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

  Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

  GHOST MOON

  GHOST NIGHT

  GHOST SHADOW

  THE KILLING EDGE

  NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

  UNHALLOWED GROUND

  DUST TO DUST

  NIGHTWALKER

  DEADLY GIFT

  DEADLY HARVEST

  DEADLY NIGHT

  THE DEATH DEALER

  THE LAST NOEL

  THE SÉANCE

  BLOOD RED

  THE DEAD ROOM

  KISS OF DARKNESS

  THE VISION

  THE ISLAND

  GHOST WALK

  KILLING KELLY

  THE PRESENCE

  DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

  PICTURE ME DEAD

  HAUNTED

  HURRICANE BAY

  A SEASON OF MIRACLES

  NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

  NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

  EYES OF FIRE

  SLOW BURN

  NIGHT HEAT

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

  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!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  A Winter’s Day

  New York City

  Christmas tide, 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.
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  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.

  There fore, 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 over indulgence 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.

  1

  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 lighte
n, 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.