by Unknown
Abby nodded. “We had pretty much figured that out. My cousin wasn’t a very sensible boy.”
“True. Cassandra said that was the reason she didn’t marry him. He was a spendthrift and irresponsible. She didn’t want that kind of husband.”
“I can’t say I blame her,” Abby said. “From what I remember of my cousin, he had no common sense.”
“That’s how she described him, too.”
Abby leaned forward. “Did she say anything about my father?”
“Not really.” Nick rubbed his chin, noticing his skin was cool again. “I asked her why she held a grudge against your father, but she wouldn’t answer me. All she said was something about him not loving anybody else but his daughter and his newspaper.”
Abby’s forehead creased. “What does that mean?”
“I received the impression she had loved him,” Nick said.
“Are you joking? Why would she be in love with my father?”
He held up his hands in surrender, but they trembled, so he placed them back in his lap. “I don’t know, honey. She never told me.”
“Well, who’s to say she wasn’t in love? I thought my father was a very nice-looking man in his day, and I’m quite certain he attracted women of all ages.”
The chirping of Nick’s cell phone made him jump. He pulled it out of his pocket, squinting to read the caller ID since his vision was still a little blurred. Vanessa. He groaned. She was probably calling to find out what her great-grandmother had said.
He glanced at Abby. “Hold that thought. Let me get rid of Vanessa.” He opened his phone and held it to his ear. “Hello?”
At first he couldn’t make out the sound coming from the other end of the line, but he finally recognized sniffling.
“Vanessa, is that you? What’s wrong?”
“N–Nicky? What did you do to her?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s dead! My great-grandmother is dead!”
Nick jumped to his feet and pushed the chair against the wall. He felt himself sway, but he managed to hold onto the desk. “Dead? Are you sure?”
Abby rose and stood beside him, her eyes wide.
“Yes, dead,” Vanessa wailed. “Not more than ten minutes ago the nursing home called to say she’d died. She’d been sitting in her favorite chair, staring out the window. They said she was dressed in her old dress.” She sniffed. “What happened, Nicky? What did you say to her?”
He scowled. “What makes you think I had anything to do with her death? She told me she was dying and she wanted to talk to me before she met her Maker.”
Vanessa cried loudly for a few minutes. Finally, her sobs diminished and she sniffed again. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I didn’t mean to blame you. It’s just . . . you were the last one to see her alive.”
Nick leaned against his desk to hold himself up. “I understand, Vanessa. I’m sorry for your loss. Please let me know when the funeral is and I’ll be there.”
“Okay.”
“Goodbye.” He closed the phone and shook his head. Cassandra had been correct when she’d said she was dying. But why did she choose him to be the last person she spoke to?
Abby slid up beside Nick and placed her hand on his chest. “That’s unbelievable.”
“I know. I’m just a little shocked right now.” He slipped his hand in his suit jacket pocket and felt the locket the old woman had given him. He pulled it out and stared at it. Diamonds glittered across the top, and a red ruby rose adorned the center of the heart. Now he wondered if the locket was what had kept Cassandra alive. Could the piece of jewelry have some kind of magical powers? That would certainly explain why she had lived so long.
Abby gasped. “Where—where did you get that?”
He glanced up at her. “Cassandra gave this to me. She said she thought it might belong to you.”
Tears glistened in Abby’s eyes and her bottom lip trembled. “It did—it does. That’s the locket my grandmother gave me. How did Cassandra get it?”
Nick couldn’t tell her it had come from Anthony. “She said it was given to her.”
Abby put her fist to her mouth as tears coursed down her cheeks. “I never thought I’d see it again.”
Her fingers slid across the locket as she took it from him. She brought it to her cheek and closed her eyes. A lovely smile graced her face as if she had finally come home, as if she’d finally found peace.
Suddenly, panic surged through him. No!
He reached for her to take away the locket, but his hands flew right threw her. “Abby!” he shouted.
Within seconds, she slipped away into a shadowy mist. She was gone.
