The Christmas Eve Letter: A Time Travel Novel (41 page)

Eve got up, went to him, and took his hand.  “Anything you want to do, Patrick, you can do.  You’re smart, young and wildly handsome—my friend Joni says you’d make a great James Bond.”

“James Bond?”

“I’ll show you all his movies.  You’ll love them.”

“What are movies?”

“Never mind.  Anyway, once we get you an identity, you can explore and do whatever appeals to you.  There are so many opportunities for a man like you.  You’ll find something.  I know you will.”

Georgy Boy nudged Patrick’s leg, so he crouched down and scratched him under his chin.

Patrick looked up at Eve. “And what about us, Eve?”

“Us?” she said, swallowing away a flutter.

Patrick straightened and inched close to her.  “My feelings for you have not changed.  Have yours for me?”

Eve felt the power of the moment—that easy, sexy play of energy—that wonderful connection they’d always had.

“No, Patrick.  They have not changed.  They’ve grown.  I want us.  I want us very much.”

“Want us?”

“Yes…I want us to be together, to grow together.  I want us to love together.”

He reached for her hand.  “Oh yes, my lovely Eve.  We will definitely love together.”

He kissed her, exploring the mouth he’d grown to love, as she moved easily into the wall of his chest, feeling herself melt away into love.  Feeling herself in love, consumed by love and blazing with love for the first time in her life.  It had all been worth it—her difficult journey into the past.  Finding Patrick’s love had made everything worthwhile.

“You will marry me then, Miss Kennedy?” Patrick asked, kissing her nose.

“Yes, I will, Detective Sergeant Gantly.  But only if you agree to wear a bowler hat every once in a while when you come to bed.”

And then in her formal speech Eve said, “I think I shall like that, Detective Sergeant Gantly.  Yes, sir, I think I shall like that very much.  That hat on your very sexy head always did turn me on.”

EPILOGUE

In their 1880s-style antique, one-horse open sleigh, Eve and Patrick swept across a bridge that spanned a wide lake with sunset-painted water.  Their bay-colored horse advanced at an easy trot, down winding snowy trails, under snow-heavy trees, breaking out into the glowing white panorama of Central Park. 

Eve laughed wildly as Patrick, at the reins and wearing a fur-lined hat, guided the horse easily, the harness bells jingling.  Eve broke into a chorus of
Jingle Bells
and Patrick joined in, although he was way off key and didn’t know the words.  Eve sang and laughed, struggling to harmonize with him, as the sleigh went gliding away along the Bridal Path and a lowering silver sky. 

It was Christmas Eve, snow was falling and five inches were already on the ground.  They raced on, their faces stinging from the cold, their feet like ice, and their spirits high. 

They arrived back home in time to rest, shower and dress for dinner at a nearby restaurant with Joni, her boyfriend and a few other friends.  Afterwards, they all planned to attend a Christmas Eve service.

Eve’s parents were arriving on Christmas Day morning, staying at a hotel in midtown.  Eve and Patrick anticipated the meeting with apprehension and concern, but they didn’t let it dampen their mood.  Eve’s father had already begun working on Patrick’s new identity, but he wanted to meet the man and ask him “a thousand questions,” something Patrick was not looking forward to.  Mr. Sharland had demanded that Eve tell him the entire story—the unvarnished truth—about what had happened to her, how she had met Patrick and why she was going to marry him.

Patrick was resting in the bedroom.  Eve had just dressed in her new red dress and was brushing her hair when the doorbell rang.  She hurried to the hallway, thinking it was a package delivery.  She pressed the speaker button. 

“Who is it?” she asked.

A scratchy male voice responded. “Miss Evelyn Sharland?”

“Yes.  Who is it?”

“Mark Wallingford.  I’m an attorney.”

Eve stared at the speaker in mild surprise.  “What’s this about?”

“May I come in, Miss Sharland?”

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Eve said.

“Yes, Miss Sharland.  I won’t take up much of your time.  It is rather important.”

Patrick appeared in the living room, sleepy-eyed, putting a fist to a yawn.  “Who is it?”

“An attorney.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

Eve shrugged.

