Replay

THIRTEEN

A dull gray early-morning light filtered through the louvered window and the blue-green drapes. As Jeff opened his eyes he saw a sleek, seal-point Siamese cat peacefully asleep at the foot of the king-sized bed. It raised its head as he stirred. The cat yawned once, then issued an annoyed and clearly interrogative "Rowwr?"

Jeff sat up, turned on the bedside lamp, and scanned the room: stereo console and TV against the far wall, flanked by shelves of model airplanes and rockets; bookcase on the right-hand wall; uncluttered dresser below the windows to his left. Everything neat, ordered, well-kept.

Oh, shit, he thought; he was in his boyhood room at his parents' house in Orlando. Something had gone wrong, dreadfully wrong. Why wasn’t he in the dorm room at Emory? Good God, what if he had come back as a child this time? He threw back the covers, looked down at himself. No, he had pubic hair, even had a morning erection; he rubbed his chin, felt stubble. At least he wasn’t prepubescent.

He leaped out of bed, hurried to the adjoining bathroom. The cat followed, hoping for an early breakfast as long as they were going to be getting up at this hour. Jeff flicked on the light, stared in the mirror: His appearance seemed to match the way he’d always looked at eighteen. Then what the hell was he doing at home?

He pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt, slipped his sockless feet into some old sneakers. The clock by his bed put the time at almost a quarter to seven. Maybe his mother would be up; she always liked to have a quiet cup of coffee before starting her day.

He rubbed the cat’s neck. Shah, of course, who’d gotten run over during Jeff’s junior year; he’d have to tell the family to keep him inside. The regal animal strutted alongside him as Jeff walked down the hall, through the terazzo-floored Florida room, and into the kitchen. His mother was there, reading the Orlando Sentinel and sipping her coffee.

"Well, goodness gracious," she said, raising her eyebrows. "What’s the night owl doing up with the robins?"

"I couldn’t sleep, Mom. Got a lot to take care of today." He wanted to ask what day it was, what year it was, but didn’t dare.

"What’s so important that it rouses you at the crack of dawn? I’ve been trying to do that for years, and never succeeded. Must have to do with a girl, is that it?"

"Sort of. Could I have part of the paper, please? Maybe the front page, if you’re done with it?"

"You can have the whole thing, honey. I’m about to start breakfast anyway. Want some French toast? Or eggs and sausages?"

He started to say, "Nothing," then realized how hungry he was. "Uh, eggs and sausages would be great, Mom. And maybe some grits?"

She gave him a mock-insulted frown. "Now, when have I ever made you breakfast without grits? They paste your ribs together, you know that."

Jeff grinned at his mother’s old, breakfast-table joke, and she set to preparing the meal as he picked up the newspaper.

The main headline stories were about civil rights clashes in Savannah and a total eclipse of the sun in the northeastern U.S. It was mid-July 1963. Summer vacation; that was why he was here in Orlando. But Christ, it was three full months later than it should have been! Pamela must be frantic, wondering why he hadn’t contacted her yet.

He ate his breakfast hurriedly, ignoring his mother’s admonitions to slow down. Glancing at the kitchen clock, he saw it was just after seven; his father and sister would be getting up any minute. He didn’t want to get embroiled in a family discussion of what he knew he had to do.

"Mom…"

"Mm-hmm?" she said distractedly, getting more eggs ready for the later risers.

"Listen, I’m gonna have to go out of town for a few days."

"What? Where to? Are you going down to Miami to see Martin?

"No, I have to, uh, go up north a ways."

She eyed him suspiciously. "What does that mean, up north a ways? Are you going back to Atlanta so early?"

"I have to go to Connecticut. But I don’t want to talk about it to Dad, and I need some extra cash for the trip. I’ll pay you back real soon."

"What in the world is in Connecticut? Or I should say, who in the world? Is it some girl from school?"

"Yes," he lied. "It’s a girl from Emory; her family lives in Westport. They invited me up to stay for a week or so."

