Come Back to Me (Love Across Time Book 1)

by Annie Seaton

  It would.

  If it didn’t, she’d deal with that when it happened.

  ##

  Kathy and Megan were very different in appearance and personality. Megan had always been the academic one, and Kathy constantly told her she had her head in the clouds.

  “There’s real life out there. Get your nose out of the dusty books,” Kathy would say. She was brash and loud, and didn’t trust easily, and when her sister had fallen for Tony, Megan had paid out on her in bucket loads.

  Where Kathy was petite, fair-skinned and blonde—she always said it was her size that made her stand up for herself, Megan was tall and dark with olive skin. Burying her nose in books as a child, while Kathy had excelled at every sport she’d taken on, had isolated Megan, and confidence had always been a problem for her.

  “I’m pleased you’ve decided to go on your trip. You know you can trust me to appeal and to do it properly?” Tony looked across the table at Megan as Kathy held her hand. Beth had stood behind her since they had ordered their coffee in the departure terminal at the airport. Now she rubbed Megan’s back in soothing circles.

  The support of her family and best friend was going to get her through this. The problem was going to be the distance, but knowing Kath she’d call every day if she knew Megan needed her.

  “Absolutely, Tony. You know I trust you. All the paperwork you’ll need is in folders in my study at the flat. That can answer the financial and marking allegations. And you’ve got the credit card records for paying for my ticket, haven’t you? The others I’ll have to deal with personally.” She turned to Kathy. “Do you know where your key to the flat is?”

  Her sister nodded and Megan continued. “Any questions you’ve got, email me and I’ll sort them out. If they propose a meeting before I’m home, they’ll just have to wait till August. If they won’t wait I’ll go higher. I’ll even go to the media if I have to.” She stared at her brother-in-law. “I need to see the letter so I can look at all of the allegations in detail. It’ll all work out because I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Tony dropped his head in his hands. “Megan, you are such a Pollyanna. If there is a political move to get you out, they will, no matter what evidence you can produce.”

  She shook her head. “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The system can be corrupt and if there is a hidden motive for them to get you out, they will win. Don’t expect that there will be any integrity or justice, just because you’re innocent.” He held her gaze and uncertainty filled her for the first time since they’d decided on the plan of attack. “And believe me, I have seen some unfair decisions over the years. Okay, I’ll word up an appeal and lodge it for you. If I have any questions, I’ll email you.”

  Beth leaned forward. “Megs, there’s no internet in Violet Cottage. In fact, Aunt Alice wouldn’t even have a phone connected. You’ll have to go into the village to the public phone. Reverse the charges so you don’t have to worry about old fashioned call cards or coins.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll sort something out. I’m sure there’ll be an internet café or something. You just get the appeal organised and do whatever has to be done.” Megan turned away from Tony and looked at Beth. “I’m so grateful to your family for letting me stay in your aunt’s cottage. Now I just have to find my way there.”

  “You can catch the train from Paddington station to Castle Cary. There’ll be buses to the festival but if you grab a taxi at the station, you’ll be able to go straight to Violet Cottage.”

  Megan looked from her best friend to Tony and Kathy, the only family she had left, and tears filled her eyes.

  “You look after my new little niece or nephew, Kath.”

  As her sister hugged her, Megan knew they’d be there for her no matter what, and once she came home she’d show them how much she appreciated their support. She’d be the best damn babysitter there was.

  Now it was time to say goodbye and make her way to the boarding gate and try to stay calm and focus on her research.

  This whole stuff up could mean the end of her career and she was determined to fight it. The timing sucked but she would come back and sort it out in a month. She would try to switch off as best she could, enjoy the festival, get her research data and try to block this from her mind until she came home. Learning to meditate had helped her block unwanted thoughts last year when she’d been trying to work, and cope with the grief of her parents’ deaths; she’d do it again.

  Now she had this opportunity to achieve her dream and visit Glastonbury, that sneaky, lying lowlife who wanted her job was not going to take it from her.

  Chapter Four

  Megan snapped her laptop shut as the captain announced they were only half an hour out of Heathrow Airport. The second leg of the long-haul flight from Dubai had passed quickly, and she’d organised all of her notes and files ready to begin her research at Glastonbury. A shiver of anticipation rippled through her as she realised that in less than an hour her feet would be on the ground in England, and her lifetime dreams were about to be achieved—visiting England, going to a music festival, and experiencing the British music scene firsthand.

  The screen on the back of the seat beside her caught her attention and she leaned forward with interest as the credits for a seventies music show ran down the screen. She flicked her own TV on, slipped the earphones over her ears and scrolled through the music programs. She found and selected the seventies show and grinned when Davy Morgan strutted onto the stage.

  How good was that? Megan had spent the past hour reading about him and now she could listen to his music…and watch him. It didn’t get much better than that. The librarian at the university had e-mailed the final articles scanned from the old microfiche copies of It’s Here and Now, the music magazine from the seventies that Megan was using for some of her research. The article was one she hadn’t read before and the photograph had caught her attention. It was the same photograph as the poster she’d had up on her wall when she was a teenager. The lurid headline hinted at a scandal but she ignored it. Her research had shown that scandals for rock stars in the seventies were manufactured on a daily basis to boost record sales.

