Time and Again

with her computer. She recognized the signs of procrastination in Cal, as well. He sat across from her, poking at the remains of her breakfast. He'd already eaten his own.
    More than procrastination, she mused. He looked troubled again, as he had when he'd come back the night before. As he had seemed, she thought, when they'd fallen asleep. More than once during the night, and the morning, she'd been certain he was about to tell her something. Something she was afraid she would hate to hear.
    She wanted to find a way to encourage him, to smooth the way to his leaving her. Love, she thought with a sigh, had made her crazy.
    The rain had come, in a long, quiet shower that had lasted almost until morning. Now, with the sun, the light was soft, ethereal, and there were pockets of mist hugging the ground.
    It was a good day for making excuses, for taking aimless walks in the woods, for making lazy love under a quilt. But thinking like that, Libby reminded herself, wouldn't help Cal find his way home.
    "You'd better get started." It was a gentle nudge, offered without enthusiasm.
    "Yeah." He would rather have sat where he was, ignoring reality. Instead, he stood and, giving her a quick kiss, walked to the back door. When he opened it, the kitchen filled with birdsong. "I was thinking I'd take a break during the afternoon. Maybe come back for lunch. I'm getting so I can't stomach the stores on the ship." It was more that he couldn't stand being away from her, but she smiled, taking him at his word.
    "Okay." Already the day seemed brighter. "If I'm not slaving over a hot stove, I'll be upstairs working."
    It seemed so normal, Libby thought when he closed the door behind him, to part in the morning with an easy kiss and plans to meet for lunch. That was probably best, she decided after she topped off her cup and took it upstairs with her. There was certainly little else about their relationship that anyone would have called normal.
    She worked well into the afternoon, blaming her edginess on the caffeine. She didn't want to dwell on the fact that Cal had seemed too quiet, too thoughtful, that morning. They both had a lot on their minds.
    And, she reminded herself, he would be back soon. Since it would be a habit soon broken, she decided to cut her own work short to go down and fix him something special for lunch. When she reached the base of the stairs, she heard the sound of a car.
    Visitors weren't just rare at the cabin, they were nonexistent. Feeling equal parts surprise and annoyance, she opened the front door.
    "Oh, my God." Now it was all surprise, with a healthy dose of trepidation. "Mom! Dad!" Then it was love, waves of it, as she rushed out to greet her parents. They stepped out from either side of a small, battered pickup.
    "Liberty." Caroline Stone welcomed her daughter with a throaty laugh and a theatrical spread of her arms. She was dressed almost identically to Libby, in faded jeans and a chunky, hip-grazing sweater.
    But, unlike Libby's plain red wool, Caroline's was a symphony of hues and tones she had woven herself.
    She wore two jet-black drop earrings-in the same ear-and a necklace of tourmaline that glittered in the light.
    Libby kissed Caroline's smooth, unpowdered cheek. "Mom! What are you doing here?"
    "I used to live here," she reminded Libby, then kissed her again while William stood back and grinned.
    They were two of the three most important women in his life. Though they were a generation apart, he noted with pride that his wife looked hardly older than his daughter. Their coloring and build was so similar that more often than not they were mistaken for sisters.
    "What am I?" he demanded. "Part of the scenery?" He spun Libby around for one of his hard, swaying hugs. "My baby," he said, and gave her a loud, smacking kiss. "The scientist."
    "My daddy," she responded in kind, "the executive."
    He winced just a little. "Don't let it get around. So, let me get a look at you."
    Grinning, Libby took her own survey. He still wore his hair too long to be conservative, though there was a sprinkle of silver in the dark blond waves, and a bit more dashed through his beard. Both were trimmed now by a barber with a French accent, but little else about William Stone had changed. He was still the man she remembered, the man who had carried her papoose-style through the forest.
    He was tall, and at best he would be considered stringy. Long legs and arms gave him a gangly look.
    His face was gaunt, his cheekbones