Patrick left to put on a fresh shirt.

The doorbell rang and Eve smoothed out her dress before opening the door.  A small, officious looking man, with closely cropped gray hair and black-rimmed spectacles, stared at her with cool, business-like eyes.  He was dressed in a topcoat that had a dusting of snow on the shoulders, and he was carrying a worn leather briefcase.

“Miss Sharland, I presume?”

“Yes, come in,” Eve said, stepping aside.

The man entered, and Eve took his cashmere topcoat and hung it up in the hall closet. 

She offered him the chair by the fireplace, and he sat down.

After Patrick entered and introduced himself, he sat on the couch next to Eve. 

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Wallingford?” Eve asked.

“No, thank you.”

Mr. Wallingford then snapped open his briefcase and drew out a powder-blue envelope.  He stood up, stepped over and handed it to Eve.  She stood and took it, questioningly. 

Mr. Wallingford returned to his chair, his expression affably somber. 

“Please open it and read the enclosed letter, Miss Sharland.  I will wait as you do so.”

“What is it?” Eve asked.  “Can you at least explain what all this is about?”

Mr. Wallingford licked his lips and adjusted his glasses.  “Miss Sharland, I represent the Harringshaw family.”

Eve eased back down, unsteadily, and then she and Patrick exchanged stunned glances.

“The Harringshaw family?  What’s this about?” Eve said, feeling sudden unease.

Mr. Wallingford indicated to the letter.  “I do not know the contents of the letter, Miss Sharland, nor does anyone else.  It was addressed to you and only to you—For Your Eyes Only.  I was instructed to deliver the letter and then have you sign a consent form, indicating that you have read said letter, and that you agree to its contents.”

Eve looked at Patrick again, and her eyes widened a bit.  He nodded.  Eve inserted her thumb under the sealed flap and opened it.  Hesitating, she slowly drew out the cream-colored bond letter that had been folded twice.  She smoothed out the two creases, took in a little breath and began to read.

Dear Miss Kennedy or should I say Miss Evelyn Sharland:

If you are reading this letter, then my suspicions, no matter how strange, melodramatic and surprising even to me, are quite correct.  At any rate, forgive an old man who is in the last weeks of his life and whose lovely wife, Evelyn, has gone to heaven already five years before, to wait on him.

Perhaps, Miss Sharland, you will recall our last conversation in my dear wife’s hospital room at the Gouverneur Hospital back in December 1885.  I certainly do, although 45 years have passed.

Evelyn related your incredible and imaginative time travel story to me in the greatest of detail, as I’m certain you will recall my telling you so.  Perhaps you will recall I queried you about the story, because you had been quite specific as to your home address and the year you had said you had traveled from.  Your story was precise and rich in every detail, which raised my interest to a keen level. 

In any event, neither Evelyn nor I thought much more about it until you simply vanished.  You and Detective Sergeant Gantly, that is, the brave detective who saved my brother, Albert, from certain death. 

Perhaps, then, you can imagine the confusion and astonishment caused by your sudden disappearance.  My brother and Inspector Byrnes spent much time and money searching for you both, but to no avail, for which they were quite vexed and bewildered.  I conjecture that losing a suspect had never happened to the great Inspector Byrnes before.  He was quite beside himself.  Very miffed and agitated.

All that was ever found was a lantern on a park bench in Central Park, but then even that promptly disappeared and it has never been found or accounted for.  As I recall, one of the ambulance drivers who worked at the hospital admitted that he and another employee had driven you out to the park and deposited you and Detective Sergeant Gangly on a park bench.  This ambulance driver was questioned relentlessly, but nothing ever came of it.  He simple stated that you and Detective Sergeant Gantly vanished into the night.

With regard to the lantern, after your disappearance, I spoke to Mr. Clayton Sharland and he confirmed that, despite your declaration to me that you did not find Evelyn’s lantern, he was witness to your purchasing the same lantern from a little girl the very morning of your disappearance.  I found the whole affair rather mysterious and quite unbelievable at the time.  But since then, I have had time to recollect those days, especially since the death of dear Evelyn.  My mind has been changed, Miss Sharland, and perhaps that is due to age and coming to the end of my life; a long but a very good life, thanks in no small measure to you.

