Chapter Seven: Letters

Okay, okay. Here is the seventh and final chapter to the Fourth Wall, plus the Epilogue, since it's only about half a page long. Hope you all have enjoyed the story. Cassie, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and a half you hadn't read as much as I enjoyed tormenting you with the five and half that you had. (Diagram that sentence.) Anyway here it is. Enjoy!
***
Blue Springs, Georgia, Population 117,843, Home of the Bridges Performing Arts Center, the Interlochen of the South

Year 2070.

"Daniel? Hey, Daniel, hold up a minute!" Daniel Farthington sighed. It was that kid again . . . he had come to work for Daniel recently. He was bright, energetic, and enthusiastic . . . sometimes a little too enthusiastic. At the moment, he was enthusiastically chasing Daniel down the hall. Daniel kept walking . . . but not too quickly. Wearing though he was, the kid had a knack for finding things, and he usually found something interesting.

"Daniel?" the boy caught up with him. He was a nondescript young man, with a mop of brown hair, crooked glasses, and an excited look on his face. He was not a particularly imposing figure, yet he always made Daniel nervous when he came into a room. This was why. "Listen, Daniel, I found something that you’ve got to see." He had practically run down the hall; Daniel could tell by his shortness of breath and his flushed face, though that may just have been from excitement. He was clutching several pieces of paper in his hand.

"Is it that thing you’ve been obsessed over, instead of doing your job, by any chance?" Daniel asked.

"I think, once you hear this, you’ll agree that it’s important," he said.

"All right, Tim," Daniel said with resignation . . . plus, he really was curious now. "Come into my office and show me."

They made their way to Daniel’s somewhat cluttered cubicle. Daniel never had been very good at keeping his work area organized, but at least he had some idea where everything was. Usually.
"All right," Tim was saying. "Well, I was playing around with the database during my lunch hour . . ."

"Tim, how many times have I told you that the database is not a computer game for your amusement?"

"I know, but listen. I put in your name, just to see what I would find . . ."

"I won’t even ask why," Daniel said. "Surely you’re not spying on me?"

"Would you just listen?" Daniel smiled, and shut up. "It came up with the usual stuff . . . birth record, school transactions, employment records, career accomplishments, awards . . . mostly pretty boring."

"Well, I’m glad you think of my life as such."

Tim kept going as though he hadn’t heard him. "But there were four items that were very odd."

"Really? How so?"

"They’re all addressed to you, but most were written before you were born, some of them decades before you were born." Daniel shrugged.

"There could have been another Daniel Farthington."

"I thought so too. But the four documents are spread out over one hundred years. And when I went in and read them, they were specifically addressed to you: Daniel Farthington, Blue Springs, Georgia, 2070. They each thanked you for helping them." Daniel looked at him, trying not to get involved, but not being able to help himself.

"It must be a hoax or something . . ."

"I don’t know," Tim said. "Some of them mention that boulder on Laurel Street."

Daniel sighed. "Not that boulder again. Is that what all this is leading up to?"

"I’ve been telling you there’s something strange about that boulder for years! It’s just not natural, somehow."

"I’ve stopped listening, Tim," Daniel said.

"All right, all right," Tim said, desperately trying to regain his attention. "Forget about the boulder. Just look at these letters. There’s something else strange about them. See was doing a routine check on some new files . . . part of my job," he added pointedly, "and these same four letters came up as suddenly available for reading. Apparently, all four people who wrote them left instructions that they not be opened, until this week." Daniel sighed.

"All right, you’ve hooked me," he said. "Give me the letters." Tim set the papers on Daniel’s already cluttered desk.

"This first letter is from a Mrs. Albert Quinn," Tim said, although Daniel was perfectly capable of reading the letter for himself. "Her first name was Faith. Does that name ring a bell?"

"Faith Quinn . . . yes. Originally Faith Hutchinson. She’s the woman Hutchinson park is named after. She’s something of a Blue Springs folk hero, isn’t she?"

"Yeah, from the Civil War," Tim said. "Go on, read it!" Daniel began reading.

