Home in Time for Christmas Read online

  Melody walked over to her and hugged her. “I know why Jake is so desperate to come back and take care of you,” she said.

  Serena drew back, smiling. “See, there’s the mistake in your world. Jake is my brother. One day, I will push him into the world. Then I will seek out my own love, as well. The secret here is that I don’t need anyone to take care of me. Men often need the illusion that they are taking care of you. What happens, in my world and even in yours, I suspect, in the very best unions, we’re all really taking care of one another. I do love to cook, I love my own…I long for children. Pray for me in my world, as I will pray for you in yours.”

  “Profound—and beautiful,” Melody said.

  “Come upstairs and get some sleep,” Serena said.

  “I honestly don’t think that I can,” Melody told her.

  “Then try to get some sleep on the sofa,” Serena suggested.

  “I won’t sleep,” Melody said.

  “Rest.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have a few things to do, and then I’ll get some rest, too. I promise,” Serena said.

  She knew she wouldn’t sleep. In a way, she didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to hire a carriage and ride into town. She wanted to see other people and find out what they were thinking. She wanted to go back upstairs and explore Jake’s room and his office more thoroughly. She wanted to find his clothing, and cuddle it to her, and pretend that they might have been together.

  But there was no way to blame him for feeling the need to return. Serena was alone here.

  It was a hard life.

  She had just stretched out on the sofa when a thought occurred to her and she bolted back up.

  “Serena!”

  “What?”

  “Won’t they still be after Jake—the British. He escaped a hanging. He made a fool of the commander. Won’t they be looking for him?” she asked Serena.

  Serena hesitated. “I believe that it will all just lie. The action has not taken place in this area lately.”

  “And you think that he’s going to be capable of returning—and just sitting out the Revolution?” Melody asked.

  “He will have to do so,” Serena said. “He can’t be captured again. I know my brother—I can convince him that his writing is far more important than any physical strength he could offer as a soldier on the field again.”

  “A treaty is not signed until 1783,” Melody said worriedly. “Lord Cornwallis does not surrender the British army at Yorktown until October 1781. There are years and years of danger ahead.”

  “Are any more battles fought in Gloucester?” Serena asked.

  “No…not that I know of. The British come with terrible power. Let’s see, I’m trying to remember my history…we lose at Brandywine and Germantown, and the British take Philadelphia…Washington does get to win some, as in when he crosses the Delaware—my God, that happens tomorrow, and though he doesn’t hold the ground he takes, his surprise attack gives him supplies he desperately needs and lifts the morale of his soldiers. Wow, let’s see—Gates defeats Burgoyne at Saratoga. I don’t think severe action comes here again, but I have an American schoolchild’s understanding of the war. Someday, though, I swear, now I am going to go back and pay more attention to history.”

  “Trust me,” Serena said. “My brother is going to be all right. We must have faith. And, you know everything else. I’m assuming that when Jake first…arrived with you, you did what you could to find out what had happened in the past. You found journals. Surely, there were church records. You know what happened in the war—what happened with us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t look all this up?” Serena asked with dismay.

  “No, of course, you’re right, we tried to find out what was said in the history books and in church records. But that was the problem. You are listed as being born. He was listed as a soldier to be hanged. But there’s nothing more. It doesn’t say that Jake died that day at the end of a hangman’s noose—it just doesn’t say anything at all. It’s as if history stopped here…or on the day that Jake was supposed to die at the executioner’s hand.”

  “How very—odd,” Serena said.

  “Yes, odd, but I think there’s a reason for it. The books couldn’t answer now—because they don’t know how the story ends. So much might be fate and destiny,” Melody said. “So much might be prayer—and even magic. But I think that so much in our lives is the result of free will. When the story ends, it will be written in history.”

  “I am down as having been born,” Serena said.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “No children though,” she said sadly.