Nick sank to his knees. “No! Abigail, come back. Don’t leave me!” He groaned. “Please God, bring her back. I can’t live without her.”
Dizziness overcame him and he struggled to catch his breath. Then everything went dark and he crumbled to the floor.
Fourteen
The pungent odors of ink and tobacco assailed Nick’s nostrils, stirring him to awareness. He heard mumbling voices and rapid metallic clicking, and he struggled to focus on the sounds. His head throbbed with such pressure he was sure the eyeballs would burst from their sockets. What had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was . . .
Suddenly, the memories assailed him. Abby. The necklace. The woman he loved was gone.
With a groan, Nick grabbed his head and rolled onto his side, curling into a fetal position. He wanted to shout to all who would listen, to ask them to help him find Abby. How could he live without her?
Voices outside the room grew louder, and Nick heard heavy footsteps. He forced his eyes open, but his vision was unclear. After blinking several times, he could finally recognize his surroundings. His desk looked different. He blinked again. This was not the expensive furniture he’d purchased a few months previously. He glanced across the room to the window. This was not the window he’d been looking out the past several weeks.
He scrambled to a sitting position, holding his head to keep it from exploding. His body ached from the effort. A vintage chair sat behind his desk, with three more in front of the desk. The light fixtures, curtains, and throw rugs looked like well-kept antiques.
Slowly, Nick stood, holding on to the wooden desktop until the room stopped spinning. The office door was closed, but through the frosted glass, he could see two people standing just on the other side. Carefully, he approached the outside window, parted the curtains, and looked out onto the street. Turn-of-thecentury cars puttered along the road in front of the building. Men in brown suits, with stiff, white collars up to their chins and ridiculous hats, strolled down the walkway. Large, colorful feathers decorated the women’s hats, matching their long, fitted dresses, and each woman carried a parasol. They looked much like Abby had the day Nick met her.
He inhaled sharply and jumped away from the window. He had to be dreaming, or perhaps hallucinating from the devastation of losing Abby. It wasn’t as if he’d gone back in time . . . or was it?
Nick chuckled. Back in time? Right. Only in movies, and he’d kissed Hollywood goodbye long ago. Yet everything seemed so real. The smell of the ink, the metallic clicking outside his office, the people on the sidewalks, and the cars on the street. He was in Abby’s world!
I must be dreaming. Nick pinched his hand as hard as he could. Pain shot up his arm. Okay, I’m definitely not dreaming.
He lifted the window to get a better look. This was certainly not the set of a historical movie. He jerked the curtains closed. He didn’t believe in time travel. Then again, he’d never believed in ghosts until Abby. So why would he be back in 1912? Could his prayers of being with Abby have come true? After all, this was the only chance they could be together without her being a ghost. But what day was it? Was she still alive?
On his way toward the office door, he passed the desk and noticed a newspaper lying on top. The black-and-white picture on the front page captured his attention, along with the headline “All P
assengers on Titanic Rescued.” With a sharp laugh, he picked up the paper and read about the iceberg, the unsinkable ship, and how all the passengers were rescued by the Carpathia. Nick decided that the reporter who wrote this article must have been disillusioned, or at least received incorrect information.
The door to the office opened and a man walked in. A brown wool cap was perched on his head, and his shirt had long, baggy sleeves. Black ink stains covered his hands. The man looked at Nick from head to toe, then back again, and he appeared to stifle a laugh.
Nick rolled his eyes, then held up the newspaper. “What kind of gag is this?”
The man’s forehead creased. “Gag, sir?”
“Yes. This article is full of lies. The Carpathia didn’t rescue all of the passengers on the Titanic. The Carpathia was too late. Over fifteen hundred of the Titanic passengers died.”
The man scowled and marched over to Nick, then yanked the paper out of his hands. “I don’t know what you are talking about, sir. This information came right from the Carpathia.”
“Then your informant must have been into his cups, because I assure you, over fifteen hundred people became shark food or human icebergs themselves.”
