Home In Time For Christmas

Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

“Home in Time for Christmas is one of those novels that really touches you.

You finish reading it and immediately want to start again just to relive the whole experience…. Christmas truly is a time for miracles.

Don’t miss your chance for a bunch of holiday smiles and a book you will want to reread every Christmas season.”

— Bookreporter

“One of the most heartwarming novels I have read in a very long time.”

— Romance Readers Connection on

Home in Time for Christmas

“Graham plays the story’s supernatural angle for both chills and chuckles….

Ringo is the best ghost to come along in ages.”

—RT Book Reviews on Nightwalker

“Graham peoples her novel with genuine, endearing characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Séance

“An incredible storyteller.”

— Los Angeles Daily News

“Solidly plotted and peppered with welcome hints of black humor.

And the ending’s all readers could hope for.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Last Noel

“Heather Graham knows what readers want.”

— Publishers Weekly

HOME IN TIME FOR

CHRISTMAS

HEATHER

GRAHAM

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs,

Lisa Erbach Vance, Nicole Kennedy

and John Richmond,

with all the very best wishes for the season,

however it may be celebrated!

Prologue A Winter’s Day

New York City

Christmastide, 1776

Perhaps it was fitting that it should be such a cold and bitter, yet stunning, day.

Jake Mallory took a minute to appreciate the awesome glory of the morning. The heavens were an extravagant shade of blue. Light puffs of soft white clouds were slipping by. The sun, a golden orb, was en route to a high point in the sky as the early hours of the morning defied the darkness of the passing night.

It was, indeed, a beautiful day.

A fine day to die.

They had all known it, known they might be called upon to die, all of them who agreed that the colonies must break from Mother Britain. All those who had set pen to paper and signed the Declaration of Independence. All those who had led the armies. All those who had fought.

And spied.

Not that spying had actually been his intent. He was a soldier. Well, he hadn’t exactly wanted to be a soldier, either. Such an enterprise had not been his intent in life. He was a newspaperman—or, at least, that was what he had intended to be. Writing was his passion. His home was the small town of Gloucester, but even there, as in all the surrounding towns, the talk had been about politics. About breaking away. Then, there had been the Boston Tea Party.

Blood had been spilled.

He believed deeply in the freedom and equality of man. That and, of course, the editorials he had written regarding the need for the colonies to break free, were what had brought him to stand here today. In the taverns of Boston he had gotten to know many a man handy with a pamphlet, such as John Adams, who in turn had introduced him to another John—Hancock. He had become involved with men to whom the written word was a weapon. And handling such a weapon …

Had led to his carrying a different kind of weapon. And—quite sadly, really—to getting caught.

Ah, there was the rub. Getting caught. Men far too old to be soldiers knew that they would hang if captured by the British, if their cause failed.

So here he was today.

Upon the scaffold.

Truly, such a deplorable state of affairs.

Ah, well. He had written well, and sewn rampant seeds of rebellion. He had taken to the field, running missions; he had picked up a gun, as well. He was guilty of sedition, so they said. Words on paper could shout loudly, and his had been heard, far and wide.

There was a precedent for his death. He wouldn’t be the first to die here, hanged for his loyalty to a fledgling nation. Nathan Hale had died just a few months back. Hale had died heroically. Jake could only hope now that he could do the same.

Looking at the sky, one could almost pray for a miracle. There was such awe and wonder in the beauty of the sky. But there weren’t going to be any miracles. The British were firmly entrenched in the city. No sudden horde of rebels was suddenly going to break through the ranks of Lobsterbacks and save him. Nor was it likely that Hempton, the British major in charge of his fate, would find any way to suggest that they pardon their captive for the holiday.

The holiday …

It was almost Christmas.

Well, he was a God-fearing man, so maybe that was a good thing. He didn’t blame God for his fate. Things were what they were. It was a war, perhaps an ill-advised one, considering the might and power of the British war machine and the truly pathetic manpower and munitions of the Patriots. It was being fought on dreams and ideals. This morning, especially this morning, he had to keep believing in the dream. He had been in over his head, cast into a desperate position, and he had chosen the high road.

Of course, he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit that it was just a wee bit difficult not to regret that choice right now.

“Sorry!” Captain Tim Reginald said to him. The British officer charged with the duty of slipping the noose around his neck had chafed his cheek with the coarse rope. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Tim was a good enough fellow; they’d played cards together and shared a few drinks during the last days. He was young enough himself, a true Brit, following the way of the British army as his family would have him do. He was a man willing enough to fight for king and country, strong, intelligent and brave.

But executions were not his forte.

“Quite all right, good friend,” Jake said.

