Time Watcher, page 11
Emily could hardly tell her she hadn’t put much effort into the paper because she had better things to do. Time travel things.
The house was no more peaceful than the school. Debbie was preparing for her performance in the choir, and she practiced constantly and loudly.
“I should be grateful you never picked up a musical instrument,” Nicky remarked to Emily as Debbie made her third passage through the hallway, displaying her impressive vocal range.
“It’s not too late. What do you think would suit me more, drums or a trumpet?”
Nicky comically wagged her finger.
Dinner was full of laughter and excitement as the girls and Nicky shared their holiday plans. A musical performance that evening; ice skating the next day; the girls meeting their friends. One topic was less cheerful—as they talked about visiting Mama, Emily’s thoughts again lingered on last Christmas. She was still partially distracted when, half an hour later in her room, her phone rang. Halfway toward reaching for it, she paused as she saw the caller.
Dad.
Her stomach churned. Was he calling about his visit? She thought they’d had it all arranged. It was the same every year. Mama—or Nicky, this year—sent him a calendar marking the available dates, usually birthdays or events. He picked one, turned up, made everything awkward, and went back home. Would it be even stranger this year, without Mama? Would Dad pull back more? From the few memories she’d had of him before the divorce, Dad used to be funny and kind and everything a dad should be. She’d been only six when her parents divorced, and remembered little of it, probably because she’d also been sick at the time.
Or maybe, she didn’t want to remember what turned the Dad who used to play with her in the back garden and teased her about digging a tunnel to China into the man completely out of touch with his family.
Her fingers hovered above the button. The ringing had been going on for a long time—he’d stop any second now, and it would end—
She picked up.
“Emily,” came from the other side. “Hi, there. How are you?”
“I’m okay, Dad.” So far, so good. The greeting was the easy part.
“And the others?”
She bit back a tart reply. When communication was in order, Dad most often spoke with her, as she was the middle ground between resentment—Nicky—and moody teenage behavior—Debbie.
“We’re all fine, Dad. You can talk to Debbie when you come, anyway.”
He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. The Christmas performance. Listen, I won’t be able to make it.”
Emily clenched her fist. Stranger or not, Debbie would be disappointed. And she didn’t even want to think of the fuel this would give to Nicky’s rants.
“But we agreed.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. Some unexpected business came—”
In an electronics factory? “You have to work in the evening? All the time? You can’t even—”
“It’s a personal matter. I’ve some things to settle in Hartford. They’re very insistent. But you tell Nicky to send me the calendar for the next year, okay? I’ll pick a new date.”
Evading, once again. The fist tightened, and she snapped. “How about you tell Nicky? And you can call Debbie, too. It’s her performance, she’s the one you should apologize to. Not me.” Her voice shook, and she paused for a breath. She didn’t want Dad to think she’d cry. He didn’t have that power over her.
“Emily—”
“Bye, Dad.”
“Please, Emily. I didn’t do this intentionally. I didn’t want to be stranded here during the holidays, dealing with Grandma’s old legal issues…”
She let him ramble on while she calmed down, only half listening. Then she remembered what he had said before. “Hartford?”
“Sorry?”
“You said you’d be in Hartford.”
“Yes,” Dad said slowly.
“The Hartford in Connecticut?”
“That one, yes. Emily, what’s this about?”
“Uh, nothing. Listen, I’ll talk with Aunt and Debbie. And I’ll call you back.”
“Call me b—”
“Bye!” She ended the call and bit her lip. Perhaps all was not lost yet.
Some manipulation was in order.
Nicky was in the living room, drying fresh nail polish. Her fingers stretched out like starfish, giving her a look of exaggerated comical surprise.
Emily sat down next to her. “Dad called.”
Nicky turned her head, a cucumber slice sliding off her eye. “He did?”
“He won’t be here for Christmas.”
Nicky opened her mouth.
“But he said,” Emily quickly continued, “that since he can’t come, I could go visit him.”