  “Serena, the children would be part of how the story ends, and that’s to be seen.” Melody smiled encouragingly to her. “You’re not listed as being deceased in those history books, either. It’s as if, from that moment in New York on, you both had a clean slate.”

  “That’s rather nice. I like that. Free will—and a future to be seen,” Serena said. And she was happy.

  She appeared as calm and serene as her name. Leaning back in her chair, hands folded before her, she closed her eyes.

  It was not so easy for Melody. She lay awake, terrified that she would send a man back in time, and he would be hunted down, and hanged again—this time with deadly results.

  Tossing and turning on the sofa, she thought about her conversations with Serena, and she thought about her home and the journals.

  She bolted up again and reached for the sketch pad. She hesitated and then began to write.

  She glanced over at Serena, who still seemed to be dozing. It wasn’t as if she could just leave the note on the mantel. Years would come and go.

  She walked over to the stones encasing it. Touching them, she walked away and thought again, then returned to the stones, going over them again and again. At last, she found what she was seeking. There was an opening without mortar between at the bottom right-hand side. She pushed the note in, trying to make it visible and invisible at the same time. She thought about the mantel; new wood had been set over it time and again, but as far as she knew, the stone base in her house now was the stone base that had always been there.

  Satisfied, she took her seat on the sofa again, and closed her eyes.

  She was dimly aware of Serena rising, finding the sketchbook and writing furiously, as well.

  When Serena went to follow Melody’s footsteps to the hearth, Melody sat up.

  “I saw you write a note. I thought I would add my own,” she said.

  “Well, I suppose there’s a chance they will get ours—sadly, we won’t get anything back from them. I don’t think.”

  “No, we won’t get anything back. But…at least we’ve touched them!” Serena said.

  “At least,” Melody agreed. She was lying on his sofa, in his time—his house. She could close her eyes and imagine him there, and at the desk upstairs in his office. She could see him speaking passionately to Serena about the events of the day that moved him, and she could see him at the simple things in life, whittling by the fire, playing the violin that lay so tenderly in a case upon the buffet.

  This was his house, his life. She had no right to want him to change that.

  They sat in the family room. No one suggested that anyone bother trying to get any sleep.

  Jake tried to lighten the mood, though his own heart was heavy. “I am sorry that I never learned to drive. An automobile, I mean.”

  “It’s easy—you just have to learn to be very careful on ice,” Mark said.

  “Well, there’s more to it than just the mechanics,” Jake said.

  “What do you mean?” Keith asked him.

  “Well, there seems to be a certain…a certain amount of vocal rites that go with it, as well,” Jake said. “I noticed that every time you or Melody were not happy with another driver, you muttered, ‘Dickhead!’”

  “Keith!” Mona admonished.

  “Sorry,” Keith said, “I
got it from Dad.”

  “What?” George huffed.

  “I rather like it,” Jake said. “Now, when a wagon or carriage cuts me off, I will shake my head and growl in my throat and say, ‘Dickhead!’”

  “How wonderful,” Mona said, eyeing Keith sternly. “We’ve taught him all the right stuff.”

  At least it seemed that the household was smiling again. He stood and walked over to the mantel. “Of course,” he teased, “I could go with your expression, Mona, for the things that don’t please you.”

  Mona sat up very straight. “And what is that?”

  “‘Oh, you piss-pot!’” Jake quoted.

  “I think it sounds better for a guy to say ‘dickhead,’ don’t you, Mark?” Keith asked.

  “Yeah. Stick with ‘dickhead,’ Jake,” Mark agreed.

  Jake was about to reply when he noticed the fireplace, the old stone structure that was two sided, allowing for the fire to heat the family room and the parlor.

  One of the bricks, down low near the floor, seemed to have something just barely sticking out from it, like a piece of lint or fluff.

  He bent down lower to look. He’d studied a great deal of the house, and done so with a keen eye—naturally. The house itself had barely changed, with only cosmetic changes being made throughout the centuries by the different owners, stamping their own personalities on the place.