"Which girl is this? I don’t remember your mentioning anybody from Connecticut. I thought you were still going out with that cute little girl from Tennessee, Judy."

"Not anymore," Jeff said. "We broke up right before finals."

His mother looked concerned. "You never told me; is that why you haven’t been eating right since you’ve been home?"

"No, Mom, I’m fine. It’s no big deal; we just broke up, that’s all. Now I really like this girl in Westport, and I need to go see her. So can you help me out?"

"Won’t she be back in school in September? Can’t you wait till then to see her again?"

"I’d really like to see her now. And I’ve never been to New England. She said we might drive up to Boston. Her and her folks," he added quickly, remembering the mores of the time and his mother’s own sense of propriety.

"Well, I don’t know…"

"Please, Mom. It would mean a lot to me. This is really important."

She shook her head in exasperation. "At your age, everything is important; everything has to happen right now. Your father was counting on that fishing trip next week. You know how much—"

"We’ll go fishing when I get back. Look, I have to go up there one way or the other; I just wanted to let you know where I was going to be, and it would be a big help if you could lend me a little extra money. If you don’t want to, then—"

"Well, you’re old enough to be in college, so you’re old enough to go wherever you please. I just worry about you, that’s all. It’s what mothers are for … besides lending money." She winked, and opened her purse.

Jeff threw some clothes in a suitcase, put the two hundred dollars his mother had given him into a pair of rolled-up socks. He was out of the house before his father or sister got up.

The old Chevy was parked in the curved driveway, behind his father’s big Buick Electra and his mother’s Pontiac. The car gave a familiar cough when Jeff started it up, then came rumbling to life.

He pulled out of the suburban development where his parents lived, skirted Little Lake Conway, and sat for a moment with the engine idling when he came to the intersection of Hoffner Road and Orange Avenue. Had the Beeline Expressway to the Cape been built yet? He couldn’t remember. If it had, that’d be a straighter shot to 1-95 north. There hadn’t been anything in the paper about a launch this morning, so the traffic around Cocoa and Titusville shouldn’t be too bad; but if the expressway hadn’t been built yet, he’d find himself stuck for too long on a pitted old two-lane road. He decided to play it safe, go on into town, and take 1-4 up to Daytona.

Jeff drove through the sleepy little city, still untouched by the Disney boom to come and only just beginning to feel the spillover development of the NASA presence forty miles away. He picked up I-95 sooner than he’d expected, tuned the radio to WAPE in Jacksonville: "Little" Stevie Wonder doing "Fingertips, Part II," then Marvin Gaye belting out "Pride and Joy."

Three months. How the hell could he have lost three months this time? What did it mean? Well, there was no use worrying about it now; it was beyond his control. Pamela would be upset, with good reason, but at least he’d see her soon. Concentrate on that, he told himself as he sped north through the long stretches of pine woods and scrub brush.

He made Savannah by noon; there was a brief gap in the interstate there, slowing his progress, and the streets of the gracious old city were incongruously lined with scowling, helmeted police. Jeff made his way past the barricades cautiously, aware of the demonstrations and subsequent racist violence that had broken out here this week. It was sad to see that all begin yet again, but there was nothing he could do other than avoid the bloody confrontations.

He stopped for a quick sandwich a little after three, at a Howard Johnson’s outside Florence, South Carolina. The flatlands of Florida and coastal Georgia were behind him now, and he drove through rural hill country, keeping the speedometer of the powerful old V-8 a notch above the posted 70 mile-per-hour speed limit.

It was dark when he drove past the turnoff to his boarding school in Virginia, where he’d made that unplanned pilgrimage so many years ago to see the little bridge that had become to him the very icon of loss and futility. He could see the lights of the Rendells' house from the highway; his pretty young former teacher and object of his onetime adulation would be preparing dinner for her husband, and for the child whose birth had sparked Jeff’s adolescent jealous rage. Love your family well, he wished her silently as he sped past the peaceful home on its scenic ridge; there’s enough pain in the world as it is.

