Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

“Home in Time for Christmas is one of those novels that really touches you.

You finish reading it and immediately want to start again just to relive the whole experience…. Christmas truly is a time for miracles.

Don’t miss your chance for a bunch of holiday smiles and a book you will want to reread every Christmas season.”

— Bookreporter

“One of the most heartwarming novels I have read in a very long time.”

— Romance Readers Connection on

Home in Time for Christmas

“Graham plays the story’s supernatural angle for both chills and chuckles….

Ringo is the best ghost to come along in ages.”

—RT Book Reviews on Nightwalker

“Graham peoples her novel with genuine, endearing characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Séance

“An incredible storyteller.”

— Los Angeles Daily News

“Solidly plotted and peppered with welcome hints of black humor.

And the ending’s all readers could hope for.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Last Noel

“Heather Graham knows what readers want.”

— Publishers Weekly

HOME IN TIME FOR
CHRISTMAS
HEATHER
GRAHAM

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs,

Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole Kennedy

and John Richmond,

with all the very best wishes for the season,

however it may be celebrated!

Prologue A Winter’s Day

New York City

Christmastide, 1776

Perhaps it was fitting that it should be such a cold and bitter, yet stunning, day.

Jake Mallory took a minute to appreciate the awesome glory of the morning. The heavens were an extravagant shade of blue. Light puffs of soft white clouds were slipping by. The sun, a golden orb, was en route to a high point in the sky as the early hours of the morning defied the darkness of the passing night.

It was, indeed, a beautiful day.

A fine day to die.

They had all known it, known they might be called upon to die, all of them who agreed that the colonies must break from Mother Britain. All those who had set pen to paper and signed the Declaration of Independence. All those who had led the armies. All those who had fought.

And spied.

Not that spying had actually been his intent. He was a soldier. Well, he hadn’t exactly wanted to be a soldier, either. Such an enterprise had not been his intent in life. He was a newspaperman—or, at least, that was what he had intended to be. Writing was his passion. His home was the small town of Gloucester, but even there, as in all the surrounding towns, the talk had been about politics. About breaking away. Then, there had been the Boston Tea Party.

Blood had been spilled.

He believed deeply in the freedom and equality of man. That and, of course, the editorials he had written regarding the need for the colonies to break free, were what had brought him to stand here today. In the taverns of Boston he had gotten to know many a man handy with a pamphlet, such as John Adams, who in turn had introduced him to another John—Hancock. He had become involved with men to whom the written word was a weapon. And handling such a weapon …

Had led to his carrying a different kind of weapon. And—quite sadly, really—to getting caught.

Ah, there was the rub. Getting caught. Men far too old to be soldiers knew that they would hang if captured by the British, if their cause failed.

So here he was today.

Upon the scaffold.

Truly, such a deplorable state of affairs.

Ah, well. He had written well, and sewn rampant seeds of rebellion. He had taken to the field, running missions; he had picked up a gun, as well. He was guilty of sedition, so they said. Words on paper could shout loudly, and his had been heard, far and wide.

There was a precedent for his death. He wouldn’t be the first to die here, hanged for his loyalty to a fledgling nation. Nathan Hale had died just a few months back. Hale had died heroically. Jake could only hope now that he could do the same.

Looking at the sky, one could almost pray for a miracle. There was such awe and wonder in the beauty of the sky. But there weren’t going to be any miracles. The British were firmly entrenched in the city. No sudden horde of rebels was suddenly going to break through the ranks of Lobsterbacks and save him. Nor was it likely that Hempton, the British major in charge of his fate, would find any way to suggest that they pardon their captive for the holiday.

The holiday …

It was almost Christmas.

Well, he was a God-fearing man, so maybe that was a good thing. He didn’t blame God for his fate. Things were what they were. It was a war, perhaps an ill-advised one, considering the might and power of the British war machine and the truly pathetic manpower and munitions of the Patriots. It was being fought on dreams and ideals. This morning, especially this morning, he had to keep believing in the dream. He had been in over his head, cast into a desperate position, and he had chosen the high road.

Of course, he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit that it was just a wee bit difficult not to regret that choice right now.

“Sorry!” Captain Tim Reginald said to him. The British officer charged with the duty of slipping the noose around his neck had chafed his cheek with the coarse rope. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tim was a good enough fellow; they’d played cards together and shared a few drinks during the last days. He was young enough himself, a true Brit, following the way of the British army as his family would have him do. He was a man willing enough to fight for king and country, strong, intelligent and brave.

But executions were not his forte.

“Quite all right, good friend,” Jake said.

Poor Tim. A good man, yes. War was so strange. Men became enemies when they did not know one another. If he and Tim did not give their hearts, souls and loyalties to different drummers, they might have been good friends in truth.

It almost looked at if Tim would give way to tears. Ah, a good British officer could never do so. “Friend,” he said kindly to Tim, “don’t fear. I do not hold you responsible for my impending demise, nor does God above.”

Tim swallowed hard, just appearing more ill.

He could hear the Anglican minister droning on in prayer, advising him to pray, as well.

Jake prayed.

Jake did not pray for a miracle.

He did not waste prayers on what could not be. God helped those who helped themselves.

Therefore, there was just one prayer to make.

Dear God, do not let me falter; let me be the best man I am able in this moment. May it be quick; may I not dangle at the end of this rope. May I not cry out, but die with dignity in thy Grace!

As if in answer to his prayer, Major Hempton strode center on the scaffold. A hush fell over the crowd. Oh, and there was a crowd. Church bells pealed because it was almost Christmas, and folks should have been home cooking and thanking the good Lord for their loved ones, but hell, Christmas or no, a good hanging was a good hanging.

And in the sea of faces before him, there were those who cried—blessed, lovely women with their tearstained faces, those who rued his fate. Those who believed in the sovereign rights of America, and, of course, there were also those who thought he deserved his fate as a traitor against the mother country.

Hempton was a puffed-up peacock of a man. His position in the army had been bought through family ties. He did well enough making the occupied city of New York bow to its knees; he could drink well and lock his jaw in silence when he realized his gambling losses, but he was not the kind of man that the British military hierarchy wanted in the field.

“Good people of New York!” Hempton announced. “You see before you a gift for this Christmas season. A traitor! A man who would cast you into years of want and death and hardship! You out there who might think to make such a treacherous move against your mother country and the goodness of King George, beware! This is the fate that will meet all traitors!”

Really, it did help that Hempton was just a pompous ass. He was little, and therefore, wore very high boots. He was balding, so he took elaborate care with his wigs. He had a huge gut from overindulgence in food and wine, and thus truly gave the impression of a lobster in his red uniform. At least his appearance made for a last amusement Jake could enjoy on earth.

Trying for dramatic effect, Hempton swung around. “Any last words of regret, traitor?” he demanded.

“I regret that I failed my country, the United States of America,” he said. “I regret that I leave behind my family and good friends, and the future of freedom that will be in this great land!”

I leave behind family….

Suddenly, to his astonishment and dismay, his “family,” his adopted sister, was there before him.

Serena.

Sweet Serena, the little girl he had protected so fiercely ever since she’d lost her parents when they were young, and even more fiercely now that he’d lost his own. Little girl grown up now, furious, and facing the enemy. Serena, with her beautiful, wide, iridescent blue eyes. Her hair, like a raven’s wing.

But she couldn’t be there. Home was far away. Far up the coast, in Gloucester.

Someone had to get her out of here before she infuriated the wrong person. Good God, the British couldn’t hang a woman! Could they? This was war. Atrocities had occurred. No, no, no…

Stay silent, Serena, he begged in silence.

“Oaf! Traitor! “ Hempton stuttered out. Apparently, he had no ready argument.

Oh, dear God, Jake thought, I prayed for help to die well, and you have brought this woman who is the closest I have to kin left in the world to see the spectacle of my jerking limbs and dangling feet….

But she couldn’t be there, she couldn’t; word couldn’t possibly have reached her in time for her to make the journey to New York, it was impossible.

Not impossible. She was there.

“You are the oaf, sir!” she shouted to Hempton. “You would kill a man as Christmas comes?” Dear God, but that sweet voice of hers which could resound with such charming laughter could also peal out with the resounding sharp clarity of a bell.

He winced. She would get herself arrested. And with such a man as Hempton, he sincerely feared even a woman could ride a gallows and meet a hangman’s noose.

“Get it over with quickly, I beg of you!” he said quietly to Tim.

But Tim, like the rest of the throng—including Hempton—seemed to be caught up in the spell created by the ringing tones of Serena’s mockery. Hempton’s lips were puffing, but now he really seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Let goodness be, blessed be, let crimes against the heavens be not against man!” she cried out. She raised her arms. And she dropped rose petals.

Rose petals. In the middle of winter. Against the white of snow still upon the ground, and the crystal blue of the morning. Rose petals, like blood drops on the snow.

“Let Christmas be!” she cried out. “Christmas, and God’s grace on man, and woe to the enemies of love and peace. Shame on those who forget that we come into a season of love and forgiveness. What fool of a mortal fails to honor the likes of Christ, or those who teach us how to live in kindness and charity with our fellow men?”

The crowd was beginning to stir. There was something about the passion in her voice, and the sweetness. Those who wanted a spectacle of pain and death were shamed.

Hempton found his voice. “Hang him!” he shouted to Tim.

And Tim indeed looked as if he would cry.

“For the love of God, Timothy, now!” Jake agreed. “Please, my friend, I beg you. Now, before my sister meets the wrath of that wretched oaf, as well.”

Tim understood. His eyes were filled with the agony of his duty.

