by Bess McBride
John shuffled the papers on his desk to suggest that he was busy.
“No, there are no further papers to sign. I did tell you two months ago that the estate had been discharged. You have received the proceeds.”
“Yes, I am comfortable. The house is in my name, thank you.”
Mrs. Stewart sipped her tea, turning toward the window at the whistle of the train as it prepared to depart.
“Oh, the train must be leaving.” She rose to cross to the window. “Yes, there it goes,” she said. “It is so very stuffy in here, John. Why don’t you open the window?”
“You said you had a second matter to discuss? Regarding the estate?”
Mrs. Stewart returned to her chair.
“Well, not regarding the estate. I am having a dinner at my house two weeks from now on Saturday. Just a small group. I am in mourning, as you know. I would like to invite you.”
John drew in a sharp breath.
“I cannot. I am sorry,” he said automatically.
“Cannot or will not?” she asked.
John blinked. Mrs. Stewart had grown bolder in her attentions.
“Cannot, of course. I am otherwise engaged.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” she said. “And you cannot alter your plans?”
“No, I simply cannot.”
John wanted to rise to escort her out, but she hadn’t yet finished her tea. Two more blasts from the train’s whistle rattled his nerves, and he pulled his watch from his pocket vest again to consult it.
“Has that thing not left yet? It is overdue for departure.”
Mrs. Stewart followed his eyes toward the window.
“The train?”
“Yes, the train,” he said testily. Against his will, as if something compelled him, John rose and crossed to the window. A puff of black smoke was all that remained of the locomotive as it chugged out of the station. Left in its wake were his nerves and a startling sight.
A young woman stood alone on the platform in front of the red brick building. She carried no luggage. Her auburn hair hung down to her shoulders in no particular style. But most startling was her attire. She dressed in worn dungarees and a gray short-sleeved blouse that clung to her small frame.
John found himself fascinated by her waiflike appearance. She looked to the left and the right of the platform before taking a seat on the wooden bench and crossing her arms as if prepared to wait. He wondered whom she waited upon.
“What has captured your attention, John?”
He heard Mrs. Stewart’s voice at his elbow. He swung around, instinctively blocking her from seeing the young woman.
“Nothing at all. If there is nothing further, Mrs. Stewart, I must return to my work. I have much to do today.”
He ushered her toward the door, a sense of immediacy striking him, though he was unsure of the origin.
“I will invite you again, John,” she said firmly. “This is the third time you have declined my invitation.”
“Yes, I am so sorry. Work keeps me very busy. Good day, Mrs. Stewart.”
“Good day, John.”
Mrs. Stewart left the office, and John hurried back to the window. The waif still sat there alone, waiting. The station was largely quiet, and no one disturbed her. But no one collected her either.
Though the height of summer, John threw his overcoat around his shoulders, as he always did in public. He grabbed his derby, settled it on his head and hurried out of the office.
Cedric jumped up.
“Where are you going, Mr. Morrison?” he asked. “Do you wish me to accompany you?”
“No, thank you, Cedric. Stay here. I will return shortly. There is something that demands my attention.”
John ran down the stairs and emerged from the building. To his right, he saw Mrs. Stewart walking away. Across the street, the young woman waited.
He wasn’t sure what he had planned when he hurried from his office, but the thought of stepping foot onto the station platform brought a cold dread to his heart. He should long ago have moved his office into a building further down the business district, out of sight and sound of the train depot, but he had not.
John drew in a steadying breath and followed his compulsion, crossing the street on leaden legs. As he stepped up onto the wooden platform, the young lady jumped to her feet.
“Can you help me? Please help me.” Beautiful crystal-blue eyes beseeched him.
John surprised himself by responding without hesitation.
“Yes, I will help you.”
Chapter Four
“Yes, I will help you,” the man said in a rich baritone.
Well-dressed in a stylish black three-piece suit and tie over a crisp white shirt, he wore a black overcoat over his shoulders. Neatly groomed thick black hair matched a silky-looking beard and mustache. Cobalt-blue eyes stared at her in what she interpreted to be a mixture of fascination and shock.
And no wonder. She had traveled through time, and he probably knew it...or at least wondered about her appearance. In all her genealogical research, she had only seen one photograph of a woman in anything remotely resembling jeans—actually suspender dungarees—and that woman had been an eccentric unmarried aunt who owned her own farm in Wyoming in the late eighteen hundreds.
Gem knew she had somehow traveled through time to 1905. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know why, but she had no doubt that she had.
Instinctively, she reached for the man’s hands, his coat, some sort of lifeline, but he took a small step back—enough to signify that he didn’t want to be touched.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to grab you,” she said. “I’m just so grateful to see you.”
“Me?” he asked, his dark brows narrowing in confusion. He scanned the platform as if someone else should be standing there.
His face was pale, and a bead of moisture lined his furrowed brow. The heavy overcoat probably didn’t help.
“Well, not you particularly, but somebody. I’m lost, and I have no idea how to get home. I don’t even know how you can help me, but I need help.”
