Jolt, Page 5

  Tate's surprise had turned into embarrassment, then utter shock, and finally confusion. He counted himself among the enlightened, intelligent men of his time, but one conversation with Lalita had him wondering if he had spent his life thus far with his head in a hole.

  With a glance at Nellie, who was offering her doll a cracker, he wondered how best to rein Lalita into the rules of respectable society. The thought that she needed reined in, however, took him back to another time—another woman he'd tried to make fit in to no good end. And yet, there were basic manners that even Nellie understood.

  Sitting straight, he gave her a slight smile. "Miss Torres…"

  She waved a hand as she skewered a bit of ham with her fork. "Please, Doc, I can't take another minute of this 'Miss Torres' business. Please call me Lalita."

  "Lalita," he continued, "while I would never try to suggest that you need to please someone else with your… manners, there are a few society rules that preserve the boundaries of good decorum." He took a deep breath, hearing his own voice raised in anger at a young woman who had been unable to negotiate the often murky waters of social interaction. "If you wish to fit in… what I mean to say… you must try to… to…"

  She stared at him fumbling for words and set down her fork. "Okay, I get it. If I'm going to be a part of the show, I need to get into character, but that's why I'm asking about deodorant and underwear and such. So I can do it like you all do it here in 1892—that's what the calendar says in your kitchen, right?"

  Tate nodded slowly, more frightened than ever for her mental state. "Yes, the year is 1892. Did you forget that along with your visit to Pikes Peak?"

  She grinned. "Yes. Yes, I did."

  "You have made quite a change in attitude over the last several days. From wanting to flee to believing me to be a quack doctor—"

  "Oh, I'm sorry about that, Doc. You are obviously a real doctor, and that was obviously a real pregnant lady with a real baby coming out of her." She laughed. "A billionaire must be financing this reality show! It doesn't seem like Warren Buffet's style or even Bill Gates, but maybe Donald Trump. And you! You're amazing! You never break character even for a second. Makes me wish I'd taken some theatre classes in college."

  "Theatre. So you now believe that you are part of some grand production." Tate leaned forward, his forearms on the table. "Tell me, Miss Torres, what does real life look like where you're from?"

  She smiled, looking from corner to corner in the room.

  Tate turned in his chair, following her gaze but could see nothing out of the ordinary. "What are you looking at?"

  She leaned toward him. "Just wondering where the cameras are," she whispered.

  Then she sat back, stiffly taking her cup of tea in hand and taking a sip. "Well, Dr. Cavanaugh," she began with a wooden gesture, "the time I come from is very different than yours. For instance, we have—"

  "Excuse me, did you say the 'time' you come from?"

  She nodded.

  "The time. Not the place."

  "Well, the place is different, too, since I'm not from around here."

  "Where are you from?"

  "Missouri. Close to Kansas City."

  He leaned in again. "When are you from?"

  She spread her hands dramatically. "The early 21st century."

  Tate just stared.

  Lalita nodded. "That's right, man from the 19th century," —she gave an exaggerated wink— "you're looking at a 21st century woman."

  Suddenly she pushed back from the table, rose, and struck a pose with one hand in the air and one on her hip. Then she started to sing. "I can bring home the bacon" — she moved her hips a quick left and right— "fry it up in a pan" —she slinked toward him, spinning the cord tie at her waist— "and never ever let you forget you're a man," —she sat right on his lap, throwing her arms around his neck— " 'cause I'm a woman."

  Tate was speechless, but Nellie clapped, and Lalita was biting her lip, trying to keep from laughing. She put a hand to the side of her mouth as she whispered, "I don't know how much competition there is for airtime, but that should keep us off the editing room floor."

  Tate's heart sank. This beautiful, young woman was absolutely off her chump.

  Chapter 9

  Lalita had read about woman's Victorian fashions and had studied pictures and museum displays, but it was another thing entirely to put it all on.

  Mrs. Kettler had assisted her through the chemise and the corset cinching—which was way more uncomfortable than any underwire bra she'd ever complained about—then the silky corset cover and bustle pad, and finally the dress itself.