The noose was tightened. Jake looked at Serena. “I love you, dearest sister, sweetest friend. Go home!” he whispered. She shouldn’t have seen him; she never should have been here. When had she come to New York? It was impossible for her to be here.

But he could see her; she was there.

Crystal-blue eyes were upon his. “I love you,” she mouthed in turn. “And we will both come home for Christmas.”

There was a drumroll. Tim whispered with tears in his voice, “God forgive me!”

And he pulled the lever, and the trapdoor beneath Jake’s feet was sprung.

He fell….

And fell and fell..

He felt no pain.

Only the rush of the wind.

He saw the blue sky.

Then, at first, it seemed that Serena disappeared. Disappeared into a fine mist with only her smile seeming to linger as a vision in his heart.

Then, he felt a rose petal against his cheek. The sky was filled with falling rose petals.

A bloodred caress in the midst of a beautiful and snow-white day.

Chapter One
Another Winter’s Day

Christmas.

Ho, ho, ho. Merry, merry.

Yeah, Merry Christmas.

The road was a slip and slide.

Peace on earth.

Even when she had left New York City that morning, Melody Tarleton thought, people were practically trampling one another to get into Macy’s, make the next subway or beat everyone else out for one of the cabs slip-sliding all over the street. The stores were advertising that they were open Christmas Eve and some even on Christmas morning, just so that the jerks who couldn’t remember to buy gifts all year long could rush out last minute and buy some stupid thing that no one would really want anyway. But they’d realize they were going to grandma’s for dinner, and hadn’t even thought to buy the woman who had loved them their whole lives so much as a bouquet of flowers. Got to keep stores open for that. And God forbid, someone should forget they had another little niece or nephew. The children of the world definitely needed more stupid plastic toys! And, surely, the forgotten infant needed another bib that was embroidered with Spit Happens! or some other inane sentiment.

The car started to spin. Melody gripped the wheel and took her foot off the gas. It righted itself.

She let out a sigh of relief, and then winced. What in God’s name was the matter with her?

What had become of her usual joy of the holiday season? She wished that her mood would lighten, and that she would pay heed to a few of the Christmas carols resounding from her car-stereo system. She had a million things for which she should be thankful; healthy, living parents who loved her, a wonderful brother who was just about her best friend now—even though they had fought wretchedly growing up. She loved what she did for a living..

Ah, there was the problem!

Mark.

In a few days, he would be there. Her mother had asked him to come for Christmas. Which, of course, he had expected. He wasn’t taking a thing that she said seriously.

I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t marry you, or be engaged to you. I can’t even be your girlfriend. I thought I knew you, but then you began to talk about our future. You’re a fine man, just not for me.

Well, she had known him. Most of her life. They’d gone to middle school and high school together, gone off to different colleges, and then met again at a book fair. It had seemed perfect at first; they’d been old friends, reconnecting. She drew pictures, he wrote words. They both loved illustrated novels. They’d both hailed from Gloucester, and moved to New York. So much to talk about, so much of the past to relive!

And they were friends. She was so happy to be his friend.

Then they’d been more. She thought she could see a wonderful future with him until he shared what he saw for the two of them.

She was just amazed at his vision of the future. He would take care of her. She wouldn’t work—oh, well, of course, she could draw little pictures for their children. They’d have ten.

It was so odd how things had changed. She’d found him charming and attractive.

And now.

She was afraid of mistletoe.

There was no way out. As it had become clear that they were each seeking a different future, and the harder she struggled to escape, the more he had set the tethers upon her, it had all happened too late to salvage Christmas.

Her mother had already given him the invitation to come up. So, for Christmas, he’d keep insisting that she loved him and didn’t understand that he just loved her and wanted the world for her. She’d be avoiding him, and no one would understand.

Ho, ho, ho. It was going to be great.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

So, okay, Mark was the one with the publisher and he would probably see that she was fired off the project she had been hired to work on with him.

No, she had a contract.

Contracts could be broken.

Good God, she wasn’t going to lead a man on because of a contract!

She believed in herself. Even if he didn’t. And that was the point.

She’d just start pounding the pavement all over again if need be.

Think positive.

Christmas had always been her favorite time of year, maybe because her folks had loved the holiday so very much. Her mom went all out. Massive, overstuffed stockings for the entire family and whatever friends happened to be with them. A tree that was so heavily decorated, it almost sank into the floor. House lights that might have been a cause of global warming—the only non-earth-friendly concession her mother ever made.

Be thankful for my family, she told herself.

And she was really.

Oh, Lord, she would have to face her father. He was such a good soul. He’d be confused at first when she tried to explain what had happened with Mark—that she didn’t want a relationship in which she was basically owned. He wouldn’t understand a man like Mark—actually, she wasn’t sure many people would. Mark gave new meaning to old-fashioned.

Her parents had met in college. Her mom had become a nurse, and her dad had become a professor. They had shared child rearing. In this day and age, she thought, they were truly adorable. Somehow, through thick and thin, they had made marriage a two-way street.

There—she could blame it on her folks. She just wanted the same kind of love and respect in a relationship. Support and belief. It really wasn’t a dream—she had seen it work.

Okay, so her mother often shook her head over her father, but she did it with affection. “He’s tinkering in his office,” she would say, and roll her eyes. Her dad had been a professor at Worcester Poly-Tech once, and he was still always trying to tweak an old invention—or master a new one. Puffs of smoke arose from the building out back upon occasion, but he’d never burned anything down. And despite her protests to the contrary, Melody knew that this was exactly the man her mother had fallen in love with all those years ago.

Oh, her mother would hate the news of her relationship with Mark. Mona would be all indignant when she tried to explain the truth. How dare he think he was better than she was, or more worthy of expressing creativity! Or, it could be worse. Her mother believed that she came from a long line of mystics, or healers. She could trace her family back to Saxon England, and she was convinced that she could grow herbs and create medicinal drinks that actually had magical strength. She just might decide that Mark could imbibe enough herbal tea laced with God-knew-exactly-what that he would see the error of his ways.

The thought made her groan aloud.

Mark! she thought, feeling ill, don’t you see, we can’t make it. And trying to pretend that everything is all right just because it’s Christmas is not going to work.

And if all that wasn’t enough stress for this trip home, there was her brother. As much as she loved her brother, Keith.

God only knew who or what he’d have found to come home with him.

Though he’d never played football, Keith looked like a fullback. He was tall, charming, and very good-looking, but he was their father in all aspects of geek. He was attending his father’s alma mater, learning electronics and physics and so on, and when he wasn’t busy studying, he was finding someone or some creature who needed help.

One year, he’d brought home a stripper.

Another year, it had been a wounded raccoon.

He had a great heart. She loved him to death.

She just hoped that they wouldn’t have to share Christmas with Mark and a stripper.

Hmm. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing….

No, it would probably be another animal this year. Like the blind Persian cat he had found last year, the basset with the little roller now to replace the hind legs a driver had crushed the year before, or Jimmy, the big old sheepdog mix he had found three years ago, starved and left to die in a crate on a trash pile. If Keith hadn’t found a wounded animal, he would decide that Melody was one. Maybe, she was. Human beings were, after all, animals. Usually, it was events like Christmas that lifted man above the beasts.

Christmas. How she had once loved it. How she dreaded it now. And this feeling of dread was wrong, so wrong! Because no matter how uncomfortable the festivities proved to be for her, she had to remember that it was Christmas.

She frowned suddenly, slowing the car. The day had been bright and beautiful, despite the ice on the ground and roads. But out of the blue, there was suddenly darkness, as if a cloud had passed the sun. The darkest cloud ever known to man.

And in the midst of it…

Good God, there was a figure in the middle of the road, a dark form…

Melody slammed hard on the brakes, even though she knew better. There was just so much ice on the road. Before the car fishtailed, she saw the figure more fully in the glare of her headlights.

It was a man.

A man dressed as if he were a refugee from the past. He was hatless in the snow, and wearing a white muslin shirt and tight-fitting pants. Tall black boots. He wasn’t in a wig, but his long dark hair was queued back. He was staring at her with pure amazement.

As if the idiot had never seen a car before.

Then, the car started to spin. She had hit black ice. She knew better than to try to stop the way she had. But hell, it had been that, or.

She felt a bump; she’d hit the figure.

Hopefully not as badly as she would have, had she not tried so hard to stop!

She came to a halt against a snowbank. Incredibly, her air bag did not go off. Her lights streamed against the gray color the day had become and the snow, coming down now in a fresh swirling round of flurries. Stunned, she sat still for long seconds, thanking God that she was alive.

Then she remembered the soft thumping sound against the car. She tried to open her door, but she was against the snowbank. She maneuvered across the car to the passenger side and managed to get out.

He was there, lying in the snow. He was clad only in eighteenth-century attire, often enough seen around Salem, but ridiculous in this weather. His shirt and pants were simple cotton, no barrier against the bitter cold, though, at the least, his knee-high boots would keep his feet warm. He must have been freezing.

Her initial reaction was panic. She had just struck down a man in the snow.

She flew to his side, saw his chest rise and fall.

Oh, thank God, he was alive!

He was young…her age, maybe a year or two older, but he was under thirty, she was certain. His hair, somewhat frayed from what had been a neat queue.

At a loss in those first few seconds, her own heart thundering, she felt her second reaction kick in.

Anger!

What the hell had the idiot been doing standing in the middle of the road in a snowstorm?

Concern quickly replaced the anger. He was breathing, and she didn’t see blood spewing from any part of his body, but had she…broken him?

She needed to dial 911. Fast. Get help.

She fled from the man back to the car, found her purse and cell phone on the front seat, and dialed. Nothing happened.

The No Signal information screen flashed on.