He nodded.
“Yes, I can see that you do. My name is John Morrison. I am an attorney. My office is just across the street. I see that you disembarked from the train.”
Gem gasped. She blinked and stared at John again. How had she not recognized him from his photo, the photo she had studied so many times?
“John Morrison? The John Morrison?”
John reared his head.
“I do not know that I am ‘the John Morrison,’ but yes, that is my name. How have you heard of me?”
Gem dropped her eyes to John’s tall, slender figure. A small part of her brain wondered that she hadn’t realized he would be so tall. At about six feet two inches, he towered over her. She realized why he wore an overcoat. Clearly, he was trying to hide the loss of his right arm.
She scanned his face. Disfigured? What on earth was so horribly disfigured about him? She saw a faint line through his beard along his right cheek extending down to his neck. The scar extended onto the unexposed portion of his cheek by a few inches but appeared to have healed nicely.
No, John Morrison was not horribly disfigured. In fact, he was actually one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. That she wasn’t biologically related to him almost saddened her. She might have inherited some of his genes.
“Miss?” he prompted her, leaning down to capture her attention.
Gem blinked, drew in a deep breath to restart her stalled heartbeat, and smiled.
“John Morrison,” she said idiotically in a moment of fangirldom. “I know you.”
“How do we know one another? I am certain we cannot have met. I think I would have remembered you.”
He scanned the platform once again hastily.
“What are you looking for?” Gem asked. “Is it my clothes? I should get out of public, right?”
John turned back to her, a startled look on his face.
“Your clothing? No. Wel
l, yes, it is unusual. You might raise fewer eyebrows if you dressed more conventionally. But no, that is not my immediate concern. I do not care for train stations...or trains for that matter. I am not certain how you came to hear of me—or know me, as you say—but I think it would be best if you were to come over to my office. My clerk, Cedric Smith, is there, so we shall not be alone.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about being alone with you. You’re family!”
John, on the point of turning away, stilled and looked down at Gem.
“Family? Are we related in some way? What an extraordinary coincidence! Come. You may tell me across the street. I really cannot stay here.”
“I understand,” Gem said. She followed John across the packed dirt street into a two-story brick building that should have looked historical but, in fact, appeared to be fairly new. The brick was bright red, the white paint on the moldings fresh, the oak door luxuriously varnished. They entered a foyer and climbed a set of beautifully carved thick wooden stairs to the second floor. An Oriental carpet ran the length of the hall that featured more oak doors.
John led the way to one door above which Gem saw the sign John W. Morrison, Attorney. She looked at John’s tall back as he entered, wondering at the odds the first person she met in 1905 was the man she had come to see...or at least his tombstone anyway.
A tall, slender blond-haired young man of about twenty jumped up at John’s entrance.
“This is Cedric, my clerk. And this is...” John shook his head, furrowing his brow. “I am sorry. I think I failed to ask your name.”
“Gemima Holliday,” she said. “Gem.”
“Cedric, this is Miss Holliday. Is it Miss?”
Gem nodded, reaching out to shake Cedric’s hand. The clerk looked a bit shocked but took her hand. An attractively Nordic young face smiled at her. In contrast to John’s tailored dark suit, Cedric wore a loose-fitting boxy brown jacket and tan pin-striped trousers. His hair was cropped above his ears and slicked back with some sort of cream. He was nowhere near needing to shave yet.
“It is nice to meet you, Miss Holliday,” Cedric said in a pleasantly modulated voice.
“You too.”
“I think we will have some more of that tea, Cedric. And something to eat. Do you still have that tin of cookies?”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
“This way, Miss Holliday,” John said, leading the way into an inner office. Sparsely furnished with a massive wooden desk, several plain wooden chairs, a small bookcase and a desk lamp, John clearly hadn’t yet decorated—if he ever intended to.
He gestured toward one of the wooden chairs in front of his desk. Removing his hat, he shrugged out of his overcoat and hung them on a plain standing coat rack.
Gem sat down and studied John while his back was turned. His thick hair held a wave that he kept under control with a neat trim at the back of his neck. His well-tailored suit jacket nipped in at the waist, setting off his broad shoulders. He wore one sleeve pinned up. Quite clearly, he had lost his right arm at the shoulder. Her heart swelled for him, but she suspected he would resent sympathy. She swallowed the lump in her throat.
John turned and met her eyes. He glanced at his right shoulder and then away.
“A small accident,” he said, sitting down behind his desk.
“I know.” Gem fought against tears. She had dreamed about John Morrison for so long, had grieved his injuries and cheered when he returned to his law practice after almost a year of convalescence. She had followed his life story so well that she felt she knew him.
He tilted his head.
“Did you read a newspaper account then?”
“Yes.” Gem omitted mentioning that it was a newspaper article from 1965.
“The entire matter was sensationalized. I would have preferred my privacy.”
Before Gem could respond, John continued. “Tell me then. How are we related? And how can I help you? You said you were lost?”