June 28, 1899

Dear Mr. Daniel Farthington,

I don’t know whether this letter will reach you or not, but I want to thank you for helping me make the right decision when I was young. I have never forgotten the day the boulder sent me to your time, and you told me I had to marry Albert. You were right, it turns out. When I returned, I found that my father had sent Albert an urgent message, saying that I didn’t want to get married. Albert dropped everything and hurried over. We talked for several hours that afternoon, and he was so gentle and kind and worried about me, that I changed my mind about him.

We were married the following year, as planned, and remained married for 45 years, until he passed away three years ago. Over the first ten years after our marriage, I kept warning him about the coming war, so that when it came, we were prepared. As it turned out, the signs of a war were all there, for anyone willing to look for them. He and I and his best friend, Silas Matthewson, organized the local farmers and drove off the Union soldiers when they attacked. He continued to work defending his farm and Blue Springs, so that when General Sherman came marching through, and Blue Springs was well defended, and was one of the few towns spared by Sherman’s fires. In the years of the Reconstruction, Blue Springs was able to help other communities rebuild, and Albert and Silas worked hardest to rebuild the South.

Had it not been for your words, I would have, indeed, run away from my marriage with Albert, and the disaster you described to us would surely have struck.

A funny thing about Silas Matthewson. I didn’t meet him until the wedding, but he looked very familiar. In fact, he looked an awful lot like our mysterious reader friend. (I often wonder what happened to him, and if he is still reading about us now.)

So, now I am an old women, near the end of a happy life. I have seven children still alive, and many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and I am content. If I have one regret, it’s that I will never again be able to see you or my friends, Annalise, Gabrielle, and Elizabeth. But I could not end my life without, at least, thanking you and remembering them. I shall not forget any of you.

Yours truly,
Faith Hutchinson Quinn

Daniel stared at the mysterious letter for a moment longer. "And I suppose the other three documents are from Annalise, Gabrielle, and Elizabeth?"

"That’s right," Tim said. "And you’re gonna love this one. Here’s Annalise’s letter . . ." He pulled another letter from the pile and set it on top. It was written on Bridges Performing Arts Center stationary.

"Hang on," Daniel said. "Are you telling me that this letter was written by Annalise Bridges? The Annalise Bridges? Founder of the Bridges . . ."

" . . . Performing Arts Center, that’s right," Tim finished. "And according to the letter, the center almost didn’t get built. Can you imagine Blue Springs without the Bridges Performing Arts Center?"

"It’s the mainstay of our economy," Daniel said. "Without it . . . this place would be a ghost town." Tim nodded as Daniel began reading.

August 13, 1985

Dear Mr. Farthington,

It feels very strange to be writing a letter to someone who hasn’t been born yet. I’ll admit, this is a first for me. And at my age, I can’t say that a lot. But I have left instructions that this letter not be delivered until 2070. I hope it reaches you. You will probably be receiving letters from the others as well. I’m not sure any of us understand what happened that day, when we were whisked to your time, but it had a profound impact on me, and I never forgot the events of that day, or the help you gave me. You were right about my musical abilities after all, and I thank God that I didn’t just abandon everything, as I most certainly would have done had I not found you.

You should know that I only made the attempt because you showed me what hurt it was causing my friends, as well as myself. I half-expected it not to work, and I would be writing a letter saying, "See? I told you so." Happily I was wrong. Upon my return, I immediately went to Jonathon and told him that I had decided to accept his help and resume my musical career. He was thrilled. He referred me to a friend of his, Dr. Richard Matthewson, (who strangely enough bore an uncanny resemblance to that young man who you called a "Reader.") It was a rough road, but in the end, Dr. Matthewson made me realize that I was suffering from a severe lack of confidence and self-loathing. With his help, and with friends like Jonathon and Evelyn by my side, I came through the ordeal stronger than before. Jonathon and I worked on the plan for the Arts Center together and it was thrilling to see it being built. My career took off again, and for thirty years I toured the world, playing with many of the major orchestras, recording many record albums that have done very well . . . but Blue Springs remained my home. I married and raised my family here, and when I retired publicly, I continued to organize concert seasons at the Center, arranging for world class orchestras and musicians to perform here. The rest I’m sure you already know. I don’t know whether the Center is still around 2070, but I like to hope that it is, and that it is still as successful as it is now. I feel that I’ve been especially blessed, and I owe it all to you. So thank you.