Swearing, she called her phone service a zillion names in a single breath, and tossed the phone back on the seat. She scrambled back to the man on the ground. Should she move him? She suddenly wished she’d taken some kind of first-aid class. If she moved him and he did have a broken limb, she could make it worse. What if his neck was broken? Moving him, she could finish him off!

As she knelt by him, the snow on the ground seeping through her leggings, the flurries coming fast and furious, he suddenly groaned.

“Oh,” she breathed, looking down at him. “Hey, please. Sir, can you hear me, sir? What hurts? Oh, Lord, speak to me, please!”

The snow fell on the contours of his face and turned his hair white.

She might hurt him if she moved him, but if she didn’t, he was going to freeze to death. Second problem. If she did move him, could she get him to the car? Was she capable? He was tall, she was certain—despite the fact that he was prone, he seemed awfully long. Also, it looked as if he was composed of pure muscle. That meant he’d be heavy. She’d never been that thrilled with her own figure, because, basically, there wasn’t enough of it. She wasn’t exactly a weakling, but she was a probably-too-slim hundred and ten pounds stretched out on a five-seven frame.

“All right, if I’m hurting you, I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to try to get you into the car.”

She stood, trying to figure it out. She’d have to grab him by the feet.

As she did so, she noted his boots were like nothing she had ever seen before. They were reproductions, she was sure, but they must have cost a mint—they had been singularly crafted and were sewn, sole to body, with leather strips meticulously threaded by hand.

Quit with worrying about his state of dress! she warned herself in a puffing silence. He was heavy. She was barely managing to drag him a quarter incha second. She could hear herself grunting and puffing in the cold air, and yet she was straining so hard that it seemed her muscles and lungs were on fire.

Then, suddenly, words in a deep, masculine and explosive tone sounded loudly against the stark landscape.

“Good woman! What on God’s own earth are you doing to me? ”

She dropped his ankles and stared at him, speechless. He was still stretched out, but sitting up, legs out in the snow, staring at her as if she had lost her mind.

“Oh, you’re alive!” she gasped.

To her dismay, he appeared both surprised and puzzled. “Yes, yes, I am. I believe. It is cold, so I must assume this feeling means alive.” He offered her a rueful and very puzzled grimace. “Excuse me, but… who are you, and where are we?”

She frowned. She didn’t much mind the who are you part of the question, but the where are we was more than a bit disturbing.

“My name is Melody Tarleton. We’re in the middle of the road, heading toward Gloucester. You ran out in front of me. I struck you with my car.”

“Your car?” he said, truly puzzled.

She pointed. He tried to rise, staring at the car—gaping at the car, actually. Inwardly, she groaned. What? Was he taking this reenactor thing far too seriously?

“Yeah, yeah, my car. I hit you. I’m responsible, I’m so sorry, except you did run right out into the road. And that’s insane, you know. Totally insane. What, are you crazy? There’s black ice all over, with the temperature going up and down all the time.”

He stared at her, still frowning, blinking furiously. He looked her up and down, noting her sleek wool coat with its fur-lined hood—now completely soaked and covered in melting flurries. He looked at her face, and then around him. Of course, other than her car against the snowbank, there was nothing to see but snow-covered trees.

“Please,” he said with quiet dignity, “I don’t understand. I swear to you that I have never seen such a conveyance. Or anyone that looks quite like you.”

Anyone that looks like me? He had to be kidding. She studied him in return. His face was lean, well sculpted, and yet, in a way, he actually resembled Mark.

But he wasn’t Mark, and she knew Mark had no family. He was just a very strange stranger she had just hit on the road.

“Look, did I break any of your bones?” she demanded.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

So what the hell was she supposed to do now? He had to be bruised and in pain. She couldn’t leave him on the snow-laden, icy road.

Mark would have told her to get in the car as quickly as possible. He might have picked the guy up, but only to drop him at the nearest police station. If he’d been with her, he’d never let her try to help the man. He’d be instantly convinced the guy was a serial killer.

Mark wasn’t with her.

And she made her own choices. And that, to her, was important. She wasn’t against accepting advice, but as far as her life went, she had to make her own choices.

So here, she had a choice.

What to do?

He didn’t look like a serial killer. Then again, was there an actual look? Was there a stereotype, were they blond like Swedes, dark and romantic like Italians or Spaniards. Did they dress up in colonial costume?

“Let’s get out of the snow,” she said. She started walking. He followed her.

“You have no horses,” he said.

“It’s a car,” she said. “It has an engine, a battery… pistons. I don’t know, I’m not a mechanic, I have the oil checked and leave it with the Ford people.”

“The Ford people?” he asked.

She gritted her teeth. “Stop it! Enough. You look great. I don’t own or manage any of the historical museums around here. You don’t need to keep up the act.”

He stopped short, looking at her with indignation again. He stood very straight, and he was handsome and imposing, like a hero out of an adventure book. “My dear young woman, I assure you, I am not performing in any manner. I don’t know where I am, nor do I understand this fascinating mode of transportation you refer to as a car. I…” His voice trailed off. He staggered forward, his knees buckling. She caught him, and he regained some of his strength, coming back to a full stand, but still leaning upon her. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

If he was acting, his work was worthy of an Academy Award. Melody was afraid she had managed to give him a good clip to the head with the front bumper, and that he was suffering some kind of dementia because of it.

“Let’s get to the car, and hope that I can get us out of this snowbank. My cell phone isn’t working.”

“Your cell phone?“ he said.

“Oh, God!” she groaned. “Never mind. Let me just get you home.”

She managed to get him to the car, she climbed in across the passenger seat.

He jumped as she revved the engine.

“It’s all right, that’s the engine,” she said. “Please, just get in, and fasten your seat belt.” Before he could ask, she added, “The harness, right here. It saves lives, trust me.”

He got in and, with her assistance, put on the seat belt.

She forced herself to move slowly, patiently, and she managed to back out of the snowbank. Cautiously, she began to drive on the road again.

“Unbelievable!” he murmured.

She shook her head. “Okay, you don’t know where you are. But where were you before I hit you?”

He stared at her. His handsome features knit in thought, and then confusion.

“New York,” he told her. “I was standing on the gallows, a rope around my neck.”

Great! He was crazy. He was a homeless lunatic.

Either that, or he’d somehow hit his head really hard when she’d struck him.

She narrowed her eyes, staring very carefully at the road, wondering if she hadn’t completely lost her mind. She had picked up a madman.

“I don’t want to know what part you were playing,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I need to know who you really are, and what you really do.”

“Well, in actuality, I write,” he said.

“Great. Very good. Who do you write for? Were you involved in a publicity stunt?” she inquired. Talking to him was like pulling teeth.

“A publicity stunt?” he inquired, confused. He had been staring out the window, perplexed. He turned and stared at her instead, handsome features furrowed.

She shook her head. “A publicity stunt. Something to draw the attention of the media. Something to get your name in the papers.”

“My name is in the papers,” he said.

“Okay. Good start. What is your name?”

“Jake Mallory,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“No?” He looked resigned and a little saddened. “I’ve written for the Boston papers and the New York City papers.”

“And I read the papers. I’ve never heard of you. So, what do you write?”

“Treason—according to the British. Well, actually, I haven’t written in quite some time. I wound up being a soldier. I went to war, but I was being hanged for treason.”

“What war?” she asked sharply.

“You should have read a few of my pieces. Some were considered brilliant. Rousing. I’m not a warmonger, not at all. But the colonies couldn’t be used like a Royal Exchequer forever. If we’re to pay taxes, then representation must be absolutely fair. I tried to explain what was happening to us, and why it’s so important that we part ways with Great Britain. I wrote about a central government, and about the rights of each colony. Even General George Washington read what I was writing.”

Lunatic.

“Okay,” she said calmly. “So—you were a soldier in the Revolutionary War. Right before I found you on the road?”

“Right before you struck me down,” he reminded her.

So that was it. In a sneaking and conniving way, he was going to bleed her for what she had done to him.

“Right before I struck you down, yes. You were a soldier. In the Revolutionary War? ”

His eyes hadn’t wavered from her face. She was making a point of keeping them on the road now, but her peripheral vision allowed her to be keenly aware of his steady assessment.

“Yes. Where am I?”

“Gloucester, Massachusetts,” she snapped. “Almost at my house. But I can take a detour to the police station or the mental hospital.”

“I’m very sorry. Truly. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.

“Fine. We’ll start over. What were you doing in the twenty-first century?” she demanded.

“The twenty-first?” he asked her.

She let out a long sigh. “Yes, the twenty-first.”

“Who won?” he asked.

She was startled by the sudden intensity in him; she didn’t just hear it in his voice, but felt it in the constriction of his body as he leaned closer to her.

“Who won?” he demanded again. He was even closer. Practically breathing down her neck.

Lunatic. Serial killer. A madman–serial killer. She needed to humor him.

“The United States of America. And the federal forces won the Civil War, too.”

He hunched back into the passenger’s seat. “Thank God. Civil War?”

“The American Civil War, or the War Between the States, or, as it was referred to in the South, the War of Northern Aggression. We are one country.”

He stared out the window at the white world beyond the car. “How sad, how excruciatingly sad. We won the Revolution, and fought a civil war.”

“All war is sad.”

“And there is a war now?” he asked sharply.

She hazarded a glance at him. “The War on Terror,” she said. “Oh, there have been lots of wars. Before the Civil War, the War of 1812—those pesky Brits again, though we’re just like this now.” She crossed her fingers for him with her right hand, keeping the left firmly on the wheel. “Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam, Desert Storm, and all kinds of actions. Actually, I don’t think there has been a time when some part of the world hasn’t been involved in an action of some kind.”

“Amazing,” he said.

“Right. War is amazing.”

