Time Twist

by Jeanie R. Davis

“Miss Mill—Arianna?”

  “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Please keep the doors locked while you are working, and get to an area where you can alert me immediately if anything”—he shrugged—“unusual happens. Here’s my card. The phones might not work out here, but they do when you drive a little closer to the city.”

  A shiver ran down her spine as she took the card. She wondered if he was trying to spook her, or just thought she was a helpless girl. “I can’t imagine anything unusual happening while I’m on the job, but rest assured, Officer Flemming, I will be careful.”

  He gave a satisfied nod, but his eyes betrayed his concern before he turned to leave.

  Ari gazed at the intricately engraved door that closed behind him, still puzzled about the encounter. She was sorely tempted to set the alarm off again, just to have another conversation with Officer Flemming.

  Chapter Six

  Christopher Flemming returned to the station and sat at his desk. He steepled his fingers and rocked forward in his chair, a feeling of foreboding nearly choking him. When the call had come in from the alarm company alerting him to the house, he’d expected his mother, brother, or sister to answer the door. Not a designer. He’d waited months for his family to occupy the ridiculously large house on the outskirts of Pueblo. Now he’d have another long wait.

  Four years had passed since his family had been catapulted from nineteenth century England to twenty-first century America. Four years had passed since his father had banished him from his home and family. Four years he’d monitored their movements, watching for a way to rescue his mother and siblings from his dangerous father. What was another few months? He wadded a piece of scrap paper and tossed it into the trash. Likely, his family had given up on him; thought him dead, even.

  And as if to complicate the matter further, there was a designer—someone else to worry about. She is not safe there, he couldn’t help thinking over and over. She is too young, and too vulnerable to be working alone on the house of a dangerous criminal. Since he’d been unable to communicate with his family, he didn’t know his father’s current status. Perhaps he’d changed. More likely he hadn’t. Christopher’s occupation in law enforcement exposed him to criminals of all varieties—it was rare to find an offender whose behavior improved with time.

  His thoughts flitted between fear for the foolish girl, determined to do her job, and delight at how attractive she was. He had never seen such golden hair and dancing green eyes—or were they blue? They seemed to change with her mood. And her skin, he let out a breath, flawless.

  “Flemming,” another officer called across the room, jolting him from his thoughts. “How’s about we grab some lunch?”

  “Sounds good—I’ll be right there.”

  ****

  Christopher watched bubbles sputter and pop in his soda. Sweet, carbonated beverages were among the many commonplace twenty-first century indulgences he’d discovered since his arrival four years before.

  Yellow curtains dangled over a window next to him. Abby’s had become his favorite diner in Pueblo. Its warm atmosphere and home-cooked food filled an empty place in his heart. He missed his mother.

  “I’ll be back with your meals in a jiff.” The waitress twinkled her brown eyes at Christopher and his fellow officer, Joe Wilson.

  “No rush.” Joe winked.

  Christopher shook his head. “Must you flirt with every girl you meet?”

  “No. Only the pretty ones.” Joe’s grin was infectious and Christopher chuckled. “One of these times, I’ll find the girl for me—someone who isn’t starin’ at you all the time. Is it your dashing good looks, or that accent of yours women can’t resist?”

  “What are you talking about, Joe?”

  “You know. You don’t flirt, yet everywhere we go, all eyes are drawn to you. Do you even date?”

  “Of course I date.” He took a slow drink of his soda.

  Joe’s eyes wandered to a brunette sitting alone at the bar. “You mind if I—” He motioned his head toward the girl.

  Christopher nodded. “Go ahead.” Relief replaced the anxiety he’d begun to feel when confronted with Joe’s questions. He couldn’t be completely honest. After all, meeting and forming relationships with females differed vastly in the twenty-first century compared to the nineteenth century. Until he found a girl open-minded enough to believe and accept the fact he’d been transported through time—very unlikely—he’d remain a bachelor.

