The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter

by Elyse Douglas

  “No. And I’ve checked Facebook, Linked, Instagram. On Facebook, I found a photographer with the name, but she is not our Kady Tyler. There are a few others, but none have responded except one who spelled her name with a T. She wanted to know if I was married.”

  Eve turned, playfully annoyed. “And?”

  “I told her I was quite single, and she should contact me as soon as possible.”

  Eve shook her head. “If I wasn’t so far away, I’d slap you.”

  As they ate scrambled eggs and toast, Eve noticed the faraway look in Patrick’s eyes.

  “You’ll find Maggie, Patrick. If we need to go to Canada, we will. I’m sure we’ll be able to find out what happened to her there.”

  Patrick set his admiring eyes on her. “A lucky man I am, Eve, to have found you. You are quite the adventuress, my darling lass.”

  “Don’t you have some kind of saying for this moment, Patrick? Something your old Da used to say?”

  Patrick sipped at his coffee. “Just this. Home is where the heart is, Eve, so my home will always be wherever you are.”

  Eve melted a little, feeling the sincere warmth of his love. She smiled. “You are a real charmer, Detective Sergeant Gantly, and a sentimentalist. Who would have thought—a superhero sentimentalist.”

  Patrick grinned. “Well, I will admit that I often shed a tear or two whenever I hear the song Molly Malone.”

  That evening, as snow fell outside, and Christmas music played from the living room speakers, Patrick and Eve were layering up to go sledding in Riverside Park.

  “I still haven’t heard back from Joni,” Eve said. “I’ve called and texted. I’m getting worried. And she still has the lantern.”

  “You should go see her. We need to get that lantern back.”

  “How could she have changed like that, Patrick? I know I keep talking about it, but it just weirds me out. I mean, she sort of looks like the old Joni, but then again, she doesn’t. And what is this about her being a massage therapist?”

  Patrick tugged on his winter boots and laced them up. “Let’s face it, Eve, we changed the world back there, in small ways, and maybe in ways we’ll never know. Perhaps we altered Joni’s ancestors’ destiny in some way. Maybe an ancestor lived who would have died, and vice versa—one died who would have lived. We just can’t know.”

  “Then what world have we returned to, Patrick? It can’t be the same world we left.”

  Patrick sat back with a sigh. “No, Eve, but it’s the only world we’ve got.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang.

  Eve turned to Patrick. “Who’s that?”

  Patrick shrugged.

  Eve left the couch, went to the hall speaker and pressed the call/answer button. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Maggie.”

  Eve froze. “What? Who?”

  “Maggie Kering. I’m here to see Eve and Patrick Gantly…”

  “Who is it?” Patrick asked, now standing, seeing Eve’s startled expression.

  Eve shrugged and pushed the button. “She said her name is Maggie Kering.”

  Eve and Patrick were standing by the open door, looking out, when a woman in her fifties climbed the stairs to the third floor, turned left and saw the couple waiting for her, their faces filled with strained curiosity.

  “Hello, I’m Maggie Kering,” the woman said, breathless. “I guess the stairs are good for exercise.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eve said. “The elevator is out of order. It seems to go out of order a lot.”

  Eve received the woman with a tentative smile, and Patrick stepped aside to let her in.

  Patrick closed the door, and then Eve and Patrick stood patiently, awaiting an explanation.

  Maggie studied the couple. “You are Eve and Patrick Gantly, are you not?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said.

  Maggie smiled with some relief. “Well, I’m glad of that.”

  “Can I take your coat?” Eve asked, suddenly all nerves.

  Eve helped Maggie out of her coat and hung it in the nearby closet.

  “Please have a seat,” Patrick said, indicating toward the couch. Maggie walked to the couch and eased down with an audible sigh. She wore a gray top with dark pants, a white sweater, and low black boots. She was a bit thick around the waist and had stylishly cut salt-and-pepper hair, a friendly manner and lively, intelligent eyes.