“Who are you and what do you want?” the stranger demanded.
“I’m Nick Marshal.” He paused before answering the second part of the question. He had no idea how to answer. Oh yeah, I’m here to find my ghost girlfriend, but hopefully she’s not a ghost any longer.
“Well, Mr. Marshal, I assume since you’re in Mr. Westland’s office, you’re waiting for him. But he’s not here, which is what the secretary should have told you when you walked in the door downstairs.”
Westland? Nick arched an eyebrow. As in Cassandra’s husband? But nothing was ever said about her marrying someone who worked for Edward Carlisle. Nick racked his brain, trying to remember Harry’s last name.
“Well, nobody told me Mr. Westland wasn’t here,” Nick said, going along with the other man.
“He’s at the funeral, which is where a lot of the staff of the newspaper are today.”
Nick’s heart plummeted. Funeral? He grabbed the paper from the man and read the date. April 16, 1912. It wasn’t Abby’s funeral. He blew out a sigh and set the paper back on the desk.
“Whose funeral, may I ask?”
The other man’s eyebrows lifted. “Edward Carlisle, of course. Where have you been lately? The whole city is in shock.”
Nick ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. Her father had died first, and she’d died exactly two weeks later. “Please accept my apologies and my sympathy. Do you happen to know where the service is being held?”
“It’s a graveside service.” The man glanced at the clock on the wall. “It started fifteen minutes ago.”
Muttering his apologies again, Nick rushed out of the office. A few people stood by the elevator, which didn’t look anything like the one he remembered, so he turned and fled down the stairs. Once he exited the building he stopped. How would he get to the cemetery? He didn’t have a car, and it was too far to walk.
He glanced at the few cars parked nearby. A woman who looked to be in her forties had just opened the door to her car and climbed in. Nick hurried to her, hoping he could charm her into a ride. When she looked at him, a soft smile touched her eyes.
“Hello,” he greeted.
She stared at his clothing and grinned. “Good afternoon.”
“I hope you can help me. I desperately need a ride to the cemetery. Edward Carlisle’s funeral is today, and I really need to be there.”
She nodded and motioned her hand to the passenger’s side. “I would love to help you. That’s on my way, so it’s no problem at all.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You’ve made my day.” Nick was surprised at how kind and generous she was; he wouldn’t have thought to ask someone for a ride in his day.
After what seemed like forever, the woman pulled the car into the cemetery. Nick thanked her for the ride and climbed out. A large crowd had gathered around a grave. He hurried up the hill. Would Abby remember him? He chuckled to himself. Of course she wouldn’t.
Slowing his step, he wondered how he’d introduce himself to her. What could he say that would make her want to trust him? No way could he tell her she was going to die in two weeks. Besides, if he had his way, that part of history would not be repeated.
Nick scanned the mourners who huddled closest to the gravesite. Suddenly, he could scarcely breathe. Abby sat beside the casket, garbed all in black. Though a thin veil hid most of her face, the sadness emanating from her broke his heart. A white handkerchief contrasted vividly with the black-gloved hand clutching it. She sat with her shoulders slumped, staring at the casket, which was draped with a colorful array of flowers.
She’s real! Finally, Nick would get to talk to her, hold her, and kiss her like a real person, not a ghost. His heart raced at the thought. But could he stop himself from touching her, just to see if she was real and not part of a dream? He recalled her explaining how she’d felt after her father’s death—numb, helpless, lost, and confused. His arms ached to hold her, to comfort her, yet he couldn’t do that if she didn’t know him.
Standing beside Abby with his hand on her shoulder was a man with sandy brown hair and a long mustache. He looked to be in his early forties. Nick clenched his fists. This wasn’t Alexander, her uncle, because Nick had seen her uncle’s picture on the Internet.
He searched the faces of the others standing near the casket. Opposite from Abby stood a man, a woman, and a teenage boy.
Nick nodded. There were his suspects: Alexander, his wife Julia, and their son Anthony.