  “I’ll be back when the food gets here.” Joe sauntered over to the bar and sat on a red vinyl-covered stool next to the girl.

  Christopher’s attention returned to the popping bubbles.

  “Hey handsome, your friend said you could use some company.”

  He startled. A woman wearing cutoffs and a tight shirt slid onto the seat across from him. She batted her lashes. He stared at the thick coating of mascara on them, wondering how she kept her eyes open.

  “Extensions and Lashbody mascara.” She giggled, making a high-toned trilling noise.

  It was all he could do not to cringe. Instead he nodded and wondered what else on her was fake.

  “You acted confused.” Another giggle. “Everyone wonders about my long lashes. It will be our secret.” She winked.

  He shot a look at Joe, who had glanced back at him from the bar. Joe waggled his brows. Christopher suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

  He liked Joe—even when he felt like throttling him. His friendly disposition drew people in. While most officers were referred to by their last names, Joe was simply Joe. It suited him. They’d become fast friends just days after Christopher had transferred from Denver to Pueblo—a move he’d requested once he’d discovered his father’s plans to build a house there. Although he’d not been able to see or know what was going on in the new family residence, he was determined to be nearby if ever needed—thus the transfer. What he hadn’t anticipated was that designer he’d met earlier. He thought his family would have relocated by now.

  “You must be shy. I like the shy ones.” The woman batted her lashes a few more times. “My name is Charlotte. You can call me Char.” She held a hand out for Christopher to shake. Long shiny, red fingernails fluttered before him.

  He shook her hand, cursing Joe more by the second. “I’m Christopher.”

  Charlotte giggled. Christopher ground his teeth to hold his tongue. The shrill sound of her laugh shot through his head like a bullet.

  “You’ve got an accent. Let me guess; I’m good at this.” She tapped a red nail to her head. “Are you from Mexico?”

  Really? “I’m from Engla—”

  “Shh.” Her finger jerked from her head to his lips. He gently pushed it away. “I said I wanted to guess.” Her red mouth fell into a pout. “Oh, well. You spoiled it; you’re from England. That was gonna be my next guess. Why’d ya move here?”

  Christopher took a long look into Charlotte’s gray eyes. He’d never told a soul his story—the honest version. He’d wanted to, but he doubted anyone would believe him. Perhaps he’d take the truth for a spin with Charlotte. Foreseeing no future meetings with her, he really had nothing to lose. So what if she thought him delusional?

  “Well, my handsome Brit, what’s your story?”

  “You want to know why I came to America from England?”

  “That’s what I asked. I want to know every single thing about you.” She tapped his nose with each word, as if he were a child.

  He wanted out. Away from her batting lashes and her red nails. He glanced at Joe once more. Joe’s head was bent toward the brunette’s, both chuckling. Christopher would get no help from him. “Very well. Here’s my story. It’s quite unbelievable.”

  “Two hundred and four years ago, my father, who is an inventor, committed a jewelry heist in London.” At least, that’s what he’d gathered from the pouchful of diamonds his mother had slipped into his satchel.

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Oh my! Was he caught? What happened next? Wait! Did you say
two hundred and four years ago? That’s not possible!”

  “I’m getting to that. He was not caught. You see, he’d built a time travel machine, of sorts.” He wished he could describe it, but he’d never seen it. The only thing he could say about the machine was that it made a rumbling noise. He’d heard it before his father knocked him out cold. “He forced me and my family to travel two hundred years into the future, so he could escape the law.” He watched her eyes closely. They only widened further, looking like the moon pies he sometimes bought from the department’s vending machine. Her mouth dropped open. Here it comes. This is where she’d laugh at him and stomp off.

  “What was it like traveling through time? I’ve always been fascinated with time travel, but you’re the first person I’ve met who’s actually done it.” She licked her lips.

  He narrowed his eyes. How could she believe him? He cleared his throat, then continued. “I don’t know what it was like. My father rendered me unconscious before loading me onto the machine.”