  Nellie helped her choose one in a lovely shade of lavender from among those Tate had laid out for her. It fit perfectly.

  The matching hat was much fancier than the one she had worn the day before, with gathered silk and several plumes in a deep purple. Normally, she loved having shorter, easy-care hair, but today, she wished for long locks to pile up on her head to make the picture complete.

  She stepped down the stairs in ivory lace-up boots, hoping that Tate would be there to see her descend, but he was nowhere to be seen. Halfway down, she sent Nellie to find him and went back up to the top.

  When Nellie pulled him out of his exam room, Lalita started down again, acting as if the timing were mere coincidence. She sought his eyes, which at first smiled at her, but the closer she got to him, she could see what looked like sadness, and it dawned on her: I'm wearing his dead wife's clothes. Then as he extended his elbow to her, she squinted in thought. But he's merely an actor in this drama. He's a real doctor, but surely the back story is made up.

  Escorting her down the hallway, he grabbed a brown bowler off the standing hat rack by the door before leading her out and down the porch steps. He should be in movies.

  After a short ride, the doctor stopped the buggy once again at the Pilson's mansion to check on mother and baby. Both seemed to be recovering well from the exhausting delivery of the day before. Lalita was given another opportunity to hold the new little one, and after fifteen minutes, the doctor had to nearly pry her out of Lalita's hands so they could leave.

  "You seem rather fond of children," he observed as he helped her up into the buggy.

  She sat and tried to get comfortable with corset boning digging into her sides. "I am. I work at a daycare back home."

  He started Maisy moving once again with a shake of the reins. "A daycare. I'm going to take a leap and guess that a daycare is a place that takes care of children during the day?"

  She nodded, in awe of how he never slipped up in what he should and shouldn't know.

  The day was heating up, and Lalita was starting to feel the effects of being cinched tight and covered neck to foot with multiple layers of fabric. She hoped she could make it back to the doctor's house without fainting. Then she noticed they weren't going back the way they came. "Where are we going?"

  "I'm taking you to the marshal's office to see if Nonnie has filed a missing persons report."

  "Here in Manitou Springs?" She suddenly found taking in a normal-sized breath more difficult.

  "Yes, it's not too far."

  She felt a trickle of sweat drip down the side of her face and popped the fan out of the drawstring bag Nellie had found in a dresser drawer. "But wouldn't Nonnie have reported it in Colorado Springs," she asked, fanning herself in a way she assumed was lady-like, "since that's where she lives?"

  She fanned more vigorously, and the doctor gave her a side-long glance. "Perhaps, but the marshal here can call the marshal there."

  "Ah, that's right. There are phones. That way you don't have to take me to Colorado Springs yourself, and shatter the fourth wall of this production." She was whipping the fan through the air but was barely stirring a breeze with the pretty, but mostly useless, device. "I remember now seeing a phone on the wall in your hallway." Her lips were tingling, and she was starting to feel faint, her breath coming in short puffs. "I haven't… studied… telephone history."
>
  The doctor pulled Maisy to a stop. "Are you quite all right, Miss Torres?"

  She shook her head, her vision starting to blur. "I believe Mrs. K. overdid it on the corset. I can't… I can't breathe… and I'm so hot."

  Throwing an arm around her, he turned her away from him on the seat and began to unbutton her dress close to her waist. She knew she should probably put her head between her knees—if bending were at all possible. She felt the doctor pulling up the corset cover, then finally, loosening the corset ties. Sweet breath returned to her lungs.

  As he re-buttoned her dress, she almost lost her breath again thinking about his fingers working their way up her spine. "Thanks, Doc," she managed to squeak out. "I'm not very good at this."

  He squeezed her shoulder, and she turned to face forward. "It's quite all right. Women's fashions are ridiculous. I don't know how you stand them."

  "I'm beginning to agree. I wanted a day to dress up, Nonnie said an hour, and I don't think I made it thirty minutes. It was easier yesterday without the corset."

  The doctor was silent, but fidgety. Finally he spoke. "Miss Torres, I hesitate to correct you, but women don't usually speak of their unmentionables in mixed company."

  "I'm sorry," she said quickly, irritated at herself for not realizing that. She had studied the Victorian age at least somewhat. "I'm going to be the first to get kicked off, aren't I?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Of the show. These reality shows always narrow down the competition somehow." She could feel her head sweating, so she swept the hat off her head and held it on her lap. "So what's the gimmick with this one, or are you allowed to tell me?"

  "I'm not sure what 'gimmick' you are referring to, and I promise I won't kick you out until I feel you are ready. My plan today is to see if anyone is looking for you, whether that be your friend Nonnie or…"

  She was now using the hat as a fan, which worked much better. "Or who? The only one I know in the area is Nonnie."

  The doctor adjusted the reins in his hands and led Maisy into a right turn. "Would Nonnie, by any chance, be a… nurse?"

  Lalita laughed. "Now that would be the day. She's too busy feeling sorry for herself. No, she's in a dead-end job with no motivation to better herself."

  Although Tate wasn't familiar with the phrase "dead-end job," the meaning was easy enough to grasp. He wondered if the other oddities of her speech would be understandable, as well, to someone from her region.

  His forehead furrowed. That doesn't explain her fimble famble about the 21st century.

  The "or" he had been thinking of that might be searching for her was a psychiatric sanitarium. He prayed that wasn't the case, as many were known for overcrowding and generally deplorable conditions. And Tate didn't agree with the current fads for treating ailments of the mind.

  When his own wife had needed treatment for melancholia, he had only trusted his friend and psychiatrist Dr. Jeremiah Fischer, who preferred using hypnotism and relaxation techniques over spinning chairs, electroshock treatments or, heaven forbid, near-drowning therapies.

  Lalita interrupted his thoughts. "You've gone all gloomy. I'm still trying to figure out the rules. Is this a made-up scenario, and I should just improvise with you?" She looked up. "Is there a buggy-cam? Or are we free from the cameras out here, and we can be ourselves?"

  Tate gave a little laugh. "Please, by all means, be yourself."

  She put a hand on his arm. "What about you? Are you being yourself? Are you really sad about something?"

  He looked into her dark eyes, returning to solemnity. "Yes, I am." He turned back to look at the street. "I wish I could fix that which I cannot."

  There was silence between them for a moment; then Lalita spoke again quietly. "When I feel like that, I try to just focus on something I can fix. It's a broken world with so much sorrow, one can hardly fathom the pain and suffering on this one planet, and fixing it isn't really possible on a global scale. All we have is our little corner of the world. We have to find that which is fixable there."

  Tate pulled Maisy to a halt once again and turned to face her, wanting to take advantage of this moment of surprising lucidity. "Lalita, there is no theatre happening here. It really is 1892, and I am a doctor in my own part of this broken world trying to fix the sick and the hurt. I believe that you have had a head injury, and that is making your speech strange and giving you the fantastical idea that you are from a different century. I promise to help you all I can, but if I find someone who can help you more than I, I will have to relinquish you to their care." He placed a hand on her cheek. "And that, Lita, is why I am feeling sad."

  Lalita held his gaze, tears forming in her eyes. "Wow," she breathed. "Are they feeding you lines somehow, or do you just make this stuff up?" She wiped her eyes. "If I had an Oscar, I'd give it to you."

  Chapter 10

  After visiting the marshal's office, where they learned that no one had yet made any inquiries about a missing woman fitting Lalita's description, she had spied a photographer's studio and begged Tate to pose with her. She hung onto his arm and her hat as they crossed the dusty street, and despite Tate's fear for her sanity, he felt something swirling inside he hadn't felt in a long time.

  They stood a moment inside before a tall, thin man with a long, thick mustache waxed into two perfect curls emerged from a back room. Tate approached him about the cost of his services while Lalita went to look at his backdrop and furniture possibilities.

  The man pointed to a sign with prices but looked at Lalita then down at Tate with disdain. "I don't take photographs of Injuns."

