He might even be starting to get the hang of this.
His left foot gently climbed upward from the bare toes, started to explore her lower leg, and then pulled back from the barrier.
He had been a little startled when she climbed up into the Jenkins attic the day after the snow fight, went through several boxes of old toys that her mother had put away to wait for the day she had grandchildren to babysit, came down with a pair of fairly sturdy plastic handcuffs that still had their key, and put them on her ankles that evening. Plus quite a few following occasions.
"Revival of the chastity belt?" He had to laugh.
"Not exactly," Missy answered. "I'm the one who has the key. That makes it different."
He wasn't sure she was joking. At least not entirely. She kept the handcuffs in her jacket pocket, tucked underneath her gloves. And referred to them as "the accessory."
Not that there hadn't been a couple of occasions when the reminder had been useful.
Necessary, really, considering that even though Missy's mind really meant it when she said "no way," the subsection of primal instinct that had moved in on her was obviously starting to put up considerable argument on the point.
Sometimes Ron could kick himself for having pulled back when they were in that snowbank. He hadn't been violating Dad's precepts. By no means had it been a first date, by no means had he been forcing the issue, and Missy had been so willing. Or, at least, the part of Missy that was her body had been very willing indeed. Cooperating, responding, inviting, and encouraging every move he made.
But…
He had rolled himself off her, face down into the snow, which had been goddamned fucking unbelievably cold by comparison to the heat the two of them had been generating ten seconds before. Well, no male fantasy story he had ever read back up-time had recommended a snowbank in February as a desirable venue for seduction.
He had this suspicion that if her instincts took over before her mind agreed with them, he was the one she'd be mad at. Mad at herself, but really mad at him. Maybe mad enough to break the whole thing off. Even if it wouldn't really be his fault.
He knew that having Missy break it off would be a bad thing. Way closer to a catastrophe-type bad thing than to a nuisance-type bad thing. That was why, really…
Not that he could have explained to anybody else exactly what "it" was.
"It" was pretty amorphous right now.
They were spending more and more of their free time at Lothlorien, where the privacy and comfort seemed almost designed to foster temptation. But it also seemed to be almost the only place that they could really talk. They talked a lot when they weren't doing other things. Even while they were doing other things, sometimes.
Besides, Missy was helping him design a records management system and compile a procedures manual, so a lot of the time they spent there wasn't private at all, but involved wandering through the manufacturing plant with clipboards. As she said, it wouldn't be as good a system as if he had been up-time and able to hire a professional consultant, but it would definitely be better than no system at all.
She had told him that one of the nice things about Lothlorien was that none of the staff looked at them cross-eyed, unlike Nani and Gran, who definitely did. The employees, she said, were mostly as friendly and helpful as they could possibly be, even when she plopped herself down on a stool and spent two hours watching how a process was carried out. Then watched it six times more, trying to figure out what parts of it needed to be standardized and recorded and which ones didn't.
He definitely didn't want to do anything that would cause her to break it off before they were finished with the procedures manual. Great Om, Stone, what a rationale.
On the other hand…
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a handy pair of pruning shears leaning against a potting table. If he didn't have some rationale available, he would take them to the stupid handcuffs. The things were only plastic.
He didn't want to do anything that would cause her to break it off at all.
He kissed her again. She also had an eye on that vanishing sunlight. There was a kind of equation. The less time remaining, the fewer restrictions. This was a really rewarding kiss. Sort of an improved, expanded version.
He could live with the accessory. It wasn't a good thing, exactly, but it was sure better than a bad thing. They might as well make the most of the last ten minutes.
Plus, there was always hope. Once her mind finally decided to agree with her instincts, she had the key. More accurately, in the unlikely event that her mind ever decided to agree with her instincts, she had the key. Hope springeth eternal…
PART SEVEN
February 1635
In dubious battle on the plains of heaven
Chapter 42
Magdeburg, February 22, 1635
"This is actually quite boring," said Rebecca. "I had not expected that. Whatever else I thought 'election day' would be in a republic, 'boring' is not it."
Her husband Mike smiled. "Well, back up-time it would have been quite exciting. Every TV station breathlessly reporting the latest results, precincts closing, exit polls, the whole nine yards."
Rebecca frowned. "I detest that expression. 'The whole nine yards.' It makes no sense at all." Accusingly, she added: "And you use it frequently, too. But-you have explained this to me yourself-in football one must carry the ball ten yards before it makes a difference. So why is it not 'the whole ten yards'?"
As much as he adored his wife, there were times when Mike thought she was just a tad too obsessed with precision and perfection. "I don't know the answer, sweetheart. But I do know-for sure, you betchum-that it's 'the whole nine yards.' Not 'the whole ten yards.' "
A slight cough drew his attention and Becky's. Against one wall of the large room in a rented building that served the Fourth of July Party for its national campaign headquarters, Melissa Mailey was sitting on a couch holding hands with James Nichols. The two of them had come up to Magdeburg for the occasion.
She had that certain look on her face, that Mike remembered from the days she'd been one of his high school teachers.
That certain much-detested look. The one that prefaced the ignorant student about to be enlightened by the oh-so-god-damn-her-well-educated schoolmarm.
And-yep-sure enough, she began it all with a slight sniff.
"That's because it's almost certainly not a reference to football in the first place." (Here she clucked her tongue. Mike remembered that detested mannerism, too.)
"No, no." (And-yep-always the double negative. As if simply telling a dumbass kid that he didn't know squat once wasn't enough.)
"So what is it, then?" asked Becky.
For a moment-very brief moment-Melissa looked a little less than completely self-assured. "Well… nobody actually knows, for certain. It's a relatively recent expression, it seems. There's no reliably dated use of it prior to the 1960s, at least not in print, when it emerged into prominence in the space program."
Rebecca choked a little laugh. "I always find that so odd! 'No earlier than the 1960s'-which is to say, more than three centuries from now."
"But the most common theory is that it comes from military aviation and originated in the Second World War. The machine gun belts for most U.S. aircraft were twenty-seven feet long. So 'the whole nine yards' would have meant using up all your ammunition in a full and complete effort to strike at your enemy."
"Well!" Rebecca seemed to sit a little straighter. "Well, yes, that does make sense."
The two women shared a look of mutual esteem, for a moment. Then Melissa shook her head and made a face. "I have to admit, you're right. This is pretty damn boring, isn't it? James and I could have just as easily stayed down in Grantville, for all the good it did us or we're doing anyone else by coming here."