He waved and walked away.
Alex sagged against the stacks, watching him until he was gone. Then she ripped open the book, going to the index. She intended to read every single reference there was to Xavier Blackwell.
It was as Joseph had said. History had been rewritten. For all time.
And then Alex began to shake violently as the author described Blackwell’s rescue of an anonymous American woman held in captivity in Tripoli for three years. Tears fell. Her heart seemed to be breaking all over again.
But the author hadn’t gotten it right. According to Roberts, Blackwell had found the woman inside of the palace, not outside the front gates. Alex didn’t care. Roberts’s version made Xavier seem more heroic, although God knew, that was hardly possible.
It was hard to see. She paused to wipe her eyes before reading the last sentences on the subject. And Alex cried out.
In spite of Blackwell’s heroic rescue, the woman’s fate remained tragic. Shortly after being taken aboard Preble’s flagship, she fell overboard and drowned. Her body was never found.
41
ALEX STUMBLED HOME.
The moment she unlocked her apartment door, she was violently ill. She rushed to the bathroom where she vomited her meager breakfast.
Alex clung to the toilet, gasping for air. She had not just rewritten history, dear God, she had become a part of it. Tears filled her eyes.
And apparently her sudden disappearance from theConstitutionhad been explained in the only possible manner—someone had suggested that she had fallen overboard and drowned. The captain and crew would have believed that. But surely Blackwell had not. He had, after all, witnessed her vanishing act. Alex sank down on her buttocks on the floor, rubbing her swollen, red-rimmed eyes.
She was so goddamned tired.
And it was over. It was truly over. Xavier had died more than a century ago, assuming he had lived until a ripe old age. He and his wife had had children; Blackwell Shipping was a major international company now, not a small, struggling dinosaur. There was a Blackwell heir.
It was over. She had found him, only to lose him. Alex did not know if she could bear it. She did not know if she could let go. She did not want to even try to let go. Instead, she wanted to cling to each and every precious memory.
“Alex?”
Alex heard Beth but did not answer her.
Beth came to the bathroom. “Alex! What—have you been sick again?”
Alex had vomited last night, too. “It’s only from the time-traveling. It’s a helluvalot worse than jet lag.” She could not summon up a smile.
“Alex, maybe you have a virus. You were in Tripoli. You should go to the doctor. You don’t look well.”
Alex got to her feet and ran the water in order to wash her face. “I’m not well. I’m exhausted and heartbroken. Nothing more.” She turned off the tap and faced her friend grimly. “I went to the library. We did change history, Beth. Blackwell is now a hero. They even teach about him in elementary school.” She got so choked up that she could not continue.
Beth regarded her soberly, with concern.
Alex wandered out of the bathroom. “God, I am so depressed.”
“You have to forget him,” Beth said firmly.
“Never. Not in a million years.” Alex shivered. She was romantic enough to believe in reincarnation. Maybe she and Blackwell would find each other in another lifetime. Surely a love so strong would endure through all the ages.
“Alex, go see Dr. Goldman. I use him; he’s really good. He’s kind, too. He’ll give you something for your depression. At least you’ll be able to go back to work on your thesis.”
Alex shook her head. Her spirits had just sunk impossibly lower. Fresh grief was rising up in her. She sat down hard on her bed. “I can’t work on my thesis now.”
“Alex, don’t be a fool! You can be depressed, remain incapacitated, or you can see Goldman and get a mild prescription to lift your spirits and help you get over this.”
“But I don’t care,” Alex said thickly.
“But I do,” Beth said flatly.
