Mystic Memories by Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz

shown the most recent date to be March 12, 1833, which would have been two days earlier—if this time here in the past correlated with her time in the future.
    Other handwritten pages in his voyage journal hadn’t revealed anything out of the ordinary. There were only notes about the weather, ports of call, and other bits and pieces of nautical jargon that didn’t always make sense to her. Among his personal effects, she hadn’t found any jewelry to use as a means to connect with his life. Even the clothing that she wore against her skin held his scent but not any other clues to his past. His shaving articles were missing, as was a brush or comb. No doubt he’d taken those with him when he moved to other quarters.
    Was it so odd for a man to have nothing personal in his own cabin? He was a sailor, a vagabond. If he had no other home but this ship, he should have some kind of mementos he’d collected during his travels.
    After he sat down, she waited until he took his first bite of food before picking up her fork and knife. The gentle roll of the ship tilted the wine to one side of the glasses, then the other. The candle flames seemed to follow the same motion. While shadows flickered across the paneled walls, the wooden ship creaked in slow rhythm with the subtle back-and-forth movement. The clicks of their cutlery on the china sounded like a lethargic tap-tapping of a telegraph key.
    Trying to ignore the uncomfortable wall of silence between them, Cara savored the taste of the beef, then carrots, then potatoes, meticulously chewing each mouthful. Aside from the dried meat and biscuit given to her on the beach, she hadn’t eaten since her dinner meal aboard the modern-day Mystic . While she expected to be hungry, she didn’t expect the enhanced flavor of the food. Her taste buds were in heaven. Was it her hunger that made the difference? Or was it the food itself, grown in a different century in the purest process of nature? Whatever the reason, she couldn’t remember eating anything quite so delicious as the simple fare of meat and potatoes.
    Too bad she couldn’t take the secret back to the future. She could make a killing in the restaurant business. That’s if she were interested in moneymaking schemes, which she wasn’t.
    Right now, she had to find Andrew and get back.
    “Where are you from, Captain?” The question escaped her lips before she even realized she’d been contemplating it. He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.
    “Everywhere and nowhere,” he answered, repeating her own earlier reply.
    “Touché.”
    One eyebrow lifted inquisitively. “Pardon me?”
    “You’re making fun of me.”
    “I merely turned the tables, did I not? Seems fair enough to me.”
    She considered his comment, wondering what he would say if she were to tell him she had been born and raised in the very same area where they’d been washed up on the beach. Trying to think of yet another creative fabrication about her background, she relied upon memories of the eastern seaboard from a summer spent there with her Aunt Gaby.
    “I was born in Philadelphia in 1799,” she stated flatly, then took another drink of wine. A long one. She needed to calm her nerves, certain she was not playing this deceptive game as convincingly as she had done on past assignments. When she had learned the present year, she had calculated backward to find her own birth year in case it was necessary. Now she was glad she had. Any woman willing to reveal her age—and it was an advanced age for this time period—might be considered an honest woman.
    She could only hope Captain Masters would see it that way. “And you, sir?”
    Instead of answering her question, he shook his head in disbelief. “You cannot possibly be thirty-four years old. I am thirty, and you do not appear to be four years older than I. On the contrary, you look at least four years younger. Never mind your youthful agility, anyone can see at first glance your teeth are proof