“Always a war!” Serena said, shaking her head sadly with a wisdom far past her years.
“But good things, too,” he said, tousling her hair.
“‘So, the soldier took on a new name. He took on his grandfather’s name. Hathaway. As Mark Hathaway—’”
“I’m Mark because of him!” Mark said happily.
“Right,” Keith agreed.
“As Mark Hathaway, he began to write again, and sometimes, he traveled, too, because, as a writer, he had friends who were writers. And his friends often heard things from the front. The American colonies were desperate for help from the French, and Mark Hathaway wrote many stirring essays that helped involve the French. But, more important, Mark Hathaway found out about the movements of Cornwallis toward the end of the war, and he was able to get important information to him. He was also able to tell many of the soldiers that the French were coming to help, and so, the soldiers didn’t desert when they might have given up. The fight for independence was very hard, and many people gave their lives for our freedom. Many people were heroes. Your great-great-great—whatever—was one of them.’”
“That’s so cool, so cool!” Serena said.
“Mark was really cool. I’m named for a hero!”
“Serena was a hero, too, right, Uncle Keith?” Serena demanded.
“Of course she was.”
“And it’s really a true story?” Mark asked.
“You know it is. Your mom and dad wrote it straight from all the old journals your grandmother dug out of the attic.”
“And so Serena—”
“Serena saved her stepbrother from the hangman’s noose. Once their lives were turned around and she wound up marrying Mark Hathaway, she supported him at every turn. He wrote in his last journal that ‘my wife has been my every strength; without her, I am nothing. My courage comes from her, as does the peace that follows my every movement, for she has given me a sanctuary, a safe haven always, a home, and the children, the beautiful children, who are everything in life.’”
Serena let out a happy sigh. “She was supercool, supercool!” She frowned suddenly. “How many children was it, Uncle Keith?”
“Eight—you can find all their names in the church register. She was a great mom, and really loved her kids. She lost her own parents when she was young, and she was still young when she lost her adopted parents. She re-created her own family, and she left the world a legacy of people.”
“But Mark was a hero,” Mark argued.
“Your mom and dad are kind of like heroes, too,” Keith said.
Both kids looked at him and frowned. “They work at home,” Serena informed him.
Most of the time, the two did work from home, though Melody showed her work in different galleries upon occasion. Jake had continued writing.
And he was legitimate. He had a social security number and everything. They’d told his story to a friend—not the real story, but how he’d found himself in the road in the snow—to one of George’s old friends who had worked for the government. He’d brought a friend from the FBI in on it all, and once he’d assured himself that Jake was not a South American mobster or dangerous psychotic, he’d arranged for the papers needed to make Jake a real human being living in the twenty-first century.
Keith knew, too, that Melody was happy Mark had persisted in being the man to stay behind in 1776. They had worried at first that someone would think they had done away with him.
But no one did.
It had been almost as if he had never existed in the twenty-first century. Since he wasn’t existing there now, it was a very good thing. Melody had feared that their publisher would demand to know what had happened to the book, but the publishing company didn’t have a contract on file, and they didn’t seem to remember Mark’s name. They did remember her, and so she was able to offer them the work now published on speculation.
Christmas. Amazing. Magic and miracles. Somehow, insanely, it had all worked out.
“Your parents work very hard, and they take care of the two of you. And they make sure that I get to spend time with you, and they’re very careful to take good care of Grandma and Grandpa. By the way—has Grandpa had any explosions out there lately?”
“Just a little one!” Serena whispered.
“Little tiny,” Mark agreed.
“I see. And Grandma?”
Serena giggled. “She took us to see some crazy ladies last week. But they were real cool. They gave us a bunch of incense and it smelled real good.”
“How’s the house in the woods coming along?” Keith asked.
They both stared at him blankly, and then, of course, he realized it was the only home they had ever known.
His parents had given it to Jake and Melody as their wedding present.
“It’s cool—Dad added a playroom,” Serena said.
“He chops wood real good,” Mark said.
“Well. He chops wood well,” his sister corrected.
“He knows how to cut it,” Mark said with aggravation, rolling his eyes.
“Hey, we’re home!” Keith heard his sister call out as she opened the door.
Melody and Jake came into the house, shivering and dusting snow from their coats. As they did so, a clacking sound could be heard. Poor Brutus—he was getting along in years now, but he still clicked happily to greet Melody and Jake, every time they arrived, which was often, of course, because they didn’t live far from the old house, and they were frequent visitors.
Mona and George were happy to take the kids once a week so that Melody and Jake could still get in some alone time—date time, as his mom called it. And once a year, Mona and George kept the kids so that Jake and Melody could take a week and go somewhere. They invited Keith to take his vacation at the same time. Jake was in love with the world. It had been a while now, but Jake was still fascinated with everything out there. So far, they’d seen the British Isles, Paris and Rome.
Jake was dying to head out on a trip to Egypt.
Keith stood, ready to go greet his sister and brother-in-law.
Mona and George came out from the kitchen area. “Great! We’re all here,” Mona said, wiping her hands on her apron and going to hug her daughter and son-in-law.
Keith went to do the same. He met his sister’s eyes and said, “We’re almost all here.”
“Oh?” She slipped an arm through her husband’s and stared at him.
“I think he has a date,” Jake said. He nuzzled Melody’s ear and she smiled, glancing up at him.
“A date?” she teased her brother. She stepped closer to him. “Another pole dancer?”
“It’s a legitimate way to make a living, if you don’t get hooked on the drugs,” he said. “But no—I think you’ll like her. She’s an arts major at Boston College.”
“Ah!” Melody said. “Cool.”
“Mark,” Keith said, looking at his young nephew, “when your sister tortures you, deck her,” he said.
“Keith!” Melody protested.
He grinned. “He didn’t hear me. That was for you.”
Melody and Jake laughed, still arm in arm. “Thanks for helping Mom and Dad keep an eye on the kids while we set up their presents at the house.”
“I’d say you’re welcome, but I just walked in on the little munchkins. Hey,” he added seriously, “the book really came out beautifully.”
“Thank you,” Jake and Melody said in unison.
The doorbell rang.
“Wonderful, wonderful!” George said. “We’re all in time for Christmas!”
Keith started to walk past his sister to answer the doorbell.
“Uncle Keith, Uncle Keith! You didn’t really finish the story!” Serena said.
He stopped and glanced at Jake and Melody.
He looked to the kids.
“Why, they all lived happily ever after!” he said.
Even me! I think my Christmas magic is now here.
Magic and miracles, he’d determined, we’re all c
reated by man’s greatest asset—the ability to love.
He answered the door.
It was great to be home for Christmas.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-7433-8
HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2009 by Heather Graham Pozzessere
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Home in Time for Christmas Page 23