  Tate narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. "And why is that?"

  "Injuns killed my grandparents."

  Tate glanced at Lalita, who was trying out poses in the various chairs. Taking hold of the photographer's arm, he pulled him as far away from her as he could. "This particular lady—who is obviously not even full Indian—this petite wisp killed your grandparents?"

  The man snorted. "I didn't say that."

  Tate crossed his arms over his chest. "Then this woman is innocent of the crime."

  "Course she is. She wouldn't have been much more than a child." A smug smile was creeping onto Tate's face, but the man went on. "I still ain't taking her picture. It's bad luck."

  Tate very nearly turned and walked out, but one look at Lalita's bright eyes as she sat on the white wicker chair, waiting for him, put determination into his negotiations. "I'll pay you twice your usual rate."

  "Ten times."

  Tate's brows flew up. "Ten times!"

  "It's that, or you take your half-breed out of here."

  Tate tried staring the man into a more enlightened attitude, but no glimmer of redemption showed in his eyes. He finally retrieved a dollar bill from his wallet and held it out. "You, sir, are no gentleman."

  The lanky man took it and smirked. "Never claimed to be."

  Tate spun on his heels to join Lalita just as she started toward him, looking concerned. "What's the problem, Doc?"

  He waved her back toward the chair, forcing a smile. "Nothing. It's all worked out."

  She continued toward him, however, reached up, and took off his hat. "I'm not a fan of the bowler."

  He was getting more out of sorts by the minute. "You're not."

  She wrinkled her nose and tossed it toward the standing hat rack then tugged him toward the setting she'd created in front of a draped curtain. She sat, and he stood behind her as the photographer took his place behind the camera. "It's new, you know."

  She looked back at him over her shoulder—"It looks new"—then faced forward.

  "What don't you like about it?"

  She adjusted her hat and folded her hands in her lap. "The shape. It makes you look old."

  Striking a pose, Tate placed a hand on her shoulder. "Old. The word the salesman used was sophisticated."

  She reached her hand over to his. "Please, Doc, don't scowl about the hat. You'll ruin the picture."

 
Her hand on his did unexpected things to his heart rate, and he pulled away. "Face forward, Miss Torres. I believe our photographer is ready."

  Lalita turned and folded her hands on her lap. Tate didn't know what possessed him, but he rested his hand once again on her shoulder.

  The photographer lifted the cloth at the back of the camera and poked his head out. "Is that the pose you want? Because you're going to have to hold it for thirty seconds."

  "Yes," Lalita blurted out. "Just like this."

  Tate knew what they were doing was nothing short of decadent, but it was the best thirty seconds he'd experienced in a long while.

  ***

  "So I've been noticing that most of the men have these huge mustaches, and you don't have one at all. Why is that?"

  Tate had taken her to Cliff House for afternoon tea, and she was drinking in the elegant setting along with her beverage.

  Tate set his coffee cup back on the saucer. "They're unhygienic. As a doctor, I simply can't bring myself to grow one."

  She closed one eye and held a crooked finger up in the space between them to see what he might look like with his upper lip—and maybe even his whole mouth—covered in hair. "I think that's probably a good call." She lowered her hand and reached for her cup of tea, emboldened by the moment they had shared in the photographer's studio. "I like your lips."

  He gave her a lift of his eyebrows, but Lalita could tell he was trying hard not to smile. "And," she went on, thoroughly enjoying the blush that had come to his face, "a mustache just makes these men look old. It's a whole town of old men. Even the young men."

  Tate finally gave in to the smile. "So now you know why I wear the bowler." He tilted his head toward the hat setting on the side of the table. "I'm just trying to fit in without growing a mustache."

  She leaned forward, "My dear doctor, why would you want to fit in when the good Lord has given you everything you need to stand out?"

  She held his gaze, his eyes blinking with what seemed like revelation before simmering with something new. The spell was broken by a waiter carrying a tray of pies. Tate took a cherry piece, but Lalita didn't think pie and her corset would get along.