  Well, that and the plumbing. Modern plumbing! Ah, that he would miss.

  “What is it, Jake?” George asked.

  “I don’t know…but it wasn’t there before,” Jake said.

  He hunkered down. There was paper stuffed into the narrow gulf between the bricks. Paper—where the mortar or grout had worn away.

  He reached for it, then hesitated, thinking that it would now be more than two hundred years old. Fragile.

  By then, Mark was standing by his side. “Tweezers,” Mark said, leaning down beside him. “We’ll have to be very careful.”

  “Here, here!” Mona cried, rummaging through her desk to find tweezers.

  Jake took the tweezers from her and very carefully unwedged the papers from between the bricks. He blew at the folded sheets—trying to gently remove the mortar dust of the ages. He smiled, recognizing his own writing paper.

  “Is it…from Melody?” Mona asked.

  “I believe so,” Jake said. But there were two. “At least one is from Melody.”

  “For the love of God!” George shouted. “Read it, and read it out loud!”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Jake said. He set to the task of unfolding one of the sheets with tremendous care. Then he began to read, “‘Dearest Mom and Dad, Keith, Jake, Mark—as Mark can assure you, I am fine and getting to know Serena, who is lovely. Mark, she has spoken very highly of you, and, of course, Jake…well, your sister believes you are one of the finest men in the world. She is amazing, and I understand your dedication. I am not at all afraid or uncomfortable, and will see you in the morning. Christmas morning, filled with Christmas magic. I love you all so much. Jake, I will probably never see you again. There will always be an emptiness in my heart, and I will never forget you. But love is about giving, and I know that you must return to your time. Not that it’s really up to me at all. Know that I understand, now more than ever. All my love, Melody.’”

  “Oh, my God,” Mona said, her voice a whisper.

  “Mom, Melody is fine, she’s all right, and she found a way to tell you,” Keith said. But Mona looked weak, as if her knees were going to give again, and Keith guided her to the sofa, where she sank down.

  “She’s really okay. My baby is really okay,” Mona said.

  “What’s the other one say?” Keith demanded.

  Once again, Jake carefully unfolded the paper.

  “‘Dear Brother,’” he read aloud, and he winced. The letter was from Serena. “‘I am sitting here with a brave and resilient young woman from the twenty-first century, however absurd that might be. Outside, our world is white, as it always seems to be come Christmas, and just as I love it. She has told me about your concern, and naturally, Jake, I did feel an equal anxiety! There was chaos in New York and friends quickly whisked me from the city. There was no chase—I do feel that wretched man who was so determined to make an example of you was thoroughly embarrassed, and none of his men had heart for the deed. I came safely home. I waited for you…and had the sincere pleasure of meeting Mr. Mark Hathaway. Jake, I tried Aislinn’s magic out of desperation. I know the spells and chants and prayers of her passages, but I don’t know what works, what might be wishes, and, frankly, how any of this came to be. I have read in her passages that the doorway closes on Christmas, and there is little time left to get it all right. That I know you are alive and safe is all the sustenance I need. I am afraid for you to come home. And, oh, dear, if you have managed to find this, and are reading aloud, please do not put the Tarleton family who took you in to their home into any distress! Brother, the war is far from over, and you are dearly loved where you are. Give grave thought to your return. I will love you throughout time, wherever you may be. Tell Mark for me that he is an extremely fine young man, and he has taught me what I’m truly seeking in my own life. The greatest love to be found in the Christmas season of joy and miracles be with you all. Serena.’”

  Jake felt his hands trembling.

  “Jake,” Keith said, excited, “she—she’s warning you not to go back.”

  But Jake shook his head. “You don’t understand. She’s very brave, but—my army pay, late and small as it might be, keeps the household running. It’s subsidized, of course, by the money I make writing articles for the newspapers. It’s a hard time, you can’t imagine…with the war going on. The fishing is down, we’re ever on the lookout… I still can’t desert her.”