  Horror crossed Charlotte’s face. “He knocked you out? Why?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say he didn’t like my attitude.”

  “So why not just leave you in London?”

  Christopher had wondered the same thing many times. “I think he wanted me to help him with future heists.”

  “Wow! When you landed here, what did you think of the future?”

  The story had sounded ridiculous, even to him. But as long as she’d listen, he’d keep talking. He found reciting his tale therapeutic. “I thought it was too bright. I’d awoken in a modern twenty-first century house with overhead lights shining in my eyes. I’d seen nothing like it. No candles—just lightbulbs.”

  She threw her head back and trilled long and loud. “Oh, that’s funny. We have candles, silly.” She slapped Christopher’s arm. “What about your dad? Was he still mad at you when you got to the future?”

  “He, in fact, pulled a pistol on me and told me to get out of his sight.” The memories bubbled up, as if they’d happened yesterday.

  Chapter Seven

  Charlotte kept talking, but Christopher’s focus waned, stolen away to a night he would never forget.

  He’d found himself in a bed—not his bed in London—and when he’d opened his eyes, his mother hovered over him protectively.

  Disoriented, Christopher had squinted to adjust to the blinding light shining overhead. Never had he seen anything like it. He’d clutched his mother’s arm. “What—what happened? Where are we?”

  He’d never forget the fear on her face. “Hush now, Christopher. Your father mustn’t hear you.”

  His hazy mind had begun to clear as the memory of his father’s face, distorted by desperate anger, entered it. His father had knocked him out with something. His hand wandered to the large bump. Hundreds of questions had floated to the forefront of his aching head. “Where is Father?”

  His mother had tried to calm him by laying a gentle hand over his mouth, but to no avail. Father had come booming into the room. He’d peered down at Christopher, eyes narrowed.

  “What have you done, Father?” He threw off the bed-covers.

  “I have done something you would never have had the spine to do. I have transported my family to a better place and time. Now our possibilities are endless.”

  Christopher remembered sitting motionless as his father continued gloating about how his remarkable invention had saved their family.

  “You should be singing my praises, son. I’ve altered our future.” His father’s chest had puffed up like a peacock’s. “Now, we have all the money we will ever need. I always said one of my inventions would pay off someday, and today is that day.”

  “At what cost, Father?”

  Silence.

  “At. What. Cost?” Christopher had roared. “How much blood was shed? From whom did you steal so that we might have this better life?”

  “I do not have to explain myself to you or anyone else, for that matter. If you had helped me when I’d asked, then you would know. But you have always thought yourself better than I. Is that not true? Who cares what the cost was? It happened two hundred years ago—they would all be dead now, anyway!”

  The words had begun to bleed together until Christopher snapped. Grabbing his father by the front of his shirt, he’d pulled himself up to his full height and shoved him against the wall. “Enough! I have heard enough of what you have done for this family. You are nothing but a common criminal.”

  As the horrible argument escalated between the two of them, twelve-year-old Joshua tried to intervene, wedging himself between Christopher and his father. “Leave Christopher alone!” he’d wailed.

  “Oh no, Joshua. I’ll not have another son dishonor me.”

  The next thing Christopher remembered hearing was the sound of Joshua’s body careening into the wall, ugly red welts forming on his frightened face. Sarah and Mother had huddled together with pale, wet cheeks. The argument had ended when his father pointed a pistol at Christopher. “Get out! You are no longer part of this family. I never wish to see you again.”

  Mother had leaped up. “No, Benjamin, he’s our son,” she pleaded, but had been pushed aside by Father. His very being sparked with anger.

  “It’s all right, Mother. I have no desire to see him any longer, either.”

  After the argument, Christopher had witnessed Mother slipping a small pouch into his satchel before handing it to him. With tears in her eyes, she’d embraced him tightly and choked out her goodbye. He’d scarcely had time to hug his siblings and whisper in their ears that he would be watching over them, as best he could, before his father told him to get out of his sight.