One other note. As 1980 approached, I realized that I had an opportunity to meet one of my fellow travelers. I enjoyed watching the unfolding career of a certain young evangelist who called herself the Angel Gabriel, but I carefully avoided meeting her until the day she touched the boulder. I wrote her a letter, and the next week, we met and had a most interesting talk. The events that had, for her, been only last week, had been forty years ago for myself. We had a wonderful time, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. Neither her friends nor mine understand what we have in common, and we’re not telling.

All my love,
Annalise Bridges

"So it looks like if it hadn’t been for you," Tim said as he finished, "the Bridges Performing Arts Center never would have been built."

"That’s impossible!" Daniel exclaimed. "The Center was built over eighty years before I was born!" Tim shrugged. Daniel sighed. "The next letter is from the Angel Gabriel I suppose?"

"Yeah . . . although it’s signed Gabrielle Rochester."

"That was her real name," Daniel said. "‘Angel Gabriel’ was just the name she adopted for her ministry. Some say she actually believed she was the Angel Gabriel, some say it was just a name. I don’t suppose this letter will solve the mystery?"

"See for yourself," Tim said. Daniel read.

March 5, 2017

Dear Daniel,

I just returned from Annalise Bridges’ Memorial concert. It’s been twenty years now since her death, and I thought it was time to write this letter, thanking you for your help. The events of that day may have changed my life more than my vision did. I need to tell you what happened when I returned. I couldn’t get poor Mr. Giovanni’s murder trial out of my mind, so I headed straight for City Park, after calling my office and canceling my appointments for the afternoon. The first thing I noticed was that City Park was not called "City Park," but "Hutchinson Park." I passed by a plaque which said that the park was named after one, Faith Hutchinson, who, with her husband Albert Quinn, saved Blue Springs from destruction during the Civil War. It warmed my heart, but it also made me wonder what else I would need to know.

But I digress. I found Mr. Giovanni on the park bench and told him who I was and that I wanted to help. I took him to the hospital, where we found that he’d had a mild heart attack. With the level of stress in his life, it was little wonder. I saw to it that he received the medical attention he needed, and I visited him every day. To my surprise, I found that I didn’t have any trouble talking to Roger. I didn’t offer advice or counseling; I just sat with him, and we talked about all sorts of things. Once he recovered, I helped him find a job; I wrote to his wife and persuaded her to come back, and even arranged for Roger to visit his son in jail. These things cost me nothing, and they helped Roger so much. I was so pleased when, three years later, he announced that he was running for mayor of Blue Springs.

Within a month of him being sworn in, Blue Springs was hit with a huge hurricane that wiped out several subdivisions and a portion of downtown. He worked many 24 hour days, arranging shelter for those who needed it, asking for state and federal assistance, meeting with each family who’d lost home. He persuaded most of them to stay in Blue Springs and rebuild, even though many had said they would move, and he saw to it that the rebuilding went quickly and smoothly, and the new houses were better than the old ones. On the strength of that alone, Roger was re-elected four times as mayor, and many say that he was the best mayor Blue Springs has ever seen.

There was a member of Roger’s staff who put in almost as many hours as Roger did, by the name of Robert Matthewson. He looked so much like the Reader who helped us, that I often found myself calling him "Matt." He never understood why.

One of the first things I did after returning was open a letter from none other than the great Annalise Bridges! I learned about her success and the Arts Center, and the following week we had a sort of reunion. We visited each other many times over the next several years. I had hoped that Annalise would live long enough so that we could both meet Elizabeth, but it was not to be. Annalise passed away in 1997, and I was flattered when she asked me to do her funeral. I still miss her.