Poor Tim. A good man, yes. War was so strange. Men became enemies when they did not know one another. If he and Tim did not give their hearts, souls and loyalties to different drummers, they might have been good friends in truth.

It almost looked at if Tim would give way to tears. Ah, a good British officer could never do so. “Friend,” he said kindly to Tim, “don’t fear. I do not hold you responsible for my impending demise, nor does God above.”

Tim swallowed hard, just appearing more ill.

He could hear the Anglican minister droning on in prayer, advising him to pray, as well.

Jake prayed.

Jake did not pray for a miracle.

He did not waste prayers on what could not be. God helped those who helped themselves.

Therefore, there was just one prayer to make.

Dear God, do not let me falter; let me be the best man I am able in this moment. May it be quick; may I not dangle at the end of this rope. May I not cry out, but die with dignity in thy Grace!

As if in answer to his prayer, Major Hempton strode center on the scaffold. A hush fell over the crowd. Oh, and there was a crowd. Church bells pealed because it was almost Christmas, and folks should have been home cooking and thanking the good Lord for their loved ones, but hell, Christmas or no, a good hanging was a good hanging.

And in the sea of faces before him, there were those who cried—blessed, lovely women with their tearstained faces, those who rued his fate. Those who believed in the sovereign rights of America, and, of course, there were also those who thought he deserved his fate as a traitor against the mother country.

Hempton was a puffed-up peacock of a man. His position in the army had been bought through family ties. He did well enough making the occupied city of New York bow to its knees; he could drink well and lock his jaw in silence when he realized his gambling losses, but he was not the kind of man that the British military hierarchy wanted in the field.

“Good people of New York!” Hempton announced. “You see before you a gift for this Christmas season. A traitor! A man who would cast you into years of want and death and hardship! You out there who might think to make such a treacherous move against your mother country and the goodness of King George, beware! This is the fate that will meet all traitors!”

Really, it did help that Hempton was just a pompous ass. He was little, and therefore, wore very high boots. He was balding, so he took elaborate care with his wigs. He had a huge gut from overindulgence in food and wine, and thus truly gave the impression of a lobster in his red uniform. At least his appearance made for a last amusement Jake could enjoy on earth.

Trying for dramatic effect, Hempton swung around. “Any last words of regret, traitor?” he demanded.

“I regret that I failed my country, the United States of America,” he said. “I regret that I leave behind my family and good friends, and the future of freedom that will be in this great land!”

I leave behind family….

Suddenly, to his astonishment and dismay, his “family,” his adopted sister, was there before him.

Serena.

Sweet Serena, the little girl he had protected so fiercely ever since she’d lost her parents when they were young, and even more fiercely now that he’d lost his own. Little girl grown up now, furious, and facing the enemy. Serena, with her beautiful, wide, iridescent blue eyes. Her hair, like a raven’s wing.

But she couldn’t be there. Home was far away. Far up the coast, in Gloucester.

Someone had to get her out of here before she infuriated the wrong person. Good God, the British couldn’t hang a woman! Could they? This was war. Atrocities had occurred. No, no, no…

Stay silent, Serena, he begged in silence.

“Oaf! Traitor! “ Hempton stuttered out. Apparently, he had no ready argument.

Oh, dear God, Jake thought, I prayed for help to die well, and you have brought this woman who is the closest I have to kin left in the world to see the spectacle of my jerking limbs and dangling feet….

But she couldn’t be there, she couldn’t; word couldn’t possibly have reached her in time for her to make the journey to New York, it was impossible.

Not impossible. She was there.

“You are the oaf, sir!” she shouted to Hempton. “You would kill a man as Christmas comes?” Dear God, but that sweet voice of hers which could resound with such charming laughter could also peal out with the resounding sharp clarity of a bell.

He winced. She would get herself arrested. And with such a man as Hempton, he sincerely feared even a woman could ride a gallows and meet a hangman’s noose.

“Get it over with quickly, I beg of you!” he said quietly to Tim.

But Tim, like the rest of the throng—including Hempton—seemed to be caught up in the spell created by the ringing tones of Serena’s mockery. Hempton’s lips were puffing, but now he really seemed to be at a loss for words.

“Let goodness be, blessed be, let crimes against the heavens be not against man!” she cried out. She raised her arms. And she dropped rose petals.

Rose petals. In the middle of winter. Against the white of snow still upon the ground, and the crystal blue of the morning. Rose petals, like blood drops on the snow.

“Let Christmas be!” she cried out. “Christmas, and God’s grace on man, and woe to the enemies of love and peace. Shame on those who forget that we come into a season of love and forgiveness. What fool of a mortal fails to honor the likes of Christ, or those who teach us how to live in kindness and charity with our fellow men?”