Nick looked at Abby again. So who is the guy consoling her?
The crowd broke up, and Nick waited while people spoke with Abby and the man by her side. Nick wanted to say something, anything to make eye contact with her. Again realization hit him—she wouldn’t remember him at all. Somehow he needed to gain her trust and become her friend, and he must not scare her away by mentioning their future relationship.
The darkly clad mourners filed past Abby, paying their respects. She nodded but didn’t speak much. When Nick stopped in front of her, he hesitantly took her hand. She felt different this time—more real, warmer—and he didn’t want to let go. Sad eyes met his gaze through the black netting. He wished he could lift it and see her beautiful face. He stooped slightly and peered at her through the veil. Her eyes widened in alarm, but she didn’t pull her hand away.
“Ab . . . um, Miss Carlisle, I’m very sorry for your loss. If there is anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
She nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“My name is Nick Marshal.”
She nodded again, staring at him. “Do—do I know you?”
He wanted to tell her exactly how well they knew each other—that he could describe the small white scar behind her left ear he’d found while kissing her the other day, the way she arched only one eyebrow when she joked with him, and the way her eyes glittered like stars right after he kissed her—but she would never believe him. It wouldn’t do to have her thinking he was loony.
“Not yet,” Nick responded.
Again her eyes widened. How he longed for even a glimmer of recognition!
“Did you know my father?” she asked.
“Not personally, which I deeply regret. I heard he was a wonderful man.”
A tear slipped down Abby’s cheek and her lips quivered. Instinct told him to take her in his arms, but he managed to hold himself at bay. He was sure as soon as his arms went around her shoulders, the bulldog standing beside her would put a quick stop to it.
“Thank you, Mr. Marshal. My father was wonderful.” She glanced up at the man beside her. “Mr. Marshal? Do you know my father’s best friend, Harry Westland?”
Nick frowned. Wasn’t Harry the man who proposed to Abby a day before she was killed? Was he also the man who married Cassandra, or was there another Westland out th
ere somewhere that Nick needed to know about?
He rose to his full height and shook Harry’s hand. Nick took pleasure in standing several inches taller than the rival suitor. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Westland.”
Harry’s gaze narrowed. “So, Mr. Marshal, how did you know Edward Carlisle?”
“Like I said, I didn’t know him personally, but a dear friend of mine told me all about him.” He looked directly at Abby as he spoke, then winked at her. He bent to her ear and whispered, “I believe your grandmother has spoken of me.”
When he pulled away, Abby stared at him as if she’d seen a ghost. Did she suspect he was the man with initials N.M. that her grandmother had told her about? If she didn’t, he’d help her along. He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief out of his breast pocket and handed it to her, his initials in clear view. “Please, Miss Carlisle, I insist that you take this.”
She nodded slowly as she took it from him. Her gaze fell to his initials and her mouth hung agape. This time when she met his gaze, a spark of curiosity glowed behind the tears.
People behind him in line shifted restlessly, so Nick lifted Abby’s hand to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Once again, please know my thoughts are with you and your family at this difficult time.”
He kept his gaze on her as he walked away. She too watched him until he was out of sight. Hopefully, he’d manage to talk to her again soon, and this time she wouldn’t be afraid of him.
The gravesite wasn’t as crowded now, and he had a chance to look around the cemetery, but every so often, he’d glance back at Abby as she listened to another person offering condolences. Frequently her gaze drifted toward Nick and he smiled, knowing he’d caught her interest.
He turned back to look at the casket. Not as elaborate as the ones in his day, but still quite fancy. Abby’s father would have wanted the best.
Nick felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around, coming face to face with a sneering Harry Westland.
“Mr. Marshal, can I ask you a question?”
Nick folded his arms across his chest. “Sure, shoot.” The man’s eyebrow lifted. “Shoot?”
Mentally, Nick kicked himself for using a modern figure of speech. “I mean, please proceed with your question.”
