Home in Time for Christmas (3 page)

“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
cellphone?
” 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.”

O
kay, 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.