“Man’s inability to refrain from it is amazing,” he said softly.

She couldn’t hate him. Okay, so he was seriously more than just daft. There was a dignity to the tone of his voice, and a certain sincerity in too many of his words. Maybe she had hit him on the head, and he believed everything that he was saying to her.

“And it’s…Christmastide?” he asked.

“Nearly. At the end of the week.”

He nodded. “Rose petals.”

“What?”

He half smiled, glancing over at her. “Do you believe in magic? ”

“No.”

“Neither did I.”

“Look, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. But… I don’t want to have to take you to the police. You may be hurt. But my mom was a nurse. She retired recently but she can take a look at you. I mean, seriously, if I have injured you, I’d want to pay the bills. But…wow, I don’t know. You should really go to a hospital—”

“Please, no. I’m not injured.”

She should dump him by the side of the road then.

It occurred to her that while Mark would order her to do that kind of thing, her brother would never consider such an action.

Where did she stand herself?

“So, I’m going to take you home with me. I don’t know who you are, if you’re crazy, or whether you sustained a blow to the head. I’m going to have faith that you’re not a dangerous maniac.”

“I’m not a dangerous maniac, I swear.”

“God help me, I’m going to believe you. But there are a couple of things you’re going to have to get straight first,” she said firmly.

“Honestly, I’m just trying to get home,” he assured her.

“So where is home?”

“Gloucester,” he said.

“Fine. I can just drop you off.”

“I have to find out where,” he told her. “And I’m not so sure I can get there by…car.”

“Great. You can walk, skip or jump, once you’ve gotten it figured out,” she said. “But until then, you’re a friend of mine. We met at college.”

“You went to college?” he asked her, fascinated.

“Yes, I went to college,” she said flatly. “So—”

“Where?”

“Boston College. That’s where we met.”

“Boston College,” he repeated.

“Will you listen, please? This is important.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Whatever you wish.”

“We’ll make you a…an English lit major. And your tremendous interest in local history and lore made you go to work for one of the tour companies. That’s why you’re still dressed up à la General George.”

“Dressed up?”

This was ridiculously difficult. “You are wearing old-fashioned clothing. It’s no matter, I can rummage through my brother’s things, and my brother is the type who would literally give anyone the shirt off his back, so we’re fine on that. The traffic was horrendous, I was desperate to get headed north, so I wouldn’t let you go back for your things.”

He was staring straight ahead. She realized that she had come around the curve that led to her house. She was about to take the turn onto the driveway.

“Jake, are you listening to me?” she demanded, trying to slow the car without doing any more skidding.

“My God,” he breathed.

“What?”

The lights.

Of course, it had to be the lights.

Her mother definitely got carried away with lights. The house looked like a giant birthday cake with candles in a multitude of colors. There were reindeer on the lawn—fashioned in wire and covered in lights as well—that burned brilliantly, as well.

Even the old oaks laden in their snow blankets seemed to be glistening. Ablaze.

It was a warm house, a welcoming house. It….

“It’s my home,” Jake said. “It’s my house. Where I live.”

Chapter Two

Okay, that was all she needed.

The mental-man thought that her house was his.

She inhaled deeply. “Okay, okay, I hit you on the head really hard. But you can’t go in there telling my folks that this is your house.”

He was staring at the lights. It was as if he had never seen such a vision.

Well, to be truthful, not many people had. Her folks did get carried away.

“Jake.”

“Um, yes! Sorry.”

He looked at her again. His eyes gave the impression that he was entirely sane, completely honest, and giving her his steadfast attention. She felt a little start. Something that tightened and trembled within her.

Why did he have to be a madman?

They were striking eyes. They made him something other than just a handsome man. They made him real. Deep and hazel, and seeing her, really seeing her.

“Jake, whatever happened before in your fantasy world, trust me. My folks own this home. They paid off the mortgage several years ago. They worked hard, they love it—and they own it.”

“Of course.”

“You’re not ready for this,” she said worriedly.

He had turned to stare at all the lights again in pure wonder. “How do the lights work?” he marveled.

“Electricity. Your buddy, Ben Franklin, laid all the foundations. Hundreds of years later, I think Thomas Edison got it all really going, and hey, now we’re in the age of real technology—you cannot stare at everything like a kid in a candy store!“

He looked at her. “I’m sorry. But it’s just wonderful. The colors, the brilliance! So very, very beautiful. Ben always was a genius.”

“Yes, of course. There have been a few improvements,” she said dryly. Oh, this was going to be a disaster. She leaned her head on the steering wheel and groaned. “What am I going to do?”

He waited. “My dear young woman, it will be all right.” He smiled.

She gave him a fierce stare. “Listen, we can’t tell my family the truth or they will take you to the nearest hospital. Let’s say we know each other for now—until I can figure out what to do. Soo… We met at college. You’re an historian, okay? You dress up and give people tours.”

“All right. Tours of what?” he inquired.

“Um—Boston. You work for Boston Tours, Incorporated. All right?”

“Boston Tours, Incorporated. Yes, I understand.”

He still stared at her.

She shook her head. “Just follow my lead. And don’t gape at anything that’s—that’s not familiar to you in your, um, current state of mind.”

He smiled, but his eyes were grave, as was his tone. “You must understand. I was hanged during the Revolution.”

“Sure.”

He looked at the house with the Christmas lights blazing and then looked back at her, that odd and endearing smile teasing his lips once again. “You need to learn to believe in magic,” he told her. “But, I do understand. We met at Boston College. I studied English literature. Now, I’m working for Boston Tours.”

“You’re a costumed interpreter,” she said, nodding.

“The lights are beautiful,” he said.

She shivered suddenly. Reality. It was getting cold in the car.

“Come on. Let’s go in,” she said.

She leaned over and opened his car door. He grimaced, thanked her and stepped out into the glittering snow. Then he waited.

She got out of the car, questioning her own sanity once again as she walked around and crooked a hand around his arm. They hurried up the walk and onto the porch together. As they neared it, the door burst open.

Her mother had been waiting for her.

Mona wasn’t exactly a hippie. She was a strange combination of old-fashioned lady of the house with a bit of the wild child thrown in. She had tons of thick, curling blond hair that had only a few strands of gray. She loved yoga and Enya and anything that smacked of man’s peaceful coexistence with his fellow man. She had grown her own food years before the word organic had begun to appear in supermarkets.

She’d been at the original Woodstock.

She always wore long, flowing shirts and dresses, like the flower grower’s version of Stevie Nicks.

Her one great drawback was that even though she had passed that mark of having lived on the earth for over half a century, she saw no evil in anyone, and believed that all could always be made right with the world. She had no enemies. Strangers were always friends waiting to happen.

“Melody! Mark. Oh, Melody, I thought you said that Mark couldn’t come with you—oh, goodness, I’m sorry, you’re not Mark!” Mona said, a hand fluttering to her breast.

“No, ma’am, I’m Jake Mallory. How do you do? I’m sorry to be a strange and uninvited guest, but Melody assured me that you would not mind the intrusion.” He spoke naturally, even if his accent was more than strange. More England than New England, Melody thought.

But he was doing well enough. He was natural and courteous. Her mom greatly appreciated common courtesy in anyone. Manners were a main grievance with her—Mona believed they cost nothing and made the world a better place.

Mona smiled, accepting his hand. “Well, of course, you’re welcome here. Everyone is welcome here, young man.” There was warmth in her tone, but confusion in her eyes. She looked at Melody, questioning.

Melody gave her mother a big hug. “Mom, I found out Jake was going to be at odds for Christmas and picked him up last minute in Boston. He was working, and didn’t have time to change, and when we realized we’d forgotten his things, I was already on the road.”

“Oh, and the weather is horrendous!” Mona agreed, hardly listening as she ushered them inside. “And here I am, chatting away on the porch. You young people come in and sit by the fire and I’ll make some hot chocolate.” She turned, heading into the house. Melody and Jake followed. She paused, telling Melody, “Take Jake to Keith’s room, get him something comfortable to wear. Poor dear, working all day, and then that long drive.”

Poor dear! Oh, yeah. Poor lunatic!

The house was old, very old, some parts of it were built sometime in the early 1600s. A small entryway led directly to a massive parlor. A curving staircase led to the second floor where there were five bedrooms. Behind the massive parlor were the kitchen and dining room on one side, and a family room on the other.

Behind the house itself—now covered in snow—was her mother’s summer garden.

And her father’s office. Laboratory, as she and her brother called it. Her father had a fascination with waves. Radio waves, microwaves—sound waves. Any kind of wave.

A happy baying that seemed to fill every inch of sound space came to their ears; Brutus, the basset with wheels for hind legs, came clip-clapping happily into the room, his tail wagging a mile a minute. He was followed by Jimmy, the sheepdog, who was now fat and healthy. Melody knelt down to pat both dogs and they wove around Jake.

“Ingenious,” he said, hunkering down to meet Brutus.

“Yes, and he does quite well,” Mona said happily. “He’s a darling. That’s Brutus. And the pile of fluff there is Jimmy. There’s a cat running around, and that’s Cleo. She’s blind, but she has an excellent sense of smell and hearing. Just don’t panic if she walks into something—she still does that upon occasion.”

“Charming,” Jake said.

“We do love our strays,” Mona assured him happily.

Melody stood. “Okay, we’ve done the petting thing for the moment. Come on up, Jake, and I’ll find some of Keith’s things for you to wear.”

“Poor young fellow!” Mona said, “You’re soaked, you must be freezing. Hurry along now, get into something warmer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said.

Melody headed for the stairs. She stopped and looked back.

Jake Mallory was in the parlor, looking around. She started to snap at him again, but her words froze in her throat.

