“Nervous?” I took a sip of the hot coffee, savoring the bitter flavor as it went down my parched throat. “For what?”
“You’ve never been on a date before, have you?”
“Who has time? Besides, this isn’t a date.”
“Uh.” Delilah pressed her lips together and frowned. “A handsome,veryeligible—if the internet can be trusted—successful congressman asked you to show him around town. That sounds like a date to me.”
“It can’t be a date.” I held the mug in both hands, wondering when Delilah had changed her hair from blue to pink, and tried to remember her natural color. It had been at least a year since I saw it last, though her brown eyebrows were a strong indication.
“Why not?” She continued to frown. “I go on dates all the time. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“To me it does.” I moved my toes under the comforter, trying not to meet her gaze, knowing I would see censure there. “I have big decisions to make by January, and I already have a lot of reasons to stay in each path. I don’t need a romantic entanglement to make matters worse.”
“There is a way for you to know for sure where you belong.” Delilah moved off the window seat and sat on the edge of my bed.
“How?” I’d been looking for the answer for years, but every time I asked my marked parents or grandfather for advice, they always said the same thing.I’d know when the time was right, orGod had a plan and I just needed to trust Him.WhileI didn’t disagree, it still left me at a loss. The clock was ticking, and He hadn’t shown me yet.
Delilah’s brown eyes filled with compassion, and she smiled. “Which path isyou, Meg? At your very core, are you Margaret Wakefield, Maggie Hollingsworth, or Meg Clarke? Who are you?”
I stared at her for a long time as I pondered her question. WhowasI? “No one has ever boiled it down to such a basic question for me.”
“I know I can’t possibly understand your struggle,” Delilah continued, “but I can relate. I always ask myself that question. What Delilah is the real me? Am I the real me eating dinner with my parents and trying to live up to their expectations? Am I the real me when I’m hanging out with my friends, discussing life’s biggest questions? Or am I the real me when I’m in an art class, lost in a creation I’ve made? I don’t think it’ll end, either. Someday I might wonder if I’m the truest version of myself as a wife, a mom, a professional. We each have to make those kinds of decisions every day—yours just has more finality than most.”
I found myself slowly nodding. “I am three very different people in each path. I wish you could know me in 1861 and 1941. I’d love to introduce you to Anna and my marked parents, and Papa.”
“I know them,” she said with a smile. “Better than you might realize.”
I returned her smile. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
She lifted a shoulder. “What are best friends for, if not to help you navigate your three lives?”
Laughter flowed from us, and I shook my head. “I’m so happy you know the truth. It’s hard not to share this part of myself with others, especially in 1861. No one knows who I really am there.”
“Maybe that’s the first life you can cross off your list.”
My stomach clenched at her words, turning the coffee sour.I didn’t want to give up Papa or the Lincolns or the oncoming war. We were in for heartache and trials, but I wanted to help the nation and my friends. I had so much to offer them, if Papa would let me. He and I had spoken after supper the night I brought the soldiers to our home—or rather, he had lectured me about propriety and social expectations. He had been very angry, and rightfully so. He’d asked if anyone had seen me or if I had done anything that might bring criticism upon us. He cautioned me that I did not represent merely myself or him, but also the Lincolns and the very cause of freedom. I had to live above reproach.
I wasn’t allowed to nurse the Anderson brothers, so I had to give Joseph instructions for their care. Worse, Papa forbade me from doing something like it again.
As much as I loved him and tried to accept his nineteenth-century views, I struggled to honor him in this regard. I knew what was coming and how much help would be needed. Eventually, he wouldn’t be able to stop me.
But that was a debate and argument for another day.
“I should probably get ready,” I told Delilah. “Seth will be here in about an hour.”
“Where will you take him?”
Shrugging, I pushed the covers aside to get out of bed. “I was thinking about taking him on a monuments tour first, and then we can visit some of the Smithsonian Museums. If we have time, maybe we’ll go to the National Archives Building and see the Declaration of Independence.”
“You might be out all day with him.”
“Maybe—but I do need to read an article and write a quick paper about it tonight.”
“A quick paper.” Delilah rose from my bed, shaking her head in mock disgust. “It would take me days to write a ‘quick paper.’”
I smiled and walked over to my closet to decide what to wear.I would need to shove aside our conversation, because I was not ready or willing to write off 1861.
An hour later, I was dressed in a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt, buttoned down the front. I had gone for casual since we’d be walking most of the day. On my feet were a simple pair of sandals, and I threw my dark hair up into a ponytail. I didn’t want to dress up or look like I had taken a great deal of time with my appearance. This wasn’t a date. It was a casual outing with a new friend.