The crowd was beginning to stir. There was something about the passion in her voice, and the sweetness. Those who wanted a spectacle of pain and death were shamed.

Hempton found his voice. “Hang him!” he shouted to Tim.

And Tim indeed looked as if he would cry.

“For the love of God, Timothy, now!” Jake agreed. “Please, my friend, I beg you. Now, before my sister meets the wrath of that wretched oaf, as well.”

Tim understood. His eyes were filled with the agony of his duty.

The noose was tightened. Jake looked at Serena. “I love you, dearest sister, sweetest friend. Go home!” he whispered. She shouldn’t have seen him; she never should have been here. When had she come to New York? It was impossible for her to be here.

But he could see her; she was there.

Crystal-blue eyes were upon his. “I love you,” she mouthed in turn. “And we will both come home for Christmas.”

There was a drumroll. Tim whispered with tears in his voice, “God forgive me!”

And he pulled the lever, and the trapdoor beneath Jake’s feet was sprung.

He fell….

And fell and fell..

He felt no pain.

Only the rush of the wind.

He saw the blue sky.

Then, at first, it seemed that Serena disappeared. Disappeared into a fine mist with only her smile seeming to linger as a vision in his heart.

Then, he felt a rose petal against his cheek. The sky was filled with falling rose petals.

A bloodred caress in the midst of a beautiful and snow-white day.

Chapter One

Another Winter’s Day

Christmas.

Ho, ho, ho. Merry, merry.

Yeah, Merry Christmas.

The road was a slip and slide.

Peace on earth.

Even when she had left New York City that morning, Melody Tarleton thought, people were practically trampling one another to get into Macy’s, make the next subway or beat everyone else out for one of the cabs slip-sliding all over the street. The stores were advertising that they were open Christmas Eve and some even on Christmas morning, just so that the jerks who couldn’t remember to buy gifts all year long could rush out last minute and buy some stupid thing that no one would really want anyway. But they’d realize they were going to grandma’s for dinner, and hadn’t even thought to buy the woman who had loved them their whole lives so much as a bouquet of flowers. Got to keep stores open for that. And God forbid, someone should forget they had another little niece or nephew. The children of the world definitely needed more stupid plastic toys! And, surely, the forgotten infant needed another bib that was embroidered with Spit Happens! or some other inane sentiment.

The car started to spin. Melody gripped the wheel and took her foot off the gas. It righted itself.

She let out a sigh of relief, and then winced. What in God’s name was the matter with her?

What had become of her usual joy of the holiday season? She wished that her mood would lighten, and that she would pay heed to a few of the Christmas carols resounding from her car-stereo system. She had a million things for which she should be thankful; healthy, living parents who loved her, a wonderful brother who was just about her best friend now—even though they had fought wretchedly growing up. She loved what she did for a living..

Ah, there was the problem!

Mark.

In a few days, he would be there. Her mother had asked him to come for Christmas. Which, of course, he had expected. He wasn’t taking a thing that she said seriously.

I can’t do it, Mark. I can’t marry you, or be engaged to you. I can’t even be your girlfriend. I thought I knew you, but then you began to talk about our future. You’re a fine man, just not for me.

Well, she had known him. Most of her life. They’d gone to middle school and high school together, gone off to different colleges, and then met again at a book fair. It had seemed perfect at first; they’d been old friends, reconnecting. She drew pictures, he wrote words. They both loved illustrated novels. They’d both hailed from Gloucester, and moved to New York. So much to talk about, so much of the past to relive!

And they were friends. She was so happy to be his friend.

Then they’d been more. She thought she could see a wonderful future with him until he shared what he saw for the two of them.

She was just amazed at his vision of the future. He would take care of her. She wouldn’t work—oh, well, of course, she could draw little pictures for their children. They’d have ten.

It was so odd how things had changed. She’d found him charming and attractive.

And now.

She was afraid of mistletoe.

There was no way out. As it had become clear that they were each seeking a different future, and the harder she struggled to escape, the more he had set the tethers upon her, it had all happened too late to salvage Christmas.

Her mother had already given him the invitation to come up. So, for Christmas, he’d keep insisting that she loved him and didn’t understand that he just loved her and wanted the world for her. She’d be avoiding him, and no one would understand.

Ho, ho, ho. It was going to be great.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

So, okay, Mark was the one with the publisher and he would probably see that she was fired off the project she had been hired to work on with him.

No, she had a contract.

Contracts could be broken.

Good God, she wasn’t going to lead a man on because of a contract!

She believed in herself. Even if he didn’t. And that was the point.

She’d just start pounding the pavement all over again if need be.

Think positive.