There was something about his expression that seemed so pained and nostalgic that it was almost… real. She wondered if he wasn’t suffering some kind of tormented dementia. Maybe he really believed that he had been a Revolutionary War soldier. He had fallen out of a time warp in the sky and landed on an ice-covered road more than two and a half centuries later.

She let out a sigh. She honestly didn’t think he was homicidal, and she had been the one to strike him down on the road. She needed to practice patience.

“Jake,” she said softly.

He looked at her, startled, then nodded and followed her. They walked up the stairs together, and turned. “This is your brother’s room?” he asked, stopping at the door where Melody pointed.

“Yes.”

They went in. She left him standing by Keith’s bed, staring at the posters of her brother’s favorites, Axl Rose and the Killers. There was also a large poster of Keira Knightley dressed up for her role in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

“Beautiful,” Jake said.

“Keira Knightley? My brother thinks she’s the most beautiful woman alive,” Melody said.

“I mean—the art. Amazing.”

“It’s a poster from a photograph.”

He started to repeat the word, but didn’t. Melody smiled broadly. “Okay, photograph. It’s from an invention that captures the image of…well, just about anything. Cameras capture the stars now, through telescopes. Oh, a telescope—”

“I’ve seen telescopes,” he said. “Just not…a photograph. Or a camera. But it sounds like an exceedingly wonderful creation. To capture images without charcoal or paints.”

“Right. There are movie cameras, too. They capture—movement. Anyway…”

“Does your brother still live here?” he asked.

“My brother is still in college. But he comes home often,” she said.

She dug into Keith’s wardrobe, grateful that her brother was a lot like her mother—he never minded in the least if anyone else made use of his things.

She found a pair of jeans and an Armani Exchange sweater and handed them to Jake, then hesitated, found a pair of Keith’s briefs, socks and sneakers. She had no idea how to judge foot size, but Jake and Keith were about the same height. Maybe Keith’s feet would be a little bit bigger, but rather too big than too small.

As she produced the sneakers, she found him playing with the zipper. “Ingenious!” he told her.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a zipper. Figure it all out. You know the house. We’ll be in the family room,” she said dryly.

“The family room?”

“Now it’s a family room, I don’t know what it might have been before. You know, when you owned it. Whatever. It’s just below us,” she said. She paused. He’d been drenched. Covered in snow and mud. “The shower is just next door.”

“The shower?”

“Oh, my God, did I pick up a parrot?” she demanded. Okay, play the game. She shook her head and sighed. “The bathroom.”

“An indoor washroom?” he asked, seriously trying to understand.

She crooked a finger at him. He followed her.

Leave it to her mom. It wasn’t all traditional New England decorating that she’d used—it was more New England meets Goth. Her folks loved pirates. The upstairs bathroom was done in early Blackbeard; the shower curtain boasted pirate flags, the decoration had ships—and the standing toilet paper holder was a silver-colored spyglass replica.

She pointed to the toilet. “Indoor…necessary, I believe. Sink. Water comes on and off when you twist the faucets. The shower works just the same. Be careful—they have a mega water heater and when you turn on the hot, it gets hot.”

He still stared.

She pulled a towel from the rack.

“Shower. You turn on the water to your temperature liking. Stand beneath the spray. Use soap. Rinse off. Dry with towel—put on clothing. Okay?”

“Amazing,” he said.

“Oh, God! It’s a hot shower. Get in and get out. And come downstairs when you’re done. No gaping. We have a stove and a television and—”

“Television?”

“Television. You see moving images on it. Fiction, and nonfiction. The news, the weather.” She made a face. “Reality shows for entertainment.”

“Reality as entertainment?” he inquired.

“Precisely.”

“But a television…”

She let out an oath of absolute impatience and hurried on out, closing the door.

In the family room, she found her father. He had been seated in one of the wing-back chairs by the fire, but he stood when he saw her, a tall lean man with a cap of snow-white hair. Cleo had been happily curled just behind his neck and she mewed a protest at his movement. Her father absently patted the cat, then came to Melody. He folded her into his arms. “Melody! I was getting worried about you coming today, the news about all the accidents on the roads has been terrible.”

She gave him a fierce hug in return, and they parted. “So, what’s up, Dad? How’s it all going?”

“Beautifully,” he assured her. “I like being retired.”

Her mother breezed into the room, carrying a tray laden with cups of cocoa and fresh-baked cookies. “He nearly blew up his study last week,” Mona said.

Her father shrugged, a tolerant smile for his wife on his face. “I did nothing of the kind. I had a little spark and a tiny fire going, and that was it. I keep a fire extinguisher on hand at all times, and I was never in any danger of losing the study.”

“Humph,” Mona said, rolling her eyes. She sat. “So, my dear, I don’t remember you mentioning this Jake fellow. Is he related to Mark? He resembles him quite a bit.”

“No, no, they’re not related at all.”

“You’re kidding,” Mona said. “I thought he’d be a cousin or something…even a brother. Wait till you see him, George,” she marveled to her husband.

“And when is the man of the hour coming up?” her father asked, a sparkle in his eyes. “I’m referring to Mark, of course.”

“Mom, Dad, Mark isn’t the man of the hour,” she said seriously.

“But…you were dating him, and you seemed to like him so much!” Mona protested. “He’s such a gentleman, always opening doors for you, trying to get you to sit and relax…he’s a lovely man, really. What happened?”

“He’s still a lovely man, Mom,” she said. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh, my Lord, he hasn’t been mean or rude to you, has he?” Mona asked indignantly. “I’ve asked him here for the holidays!”

“He hasn’t been mean or rude, and I hope he enjoys the holidays, and I hope we can remain friends,” Melody said.

“Mark is such a nice young man,” her mother said sorrowfully.

“Mom—”

“I see. You’re not as fond of the fellow as he is of you,” her father said, nodding as he sat back more deeply into his chair.

“Melody,” her mother said sternly, “you haven’t brought your other friend—this Jake—to…I don’t know, to upset Mark, have you?”

“Mom, I brought him because…he really had nothing else to do,” she said.

“Is there a romance there?” her father asked, laughter in his eyes again.

“Good God, no,” Melody said. “Please, no matchmaking with Mark, Mom, Dad. And none with Jake. Got it?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” her mother said. “You’ve got to live your own life.”

“Never,” her father promised.

“So, I’m confused. Aren’t you and Mark working together?” Mona asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re not going to stop doing the book, are you?” her father asked.

“I hope not.”

Jake came into the room then. Keith’s clothes fit him well, and Melody had to blink, he suddenly looked so right. With his hazel eyes, sandy-brown hair and good bone structure.

“Well, there now, you look more relaxed and comfy,” Mona said. “Jake Mallory, my husband, George. George, this is Melody’s friend from college, Jake Mallory.”

“Pleased to meet you, and welcome. So, you’re staying the week?” he asked politely.

Jake glanced at Melody. “If you’ll have me, sir.”

“With pleasure, with pleasure,” George Tarleton said, indicating the sofa and returning to his rocking chair.

“Cocoa, dear,” Mona said, handing him a cup.

“Thank you most kindly,” Jake said.

Melody looked downward, wincing.

“You sound almost as if you’re from ye old mother country,” George said lightly, taking a sip of his own cocoa.

“No, sir. I was born and bred right here, in these parts.”

“It’s a charming accent,” Mona said.

“Thank you,” Jake said. “My folks were born on British soil.”

“There you go,” George said, knowingly looking at his wife. He wagged a finger in the air. “I am good at discerning the little things in accents, huh, dear?”

“Yes, dear, if you say so,” Mona agreed.

“How strange, though. I’m sure I don’t know your folks,” George said. “We don’t have any English friends—do we?”

“My parents have been gone many years,” Jake said.

“I’m so sorry!” Mona said.

“Thank you,” Jake told her.

“But where is your home now?” George asked, concerned.

“He’s living in Boston, Dad!” Melody said, jumping in quickly with the information. She grabbed a cookie and munched it quickly. “Mom, these are delicious. Jake, have a cookie. My mom’s a wonderful baker.”

“Thank you,” he said politely. “Wonderful,” he agreed.

“Where in Boston are you?” George asked.

Melody couldn’t reply quickly enough—not without spewing sugar cookie over them all.

“I’m right off the Common,” Jake said.

“Lovely area, lovely!” George applauded.

She’d be a nervous, twitching wreck if this went on too much longer, Melody decided. She had to get him off alone again. She leaped up. “Would you two mind if we run out before dinner. Um, Jake hasn’t been around here for a while. I was going to take him down to the pond.”

“Lovely idea!” Mona said. “I’m not sure if you’ve seen all they’ve been up to by the pond. They have some charming shops, and a little bar—I’m sure you’ll have a nice time. Oh, Keith should be home by supper. I’m planning it for around eight.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

“Wait a minute. It was snowing so much—” George began.

“I think the snow has stopped,” Melody said. Even if there was a nor’easter pounding, she was leaving the house.

She grabbed Jake’s hand. “Jake, let’s get going so you can see the pond before dinner. Come on, now, please?”

“Of course.” He stood immediately, trying to replace his cup on the tray, a little awkward since she was tugging at his arm. “Thank you so much. This was a truly enjoyable repast.”

“Let’s go!” Melody persisted.

Her mother was laughing. “Oh, that’s wonderful. You must be a fantastic guide. How absolutely charming. Children, do have fun.”

“There’s skating—weather permitting,” her father called out.

“Okay, Dad, thanks!”

Melody managed to grab two parkas from the hooks by the entry and get Jake out the front door. A pale streak of winter’s day touched the sky; the snow had come down to just a few flurries.

She thanked God for small favors.

As they stood on the porch and she surveyed the muted light of the late-afternoon December sun, Mona popped out on the porch. Melody hoped that she didn’t physically cringe.

“Skates!” Mona said, holding up two pairs of skates. “Keith’s shoes fit you all right, don’t they, Jake? If so, I’m sure his skates will do.”

“I am more than comfortable and quite grateful, ma’am,” Jake said.

“Thanks, Mom.” Melody snatched the skates from her mother and hurried to the car. Jake followed her. She was already in the driver’s seat when Jake joined her.

Mona called something from the porch.

“We have to stop, she’s speaking to us,” Jake said, sliding in beside her.

“It’s okay—she’s just telling you that I’m a klutz,” Melody said. Before he could ask her what a klutz was, she added, “I have no coordination. I’m horrible.”

He smiled, looking ahead.

“You can skate. You’ve heard of skates, right?”

“Yes, I have.”

She started to drive, glad then that her home was Massachusetts. They were darned good at snow. Plows were always out in a matter of minutes. The roads were decent.

“Your parents are exceptionally kind,” Jake said.

“They’re—yes, they’re good people. A little crazy, but good people,” she told him.

“How do you see them as crazy?” he asked.

She hazarded a glance his way. “Pirate-themed bath-rooms? Sculpted ravens, skeleton art, fairies and ghosts and goblins all over—you’ll see. It’s so strange. I feel like I grew up with the Addams Family or as the normal child niece in the Munsters’ home.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.” She looked at him again and groaned. “How on earth can I give you a crash course in pop culture? Don’t—don’t you dare copy me! Pop culture is… what’s popular now. Too bad it wasn’t my dad who ran into you. He was a professor. He’d have you up to speed in no time.”

“Up to speed—”

“Oh, God!”

“No, no, I understand. I find it a charming expression.”

“Of course you do,” she murmured.

“Is that a problem?”

“No. It’s just that…oh, never mind. No. Are you always so…agreeable?”

“You wish me to be disagreeable?”

“No. I wish you to—snap out of it. And don’t repeat after me!”

“All right.” He was smiling, studying the scenery as they passed. “It’s so remarkable. We won the Revolution, and there have been many more wars. So many inventions. Remarkable.”

They had reached the pond. There were a few skaters out, and a few children running around the outskirts, laughing, throwing snowballs at one another. The bar—aptly name the Pond Bar—was just opening. Melody parked and stepped out of the car. She wasn’t sure what to do. She had driven to the pond because she was afraid she was already lying so much she’d start to confuse even herself.

But now…

“You’ve forgotten the skates,” Jake called.

“I suck.”

“Pardon?”

“I wasn’t lying, I’m awful.”

“Well, I’m a decent skater. Let’s give it a try, shall we?”

Skate. Maybe while she was falling on her ass she’d figure out how she’d gotten into this mess.

“All right, all right, bring them.”

There were benches by the pond. They sat down. The skates might have been somewhat modern compared to what he’d thought he had in the 1700s, but they were still basically skates. When they had both laced up, he stood, testing the way they fit, testing his own ability to walk in them.

“Aren’t you going to say remarkable, marvelous, fantastic—or something of the like?” she asked.

“They’ll do. Come on.” He stretched out a hand to her.

“You go. I’ll sit for a minute. Please.”

He watched her for a moment, then went out on the ice. At first, he moved slowly, testing the skates and then the ice. He picked up speed.

She watched him, feeling blank.

Keith picked up strange creatures. She picked up crazy ones.

A moment’s panic set in. What if he was really hurt? If his head had been badly bruised? Was she doing the wrong thing, keeping him away from the hospital?

She thanked God that Mark wasn’t due until Friday. He’d have given Jake the third degree by now, and the police might have even been called in. Mark wouldn’t have gone against her parents’ wishes; he’d have done it on the sly, certain that he knew what was best for everyone else.

So, great. What was she going to do? This wasn’t like Keith, bringing in strays when he was younger. Can we keep him, Mom, can we keep him?

She was going to have to figure something out.

A spray of ice brought her back to the moment. Jake was stretching a hand out to her again. “Will you join me?”

“I’ll make you fall.”

“No, you won’t.”

She was unsteady as she teetered out to him. “Look, I’m usually all right if I’m just going forward,” she said.

“You will be fine, no matter what we do,” he assured her.

And they were. If she hesitated, he was sure. He was so comfortable on the ice that his balance and support leant her a steady hand. He didn’t try to do anything outrageous; he just kept moving, picking up a decent speed, one hand supportive on her back, as they glided along.

Gliding. She was gliding!

The icy coolness of the air rushed at her face, and felt delicious. The world danced by them. She could hear the sound of their skates upon the ice, and it was exhilarating.

“Backward?” he suggested.

“No!” she protested in panic.

“You were born here, and you grew up here?” he asked curiously.

“Yes, I actually did.”

“It’s all right, you don’t even have to move your feet,” he said.

“But—”

“Trust me.”

“I do trust you—on the ice,” she said.

And he did prove to be trustworthy.

She didn’t have to move her feet.

He twisted and turned, they skated backward, forward and backward again.

“Want to try a spin?”

“No!”

He laughed. “All right. We’re good for the day, I imagine.”

He slid effortlessly to a halt. She was looking into the green-and-gold sparkle of his eyes and didn’t realize at first that they had come back to the bench. He was still supporting her.

“Oh, yeah, well, yeah, you know, next time, maybe,” she said. She tried to draw away, certain she could at least make the steps to the bench on her own.

Her legs started to split. She was about to go facedown—or butt-side down, if she overcompensated—on the ice.

But he caught her. Without making any kind of big deal out of it. She smiled. “I told you—no coordination on skates!”

“It will come. It’s all in learning to trust your instincts.”

She cleared her throat, made her way to the bench and took off her skates. As she did so, she saw the bar across the pond. “Time for a drink.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You drink?”

“Right now? You bet. Anything wrong with that? ”

“No. Pop culture, I assume.”

She stood, shaking her head. “And look, keep your story straight. I know a lot of people around here.”

“As you wish.”

“Don’t keep telling me that.”

“As you—all right.”

“When we’re out, and you don’t know, just let me answer—please.”

“Of course.”

As they walked toward the bar, he was thoughtful.

“What?” she asked, exasperated.

“Eventually, you will believe me,” he said quietly. “Somehow, I have to get back to my own…place.”

“At the end of a hangman’s noose?” she asked sharply.

“No. Right here. But when I’m supposed to be here,” he said quietly.

She studied him for a moment. “You need a drink worse than I do,” she told him.

“If you don’t believe in magic, couldn’t you even stretch a bit and try to believe in a miracle?” he asked. “What I’m telling you is the truth. Serena loves me, and she tried to save my life. Obviously, since I do seem to be flesh and blood, she did save my life. And maybe her magic worked because it was like a prayer for the innocent or the righteous, whichever way you want to see it.”

“Serena?” she said. “Your—wife?”

He shook his head, smiling. “My sister. Adopted, as a child, by my parents, when hers were killed in an Indian attack. She was my only sibling, and we were close. She shouldn’t have been in New York—she should have been here, in Gloucester. I was so afraid for her. Am so afraid for her. And I have to make sure that she did make it home, that. I mean, good God, you really can’t imagine what it is—was—like. Some believed the Revolution was a deadly and tragic mistake. Others saw it as a right to freedom. There were fine British sympathizers and soldiers. But those capable of cruelty come in all uniforms. I’m very afraid for her. She is my family, you see. Somehow, I have to find a way …back.”

Melody stared at him blankly, unable to believe for a moment that what she’d felt at first was actually jealousy. Of an unknown woman.

His sister.

Adopted sister.

Was she crazy herself? Was that jealousy again?

Insane. The whole thing was insane.

“Look, Jake, we do have the Internet now, planes that fly at supersonic speeds—but as far as I know, there is no pathway that leads to years gone by. No time travel. We just haven’t gotten to that yet.”

“Maybe it’s time to get to it,” he said. “There has to be a way.”

She hesitated. “We can go and try to check through some of the church records. And this area does live in the past sometimes. So many of the houses are really old—diaries and the like are always being found. Maybe we can research and find out what went on. My mom might have some old books that will help us.” She hesitated. “My mom…she thinks her ancestors were pagan healers, or Wiccans. She’s always researching the past for what was really going on when the British came over. She has the entire trial records from the Salem witchcraft mania.”

“Really? They never did hang any more witches, did they?” he inquired.

“Not that I know about.”

“I really need your help. I’m most grateful. We have to discover a way for me to get back.”

She shook her head, exasperated. He was crazy—and persistent. “I really need a drink.”

And with that, she headed for the bar.

Chapter Three

The Pond Bar was neighborhood friendly and pleasant. It was a quiet night so far—probably because it was fairly early and the day’s weather had been so bad. More people would come out later, Melody was certain, glad to escape their houses or the harrowing drives they had made during the day. But at the moment, the little place was quiet.

She chose a small table next to the cast-iron potbellied stove, and pulled her gloves off as they sat. Jake Mallory was once again looking around—then he focused on one young woman in the place who was wearing stiletto boots and one of the miniest minidresses Melody had ever seen.

His shocked gaze moved to her and he lowered his head to whisper, “Is that. I mean, is that woman a. lady of the night?”

Melody moved closer in, as well. “College student, probably,” she said.

“One goes to college for that occupation now?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No, no. Her outfit is modern—daring, especially in winter. But I don’t think she’s a hooker. Sorry. I believe the term hooker came from the Civil War—Hooker’s girls. Never mind. I don’t believe she’s a prostitute. That’s called a minidress. She’s got the youth and the body for it, looks pretty cute.”