“You, visit him?”
“You know, because the point is we see each other, not where that happens.”
“So he invited you to Philly?”
“Hartford, actually.”
“Where’s that?”
“Connecticut.”
“Ugh.” Nicky visibly shuddered. “I don’t see why you’d want to go up there and spend the holidays with a bunch of Yankees. It’s probably colder than a well digger’s butt. No, honey, you’ll stay here, and if he wants to see you he better take the time and come. Or he can write an apology on his next alimony check.”
“I know it’s not nice of him.” Emily folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t like pleading for her dad, especially when he didn’t deserve the defense. “But can’t you think about it? God knows when he’ll visit again.”
Nicky snorted. “That’s his problem. Besides, how are we going to get you up there?”
“Get Emily where?” Debbie’s voice came from the doorway.
“Oh, honey, nothing,” Nicky said. “Your dad won’t be able to visit for Christmas. And now he’s trying to patch it up by saying you can go to him, instead.”
“Why were you talking only about Emily, then?”
Oh. Emily hadn’t considered that problem.
“Well, I’m sure he meant both of you,” Nicky said. “But that doesn’t matter. You’re not going.”
Debbie clenched her fists. That reaction to Dad must run in the family. “It’s fine. I… I don’t have the time to go, anyway. I need to study to make it into the history competition.” Head held high—and a little stiff—she disappeared down the hallway.
Emily looked at the floor. Debbie was upset, even if she wouldn’t want to admit it—but Emily couldn’t admit to her real plans. “I think he said something about buying plane tickets,” she told Nicky. “I’m not sure, though. I said I’d call back.”
“Did he, now?” Nicky pursed her lips. “I’ll be honest. I didn’t expect him to want to see you so badly.”
Emily shrugged. Dad didn’t want to see her that much, and she wasn’t looking forward to more awkward conversations, but she had to seize this opportunity.
“So can I tell him you gave me permission?” She tried a tentative smile.
“Fine.” Nicky threw her hands in the air. “I guess even he can do a thoughtful thing once in a blue moon. Although, if he really were that thoughtful—”
“Thank you!” Emily kissed her on the cheek and ran to her room. Now she only needed to call Dad and tell him the reverse story. With the general lack of communication between him and Nicky, nobody would suspect anything. And Dad wouldn’t dare to weasel out of this one.
Chapter 15
Emily stared at the barren, snow-topped trees along the interstate. The silence in the car was palpable, not made any better by the hushed radio playing Christmas jingles. Meeting Dad at the airport went as well as it could: he said she looked healthy, she replied the same, and off they went.
She’d stolen a few looks at him on the way. Were those new strands of gray in his dark brown hair? He did still look good, healthy. She shared a few similarities with him—the green eyes, and a slightly less prominent version of his square jaw.
She counted time passed with the interchanging songs. First, second, third—is it possible they’d only been driving for fifteen minutes? Tall, industrial buildings of downtown Hartford grew in the distance and finally replaced the trees. Who knew car rides could be so torturous?
“Where are we staying?” Emily broke the silence. Her voice sounded strange—too practiced.
“I made us a reservation at a B&B. It’s conveniently placed for my business here. And there are a few things around that might interest you. They have, uh, a history museum?”
Congratulations, Dad. You picked the perfect topic.
“There’s a lot of stuff in Hartford to see while I deal with things,” Dad continued. While she’d convinced him to let her come, he’d also emphasized he wouldn’t have much time. “Mark Twain lived here, and Harriet Beecher Stowe, if you’re interested in literature.”
That would be Debbie. Didn’t he remember movies were more of her thing? The stacks of VHS tapes he’d bought her when she was little? “Okay. Thanks.”
In a residential area, they drove down a snug, orderly street. Christmas lights and fake Santas, hanging off roofs and windows, stifled the well-kept colonial houses. Dad stopped in front of one, a sign next to the driveway announcing it as Merry B&B.