  Georgy Boy, ever the friendly animal who loved company, was instantly at Maggie’s side with a panting tongue, warm brown eyes and a head lifted, ready to be patted.

  “Do you mind the dog?” Patrick asked.

  “No, not at all. I have three of my own,” Maggie said.

  “Can I get you anything?” Eve asked.

  “No, thank you. It is Christmas Eve, and I promise I won’t stay long.”

  After everyone was seated, Patrick in the chair and Eve next to Maggie, Eve looked at Maggie with an eager restlessness.

  Maggie took in a little breath. “I am Maggie Lott Gantly Fitzwilliam’s great-granddaughter.”

  On reflex, Patrick shot up. “Maggie’s great-granddaughter?”

  “Yes. I know it must be a surprise, especially for me to show up on Christmas Eve, but I’m here because I was instructed to come by Maggie Fitzwilliam. Of course, I was named after her.”

  Patrick and Eve could only stare.

  Maggie reached into her purse and drew out an old yellow envelope. She handed it to Patrick. “This is addressed to you, Patrick.”

  Patrick and Eve gawked at it.

  Maggie continued. “This letter has been passed down from daughter to daughter since my great grandmother’s death at 81 years old in 1966. My great grandmother stated very clearly that whichever daughter was alive on December 24th, 2018, she was to bring this letter to you, Patrick, and to your wife, Eve. Of course, over the years, we all wondered who you two were, and what you would be like. We invented so many stories and we couldn’t imagine how Maggie could possibly know anyone in 2018. It was a great mystery to us.”

  Patrick and Eve exchanged another glance. And then Patrick’s hesitant eyes rested on the old letter. He took it, reading the handwritten names and address on the face.

  Slowly Patrick turned the envelope over, examining it, imagining Maggie’s elegant old hand sealing it. He opened it with care, sliding his thumb along the stubborn old seam. He glanced up at Eve once more. “Should I read it aloud, Eve?”

  Eve gave Maggie a side-glance. Patrick noticed Maggie’s eager expression.

  Eve said, “Perhaps you should read it first, to yourself.”

  He nodded, lowering himself in the chair. He felt a catch in his throat as he began.

  My Dearest Father and Dear Friend Eve:

  Well, the years have melted away and I have become an old woman of 80 years. This is Christmas Eve, and it is my birthday. Don’t imagine me old and decrepit, stumbling about with a cane and granny glasses. No! I can still dance a waltz or two, if it isn’t too lively, and take a couple glasses of Champagne at dinner. I still sing, if only to myself.

  So it is 1965 and, speaking of music, I’m quite taken by the new basso nova sound and, of course, I love Elvis Presley. I would love to meet him.

  But I must not ramble on. My doctor tells me that my heart is not as strong as it used to be. Well, I told him, “I have lived, Doctor, and so my heart has simply grown tired of all my shenanigans.”

  The long and the short of it, my dear ones, is that I will not be in this world much longer, which is why I am writing you this letter. I will instruct my daughter, Denise (or Dena as I call her), to ensure that this letter is passed down from daughter to daughter until it is delivered to you on December 24, 2018. I have left them some money in my will with the understanding that if my wishes are not carried out, they will receive nothing. So, my darlings, I am sure you will read this at the right and proper time.

  You will recall that you gave me your address just in case I decided to use the lantern and come to you in your time. Wel
l, I never did, did I?

  Father, I want you and Eve to know that I had the best of lives, perhaps not one fit for the telling to priests, the pious and young children, but a grand life all the same.

  After you both vanished—and what an astounding scene that was—Duncan and I trudged off to Edmonton. We lived together for a time, but just as friends and not as lovers. When I met the sensational and life-grabbing Noah Fitzwilliam, a man a few years older than me but at least 20 years younger in heart, I fell in love. Can you believe it? Yes, I fell head-over-heels in love with that crazy man. He was not the masculine, handsome man you are, Father. Fitz was a rather short, a rather portly and a rather rich man, and he always treated me like a queen. In 1929 when the market crashed, my good husband had shorted the market. He made over one million dollars.