“Ah. I’m sorry—it wouldn’t be considered decent at all in my…world,” he said.

“Thank God you didn’t fall to earth on Miami Beach,” she said.

He gazed at her, refraining from asking her about Miami Beach. She was glad—a waitress warmly clad in corduroy jeans and a turtleneck sweater came to the table. Melody opted for a totally fattening Kalhùa and hot chocolate, and Jake said that he’d have the same.

The waitress had just moved away when Jake came to his feet, a frown on his face, his posture defensive. Melody felt fingers come over her eyes and a teasing voice said, “Guess who?”

She grabbed the hands and quickly drew her brother around to introduce him to Jake, ruing the fact that Keith had already made it home. She really needed more time to figure out something to do about Jake.

“Jake,” she said quickly, “this is my brother, Keith. Keith, Jake Mallory.”

Keith was a good soul. Sure, he’d been a pain-in-the-ass baby brother at times, playing the usual stupid pranks like leaving the saltshaker lid on loose and going off into gales of laughter when she wound up with a white mountain on her French fries. But he had matured into a good-looking young man with an open mind, an easy humor and not much in the way of a temper. She thought of him often as a little mini-me of her father, because they were so into science. He had finally learned the difference between a Monet and a Picasso for her sake, and for him—and her father—she had tried to understand the basic concepts of physics. As a brother, he was coming along nicely. They both loved a lot of the same music, and that had always helped them along.

“How do you do?” Jake asked politely.

“Good, thanks. Jake, nice to meet you.” Keith drew up a chair and straddled it, grinning. He looked at Jake. “My mom and dad are all agog over you. Tearing their hair out. They don’t think they’ve met your parents. They used to be sure they knew everyone around here. And they’re still convinced that you’re related to Melody’s—er—friend Mark.”

“I don’t believe I’m related to Mark. Your parents are charming,” Jake said simply.

Thank God. He was getting better.

“So, you two met at school?” Keith asked.

“College,” Melody said. Soon enough, she’d get good at the lie.

“Did you order drinks? ”

“Hot chocolate with Kahlùa,” Melody said.

“I’ll go order the same. You’re not on one of your diets, I take it?” he asked Melody.

“No, I’m not on a diet,” she said, glaring at him.

Keith grinned at Jake. “Oh, wait, that’s right. Melody and my mom never go on diets. They go on lifestyles.”

“Keith!” Melody said sharply.

He shrugged.

“I’ll seek out the young woman who took our order,” Jake said, standing and walking toward the bar.

Keith looked at Melody. “You are such a liar.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve obviously forgotten that I came and hung around your college dorm every chance I could get, falling in love with all the ‘older’ women around you. I would have met this guy. Who is he?”

She stared at her brother. “You didn’t meet everyone.”

“Who is he?” Keith repeated.

She hesitated. “I hit him.”

“What?”

“I hit him on the road. Keith, he’s…he’s having some kind of mental block. He isn’t hurt, unless I did do him some serious brain damage. I—”

“Wait, back up. You hit him. You socked him in the jaw?”

“No!” Melody said. “I was driving and I think I hit some black ice. I hit him.”

“And you didn’t get him to a hospital?”

“No, he didn’t want to go. Hey, I didn’t hit him hard. And I just didn’t know what to do. I panicked.”

“You hit someone, you get them to a hospital,” Keith chastised.

“But—he was, he wasn’t behaving normally.”

“Great. All the more reason not to bring the guy to a hospital.”

“But…he was in costume. Revolutionary-period clothing. He thinks he was a soldier. He—he says the last thing he remembers is that he was being executed, hanged, in New York City. He had a sister or half sister or stepsister or someone who was a witch and said some kind of curse—and he wound up on the road. Then I hit him.”

Keith just stared at her for several seconds. He blinked. “Oh, great. You are making no sense. He thinks he fell to earth from the past, and still—you didn’t take him to the hospital!”

“He didn’t appear to be hurt.”

“You obviously gave the fellow a concussion.”

“I don’t think so.”

“He—he could be crazy.”

“Well, that’s obvious!”

“Right. So this is getting better and better.”

“He needs our help. Somehow, he has to realize who he really is.”

“Since when was your degree is psychology?”

“I brought him home. I—I think his real memory will come back.”

Her brother arched a brow skeptically.

“Look, Keith, he must have a job as a costume interpreter or something.”

“In costume, huh. You think?” he asked sarcastically.

She glared at him. “He believes his own role right now. Quit judging me.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“He needs our help.”

“Our help?”

“My help. I always helped you!”

Keith stared at her amazed, then started to laugh. “Okay, I’ve brought home a trillion puppies and kittens. But not a crazy.”

She stiffened. “What about the pole-dancing stripper?”

“Hey, she knew where she worked.”

“Keith, look, he’s nice, he’s pleasant…I’m hoping that some normal time will help bring back his memory.”

“And you think anyone is going to have ‘normal time’ at our house?” Keith asked dryly.

“That’s not fair,” she accused him.

“So. You hit him, he’s in costume, thinks he’s a soldier, and you bring him home to feed him and warm him up. This isn’t the same as what I did.”

She glared at her brother. “You are not at all amusing.”

“No, but you are in some weird water here, sis.”

“Keith, stop it. I’ve kind of got a problem going here.”

“Maybe you do,” he said. His eyes were bright with amusement as he moved closer to her. “What do you think he’s saying to the bartender? She’s pretty cute, too.”

“Oh, God, I don’t know!” Melody stood up. She sat down. “Keith, go check on him. I don’t want to look like a jealous idiot. Go on, get him back over here.”

Keith shrugged, grinned, and then did as she asked. He walked to the bar and set a hand on Jake’s shoulder and said something to him. The pretty bartender laughed at whatever was exchanged, and added the last cup to a tray that their waitress came to take. She led the way back to the table and, much to Melody’s relief, Jake and her brother followed.

Melody picked up her cup and drank, barely aware that the chocolate concoction was hot.

“Sweetie, if you want to swill something, it really shouldn’t be hot chocolate. Beer is best for swilling, wouldn’t you say, Jake?”

“I suppose it’s a proper beverage for hefty consumption,” Jake said.

“He knows who you think you are,” Melody said.

“I know who I am. My name is Jake Mallory,” Jake said.

“And you were at the end of a hangman’s noose?” Keith said.

Jake seemed very tall and straight. “That is the absolute truth,” he said quietly.

“And you know nothing that’s happened since the American Revolution?” Keith asked.

“Only what your sister has been kind enough to tell me,” he said sincerely.

Keith stared at Melody. “Huh.” He grinned suddenly. “Well, I know what we should do after dinner.”

“What?” Melody asked dubiously.

“A DVD glut.”

She cast her head to the side and smiled slowly. “History and pop culture.”

“Excuse me,” Jake said. “A DVD glut?”

Melody groaned. Her brother began a scientific explanation.

“I see,” Jake said.

Keith rose. “Time for dinner. I came to fetch the two of you. Can’t be late for Mom’s nouvelle cuisine.”

“We’re having stew, I believe,” Melody said.

“Whatever,” Keith said. Then, “Stew? Oh, no. God knows what she puts in those Crock-Pots.” He grimaced. “She thinks she has powers.”

“So Melody said. Maybe she does,” Jake said.

“Forget it, forget it,” Melody said, rising. “My mother does not have powers. Please, don’t go encouraging her to think that she does! Come on, let’s get home.”

Keith had brought his car. He encouraged Jake to ride with him, telling him that he could explain the workings of the vehicle much better than Melody might ever manage. She decided to let the two of them go—there was nothing that Keith didn’t know already, so whatever Jake said to him, it wouldn’t matter.

She reached the house first and Keith and Jake pulled in right behind her. Other than the fact that his hair was long—easily understandable, if he made his living as an historic interpreter—Jake looked as if he belonged right where he was.

That was good.

Oh, Lord, she was beginning to fall for his fantasy!

She shook off the thought as she headed for the house. Before she reached the door, Brutus was howling out a welcome. She entered the house quickly. One good thing about Brutus—no one would ever come sneaking up on the house. Brutus was louder than the most obnoxious doorbell ever created.

Wheels for legs did not prevent the basset from having a tail that wagged so hard it was like being whacked when it hit ya.

“Lovely!” her mom called, coming from the kitchen. Now she looked like Stevie Nicks in an apron. “Dinner is on.”

“Yeah? So what’s in it? Eye of toad and leg of newt?” Keith teased.

“Oh, you!” Mona protested, giving him an affection tap on the shoulder. “Don’t you dare go scaring our guest!”

“I’m not scared,” Jake assured her.

“She does add all her own herbs,” Keith warned.

“We’re having stew. Beef stew. And I’m afraid, other than the herbs, the ingredients are store-bought,” Mona said. She brightened. “But I do buy only organic.”

Jake looked at Melody.

“She loathes the idea that food might have pesticides in it,” Melody explained.

“She’s quite right I guess,” Jake said.

“And quite expensive,” George Tarleton said, joining them in the living room.

“Dad, you might want to find a lint brush. You’re wearing more of Cleo than Cleo wears of herself, I think,” Melody pointed out.

“Oh, yes, well, excuse me, I’ll find the lint brush,” her father said.

“Come into the dining room, sit, sit,” Mona encouraged.

The dining room was probably the most traditional room in the house—the large dining table and chairs were early American, as were the buffet and china closet. The back wall offered a bay window with a built-in bench seat that looked out over the lawn, and it was enhanced by warm, deep blue cushions and handsome throw pillows. There was a fireplace in here as well—the house boasted eight—and at Christmas, more than any other time, Mona kept the fires burning. She was also a huge fan of scented candles, so the room smelled deliciously of stew and spices.

