|
|
|
|
|
|
He held up his hand. "No more of this Looney Tunes stuff, Abby. I was all set to offer a suggestion to prove or disprove your story, and now you come up with this." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She sighed. "I can't help what is, Mike. I wish I could. I've tried but . . . how did you intend to prove or disprove my story?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"The way you suggested. Finding out if my great-great-great-grandfather Arlen was married to a woman named Lucy . . . what? Wynne?" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"Yes! Oh, Mike, can we do that? I would be so relieved to know that Lucy arrived in L.A. and found happiness with Aden, and" |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"The only way I know of is to ask my great-aunt Jess, but I doubt she'll remember much. Maybe Myra left notes. And, Abby, even if you're right, unless we prove you couldn't have known Aden's wife's name any other way, I can't promise I'll suddenly believe this absurd tale of time travel. Or that you're here to save me from danger, for heaven's sake." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Abby lowered her eyes in sorrow. Was there no way to make him trust her? "But if we do learn that it was Lucy, surely you can give my story some credence." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He shrugged those broad, muscular shoulders beneath the flimsy hospital gown. "Certainly more than it has now." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Abby liked the quiet, narrow Pasadena street where Mike's great-aunt Jess lived; it reminded |
|
|
|
|
|