You may be interested to know what became of Miss Helen Price.  Your friend, Dr. Eckland, generously testified in her defense at her trial, claiming that she had been a virtuous woman who had indeed been deprived of her virtue.  He also helped the defense, claiming that Helen Price was under the influence of “female hysteria” at the time she fired the shot that was meant for my brother.  Perhaps you may recall that at that time, medical theories held that women could be driven crazy because of their reproductive system.  In any event, Miss Price was acquitted, to my brother’s infinite disappointment and indignation.  Miss Price fled to Europe—Italy I believe—where she married and had children, although the number is unclear.  According to my sources, Miss Price passed from this world in 1919, during the world-wide influenza epidemic.

As to Dr. Eckland, in retaliation for his defense of Miss Price, my brother tarnished the good doctor’s reputation and sought to ruin his career, which, I am sad to say, he accomplished.  After all, the good doctor did turn against his class, or so the papers of the day stated.

Dr. Eckland was made a social outcast.  His remaining years were spent with Dr. Long at the Gouverneur Hospital.  They became good friends and valued colleagues. My last conversation with the doctor found him in high spirits and good humor.  For his part, and to his enduring credit, he told me that he never regretted what he had done for Miss Helen Price.  He said he loved his work at the hospital and that he had learned much from Dr. Long. 

He spoke kindly of you, Miss Sharland, relating that it was you who first brought him to the hospital, the same night that Detective Sergeant Gantly so gallantly took the shot meant for my brother (who, incidentally, perished on the Lusitania in 1915, along with 1,197 other poor souls). 

Dr. Eckland said how thankful and delighted he was to be working alongside Dr. Long, helping the distressed women, the ragged children and the poor, who had no other refuge—nowhere else to go.

Dr. Eckland died a peaceful and a happy man in 1891.  His funeral was attended by crowds of the poor and the rich alike, and I believe he would have smiled with humble satisfaction to have witnessed it.  Dr. Long spoke eloquently at his funeral, saying ‘Dr. Eckland was a good and a kind man, and a dedicated doctor, who possessed a generous spirit and an even larger heart.’

Miss Sharland, I have never forgotten your kind and generous nature as it was directed toward my dear Evelyn.  Quite simply put, you saved her life and, in thus doing so, you also saved mine.  We had 39 wonderful years together, before Evelyn passed away in May of 1925.  I will always be eternally grateful to you.

Accordingly, I have placed a sum of money into a trust in your name, with clear and definite instructions to my attorneys that the letter you are now reading not be opened by anyone except yourself at the right and proper time.  It will be delivered to you at your address on West 107
^th
Street, on Christmas Eve, December 24
^th
, in the year 2016.

I visited that brownstone only the week before this writing, and I have fondly speculated about your receiving this letter, Miss Sharland.  I have dreamed about your time and sorely wish there were some way that I could witness the day you receive this letter.  The street is a quiet one, and the brownstone that you will one day occupy is most attractive.  As you are aware, back in 1885, West 107
^th
Street did not exist, so this was a particularly special treat for me.  And to think, you have not yet been born, although I have met you and you have changed my life in inconceivable ways.  The world is indeed a mysterious place filled with many wonders.

I believe you will receive this letter, Miss Sharland, so please accept the trust as a small token of my gratitude and my good wishes for you.  May you live the happiest of lives as mine has been, but would not have been, had you not come to rescue my beloved Evelyn, and the man who loved her with all his heart until the instant she took her last breath.  Shall I say it, Miss Sharland, as I write this with wet eyes on Christmas Eve?  Shall this old and dying Gilded Age romantic say that I love Evelyn still and will love her for all time, and in whatever time we may or may not find ourselves?  After all, love is the greatest mystery of all, is it not, Miss Sharland?  For true love uplifts, it bears all things, it lightens our hearts and it brings inexpressible happiness—and it is eternal, so I believe.

Merry Christmas, Miss Sharland.

With gratitude and with warm affection,