He had a late meal of fried chicken and sweet potatoes at a truck stop north of Richmond, bought a thermos, and had the waitress fill it with black coffee. The Beltway took him around Washington, and he made it to Baltimore just after midnight. At Wilmington, Delaware, he switched from 1-95 to the Jersey Turnpike, avoiding whatever predawn traffic there might be through Philadelphia and Trenton. As the night wore on he marveled again, as he always did at the beginning of each replay, at his own youthful stamina; in his thirties and forties, he’d have needed to break this drive up into at least two days, and even that pace would have been exhausting.

The George Washington Bridge was all but deserted at 4:00 a.m., and Jeff kept the radio jacked up to full volume as Cousin Brucie whooped and wailed along with the Essex on "Easier Said than Done." Driving through New Rochelle on the New England Thruway, images of a Pamela he had never known filled his mind: She had lived here in her first existence, raised a family … died here, assuming it was the end of her life, unaware that her many lives had just begun.

What had death been like for her this time, he wondered, there on Majorca? Calmer, he hoped, more accepting, as it had been for him at the cabin near Montgomery Creek, knowing that this time they’d have each other to come back to. But he didn’t want to dwell on the thought of her agony, however short-lived. That part was over, for now, and they had a limitless future together to look forward to.

The first light of day was beginning to tinge the eastern sky as Jeff reached Westport. He located the address of Pamela’s family in a phone book at a Shell station. It was much too early in the morning for him to show up at her house yet. He found a twenty-four-hour coffee shop, forced himself to go through the New York Times from front page to last, just to kill time. Things were still tense in Savannah, he read; Ralph Ginzburg was appealing his obscenity conviction for publishing Eros magazine, and controversy was growing over the Supreme Court’s recent ruling against compulsory school prayer.

Jeff looked at his watch: 7:25. Would 8:00 A.M. be too early? The family ought to be up by then, maybe having breakfast.

Should he interrupt them while they were eating? What difference did it make, he thought? Pamela would introduce him as a friend, and they’d invite him to join them. He dawdled nervously over his coffee until twenty to eight, then asked the coffee-shop cashier for directions to the address he’d written down.

The Phillipses' house was a two-story néo-colonial on a shaded, upper-middle-class street. Nothing to differentiate it from a thousand other homes in a thousand other towns across the country; only Jeff knew of the miraculous event that had taken place there.

He rang the doorbell, tucking his T-shirt into his jeans. It suddenly occurred to him that he should have changed; he should have at least found a rest room where he could shave—

"Yes?"

The woman bore a startling resemblance to Pamela; only the hairstyle was different, a moderate bouffant instead of the straight, Dutch-boy cut Jeff had grown so fond of. She was about the same age Pamela had been when he’d seen her last, and the impression was unsettling.

"Is, uh, Pamela Phillips home, ma’am?"

The woman frowned, pursing her lips slightly in the same expression of mild consternation Jeff had seen so frequently on Pamela’s face. "She’s not up yet. Are you a friend of hers from school?"

"Not exactly from school, but I do—"

"Who is it, Beth?" came a man’s voice from inside the house. "Is it the man about the air conditioning?"

"No, dear, it’s a friend of Pam’s."

Jeff shifted his feet uneasily. "I’m sorry to disturb you this early in the morning, but it really is important that I speak to Pamela."

"I don’t even know if she’s awake yet."

"If I could just come inside and wait—I don’t want to put you to any inconvenience, but…"

"Well … Why don’t you come on in and have a seat, for a minute at least?" Jeff stepped into a small foyer, followed her into a comfortably furnished living room, where a man in a gray pinstriped suit stood before a mirror, adjusting his tie.

"If that fellow does show up this morning," the man was saying, "tell him the thermostat is—" He stopped as he caught sight of Jeff in the mirror. "You’re a friend of Pam’s?" he asked, turning to face Jeff. "Yes, sir."