Once I knew Elizabeth to have returned from 2070, I went to see her. We still visit each other often . . . but I think I’ll let Elizabeth tell you how she’s doing in her letter.

So now, I close this letter, looking back on the good you helped me to do for this little town. I’ll always remember insisting that I was the Angel Gabriel . . . but you always called me by my given name, Gabrielle Rochester. And that is, after all, who I am.

Yours in Christ,
Gabrielle "Angel Gabriel" Rochester

"Now wait," Daniel said. "Mayor Giovanni was on trial for murder? I’m sure there’s nothing of that in the records. Mayor Giovanni’s difficulties and the Angel Gabriel’s help are part of Blue Springs folklore . . . but there has never been any mention of a murder trial. I wonder who she is supposed to have murdered?"

Tim was smiling. "I thought that might interest you." Daniel hated to admit it . . . but Tim had found something good here.

"Let’s see what Elizabeth has to say," Daniel said, pulling out the last letter. "This was written just a few months before I was born."

September 19, 2028

Dear Mr. Farthington,

This should be the most recent of the four letters thanking you for the help you gave so many years ago. I was with Gabrielle when she wrote hers, and she was with Annalise when she wrote hers, and I have no doubt that there is one from Faith somewhere. I hope they all reach you, or you will never know what you do for us, and for Blue Springs.

After I returned, I thought at first that I was in the wrong time. Blue Springs was much bigger and busier than I remembered. But I found the Wilson’s home in the same place, and I realized I was back in my own time. It didn’t take me long to learn about Annalise’s Performing Arts Center and Gabrielle’s church. And that Roger Giovanni, the man who Gabrielle was supposed to have helped, was mayor of the city.

When I returned home, I confronted the Wilsons, who admitted that they had asked for my parents to come. Then I talked to my parents at the Blue Springs Hotel and we said a lot of things that needed to be said. We spoke late into the night, until I smelled smoke and remembered the fire. I pulled the alarm and woke Bradley Matthewson, the hotel manager. We were able to contain the fire to the kitchen, which was a total loss, but it didn’t spread and no one was killed.

Mr. Matthewson looked very familiar to me, incidentally. I kept wanting to call him "Matt" after that strange boy who read our story. I wonder whatever happened to him.

After that, my parents and I made a truce of sorts, but I decided to stay in Blue Springs. After meeting you, and getting to know Faith, Annalise, and Gabrielle, I had grown quite fond of the city. The irony is, if Blue Springs has been this large when I first arrived, I never would have stopped here. I was looking for a small town. But to whatever twist of fate brought me here, I am grateful. My husband and I eventually built a house on Hutchinson Street in a subdivision called Quinn Acres, and we have been quite content. Gabrielle was a frequent guest, and since my house is near Faith’s old plantation, and since we often played recordings of Annalise’s music, it was almost as if the four of us were back together again. Gabrielle passed away just last year, but of course, her memory lives on inside me always. Those times gave me much pleasure, and I thank you for allowing us to save Blue Springs from that dreadful ghost town we saw in 2070.

Sincerely,
Elizabeth Porpington-Potts

Daniel finished reading and looked up. "So, what do you make of all this?" Tim asked.

"I’m certainly mystified," Daniel admitted, idly picking up a pen and tapping it against his chin, a habit he had developed when something puzzled him. "It seems I did something I have no memory of. Either that or four random women had the same dream, which happened to involve me, a man they would never have heard of. And what’s with all these Matthewsons popping up everywhere? Relatives of yours, Tim?"

"I’d have to check the first three, but that last one, Bradley Matthewson, was my great-grandfather. Grandpa used to tell us stories about when he was a kid, and there was a fire that would have wiped out the town, if it hadn’t been for . . ." he paused, then suddenly remembered. "Elizabeth Porpington-Potts. That’s why that name sounds familiar! She was the hero of the day. Grandpa told me if it hadn’t been for her, the family would have died in the fire, and I wouldn’t even be here."

"Interesting," said Daniel. "And the other Matthewsons?"