  “You could be hanged again!” Keith protested.

  “I’ve seen all your movies. Gloucester does not face danger again.”

  “So, you—you—are going to go back and hide out?” Mona asked.

  “No, of course not,” Jake said.

  “What if the British do get their hands on you again?” George asked.

  “They won’t,” Jake said stubbornly. “Look, pay attention to everything said between the lines. I must go back. I’m afraid for what will happen, for one, if no one returns by Christmas Day. And as brave as she may sound, I cannot leave my sister alone to weather the war and all that will come when peace and independence are finally achieved.”

  “They’re both so clever!” Mona said, smiling as she stood. “If only we could answer them.”

  “Well, we can’t,” Keith said “But we know that Melody is fine. And that she’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

  “Everyone where they belong,” Jake said softly.

  Mona suddenly jumped up. “Hot chocolate, anyone? Oh, my daughter is fine, my daughter is fine, and she’s a wonderfully clever individual—she wrote to us!”

  Brutus, wagging his tail, began to bay along with Mona’s words.

  Jimmy, not to be outdone, started barking.

  Cleo mewed in annoyance, and Mona patted the dogs—and the cat—totally indifferent to the ruckus. “If we’re all staying awake, hot chocolate seems like a lovely winter’s idea!” Mona said.

  Mark hesitated before following Mona. “You go through life, and you find some people who are truly unique and special, and you have friendships. But those really great friendships are few and far between, and hard to come by. You can know someone all your life, and never really reach that level of friendship. Then you can meet someone, know them for just a few hours, and know that you’d have been friends. Jake, that’s you,” Mark said, “and Serena.”

  Jake nodded, smiling slowly. “The pleasure, Mark, has been mine. And my sister’s, so it seems.”

  “I was completely respectful!” Mark said quickly.

  Jake laughed. “Mark, I didn’t think anything but.”

  “All right, all right, cut the goo!” Keith said, pushing his way between th
em.

  Mark seemed to give himself a physical and mental shake. “I’ll help you, Mrs. Tarleton,” he told her, as if determined he needed to move.

  George silently followed the other two. Jake felt Keith watching him.

  “I’ve got a present for you. Come on upstairs.”

  Keith turned, and Jake followed him. They went up to Keith’s room where Keith started looking through books of photos on his shelf.

  “I have a zillion pictures with Melody in them, of course. But I don’t guess a digital snap will look all that good back in your day. She did a self-portrait one day when were together. Chalk. If I can find it. Aha!”

  Flipping through the books, Keith came to a stop. There was a picture rendered on a fine, rich paper. It was a self-sketch of Melody. It was titled in her curving script, “A la Norman Rockwell!”

  She was at a desk, sketching herself as she looked in a mirror.

  “Who was Norman Rockwell?” Jake asked.

  “An artist long after your time,” Keith said. He pulled the picture from out of the protective clear sheaf in the book. “It’s Melody. Really, Melody.”

  And it was. She was laughing, and a bit sheepish. Her hair was slightly askew and wildly sensual as it cascaded haphazardly around her face. The sunlight streaming through the window touched her hair, and there was a happiness, kindness and sense of humor in the rendering that was delightful. It was the woman who had plucked him from the snow, the one who had doubted him, the one who had given him her faith and her home, even without her total belief. He was afraid that his fingers would tremble.

  “Merry Christmas,” Keith said. “I really did want to give you a present.”

  There was a tap at the door. Mark was there. “Hey, your Mom is getting really agitated. She’s still worried, which is natural, I imagine, since she’s a mom, and Melody isn’t here.”

  “Actually, it’s odd, I feel that she is here. Somewhere, near. It’s almost as if I can smell her perfume,” Jake said.

  Keith and Mark exchanged glances. Keith clapped him on the shoulder. “Sure.”

  Mark nodded, turned and walked away.

  “This is killing you, isn’t it?” Keith asked Jake.