  We traveled the world, gambling, tasting the finest wines of Europe, living for a time in Paris, London and Rome during the roaring 20s, as they became known, and then we finally settled down in Edmonton.

  But allow me to back up just a bit because I have always been known for getting ahead of myself. I am, as you know, Father, an impatient woman.

  Fitz and I had Dena in 1918, just after the war. We took her with us across the world, but she didn’t like any of it. She wanted a settled life, so we left her with one of Fitz’s sisters for a time. That seemed to work for a while, although I missed Dena terribly, so we finally returned to Canada. Dina grew up to be a practical woman and eventually found a good man who worked for the government, and they settled down in Washington, DC and had one lovely daughter.

  I stayed in touch with Logan Tyler until 1916 when, unfortunately, he was killed in France at the Battle of the Somme. When his letters stopped coming, I persisted in writing to the Canadian government for two years, until I finally received a letter from the War Department confirming that Logan had been killed in action. I was sad and low for many days. I even went to the local cathedral and lit a candle for him. He was a kind man, who only wanted a simple and good life. Do you know what? I still pray for him. Imagine me praying for anyone. But I recall with warm smiles the evening he played his violin and we danced late into the night. I will cherish that memory to my last breath.

  But let me move on. After we finally settled in Edmonton, my great love, Fitz, enthusiastically produced many shows for me in and around Edmonton and in other cities in Canada. I was a local star for a time, and that suited me just fine.

  I had a son in 1921. We named him Patrick. He was much like you, Father. Not as tall, but broad and handsome. He flew fighter planes during World War II and was seriously wounded in 1944 when his P 51 was shot down over Germany. He spent the rest of the war in a German prison camp. He survived that, but I am sorry to say, he died of war injuries in 1959, when he was only 38 years old. It nearly killed me, Patrick. I’m afraid I spent many nights crying and drinking Champagne.

  So, as you see, I have had a full and rich life thanks to you and Eve. Fitz died in 1950 at the age of only 73, and I have missed him daily. His great bear of a laugh and the endless joy he brought to my life are sorely missed, and I am looking forward to seeing him again in the great beyond.

  Patrick, Father, please know that I have carried you and Eve in my thoughts and my heart constantly, and I have daily blessed your names. If you hadn’t had the courage and the fortitude and the will to return to 1914 to save my life, I would have surely perished by the hand of Big Jim Clancy.

  Do you know that after his and Addison Casterbury’s deaths, their corrupt organization soon disintegrated? New York City was much the better for it. So, you see, your good works did more than just save me. I dare say, you saved many others.

  Now, my dear ones, I must go. I do get fatigued rather easily. My hope is that the two of you also have the best of lives together. Perhaps, just perhaps, we shall meet again in some time past. One never knows.

  Finally, please forgive me for what I am about to tell you. I did take possession of that lantern. Logan was happy to be rid of it. Unfortunately, I lost it.

  In 1924, at a rather wild party at some vast and spectacular bootlegger’s mansion in St. Paul, Minnesota, it was taken from me. I met a famous actress at the time, Lilly Hart, who had come from Los Angeles for the party. We became fast friends and she returned to Edmonton with us.

  A few days after our return, we had a bash at our place and, in a Champagne stupor, I retrieved the lantern and told Lilly all about it. We even tried to light it, but something was wrong, and it wouldn’t light.

  Unfortunately, Lilly must have taken the lantern, because the next morning I discovered that both she and the lantern were missing. I frantically tried to contact her, but I couldn’t track her down. And then, tragically, six months later, as I was reading the morning paper, I saw that she had been killed in an auto crash near Santa Monica, California.

  I apologize for being so frivolous and irresponsible. I tried several times to find the lantern, but I never did. I am dreadfully sorry for losing it. Perhaps it will show up on your doorstep someday? Who knows, perhaps you and Eve will have to travel back to find it. I’ll be here waiting for you if you do.

  I send all my love to you both, and I vow that we shall see each other again, here in this world, in a past time, or in some other future world. After all, isn’t this world a truly wonderful and mysterious place?

  All my love,

  Maggie Lott Ganley Fitzwilliam

  Edmonton, Canada

  December 24, 1965

  Patrick lowered the letter and sat for a time in silence. Finally, he got up and presented it to Eve.

  As she read it, Patrick stared off into distances—into old worlds and new worlds.

  Maggie Kering sat quiet and still, wishing the letter had been read aloud. There was so much she wanted to know about the past.

  Eve asked Maggie Kering if she would join them for a Christmas Eve dinner with friends, but she declined, saying she had plans of her own and didn’t want to intrude.

  “Perhaps then you’ll be able to join us for Christmas dinner tomorrow afternoon?” Patrick asked. “Eve and I will be the chefs.”

  “We would love to have you,” Eve said, secretly wondering how she would ever be able to explain Maggie and the letter to her parents.

  Maggie offered a sweet smile. “Would my husband be an intrusion?”

  “Of course not,” Patrick said. “As long as you don’t mind being with Eve’s parents. They’re flying in tomorrow morning.”

  “Then we would be delighted to join you,” Maggie said.

  At the front door, as Maggie slipped on her brown leather gloves, she hesitated.

  “If I may be so bold… How did my great grandmother know you two would be here at this address when she wrote her letter in 1965? And, as a Gantly, what was your relationship to her?”

  Patrick looked at Eve, who looked at Patrick.

  Patrick finally spoke up. “We are distantly related, Maggie. As to your great-grandmother knowing we’d be here, some things just can’t be explained, and I’m afraid this is one of them.”

  Maggie smiled. “Well, perhaps in time, as we get to know each other better, everything will come to light.”

  When she was gone, Patrick sat on the couch reading over parts of the letter repeatedly, his eyes glazed with tears.

  “Why didn’t Maggie come with us, Eve? We could have had so many good years together.”

  Eve sat down next to him, taking his hand. “It was her choice, Patrick, and from her letter, it sounds like she had a wonderful life. And think of all the ancestors and the great-grandkids you have now in Minnesota and Canada. We’ll go visit them all.”

  Patrick turned to Eve and his eyes slowly yielded. “Yes, you’re right of course. Maggie needed to choose for herself.”

  “We did good, didn’t we, Patrick? Going back in time, I mean. You were right. It was good that we went back and saved Maggie.”

  As the white winter sun slid behind the hills of New Jersey, a steady sn
ow was falling when Eve, Patrick and Georgy Boy reached the glistening white sledding hill at Riverside Park. Patrick had found an antique Flexible Flyer sled on eBay, insisting that they needed to have the true experience of sledding.

  Eve sat perched on the front and Patrick behind, his arms wrapped about her.

  “You guide it with your feet,” Patrick said.

  “I know, I know, Patrick. I had one like this when I was a girl. I had the fastest sled in the neighborhood.”

  “Okay then, Mrs. Gantly, let’s go.”

  Patrick kicked them off and they gathered speed, plunging down the sugary hill, bouncing and rocking off into the snowy night, with Georgy Boy galloping behind. As they ramped and sailed, their laughter rose and blended with the whistling wind, barking dogs, the shouting glee of children, and somebody’s wireless speaker playing Jingle Bells.

  Thank You

  Thank you for taking the time to read The Christmas Eve Daughter. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best friend and it is much appreciated.

  Thank you,

  Elyse Douglas

  Other novels by Elyse Douglas that you might enjoy:

  The Summer Diary

  The Other Side of Summer

  The Christmas Diary

  The Christmas Women

  The Lost Mata Hari Ring (A Time Travel Novel)

  The Christmas Eve Letter (A Time Travel Novel Book 1)

  Christmas for Juliet

  Christmas Ever After

  The Christmas Town (A Time Travel Novel)

  www.elysedouglas.com

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