"Well, like I said, I’d have to look into it, but it’s very likely that they’re my ancestors. The Matthewsons have been in Blue Springs since it was founded . . . not that you would know anything about that, being a newcomer to the community."

"Tim, I was born and raised in Blue Springs . . ."

"But your family didn’t come here until recently. Thus, you are a newcomer."

Daniel sighed, and flipped his pen onto the desk. "Whatever." He looked at his watch. "It’s time to call it a day."

"Oh, I almost forgot," Tim said. He pulled out a stack of manilla envelopes. "Once I gained access to the letters, there were instructions that led me to these." He pulled the papers out of the envelopes. "I ran an analysis of the pages. They’re definitely printed on paper from this office, but there are records with these that prove that they have been in storage for a long, long time. This one," he said, holding up what was clearly the oldest stack of papers, "have been in a safe deposit box in a bank since 1901."

"This office didn’t even exist in 1901. Let me see those." He took the papers and thumbed through them. "These appear to be narratives . . . with the women as characters . . . and the mystery deepens."

"I’m telling you," Tim said. "It’s that boulder."

"Not that boulder . . . what is it with you?"

"You read the letters!" Tim insisted. "The boulder brought them to you somehow, you talked to them, they went back, things changed. Ms. Porpington-Potts said this was a ghost town!"

"But I have never met any of these women, and Blue Springs has never been anything even remotely close to a ghost town." Tim sighed. Logic had refuted him again.

"Well, how about this–?"

"Enough, Tim," Daniel said, waving off whatever idea he had this time. "I’m going home. If I keep thinking about this, I’ll get a headache." He picked up the papers, and started out the door.

"But, if you–"

"I’m leaving the office now, Tim," Daniel said.

"Look, maybe–"

"I’m walking out the door and going home!"

"Daniel, I don’t think you understand . . ." Tim ran after Daniel Farthington’s disappearing figure, knowing that there was some sort of explanation . . . but somehow, not quite being able to formulate it.

***
EPILOGUE

Hutchinson Park, Blue Springs, Georgia, that evening.

Elizabeth Porpington-Potts watched the emerging stars from her park bench. Large as the city had become, the lights somehow didn’t interfere with the night sky from the park. Decades had passed since her youth, and the old woman still loved watching the night sky.

She heard voices. She looked over toward them, and smiled. Two men were walking by from the area of the Archives. One was talking animatedly, one was shaking his head and sighing. Elizabeth had a feeling she knew what they were talking about.

The men separated, going to their individual homes. The older man walked passed the park. He was just as Elizabeth remembered him . . . and he had no idea what he had done.

Daniel Farthington happened to glance over to where Elizabeth was sitting. The old woman smiled, and gave him a small wave. Daniel paused and looked at her. For a moment . . . a brief moment . . . he almost seemed to recognize her. Then he gave his own awkward wave, and continued on down the road.

Elizabeth smiled . . . no, he didn’t need to remember. As long as she knew . . . and as long as the others had known . . . and now he reason to look into it. Annalise and Matt had been right about those letters. The four women were certainly on Mr. Farthington’s mind now.

Elizabeth’s eyes turned back to the sky. As she watched, a small streak of light sped through the darkness. The old woman smiled, and closed her eyes.

Thank you . . .
***
The end.

"What's next?"

Chapter Six: Running Away

"No, no, NO!!! I've already erad that chapter! I DO mind reading it again! Grawrs. Many of them." Patience, dear sister. You now have a chance to erad something you have not erad yet. And when you're done, you can try reading it too. I believe this chapter was unfinished last you read it (or erad it) so you may have to scroll down. Or you could patiently read through the whole chapter. But judging by the number grawrs I received, I'm going to guess you won't do that. So, Cassie, enjoy the last half of chapter 6. Everyone else, enjoy the whole thing!
***
"Mine," Elizabeth said, from the doorway to the computer room. She already had her story ready. The computer had looked like something she used to make out of cardboard boxes, but it had been pretty easy to figure out on her own. "If you don’t mind, I’d rather not get into the quarrel with my parents."