Jake paused in the doorway, breathing in. His eyes scanned the room, and she thought once again that she saw a look of pained nostalgia on his face that couldn’t be feigned.

She felt her heart going out to him, and then she was irritated with herself. She just had to pick up a crazy who was completely charming, dignified and capable of somehow seducing her into his fantasy. He’d been in costume—the man was an actor, in a way. She had to keep remember ing that.

“Sit, sit, Jake. I swear, there’s nothing at all wrong with my cooking, my children like to torment me,” Mona said. “George, will you get the iced tea from the refrigerator?”

Melody, Keith and Jake had taken their seats as they had been told. When Mona moved, Jake rose. She set her hands on his shoulders to stay seated when she rose to help her husband get the drinks.

“What do you want to bet it’s green tea?” Keith asked, feigning a whisper.

“I heard that. Green tea is excellent for you. A billion Chinese who have far longer life spans than we do cannot be wrong,” Mona said.

“Green tea is lovely, Mom,” Melody said, kicking her brother’s shin under the table. “Don’t get her going,” she mouthed.

“I heard that, too!” Mona said, sweeping back around the table with a large tureen of stew. She set it down with a flourish while her husband got the glasses. “And it’s all right because I’m so happy just to have you home for the holidays—and to have our new friend, Mr. Mallory, here, as well.” She sat. “Keith, dear, will you say grace, please?”

“Grace,” Keith said softly, and grinned.

“Oh, honestly, Keith, it’s hard to imagine that you’re a student going for a Ph.D., darling, you can be so juvenile at times.”

“May I?” Jake asked.

“Well, of course!” Mona said.

Jake folded his hands and closed his eyes. “Thank you, Lord, for the food you’ve provided, for the warmth of the hearth, and the love of family and friends. May we all be home in time for Christmas. Amen.”

He opened his eyes and looked at Melody. Again, there was something in them that entreated with dignity.

People didn’t drop from a hangman’s noose to find themselves in a street almost three hundred years later.

“How very nice, Jake, thank you,” Mona said. “So, now, how was the ice skating?”

“It was nice, Mom,” Melody said. She stood to help her mother; Jake stood, as well. “I’m just passing the plates. Please, Jake, thank you.”

He’d been taught to stand when a woman stood, and it was going to keep happening. Melody made a quick job of passing the food around.

“Mrs. Tarleton, I understand that you have some wonderful books on local history,” Jake said.

“Oh, indeed.” Mona flashed a smile. “I’m simply fascinated by the mind-set of those who came before us. When they had the tricentennial of the Salem witchcraft trials, they printed up complete volumes of the proceedings, the court records, everything. It’s fascinating reading. So sad and horrible.”

“What happens in the minds of men—and women—is always fascinating,” George said. “With all the theories they’ve had regarding the hysteria, I still can’t imagine sane adults allowing those girls who accused their neighbors of being witches—some only because they used herbs to help cure sicknesses—to cause such a tragedy.”

“I quite agree,” Jake said. “Many people were killed with no evidence that they had done anything wrong.”

“Do you believe in witchcraft?” Melody asked.

“Whether I believe or not does not matter,” Jake said. “Massachusetts was a British colony, and witchcraft was illegal. Could someone really curse his neighbor’s cow with an evil eye? Most probably not. But mixing potions—even herbal potions—could be considered witchcraft and sadly, the punishment for witchcraft could be death. But I don’t believe that any of those caught up in the hysteria at Salem were practicing real witchcraft of any kind. They were just caught up in a miasma of fear. There was so much of the world that was unknown and frightening.”

“Indeed,” George agreed.

Mona pounced on the words. “That’s just it, people act out of fear or ignorance. The true Wiccans were not guilty of any evil—they were part of the pagan way that existed before Christianity began to spread. And those who brought Christianity across from Europe were willing to do what was necessary to convince others to follow them. I mean, seriously, we don’t know what day Christ was born, we have settled on a day for it to be Christmas. The high holy day of All Hallow’s Eve coincided with a pagan practice that had long been celebrated. And Easter! The holiday and celebration are even named for Eostre, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring. The old Anglo-Saxons celebrated spring and rebirth, and the Hebrews celebrated Passover, and Christians celebrate the fact that Christ rose from the dead. Here’s my point, we are all one creation, however we choose to see our deities.”

“Mom, that’s not at all how the Puritans saw it,” Melody said.

“No, I’m afraid they weren’t at all accepting of others, and they certainly wouldn’t appreciate anyone pointing out the fact that Easter came from Eostre,” Jake said. “Mrs. Tarleton, this stew is absolutely delicious. Thank you very kindly.”

“Oh,” Mona said, enrapt with her guest. “That’s so kind of you. It’s just a Crock-Pot stew. I’m so glad you’re enjoying it! And I’m fascinated with what you’re saying, of course, because it’s just terrible to think of the wonderful and kind people who practiced old forms of medicine just to wind up burned at the stake in Europe and Scotland and hanged in England for witchcraft. They were often midwives, or people working with herbs, and as we all know now, many of the natural ingredients cured people.”

“Mom,” Melody pointed out, “just because something is natural, doesn’t always mean that it’s good for you. Hemlock is natural.”

Mona waved a hand in the air. “My dear, you’re missing the point.”

“What is the point?” Keith asked, grinning.

Melody kicked him beneath the table again.

“Ouch! Stop that,” he told her.

“What is going on there?” George demanded.

“She kicked me,” Keith said.

“Mother, he’s being obnoxious,” Melody said.

“Children! We have a guest,” Mona said, shaking her head. “Honestly, George, how old are they now? How can this still be going on? ”

“Mom, I know the point, and our college genius keeps missing it,” Melody said. “What matters is not always the truth, but rather, peoples’ perception of the truth. And fear is something that often sways our perceptions. When you’re afraid, you may see something that is entirely innocent as something evil. And in the old days, science was often seen as evil, as well.”

“Was that a dig at me?” Keith asked.

“Never. Science is something wonderful,” Melody said.

Melody stood. Jake jumped to his feet. “Please, Jake, sit, you’re a guest. I’m just clearing the table so we can bring out the dessert,” Melody said.

Keith stood, too. “Mom, Melody and I will handle this. You sit for a change.”

“All right, thank you,” Mona agreed.

Melody glared at Keith. He frowned, cocking his head. She hurried to the kitchen, carrying the used plates. When he had entered behind her and the connecting door had swung shut, she turned on him. “What’s the matter with you? You just left Jake in there alone with Mom and Dad!”

“Jake’s doing just fine. Hey, he’s a cool crazy, Mel. I like him,” Keith said.

“Get back out there, Keith!” Melody said, piling the plates in the sink to rinse for the dishwasher. “Please, come on, please? Hey, I’m the one who fought for you to keep Cleo, remember?”

“He’s not a cat, Mel,” Keith said.

“Get out there!”

“Going, going—I’ll grab the pie and plates. You bring the coffee.”

“All right, go. Oh, Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He grinned. Her brother left with the fresh-baked blueberry pie Mona had made for dessert and a stack of plates. She quickly rinsed the dinner plates and put them in the dishwasher, then unplugged the coffeepot and headed into the dining room.

To her dismay, her brother was having some kind of exchange with her father; Jake’s head was lowered and he was listening, fascinated, to her mother.

They all looked up when she arrived.

“The cups are in the cabinet, dear. Do you want your old Disney mug? Forgive us, Mr. Mallory,” Mona said. “We all have our favorite cup. What would you like? Traditional, a mug—or a Princess cup?”

“Any cup will do, thank you,” Jake said.

Mona passed out mugs and poured the coffee while Melody served the pie.

“Seen any good movies lately?” George asked.

A piece of pie nearly slipped onto the table. Melody’s gaze flew to Jake.

“I’m afraid I’ve not seen anything I could recommend, sir,” he said.

“I’ve got some DVDs up in my room I’m going to show him,” Keith said. “Hey, I brought a documentary for you, too, Dad. It’s on radio frequencies. You’re going to love it.”

“Wonderful,” George told him.

Mona rose. Jake rose. She hesitated, and smiled. “It’s really all right, Jake. Please, I’m just going to go get that diary that I found in the attic. I swear that that author’s last name was Mallory—and that her brother’s first name was Jake. What a coincidence that would be if you were related! Of course, to be honest, throughout the centuries, who knows who is really related to whom? You know, people didn’t always steer the course of the higher road.”

“What?” Keith asked.

“She means that women fooled around, so your father may not have been your father,” Melody said.

“Oh, dear, that’s putting it so crassly,” Mona protested, waving a hand in the air as she went to one of the bookcases.

“This diary is amazing. I probably could sell it for a mint on eBay. It’s authentic. And sad, really—it doesn’t have an ending. I’ve been meaning to go to the hall of records, though, I believe, a lot was probably lost during the Revolution. And young men died in different places, so…”

Melody sank into her chair. Mona produced an old leather-bound book from a bookshelf.

Melody started to reach for it. Mona held back. “It’s extremely delicate,” she said.

“I’d be honored to handle it quite gently,” Jake said.

Mona opened the book. “Serena Mallory wrote most of the diary here, in Gloucester. And it ends with her heading to New York City, aware that her brother had been captured and was about to be executed. The diary is absolutely charming. There’s so much of the day-today in it—and so much about the feelings of the general public during the Stamp Act, and then the Boston Tea Party. She has all kinds of wonderful herbal recipes in there—and reference to the fact that she intends to use all her powers to save her brother’s life.” She paused, glancing up from the pages. “Oh look, I remembered correctly. Serena’s brother’s name is Jake, too. Jake Mallory. What a pity there isn’t an ending to the story!”

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