The inside was cozy and warm, with dark wood floors and a beige-and-pink striped wallpaper, covered by old photographs of the city, engravings, and maps. The reception desk was empty, and while they waited, Emily wandered around the hall. An open archway led to a dining room where cinnamon permeated the air. The sheer white curtains were pulled aside, letting the last rays of sunlight shine on the round tables, covered in white and pink checkered cloths.
“There he is. None other than my Benny!”
Emily turned. An elderly woman with neatly curled white hair stood in the other doorway.
While Emily froze in confusion, Dad spread his arms wide. “Millicent Merryweather!”
She put her hands against her hips in mock anger. “You used to call me Millie, boy. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be calling you ‘boy’ anymore.”
Dad laughed and clasped her in a friendly embrace. “You’re looking as lovely as ever, Millie. How long has it been? Twenty years?”
“Around that time, yes. I asked your grandma when you were coming back, and she said you had too many things to do down in Philly to care about visiting anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Millie. Time got away from me. And Grandma sold the house.”
They chatted on, something about cookies Grandma used to bake and that one neighbor with five dogs… They talk like old friends. Emily had no idea Dad used to live here, and as she tossed the thought left and right, she realized she had very little idea of his life, overall.
“What a beautiful young lady!” Millie was looking at her now, with the same cheery smile on her face. She turned to Dad. “And where’s the wife? I hope you didn’t leave her out there in the cold.”
Emily met Dad’s eyes and quickly averted her gaze.
“Veronica is—uh—we got divorced.” Dad rubbed the back of his neck. “This is Emily. I have another daughter, Debbie, but she’s… otherwise occupied.”
“Well, it’s still nice to have the two of you here. Come, come, I’ll show you to your rooms.” Millie led them upstairs, looking but a second away from pinching Dad’s cheeks.
The next morning, a hefty breakfast of blueberry muffins, eggs, corned beef hash, and jonnycakes with maple syrup awaited them in the dining room. Dad soon excused himself to deal with his business, and Emily lingered in the hallway. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure where to start. This was unknown territory; she couldn’t just pop back and ask for Fabienne. Even she knew that would be dumb. She needed a plan. Perhaps… a literal one.
She leaned in closer to one of the maps showing the city in the early 20th century. As she moved on to the next one—an engraving—she noticed they both had a name in the corner: Harold Merryweather.
“Those are my husband’s,” Millie’s voice came from behind. “He’s a collector. I see Benny’s run off and left you all alone. I’ll have words with him—”
“It’s fine.” Emily brushed it off with a smile. “I’ve stuff to do, too. Your husband… would he have any maps from the Civil War era?”
“Oh, boy.” Millie’s eyes glistened with an amused warning. “Don’t get me started.”
The next few hours passed in the guest lounge, where Harold Merryweather had brought heaps of books to help Emily in her quest.
Fabienne had only made a few mentions that helped Emily locate the Marshall House. She knew approximately how the house looked and that it was located west of the city. Based on other random mentions, she tried to reverse-engineer its position by figuring out distances and travel speed. As a new group of guests arrived, Harold allowed her to carry some of his stuff back to her room, where she could finish the research in peace.
The good news was that Emily was already close to her location. If she was right, this was the exact neighborhood where Fabienne used to live. Dad may not be the best parent, but he sure knew how to pick his lodgings.
The bad news was that she couldn’t pinpoint the house's exact location. She could turn up anywhere—in the middle of the road, in someone’s bedroom.
Probably naked.
Another travel she’d made since the cemetery confirmed this would be the case when she traveled outside her lifespan. Her best explanation was that she appeared as some sort of a clone in the past. She was material, since she could interact with objects and feel sensations on her skin. But her body didn’t exist in that time—hence, a clone. It looked like the Great Time Travel Force couldn’t do the same for clothing, though.
She hoped the clone disappeared after she returned to the present. She heard no rumors of a time-traveling naked teenager being found at the Bonaventure Cemetery in the 70s—and with the gossip at the hair salon, she’d heard it all by now—so she assumed her past self was gone.