  And the media hadn’t changed much. In those days, the gossip had been in print. With today’s social media, a rock star couldn’t sneeze without it being tweeted or Instagrammed immediately.

  Megan had been fascinated by the seventies music loved by her parents, and she’d preferred it over the nineties bands her friends had followed. Her fascination with the era had continued through university, and now formed the basis of her doctorate. Her research on Davy Morgan had come to a dead end soon after 1971. It seemed besides a few tours in late ’71 and early ’72, he’d become a bit of a recluse and there was very little information on him, apart from his appearance at the Glastonbury festivals for a few years after that, and reviews of his later albums. It was as though he’d disappeared…the only mention of him was a rumor that he’d retired to an island somewhere to write his music.

  Megan reached over and turned the volume up and closed her eyes as Davy sang “For Megan.” She’d always loved that song; when she’d been a teenager she’d imagined he’d written it for her. She knew it had been a factor in her fascination with Davy Morgan’s music.

  Come back to me, Megan.

  Together we will conquer time.

  It had been the beginning of a journey that was now culminating in the final research for her doctorate on the sociology of seventies music and festivals. She couldn’t help the grin that she knew was spreading across her face.

  Megan Miller was going to go to her first Glastonbury festival.

  She was in England.

  After they’d landed and Megan had collected her luggage, made her way through customs, and had her passport scanned, she found a quiet corner and pulled out her mobile phone. It took a couple of minutes to locate a provider but eventually she had service…and fifteen text messages.

&nbs
p; What the hell? They were all from Kathy, and her stomach clenched as she thought the worst.

  Oh gosh. Not the baby, please.

  Rather than pick up the messages, she dialled her sister’s number and she picked up on the first ring.

  “Megan, you’re there?”

  “Yeah, what’s so urgent?”

  “I just wanted to know how you are now that you’ve arrived. Did you get any sleep? Are you calmer now?”

  “Good, yes, and yes.” Megan smiled as she looked around her. “I’m happy, and I’m calm. You worried me, I thought there was something wrong. Now let me step outside into England and enjoy myself. I’ll call you in the morning after I get down to Beth’s family’s place.”

  Megan wondered if she’d been foolish leaving the country while Tony handled the appeal. Could she trust that she’d be treated fairly? Would everything be sorted by the time she went home? The research for her doctorate on the Glastonbury music event over thirty years was the final step towards her thesis and she couldn’t afford to give up the opportunity. But the flip side was: if she stayed and was found guilty, the research would be for nothing. If she did lose her job at the university, she’d never get another academic job anywhere else.

  This whole mess could mean the end of her career and her doctorate. The timing sucked, but she would fight it. For now, she would try to focus on Glastonbury as best she could, get her research data, enjoy the festival, and try to block out the appeal until she went home. It was in Tony’s capable hands.

  Megan put the phone into her pocket and grabbed the handle on her suitcase. She looked down at purple Doc Martins and smiled as disbelief ran through her. Her feet were actually on English soil.

  Chapter Five

  “Shit.”

  David Morgan hitched his guitar up on his shoulder and cursed for the second time that night. The band practice session had gone late because the pyramid stage had been only half set up when they’d gotten to Worthy Farm in Pilton at midday. The organisers had tried to find the best site by using a witching rod so they could set the stage above the magical ley line that was supposed to run through here from Stonehenge. It was said to be lucky.

  David strode across the field trying to shake off the anger that consumed him. Everything had gone wrong today. Bear, their drummer, had been late because of the crowds gawking at the musicians along the road into the farm. Someone had let slip that Bowie and the Stones were rehearsing, and everyone had come to the festival site hoping to see them. By the time he and the band had set up and rehearsed, it had been pitch dark despite almost being midsummer.

  If they’d asked him where to put the stage, he could have shown them straight up. But he was not in the mood to talk to anyone. Holly Love, their publicist, had handed him the latest issue of the Taunton Times and he’d thrown it onto the stage floor in disgust when he’d read the bullshit the journalist had written up about how his band was about to break up because of some torrid fling he was supposed to have had with Bear’s girlfriend. Jesus, Bear didn’t even have a woman at the moment. Anything to sell a magazine or newspaper.

  It had taken David three attempts to get back home across the fields and by the time he got there he was royally pissed off. He’d spent an hour wandering around in the dark before he’d finally found the stones and made his way across to the back garden of Rose Cottage. Someone had been there before him, because the small front gate leading to the narrow laneway was open.

  No matter how much he protected his privacy and tried to hide, some groupie always managed to find him.

  No matter where, or when he was.

  After the first festival, he’d moved down to Glastonbury and settled into a vacant cottage outside the village to take refuge from the publicity and the journalists who constantly chased him. Music had flowed, and he had written new songs, day and night. Alice McLaren lived next door and she’d shown him the way to his future. At first, he’d been sceptical, but the day she’d taken him to the standing stones, a new world had opened up for him—an opportunity to escape the relentless pursuit of the press—and he had embraced it.