Gem paused for a minute, wishing she hadn’t blurted out the familial ties without thinking. In fact, she wished she hadn’t really said much of anything beyond asking for help. She was a product of the twenty-first century, where it seemed as if anything was possible, certainly hurtling through time on a train. It was highly likely that John would not believe her farfetched story. After all, they hadn’t yet landed on the moon, hadn’t invented a computer, hadn’t built a cell tower.
“Miss Holliday?” he prompted again.
“Gem,” she repeated. “We are family. I’m just trying to figure out how to explain it. Give me a minute.”
“Gem, then.”
He sat back in his chair studying her face, and Gem blushed under his regard, unable to think particularly clearly. His eyes! The cobalt blue color was hypnotic. They were much brighter than his photograph had suggested.
Thankfully, Cedric entered with a silver tray holding several teacups, a sugar bowl and a plate of shortbread cookies.
“Sugar?” he asked.
Gem shook her head. “No, thanks. I quit a long time ago, although I might have to start up again.”
Cedric looked at her uncertainly, and she smiled.
“No, thank you,” she repeated without further confusing adlibs.
“I am afraid we don’t have any cream here at the office.”
“That’s fine. I don’t use cream.”
“Thank you, Cedric,” John said.
Cedric nodded and moved toward the door.
“Close the door on your way out, Cedric. Thank you.”
The door closed, and Gem grabbed the hot tea and took a sip.
“That’s good!” she said appreciatively.
“Good! It was a favorite of my mother’s.”
“Amelia Holliday Morrison,” Gem said.
Gem knew that wasn’t quite accurate though. A line in another obituary she had found on him noted he had been adopted. No further details were given in the article, and she had always wondered about the adoption.
“Yes, that is right. Amelia Holliday Morrison. How extraordinary! I should have recognized your last name as my mother’s maiden name. She passed away some years ago, and I am afraid you will not be able to meet her, but do you feel ready to tell me exactly how we are related?”
“Not really, John. In fact, I almost wished I hadn’t said anything to you at all. I came here to see you, but you’re supposed to be dead.”
John, in the act of drinking his tea, coughed and set the teacup down hard.
“I beg your pardon? Dead? What newspaper article did you read? I recall that one reported I was near death, but I can assure you, I’m quite alive.”
Gem almost laughed at the miscommunication. Almost. But there was nothing funny about her current predicament. She wondered if she had traveled through time for a limited period or whether the situation was permanent. The former was an intriguing thought, the latter unconscionable. She had no idea how to survive in 1905. How many accountants had online businesses in 1905?
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong.” Gem, restless, set her tea down and jumped up. She crossed to the window to look out. The train station was in full view, a large red brick edifice.
“Is this where you saw me?”
John rose and came to stand beside her.
“Yes. Let me open the window. It is warm in here.”
“I can do it!” Gem offered.
“It is a difficult window, heavy, unwieldy. I can manage.”
Gem lifted the sash. John was right. It was heavy, but doable.
“Got it.”
He sighed heavily.
“Yes, so I see.”
Gem looked up at John. His blue eyes had darkened. He looked angry.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
John turned away.
“No need to apologize. I can be overly sensitive to my limitations. I should apologize to you for my ill humor.”
He returned to his chair.
“You have stalled long enoug
h, Gem. How are we related?”
Gem turned, keeping her back to the window. A breeze blew in, cooling her sweating back, though her sweat was from stress, not heat.
“Do you believe in time travel?” Gem began.
Chapter Five
John wasn’t certain what he had expected the young woman to say, but it had not been a question about time travel. He thought quickly.
“Do you mean H. G. Wells, the author?”
She nodded. “Yes, I guess he was probably published by now, wasn’t he? I always think of that as a movie. But yes, traveling through time. Do you think it’s possible?”
John shook his head. “No, not at all. Surely we would have heard of such by now if it were possible. Are you a fan of Mr. Wells’ fiction? I admit I enjoyed the book, but I think it is just that...fiction.”
“Well, it may not require a particular machine calibrated to a certain year, but I’m here to tell you that time travel is real. I’ve never heard of it really happening before either, but here I am. I live in the twenty-first century, and I know all about you, John Morrison.”
John’s first instinct was to laugh, something he had not done in years, but the muscles in his ravaged face did not cooperate. In fact, he could not even smile at the young woman’s whimsy.
Yet, the earnest way she regarded him with her blue eyes disturbed him. She obviously believed her words.
“Come sit down, Miss Holliday.” He returned to addressing her more formally, feeling a need to put a more professional wall between them. “You seem troubled. Drink your tea.”
Gem returned to her seat.
“I’ll sit down, John. I’ll drink my tea. I am troubled, you’re right, but nothing changes the fact that I have traveled through time. This morning—whenever that was—I got on a train in Seattle heading east to Whitefish and then on to Chicago. But the year was 2017, not 1905. I was actually coming to visit you.”
John stared at her for a moment before speaking, as if measuring his words.
“Barring the fact that I do not yet understand how we are related, how could you come to visit me if the year was 2017? I hope to live a long life, but even I cannot be expected to live that long.”