  Christopher had no complaints about steering clear of his father, but the rest of his family he’d worry about. Father had not been kind in England, and Christopher was certain he’d not be kind here. He wouldn’t approach him again if he didn’t have to, but he knew he must watch over the rest of the family.

  Discerning where to go in an unknown land and time had been a monumental challenge. Surely Father had expected him to fail, making banishment a death sentence. He’d not give him the satisfaction. Nothing but the sun above and the ground below resembled life in the nineteenth century. Cars he’d noticed immediately. No horses—just cars. The fast-paced vehicles were both exhilarating and frightening—an indication of what his new existence would become.

  “So?” Charlotte snapped Christopher from his thorny hike down memory lane.

  He stared at her blankly.

  “Well, if you don’t want to tell me, forget it.” She stood up, spearing him with a glare. “And I don’t believe a word you said, anyway!”

  “Sorry. I was distracted. What did you ask?”

  “Humph!” Charlotte spun on her heel and walked away.

  “What’s up with you, Flemming?” Joe ducked as he passed Charlotte, as if to avoid her spewing venom, and reclaimed his seat across from Christopher. “Did she ask you how much money you make? She’s a gold digger. She should know police officers don’t make much.” He shook his head. “She sure was mad.” He motioned to Christopher’s plate. “You haven’t even touched your food.”

  Immersed in thought, Christopher hadn’t realized his food had arrived. “Yes, I have,” he lied, as he shoved a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.

  Joe’s eyes stayed on Christopher. “Something’s up with you, man. If you’re not thinking of Charlotte, then what is it?”

  Neither wishing to divulge the conversation he’d had with Charlotte, nor the one he’d had in his head, Christopher took a different tack. “I guess I was just thinking about a girl I met at a security alarm call I made this morning.” That was partly true. While his family occupied most of his thoughts, he had to admit that Arianna Miller had been a diversion.

  Joe lowered his voice and glanced around. “So that’s what got Char so hoppin’ mad. Was the girl hot?”

  Christopher gave a slight nod—still unaccustomed to the la
nguage of this century.

  “She must be.” A grin spread across Joe’s boyish face. “Because you love Abby’s pot roast and you’ve barely touched it.”

  With a fraction of Christopher’s burden lifted, after sharing his story with gold-digging, not-so-bright Charlotte, he felt a tiny bit of relief. He dug into his lunch without further comments to Joe. One day he hoped to disclose his story to someone who truly believed him. Someone he could share his past, present and future with. Someone he could love.

  He wondered what Arianna might be eating for lunch. Surely, she took lunch breaks, but her worksite was miles from town. Too bad it wasn’t closer. Shaking his head, he gave himself a mental reprimand. He shouldn’t be daydreaming about a girl he’d just met.

  But perhaps he should call on her to rectify his behavior. He was certain he’d made her feel unwelcome, which was not his intention. She’d just taken him by surprise. Still, he’d been rude. It was only proper that a gentleman and grandson of an earl make a complete apology. Now if he only knew what constituted an apology to a beautiful woman in the twenty-first century. A letter? A phone call? Something simple. It was only an apology, after all. Nothing more.

  Chapter Eight

  Arianna watched Mr. Somers march from room to room, analyzing, scrutinizing, examining…what? She didn’t know. She’d only been working in Pueblo for a couple of days; not long enough for anything new to have arrived. He’d told her to expect Friday visits. Evidently, he was a man of his word.

  He stood in the kitchen. “You do know what colors I…er…we expect to have in this room?” He peered down his long nose at her.

  “Yes, unless you’ve changed your mind. I have an itemized list in here.” She motioned to her notebook. “The painters come next week.”

  “Changed my mind?” He shook his head. “I’ve no changes.” He darted a few glances at her while fumbling with something in his pocket. She didn’t know what he expected. Should she continue measuring the rooms upstairs for furniture orders, or stand at attention until he dismissed her?