  When Alice had first told him about the ley line behind the cottages, he’d thought it was just her new age hippie ramblings, but she’d taken him over to the three large markers in the field. She’d placed his hands on the bluish-gray stone. He’d jumped back as they’d hummed and moved beneath his fingers. The next day he’d gone exploring alone, and had slipped through to the future for the first time. When he’d come back, Alice had explained it. Her family had been travelling through the time gate for centuries. Listening to her explanation of ley lines and time slips had fascinated him.

  Carefully, he’d explored the future—his future. It was as though he’d come home, taking him away from all the obsessed fans and groupies who constantly followed his band, or any band. When he had discovered how successful he’d been in the seventies, and the wealth he’d accrued since then, it had almost done his head in. The day he went up to London and recognised the elderly banker—who was still the same man who’d set up his accounts in 1972—everything had fallen into place for him. Clive was the only other person, apart from Alice and the guys in the band, who knew his secret…but now Alice was gone.

  He’d made his decision to stay in the twenty-first century and only went back through the time gates for the festivals, some touring, and when the band was recording in the studio. But living near the time gate had unsettled him, so he had bought an island in the Caymans. Davy Morgan became a recluse and the press soon lost interest in him when they couldn’t find him—or any scandal.

  He cursed again, as his toe stubbed something large on the front porch. He took a step forward and tripped over a small bag. As he fell, he twisted to protect his guitar and landed on something soft; something that expelled a soft oomph.

  “What the hell?” He grunted as his eyes adjusted to the faint light shining from the single lamp inside. He’d left it on after fumbling with the lock in the dark last night. It had taken half an hour to get the old key in the door. Living in an old country cottage was great for his privacy—most of the time—but it had its disadvantages. A night of singing at full volume had strained his vocal cords and all he wanted was a long, mellow whiskey to soothe his dry throat.

  Dropping his gaze, he groaned as a pair of red-clad legs moved beneath him and he realised he was lying across a woman. A small, but very well-endowed woman. Wide eyes looked back at him above a white T-shirt stretched tight across her breasts.

  “Well, you might as well come in. A good shag might just improve my night.”

  A soft gasp followed him as he put both hands on either side of her and pushed himself to his feet before retrieving his guitar from the ground.

  “But you’re not staying the night. Understood?” He looked around to the road. He hadn’t noticed a vehicle parked in the dark laneway. “However you got here, you can go back the same way.”

  Moving across to the door, he reached beneath the cushion of the padded chair next to the lintel and pulled out the huge key. The girl didn’t speak as she pulled herself up from the ground.

  “Come on. We’ll be more comfortable inside.” He opened the door and flicked the light switch as he waited for her to follow. When she stayed where she was, he turned and frowned as he noticed the luggage on his porch.

  “No way, sweetheart. You’re not staying. You’ve heard of ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’? Well, if you want me in your pants, that’s the deal. You get what you came for and then you leave. Okay?”

  As he turned, the light fell on her face. Older than the usual groupie, she was tall, and dark shadows circled her large green eyes. Her hair was pulled back from her face and her mouth hung open.

  “Well, are you coming in or not? Because I need a drink.”

  “Oh my God, you’re Davy Morgan.” Her voice was low and husky, and a ripple of something long forgotten ran down his back.

  “David Morgan, at your service.” He dipped
in a sweeping bow before turning away from her. “And don’t pretend you didn’t know who I was when you came looking for me.” Suspicion kicked in and he narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t follow me back from the festival, did you?”

  Of course she hadn’t.

  She’d been lying here on the porch when he’d come around the side. His biggest fear was someone following him and losing his privacy and his life here.

  “How long have you been here?” he said tersely.

  She continued to gape at him before she spoke. “But you can’t be Davy Morgan. You’re too young.”

  He gave a bitter laugh and pulled out his stock explanation. “Ah, you are obviously mistaking me for my uncle. The famous Davy Morgan? You’re not familiar with me, the other David Morgan, then?”

  “No. I’m not.” Her eyes were riveted on him and they widened even more as she shook her head. “Why are you in my house?”

  “Your house?” he said as he ran his hand through his hair. This one was obviously a nutcase. “Sorry, sweetheart, but good try. This is my house. Now why don’t you pick up your gear like a good little girl and go back to wherever you came from.”

  And he’d make sure she’d go and not come back. “Now I’ve had a look at you, you’re too old for me and not my type. Great boobs but the haunted look doesn’t do it for me.” He tried to be as rude as he could. The sleazier he sounded, the quicker she’d get out of here and leave him in peace.

  He stepped inside and pulled the door closed behind him and crossed to the makeshift bar on the old dresser. With a bit of luck, she’d take the hint and go before he had to think up any more coarse insults.

  He ignored the pounding on the door as he uncapped the whiskey bottle.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He muttered under his breath as he picked up his glass and walked back to the door. For the past forty years, he’d managed to avoid anyone discovering his secret. Having his cottage as a bolt-hole had been a godsend. How had this girl found him?