"That’s up to you," Mr. Farthington said.

"Let’s just say that I had sufficient reason to leave home, and leave it at that. But the Wilsons have been wonderful to me for the last two years. I do want to show you that I’ve been able to get along quite well without my parents. This happened a few days ago." She handed the story to Matt.

"Don’t forget about the fire," Mr. Farthington said. "It did happen, and dozens died, including the hotel manager and his family and several guests, including your parents."

"I promise that, if I go back, I’ll do what I can to prevent the fire . . . assuming that you can prove that it really did happen. But I cannot make such a promise about my parents."

"Mr. Farthington," Annalise said, speaking up for the first time since her story. "Elizabeth is the last one. After her, we all go back to our times. What happens to you?"

"I’m sorry?"

"What will become of you if we change history and this time line ceases to exist? All Gabrielle has to do is return to change things significantly. Will you cease to exist as well?"

"I doubt it. My family moved to Blue Springs very recently, after Elizabeth disappeared. I would imagine I’ll still be doing the same thing I’m doing now, albeit with many more people surrounding me."

"But you won’t remember any of us?"

"No, not unless I take the time to study you specifically."

"I see," Annalise said, looking thoughtful about something.

"Matt, you may proceed," Mr. Farthington said. Matt nodded, looking thoughtful as well. Whatever Annalise was pondering, he also seemed to be pondering. But before Elizabeth could reflect on that, Matt had begun to read.

***

The Wilson residence, November 8, 2000, 10:46 AM.

Elizabeth didn’t know what it was about this meeting that made her nervous. It wasn’t that her employer was particularly imposing. On the contrary, Elizabeth had always considered Mr. Wilson as more of a friend and mentor than as an employer. In fact, Mr. Wilson didn’t generally ask Elizabeth to his office; he usually sought her out himself when he needed to talk with her. There was something official about this meeting, which was so unlike Mr. Wilson that it made Elizabeth nervous.

"You asked to see me, Mr. Wilson?" she asked. The Wilsons had given up trying to get Elizabeth to use their first names. It just wasn’t how she had been raised.

"Yes, Elizabeth. Come and sit down, please." The girl did so.

"Is something wrong?" Elizabeth asked, getting her nervousness out in the open. Elizabeth’s philosophy was never to bottle up her emotions and to be frank about things. It was a philosophy that often got her into trouble.

"No, of course not," Mr. Wilson said. "In fact, you’ve been working so well, that I’ve decided to raise your salary."

"Oh," Elizabeth said, not ready for this news. "Thank you."

"But that’s not why I called you in here," Mr. Wilson continued.

"I had a feeling." Mr. Wilson sighed.

"Elizabeth . . . you know I’ve never asked you about the life you left in England . . . after making sure there weren’t any outstanding warrants for your arrest, of course," he added, half-humorously. "I sensed you wanted it that way, so I left it alone."

"Yes, sir," Elizabeth said, fearing what came next.

"But even so . . . it has become clear that you had some sort of quarrel with your parents."

"Sir, I have never mentioned my parents."

"No, you haven’t. In fact, you have been so meticulous in not mentioning them that I started to suspect a quarrel soon after you arrived." Elizabeth sighed, inwardly. Her philosophy was used in every situation . . . except this one. "And there have been other clues," Mr. Wilson continued. "The other night, when the Johnsons were visiting, Mrs. Johnson made asked a casual question about your family, and you suddenly became very stiff and formal. I thought you were going to tell her to mind her own business."

"I would never do that, sir," Elizabeth said. "I apologise if I was rude."

"You covered well. I honestly don’t think anyone but me noticed . . . and that’s because I was looking for it." He paused. "Elizabeth, you’ve had no contact with your parents for two years, correct?"

"Correct," Elizabeth said, growing more uncomfortable.

"Yet you still react with anger when someone mentions them. You’re doing it right now." Elizabeth started. She was doing it now. She tried to calm herself. "Two years is a long time to nurse anger."

"Mr. Wilson, I’d rather not talk about this, if you don’t mind." Mr. Wilson put up his hands.