"Is she expecting you?"

"I … believe so."

"What do you mean, you believe so? Isn’t this a bit early to pop in on someone unannounced?"

"Now, David…" his wife cautioned.

"She is expecting me," Jeff said.

"Well, this is the first I’ve heard about it. Beth, did Pam say anything to you last night about someone coming over this morning?"

"Not that I recall, dear. But I’m sure—"

"What’s your name, young man?"

"Jeff Winston, sir."

"I don’t remember Pam’s mentioning anyone by that name. Do you, Beth?"

"David, don’t be so rude to the boy. Would you like some cinnamon toast, Jeff? I just made some, and a fresh pot of coffee, too."

"No, ma’am, thank you very much, but I’ve had breakfast."

"Where do you know our daughter from?" Pamela’s father asked.

From Los Angeles, Jeff thought, giddy with lack of sleep and too many cups of coffee and a thousand miles of highway. I know her from Montgomery Creek, he wanted to say; from New York, and Majorca.

"I said, where did you meet Pam? You look a little old to be one of her classmates."

"We … met through a mutual friend. At the tennis club." That ought to sound plausible; she’d told him she’d played tennis since she was twelve.

"And who might that be? I think we know most of Pam’s friends, and—"

"Daddy! Did I leave my Green Stamp book in your car? It was almost full, and now I can’t find—"

She stood at the top of the stairs, all gangly teenaged arms and legs in a pair of white Bermuda shorts and a yellow polo shirt, her fine blond hair pulled into two little ponytails, one over each ear.

"Could you come down here, Pam?" her father said. "There’s someone here to see you."

Pamela walked slowly down the stairs, looking at Jeff. He wanted to run to her, take her in his arms, and kiss away all the torment that he knew she’d been through; but there’d be time enough for that. He grinned, and she smiled back at him.

"Do you know this young man, Pam?"

Her eyes were full of youth and promise as they met Jeff’s loving gaze.

"No," she said. "I don’t think so."

"He says he met you at the tennis club."

She shook her head. "I think I’d remember if I had. Do you know Dennis Whitmire?" she asked Jeff innocently.

"Majorca," Jeff said in a voice hoarse with strain. "The painting, the mountain…"

"I’m sorry?"

"I think you’d better be on your way, whoever you are," her father cut in.

"Pamela. Oh, Jesus, Pamela…"

The man took Jeff’s arm firmly, ushered him toward the door. "Look, fella," he said in a quiet but commanding tone, "I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t want to see you around here again. I don’t want you bothering my daughter, not here at the house, not at school, not at the tennis club. Nowhere. Got that?"

"Sir, this has all been a misunderstanding, and I apologize for the trouble. But Pamela does know me; she—"

"Anyone who knows my daughter calls her Pam, not Pamela. And let me remind you that she is fourteen years old, is that clear? Do you get my drift? Because I don’t want you claiming there’s been any misunderstanding about the fact that you are harassing a minor."

"I don’t want to bother anyone. I just—"

"Then get the hell out of my house before I call the police."

"Sir, Pamela will remember who I am soon. If I could just leave a number where she can get in touch with me—"

"You’re not leaving anything except this house. Now."

"It’s unfortunate we had to meet this way, Mr. Phillips.

I’d really like us to be able to get along in the future, and I hope—"

Pamela’s father shoved him roughly onto the outside steps, and the door slammed in his face. Jeff could hear raised voices through the window to the living room: Pamela crying in confusion, her mother pleading for calm, her father’s strident tones alternately protective and accusatory.

Jeff walked back to his car, sat in the driver’s seat, and rested his weary, jangled head on the steering wheel. After a while he started the engine, and headed south.

July and August were a sinkhole of torpid inertia, the dank heat of Florida’s "dog days," broken only by the violent thunderstorms that appeared almost every afternoon. Jeff went fishing with his father, taught his sister how to drive; but most of the time he spent in his room, watching reruns of "The Defenders" and "The Dick Van Dyke Show." Waiting for the telephone to ring.

His mother fretted over his inactivity, his sudden loss of interest in friends and girls and midnight cruising at the local drive-ins. Jeff wanted to leave, to escape the oppressive parental concern and the stultifying boredom of Orlando, but there was no place he could go. The freedom of movement he’d grown so used to was severely limited by his lack of funds: The Derby and the Belmont had already been run, and he had no other immediate source of income.

Summer ended, with no word from Pamela. Jeff went back to Atlanta, ostensibly to begin his sophomore year at Emory. He registered for a full course load, just so he could be assigned space in one of the dormitories, but he never bothered to attend any of the classes. He ignored the threatening letters from the dean’s office, bided his time until October.

Frank Maddock had graduated the previous June, and was now at Columbia, beginning law school without ever having met his erstwhile partner. Jeff found another rakish gambler in the senior class who was willing to place the World Series bet for him. Only for a flat fee, though; nobody wanted a percentage, no matter how generous, of such a patently foolish wager. Jeff bet a little under two thousand dollars, won a hundred and eighty-five thousand. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about money again for a while.

He moved to Boston, took an apartment on Beacon Hill. History moved through its familiar paces: Diem was overthrown in Saigon; John Kennedy was murdered yet again. The Vatican Council de-Latinized the Catholic Mass, and the Beatles arrived to lighten the hearts of America.

Jeff called the Phillipses' house in March, the week Jack Ruby was convicted and sentenced to death for the killing of Lee Harvey Oswald; no one had ever heard of Nelson Bennett. Pamela’s mother answered the phone.

"Hello, may I speak with … Pam, please?"

"May I tell her who’s calling?"

"This is Alan Cochran, a friend of hers from school."

"Just a minute, let me see if she’s busy."

Jeff nervously coiled and uncoiled the telephone cord as he waited for Pamela to come on the line. He’d dredged the false name out of his memory, as someone Pamela had once mentioned having dated in high school; but had she even met the boy at this point? He had no way of knowing.

"Alan? Hi, what’s up?"

"Pam, please don’t hang up; this isn’t Alan, but I need to talk to you."

"Who is it, then?" There was more intrigue than annoyance in her kittenish voice.

"It’s Jeff Winston. I came by your house one morning last summer, and—"

"Yeah, I remember. My dad said I’m not supposed to talk to you, ever."

"I can understand that he might feel that way. You don’t have to tell him I called. I just … wondered if you’d started to remember anything yet."

"What do you mean? Like remember what?"

"Oh, maybe about Los Angeles."

"Yeah, sure."

"You do?"

"Sure, my folks and I went to Disneyland when I was twelve. How come I wouldn’t remember that?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of something else. A movie, maybe, one called Starsea? Does that sound at all familiar?"

"I don’t think I ever saw that one. Hey, you’re pretty weird, you know that? How come you want to talk to me, anyway?"

"I just like you, Pamela. That’s all. Do you mind if I call you that?"

"Everybody else calls me Pam. And besides, I shouldn’t even be talking to you. I better hang up now."

"Pamela—"

"What?"

"Do you still have that letter I sent you?"

"I threw it away. If my dad had found it, he’d've had a fit."

"That’s O.K. I’m not in Florida anymore; I’m living in Boston now. I know you don’t want to write my number down, but I’m listed with information. If you ever feel like getting in touch with me—"

"What makes you think I’d want to do that? Boy, you really are weird."

"I guess so. Don’t forget, though, you can call me any time, day or night."

"I’m gonna hang up now. I don’t think you ought to call me anymore."

"I won’t. But I hope I’ll hear from you soon."

"'Bye." She sounded wistful, her youthful curiosity piqued by this persistent young man with his peculiar questions. But curiosity meant nothing, Jeff thought sadly as he told her goodbye; he remained a stranger to her.

The clerk at the Harvard Coop rang up the sale, gave Jeff his change and the copy of Candy he’d just bought. Outside, the square teemed with students preparing to begin the new school year. A purposefully scruffy lot, Jeff noted; and as he glanced toward the University Theater, where A Hard Day’s Night was playing, he saw one bearded young man discreetly hawking five-dollar matchboxes of marijuana. It had already been a year and a half since Leary and Alpert were dismissed from Harvard and had set up their short-lived "International Federation for Internal Freedom" across the river, on Emerson Place. The sixties as they’d be remembered were arriving earlier in Cambridge than they had at Emory. Even so, the transformation of eras wasn’t quite complete yet; only one lone protestor stood in Harvard Square, quietly distributing leaflets decrying the growing American presence in Vietnam. At a table set up near the newsstand kiosk, a pair of students offered buttons reading "Stop Goldwater" and "LBJ 64." Their disillusionment wouldn’t be long in coming.

Jeff went down the steps of the MTA station, entered one of the trolleylike old subway cars. Past Kenmore Square, the train came L aboveground, crossed the Charles on Longfellow Bridge. To his If right, Jeff could see workers on scaffolding putting the final touches on the new Prudential Center; the John Hancock Tower, with its ill-fated, popping windows, was still a long way in the future.

What would he do with that future now, he wondered, with the long and empty years he faced, again alone? It had been over a year since he’d begun this fourth replay of his life, and all the hopefulness with which he had once anticipated sharing this cycle with someone he fully loved, someone whose experience and understanding matched his own, had disappeared. Pamela remained an unfamiliar child, ignorant of who and what she—they—had previously been.

Perhaps some of her notions of eastern religion had been correct, in a manner unfathomable to either of them. Maybe she had attained complete enlightenment in her last existence, and her soul or essence or whatever had gone on to some form of Nirvana. Where, then, did that leave the innocent young girl who now lived in Westport? Was that person merely a shell of a body, now devoid of all spirit; a simulacrum of the real Pamela Phillips, moving through this lifetime without purpose? Maybe her, or its, purpose could be likened to an animated prop in a play or movie, a soulless robot. The unthinkable outside force that had set these replays in motion might be using the false Pamela solely to maintain the illusion that the world continued in its normal, original patterns, with its multibillion-person cast intact.

But for whose benefit? Who was the audience that was supposed to be fooled? Jeff? He had thought he was the first, and, until he met Pamela, the only, person this had ever happened to; perhaps, though, he’d been the last, or at least among the last, to become aware of the endless repetition. Pamela had theorized that these years would continue to reduplicate themselves until everyone on earth recognized what was going on. Could it instead be that the realization was intended to happen on a piecemeal basis, one individual at a time rather than a sudden planetary awareness? And as each person saw the truth, had he or she then begun the climb to escape the infinite recurrence of what had once been thought to be reality?

That meant all of human history, past and future, might be nothing but a sham: false implanted memories and records, deceptive hopes for a world to come. The creation of the human species, its cultures and technology and annals prechosen and already set in place by some unseen power, may have occurred in 1963 … and mankind’s total span on this earth might stretch no more forward in subjective time than 1988, or soon thereafter. This rhythmic loop might encompass the totality of the human experience, and recognition of that fact could be the hallmark of an individual’s having reached the zenith of awareness.

Which would mean that Jeff, and everyone else, had been unknowingly replaying for eons, literally since the beginning of time; and this might be his final cycle, as the previous one had been Pamela’s. The rest of the population, then, existed either in a state of preconsciousness or as rote, mechanical figures whose real souls and minds had outgrown those bodies, as had Pamela. And there was no way to tell which of the people he encountered were still "sleeping," as it were, and which had already gone on to another level of being, leaving their living, breathing likenesses behind as part of the vast stage set that was earth.

It was too much to absorb at once. Even assuming it was true, he still had at least the twenty-five remaining years of this replay in which to grapple with the idea. For now he had to begin deciding how he was going to deal with those years on a day-today basis, having lost the only consummate companion he had ever known.

Jeff got off the train at the next stop, walked down Charles Street past the flower shops and coffeehouses. The nasal whine of a folk singer drifted from the open door of the Turk’s Head, and a sign outside the Loft promised jug-band music on weekends. Up Chestnut Street the staid old homes, many of them now converted to apartments, presented a facade of urbane serenity.

What should he do? Go back to Montgomery Creek, spend the rest of this life—perhaps his final one—contemplating the incomprehensibility of the universe? Maybe he should make one last, albeit ultimately futile, attempt at improving humanity’s lot: reestablish Future, Inc. as a philanthropic foundation, pour all those hundreds of millions into Ethiopia, or India.

He climbed the steps to his second-floor apartment, his mind swimming against the tide of a thousand competing thoughts and unlikely options. If he simply gave up, committed suicide, what then? Would he—

One corner of the yellow envelope protruded into the hallway where it had been slipped beneath his door. He picked up the telegram, ripped it open:

It was after eleven o’clock that night when he pulled up in front of the house in Westport. He’d tried to get a flight from Logan to Bridgeport, but there’d been nothing leaving immediately. It was quicker to drive, he decided, and he made the brief trip in record time.

Pamela’s father answered the door, and Jeff could see right away that this wasn’t going to be easy.

"I want you to know that I’m allowing this meeting only because my wife insisted that I do so," the man began without preamble. "And even she was persuaded only because of Pam’s threats to leave home if we didn’t let her talk to you."

"I’m sorry this has become such an issue, Mr. Phillips," Jeff said with all the sincerity he could muster. "As I told you last year, I never intended to cause any problems in your family; it’s all been an unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Whatever it is, it will not be repeated. I’ve spoken to my lawyer, and he says we can get a restraining order issued before the end of the week. That means you’ll be arrested if you come anywhere near my daughter again before she turns eighteen; so whatever you have to say to her, you’d better get it said tonight. Is that understood?"

Jeff sighed, tried to peer through the half-open door. "Could I just see Pamela now, sir? I won’t cause any problems, but I’ve waited a long time to talk to her."

"Come inside. She’s in the living room. You have one hour."

Pamela’s mother had obviously been crying; her eyes were rimmed with red and haunted with defeat. Her fifteen-year-old daughter, sitting beside her on the sofa, was by contrast totally composed, though the girl’s wide grin told Jeff she was fighting to restrain the jubilant relief she at last felt. The ponytails were gone; she’d brushed her hair into an approximation of the style she’d worn as an adult. She wore a cashmere sweater with a beige wool skirt, stockings, heels, and light, expertly applied makeup. The change in her since the last time he’d seen her went far deeper than her physical appearance, however; in her alert, knowing eyes Jeff could see instantly that this was in fact the woman he had loved and lived with for a decade.

"Hi, there," he said, returning her broad smile. "Want to go soaring?"

She laughed, a rich, throaty laugh full of mature irony and sophistication. "Mother, Father," she said, "this is my dear friend Jeff Winston. I believe you’ve met before."

"How is it that you’ve suddenly decided you know this … man, after all?" Her father had also noted the drastic change in Pamela’s voice and demeanor, Jeff could see, and was greatly displeased by her inexplicable overnight growth to adulthood.

"I suppose my memory must have had some gaps in it last year. Now, you promised me we could have an hour alone together. Do you mind if we get started on that, please?"

"Don’t try to leave the house." Her father scowled, addressing the two of them. "Don’t even leave the living room."

Mrs. Phillips rose reluctantly from her place beside her daughter. "Your father and I will be in the den if you need us, Pam."

"Thanks, Mother. Everything is fine, I promise you."

Her parents left the room, and Jeff took her in his arms, hugging her as tightly as he could without crushing the breath out of her. "My God," he rasped in her ear, "where have you been? What happened?"

"I don’t know," she said, pulling back to look at him. "I died in the house on Majorca just when I expected to, on the eighteenth. I only started replaying this morning; I was dumbfounded when I discovered what year it was."

"I showed up late, too," Jeff said, "but only by about three months. I’ve been waiting for you for over a year."

She touched his face, gave him a look of tender sympathy. "I know," she said. "My mother and father told me what happened that summer."

"You don’t remember, then? No, of course you wouldn’t."

She shook her head sadly. "My only memories of that time are from my original existence, and the replays since. From my perspective, I last saw you just twelve days ago, on the dock at Puerto de Andraitx."

"The miniature," he said with a warm smile. "It was perfect. I wish I could have kept it."

"I’m sure you have," she said quietly. "Where it counts most."

Jeff nodded, hugged her again. "So … how did you find me in Boston?"

"I called your parents. They seemed to know who I was—vaguely, at least."

"I told them I knew a girl at school who was from Connecticut, when I first came up here."

"God, Jeff, it must have been awful when I didn’t recognize you."

"It was. But now that you’re back, I’m kind of grateful to have had a glimpse of what you were really like at fourteen."

She grinned. "I bet I thought you were cute, whoever you were. Actually, I’m kind of surprised I didn’t lie, and tell my parents I did know you."

"I phoned you last March. You said you thought I was weird … but you did sound kind of interested."

"I’m sure I was."

"Pam?" her father called from the hallway. "Everything all right in there?"

"No problem at all," she answered.

"You’ve got another forty-five minutes," he reminded her, and went back toward the rear rooms of the house.

"This is going to be a problem," Jeff said with a worried frown. "You’re legally a minor; your father was talking about seeking a restraining order to prevent me from seeing you."

"I know," she said ruefully. "That’s partly my fault. There was a hell of a scene here this afternoon, after I told them I was expecting a call or a visit from you. I had no idea they’d ever heard of you before; my father went through the roof when I brought your name up, and I’m afraid I didn’t react too well in return. They never heard language like that out of me at this age, except in my second replay, when I turned rebellious. And of course, they don’t remember that."

"Do you think he’s serious about keeping us apart? He could really make things difficult if he chooses to."

"Unfortunately, he means what he says. We may have a rough time of it for a while."

"We could … run away together."

Pamela laughed dryly. "No. I tried that route once, remember? It didn’t work out then, and it won’t now."

"Except that I have money now, and access to as much more as we need. It’s not as if we’d be out on the streets."

"But I’m still underage; don’t forget that. You’d be in a lot of trouble if they caught us."

Jeff managed a grin. "Jailbait. I kind of like that idea."

"I just bet you do," she taunted. "But it’s no joke, particularly not in this era. The Summer of Love is still three years away; in 1964, they took that kind of thing very, very seriously."

"You’re right," he agreed dejectedly. "So what the hell are we going to do?"

"We’re just going to have to wait for a little while. I’ll be sixteen in a few months; maybe by then they’ll at least let us date, if I butter them up and play the role of the obedient daughter for now."

"Christ … I’ve already waited a year and a half to be with you."

"I don’t know what else we can do," she said with compassion. "I don’t like the prospect any better than you do, but I don’t think we have any other choice right now."

"No," he admitted. "We don’t."

"What are you going to do in the meantime?" "I guess I’ll go back to Boston; it’s a nice city, not too far from here, and I’m more or less settled in there. Probably work on building up our nest egg, so we don’t have to bother with making money once we’re able to be together. Can I at least call you? Write you?"

"Not here, I don’t think, not yet. I’ll get a post-office box so we can write, and I’ll call you as often as I can. From outside the house, after school."

"Jesus. You’re really going back to high school again?"

"I have to." She shrugged. "I can put up with it. I’ve done it so many times before, I think I know every answer to every test."

"I’m going to miss you … You know that." She kissed him, long and passionately. "So will I, love; so will I. But the wait will be more than worth it."