Sitting on her bed, she set the watch to the fall of 1864 and curled into a ball. Not very dignified, but if she popped up in someone’s bedroom without clothes, she preferred not to be sprawled out on the bed.
“Please don’t let it be a bedroom,” she repeated as a prayer as she waited for the familiar punch. The pressure changed, her vision blurred, and… she wasn’t in a bedroom.
A forest. Emily breathed a sigh of relief. In the crisp air, goosebumps spread across her uncovered arms. Cold, but doable.
Cover first. She grabbed a few colorfully leaved branches from a nearby bush. It couldn’t be called a dress, and it was itchy as hell, but at least she wasn’t stark naked. Plus, hey—camouflage!
Hunched down, she stuck to a muddy path, wincing at the nasty squelching noises her bare feet made. Nicky would probably tell her it’s good for the skin.
The trees soon cleared and revealed a quaint house down by a gravel road. A collection of drying clothes fluttered in the breeze. Bingo! With a glance around to confirm the coast was clear, Emily ran to them. She sifted among the white tent-like nightgowns—who wore these, a grandma?—and landed on a matching skirt and bodice in a charming brown color. At least it would match the mud on her feet.
As she dressed, a door creaked. She flattened herself against the wall and moved, crab-like, to the back. A tall, thin woman exited the house in front and continued down the road.
If this was the right area, Fabienne’s house would be at the end of the road. The quiet neighborhood, surrounded by forests, definitely matched the description. Emily cut a path across the meadow, keeping the road in sight, and progressed west. Muttering as the grass stung her feet, she ascended a low hill and paused at the top.
The house. An instinct, or something like a déjà vu, told her it was the right one. Elated, she ran down the hill. The stables weren’t far from the main building, and she used them as a cover for her approach. The whinnying of horses would conceal any sounds she made.
A door at the back was ajar. She risked a peek. Empty. Ugh, and smelly. There were two main compartments: one that housed three horses, and another over a half-wall to the right, the shiny exterior of a carriage visible behind it.
Whistling came from the open front entrance, and she ducked back. Crunching footsteps… coming closer… stopping inside the stables.
“There you are,” a male voice said.
Emily froze until she realized he didn’t mean her. She was still unnoticed; the man was talking to someone inside. She peeked through a crack in the wood boards.
He stood by one of the boxes, stretching a hand out to a horse. “That’s my good boy. Did you miss me while I was gone?” The horse whinnied at his gentle voice and nuzzled his hand.
The man’s back was to her, and for the moment, she felt safe observing him. He had blond hair, combed back, and wore a baggy dark brown jacket and gray pants, tucked into knee-high boots. He reached for something in a container affixed to the wall and fed it to the horse. “Just one. I’m sure Matthew gives you too much already.”
A corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. He sounds so nice. Lucky horse.
“Well, if it isn’t the long-lost son.” Another man, with one arm in a sling, appeared and casually leaned on the doorway.
“Son? Did you get something else shaken, rather than your arm?” the blond man spoke.
The other one laughed, and they clasped each other’s shoulders in a friendly manner. “Nice to have you back, Brayden,” the new visitor said, and then continued on with something, but Emily didn’t hear it, because all she could think was—Brayden.
That was Brayden Marshall. The blond one. It had to be him. Fabienne’s husband. Oh, if only she could see him better! She bet he was cute. Fabienne hadn’t made many mentions of him—yet—and Emily hadn’t considered him, being preoccupied with the notion of time travel.
Forget the horse. Lucky Fabienne.
“—coming to dinner, anyway,” Brayden said.
“Caddie will be thrilled. Does she know of your return?”
“She and Fabienne were outside when I arrived.”
“Hmm. Women do tend to have that uncanny sense. Or you two are so connected she could feel your return in her heart.” The man put his good arm over his heart in dramatic flair.