Christmas had always been her favorite time of year, maybe because her folks had loved the holiday so very much. Her mom went all out. Massive, overstuffed stockings for the entire family and whatever friends happened to be with them. A tree that was so heavily decorated, it almost sank into the floor. House lights that might have been a cause of global warming—the only non-earth-friendly concession her mother ever made.

Be thankful for my family, she told herself.

And she was really.

Oh, Lord, she would have to face her father. He was such a good soul. He’d be confused at first when she tried to explain what had happened with Mark—that she didn’t want a relationship in which she was basically owned. He wouldn’t understand a man like Mark—actually, she wasn’t sure many people would. Mark gave new meaning to old-fashioned.

Her parents had met in college. Her mom had become a nurse, and her dad had become a professor. They had shared child rearing. In this day and age, she thought, they were truly adorable. Somehow, through thick and thin, they had made marriage a two-way street.

There—she could blame it on her folks. She just wanted the same kind of love and respect in a relationship. Support and belief. It really wasn’t a dream—she had seen it work.

Okay, so her mother often shook her head over her father, but she did it with affection. “He’s tinkering in his office,” she would say, and roll her eyes. Her dad had been a professor at Worcester Poly-Tech once, and he was still always trying to tweak an old invention—or master a new one. Puffs of smoke arose from the building out back upon occasion, but he’d never burned anything down. And despite her protests to the contrary, Melody knew that this was exactly the man her mother had fallen in love with all those years ago.

Oh, her mother would hate the news of her relationship with Mark. Mona would be all indignant when she tried to explain the truth. How dare he think he was better than she was, or more worthy of expressing creativity! Or, it could be worse. Her mother believed that she came from a long line of mystics, or healers. She could trace her family back to Saxon England, and she was convinced that she could grow herbs and create medicinal drinks that actually had magical strength. She just might decide that Mark could imbibe enough herbal tea laced with God-knew-exactly-what that he would see the error of his ways.

The thought made her groan aloud.

Mark! she thought, feeling ill, don’t you see, we can’t make it. And trying to pretend that everything is all right just because it’s Christmas is not going to work.

And if all that wasn’t enough stress for this trip home, there was her brother. As much as she loved her brother, Keith.

God only knew who or what he’d have found to come home with him.

Though he’d never played football, Keith looked like a fullback. He was tall, charming, and very good-looking, but he was their father in all aspects of geek. He was attending his father’s alma mater, learning electronics and physics and so on, and when he wasn’t busy studying, he was finding someone or some creature who needed help.

One year, he’d brought home a stripper.

Another year, it had been a wounded raccoon.

He had a great heart. She loved him to death.

She just hoped that they wouldn’t have to share Christmas with Mark and a stripper.

Hmm. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing….

No, it would probably be another animal this year. Like the blind Persian cat he had found last year, the basset with the little roller now to replace the hind legs a driver had crushed the year before, or Jimmy, the big old sheepdog mix he had found three years ago, starved and left to die in a crate on a trash pile. If Keith hadn’t found a wounded animal, he would decide that Melody was one. Maybe, she was. Human beings were, after all, animals. Usually, it was events like Christmas that lifted man above the beasts.

Christmas. How she had once loved it. How she dreaded it now. And this feeling of dread was wrong, so wrong! Because no matter how uncomfortable the festivities proved to be for her, she had to remember that it was Christmas.

She frowned suddenly, slowing the car. The day had been bright and beautiful, despite the ice on the ground and roads. But out of the blue, there was suddenly darkness, as if a cloud had passed the sun. The darkest cloud ever known to man.

And in the midst of it…

Good God, there was a figure in the middle of the road, a dark form…

Melody slammed hard on the brakes, even though she knew better. There was just so much ice on the road. Before the car fishtailed, she saw the figure more fully in the glare of her headlights.

It was a man.

A man dressed as if he were a refugee from the past. He was hatless in the snow, and wearing a white muslin shirt and tight-fitting pants. Tall black boots. He wasn’t in a wig, but his long dark hair was queued back. He was staring at her with pure amazement.

As if the idiot had never seen a car before.

Then, the car started to spin. She had hit black ice. She knew better than to try to stop the way she had. But hell, it had been that, or.

She felt a bump; she’d hit the figure.

Hopefully not as badly as she would have, had she not tried so hard to stop!

She came to a halt against a snowbank. Incredibly, her air bag did not go off. Her lights streamed against the gray color the day had become and the snow, coming down now in a fresh swirling round of flurries. Stunned, she sat still for long seconds, thanking God that she was alive.

Then she remembered the soft thumping sound against the car. She tried to open her door, but she was against the snowbank. She maneuvered across the car to the passenger side and managed to get out.