"I’m just saying that if one of my kids was gone for two years with no word, I’d be going crazy wondering if she was all right."

"I very much doubt if my parents are at all concerned about me," Elizabeth said, no longer able to sit. "Our relationship has never been very cordial. Was there anything else?" Mr. Wilson stared at her for a moment. Elizabeth tried to hold back her emotions.

"We’re expecting some guests later this week. Some friends from out of town."

"I’ll set things up."

"Thank you," Mr. Wilson said nodding. Elizabeth turned and started quickly for the door. "Elizabeth?" She turned back. "I want you to know . . . you’re an important part of this family. I’ve never regretted hiring you." Elizabeth’s anger dissipated. More than anything, she wanted to run to Mr. Wilson and sob two years worth of turmoil and anger into his shoulder. But that just wouldn’t be dignified.

"Thank you, Mr. Wilson. I . . . I enjoy working here." She turned and left. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She had work to do.

***

"There was a bit more about my family there than I remembered," Elizabeth said, still feeling the need to cry that she had felt in the scene.

"There is more," Mr. Farthington said. "You remember I told you earlier that your parents arrived in Blue Springs the day after your disappearance."

"Yes."

"They didn’t just arrive by coincidence. In fact, they were the guests from out of town that Mr. Wilson was expecting." Elizabeth sighed.

"They must have called him," she said. "I guess I shouldn’t be surprised."

"Actually, Elizabeth," Mr. Farthington said, "he called them." Elizabeth turned to him, hoping she had misheard.

"What?"

"Mr. Wilson found your parents, contacted them, and invited them over." Elizabeth began to see red again.

"Why that . . . he had no right, after . . . how dare he! After all that talk of . . . not prying into my life in England . . . he knew all along! I can’t believe he would . . ." Tears of anger began to stream down her face.

"He was doing what he thought was best for his employee. He didn’t pry into the quarrel itself. He found only the information he needed to find your parents, and when he contacted them, he said only that you were working for him and that he thought you and your parents should be reunited."

"And they came," Elizabeth said. "And if I hadn’t disappeared, it would have started all over again. He had no right to do this to me. No one understands what it was like! With the Wilsons I was happy . . . I was never happy with my parents." She paused, and looked angrily at Mr. Farthington. The tears continued to fall. "What makes you think anything will be any different? Is that what your bloody computer told you?"

"Elizabeth," Mr. Farthington said. "The computer showed me that things will better with you going back . . . but I don’t need a computer for the rest. Your parents came for you because they love you . . . do you think they’re incapable of change? Do you think that after you disappeared for two years, they’re going to want that to happen again?" He sighed. "I never pried into the details of the problem with your parents, Elizabeth. That’s between the three of you. And Mr. Wilson never did either. But I believe, just as he did, that whatever the problem was, running away isn’t the answer. Or you bottle everything inside you for the rest of your life. You carry this black cloud with you everywhere you go, no matter how hard you try to forget about it." Elizabeth’s look softened slightly. Her eyes were red and moist, and her anger had melted into a sort of quiet helplessness.

"For better or for worse, the only way to begin to solve the problem is to address it, not to run from it. I don’t need a computer to tell me that. All day, we’ve been dealing with these women who were running away from their problems. Faith is running from her betrothed, Annalise is running from her failing career, and Gabrielle is running from her fear of a one-on-one confrontation. I brought you all here in the hopes that you would, not only correct the time line and fix the town, but also that you would come to face your problems. Whether I’ve succeeded with the other women remains to be seen . . . but right now, we’re talking about you." Elizabeth still made no answer. "Forget about the time line for a minute. Forget that it’s me asking you to do this. Think about yourself. How long do you want this thing to fester?" There was a long pause as Elizabeth thought. Then she wiped the tears from her eyes, and looked up.

"Show me the rest," she said quietly. Mr. Farthington nodded, and picked up another stack of papers from his desk. Matt took them and began to read.

***

The Wilson residence, November 12, 2000, about 8:00 PM.

Mrs. