room. Finding the perfume bottle on top of a chest of drawers, he gave it a small sniff, then held it away from him before he lost his very delicious spaghetti supper.
Heading back downstairs, he disposed of the offensive liquid down the kitchen sink, all the while thinking about her latest conjecture about the Olympic games. He'd heard no rumblings of gossip concerning their reinstatement.
Leaning on the counter, he ground his teeth, wondering how to proceed. He thought of his old friend in Denver, who had been a doctor to Augusta, and while he might be willing to come for an evaluation, he probably wouldn't be able to stay for any extensive treatment. But maybe he could advise me on how to proceed.
He pushed off the counter with an exhale and headed to his study to write a letter to Dr. Jeremiah Fischer.
***
Lalita slipped between her sheets in just a thin chemise. The chilly bath she'd taken had helped, but it was still hot in her room.
She'd been pondering Tate's avoidance of her since leaving him standing at the bottom of the stairs. As if I stank to high heaven. Her eyes flew wide and she sucked in a breath. Maybe I did. Flinging off the sheet, she stumbled to where she'd left the shirtwaist hanging over a chair. Lifting it to her nose, she was instantly repulsed. "Oh! Eww!" Embarrassed, she cursed this century for it's lack of adequate deodorant, and she wondered if the blouse should just be burned rather than washed.
Casting it aside in disgust, she stomped back to the bed, feeling overwhelmed with the weight of this century—from clothing to society norms to basic hygiene. She plopped down on the edge, wondering how she'd ever fit in, or if she even wanted to.
She looked to the mirror, frowning at her hair that had all but lost its shine with the harsh soap available. Her gaze headed down to her hairy legs and back up to her hairy arm pits, and her frown deepened into a scowl. I wonder where Tate hid his razor.
Her eyes roamed over her colorful shoulder tattoo, and she felt suddenly bitter, knowing she'd spent hundreds of dollars on something she had to keep hidden. She rubbed her earlobes. My pierced ears are even healing shut.
Feeling as if she were losing herself with each passing second, she leaped up, grabbed her robe, and headed out of her room, determined to feel human again.
***
Tate ascended the stairs with mixed emotions. Laying out Lita's delusions and fantasies on paper gave them extra weight, and he wondered if he should even try to keep her here in his house. Nellie is already attached. If Lita's mind slips further…
As he reached the top of the stairs, he became aware of noise in his room. Ready to scold his daughter, he strode forward to the doorway and put his hands on his hips. It wasn't Nellie, however, it was Lita. He was surprised to see her rummaging through his drawers. "Can I help you find something?"
Lita jumped, and Tate caught a flash of silver in her hand before she thrust it behind her back. He knew what it was. He walked forward with his hand out, his heart jumping to a faster rate. "Lita, give it to me."
She backed up, looking defiant. "Tate, I just want
to shave my legs. Please. I can't stand them another minute."
Tate wouldn't let her disappear into the bathroom with a razor. He couldn't. He kept walking toward her, backing her up, his hand out. "No, Lita. I can't. Not when you're—"
"What, Tate? What am I? Crazy? Ready for the looney bin?"
"No, honey," he placated sweetly. "Like you said, its safety is overrated. You'll hurt yourself." She had moved into the dressing room, and Tate followed.
Her heels ran into Augusta's trunk, and she sat down hard. Tate sprang toward her, but she didn't fight him. He pulled the razor easily from her grasp and took a big step back. What she did do was hang her head and cry. Tate's heart broke. "I'm sorry."
"I… I," she blubbered. "I just wanted to feel like myself again."
"And shaving your… your…"
"Legs, Tate, legs! Legs is not a bad word!" She pulled up her robe to her knees. "These things I walk with aren't that risqué!" She looked at them with disgust. "Especially now."
Tate didn't want to upset her further. "How can I help?"
She looked up at him with a new spark in her eyes. "When I asked you before to finish what I started, I was teasing." She rose and came toward him. "Now I'm not. You're a doctor. You see women's legs all the time. You do it. If you don't trust me, then you do it."
Tate looked into her determined eyes then down at her bare feet. He'd seen her legs when he was warming her in the bath. Doctors deal with the unclothed body because they're doctors. They set aside personal sentiments and shame for the sake of the patient. But would shaving her legs be seen as a medical need? He looked back up to her face, still damp with tears. It seemed absurd that this aberrant behavior should be so important to her, but there was no denying her depth of feeling. "Go wait in the examination room. I need to put Nellie to bed first."
***
Lalita lay in bed, smiling. She slid her silky smooth legs over the sheets, feeling as if she'd just been to the spa.
She had stood on a towel in the center of the exam room with her robe hitched up and tied below her butt, while Tate daubed the shaving cream on her legs with the brush. She could tell that he was nervous, but he had been so gentle and careful, she hadn't received one nick from his hand.
She rolled to her side and closed her eyes. Oh, Tate, I'm falling for you hard. Now to convince you I'm not a lunatic.
***
Tate lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He'd left Lita fifteen minutes ago, but his heart rate was still not quite under control. He'd started out keeping his medical perspective, but as time went on, he began to appreciate her shape as a man—as a man who had been without a woman in his life or in his bed for over a year.
Setting his mind abuzz were the tan lines on her legs—nearly to the top—as if her legs had been completely uncovered for most of the summer. He recalled her desire to find her "shorts" when she first awakened, and he shook his head trying to comprehend the styles that must be popular for young women in Missouri.
He closed his eyes, trying to put her and her now smooth-as-a-baby's-bottom legs out of his mind, but he realized it was fruitless. He couldn't unsee them, unfeel them, anymore than he could deny the way she'd lit up his life and crept into his heart.
He tossed his sheet off, feeling overheated, wondering how long he could really keep her under his roof. Part of helping her recover was protecting her from those who would not understand. But keeping her close to himself without revealing that he was falling in love with her would be the hardest thing he'd ever done.
Augusta never gave me her heart, and now I must deny Lita mine. He slipped out of bed and after pacing back and forth in his nightshirt until he feared he'd wear a path in the carpet, he knelt down at the side of his bed to pray.
Chapter 21
Mrs. Kettler was still not back on the job Thursday morning. Lalita made bacon, eggs, and pancakes, wishing for her waffle maker. Tate didn't eat all that much, though. She thought maybe he was still full from last night's spaghetti.
After breakfast, he suddenly announced that Nellie would be spending the day with a friend and that Lalita would be accompanying him should there be calls to make.
She looked at him over her shoulder as she walked dirty dishes to the sink. "I was going to try creating my new design today. Do you really need me to go with you?"
Tate nodded a bit too vigorously, following her to the kitchen. "I do. Extra hands are always helpful."
Lalita set the dishes in the sink and started the water running. "Now who's lying?"
He sat on a stool by the window. "Not at all. Having you with me for the Pilson delivery was very beneficial." He smiled. "And who knows, maybe I could train you to be a true medical assistant."
"Maybe." Lalita suspected it had more to do with keeping an eye on her.
The phone rang, and Tate got up to answer. Within fifteen minutes, he had loaded Nellie up in the buggy that had come for her and Lalita in his own heading toward a building site where a man had taken a tumble from a roof. Lita wrote in her book as he drove Maisy at a swift trot.
It didn't take long for Tate's curiosity to be aroused. "What are you writing? More predictions?"
"Just jotting down the rest of the presidents. The last one I know was the first black man to be president. It took a hundred and forty-five years from the Emancipation Proclamation for a black man to become president. And his mother was white."
Tate smiled, obviously just playing her along. "How about Indians?"
"Somewhere in the 20th century, we became Native Americans, Tate. It's no longer PC to say Indians unless you are referring to people from India."
He slowed Maisy and turned. "PC?"
"Politically correct. We've become a very offendable people in the 21st century."
As she joined the crowd, several men stared with admiration in their eyes, while one or two gave her another look altogether. Tate was squatting in front of a man sitting on the ground with his shirt off, holding his side. Tate waved her over, and she squatted down beside him. "Paul, here, was testing out gravity today. He informs me that it is still working."
Lalita smiled. "And what was the fruit of his scientific research?"
Tate reached for his bag at his side. "Several cracked ribs."
Paul chuckled, then winced. "Doc, stop joking around and fix me."
He pulled out a roll of bandages and stood. "If you wouldn't mind helping him up, boys."
After the man's chest was wrapped, and he was given instructions on his physical activity for the next several weeks, Tate and Lalita walked back to the buggy.
"I think that's one treatment that hasn't changed over the years," Lalita mused as Tate gave her a hand up. "There's still not much one can do for broken ribs in 2015 except wrap them and let them heal."
"You're implying that other treatments will change." He climbed aboard and took up the reins.
"Oh, yes, Tate, you would just… I wish I could show you."
Tate didn't know whether to cut off her wild speculations or let her talk. His inquisitive nature won. "So tell me."
"Well, you've gotten a start in this century with vaccinations, but there will be more—so many more— for diphtheria and tetanus and mumps and measles and chickenpox…
"And the equipment, oh my heavens, Tate, there are x-rays and MRIs and EKGs… for looking at things going on inside the body without cutting into it.
"In the next century there will be treatments for all kinds of things—diabetes, cystic fibrosis, heart disease, high blood pressure… And there will be new diseases too. It seems one new one pops up for every one we conquer. Now there's Alzheimers, Parkinsons, Multiple Sclerosis
, Reflexive Sympathetic Dystrophy, Marfans, Fibromyalgia… the list goes on and on."
She paused, and Tate couldn't explain the crazy excitement that was coming over him. He knew it had to be just more of her ramblings, but the way she spoke these things—with no hesitation whatsoever, no stopping to think—gave him a shiver up his spine.
Lita went on, breaking into his thoughts. "They've made artificial hearts, Tate, and they've sequenced the human genome, and they're just getting started with stem cell research. That has the potential to cure all kinds of things."
Tate felt short of breath, but thankfully Lita had become distracted as they drove through downtown. She changed topics rather abruptly. "Tate, would you buy me something?"
He was still feeling off balance. "What… what would you like?" Pulling his handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he wiped his brow.
"The perfume I've been using suddenly disappeared. I think Nellie borrowed it. Maybe she didn't want me to use it up since it was her mama's. I didn't much care for it, anyway, but I need something." She turned her attention from the shops, lowering her voice. "The deodorant that was in Augusta's dressing room is somewhat… inadequate."
Tate opened his mouth to confess but found he didn't want to go into the reasons he'd thrown out the perfume himself.
She was looking at him with anticipation. "It doesn't have to be expensive."
The thought occurred to him that he was about to commit a lie of omission, besides letting her believe a falsehood about Nellie, but he plunged ahead. "Yes, of course. I'd be happy to."
He found a spot to park the buggy, and the two walked to the dress shop they'd been in the day before. At the perfume counter, she sniffed them all and let Tate smell them as well. He said no to several that were too much like the one he'd gotten rid of, and she said no to one that made her sneeze.
When they were finally in agreement, and she had tried some out on her wrists, Tate told her to go look through the other women's toiletries, certain that buying her perfume he actually liked was probably a mistake.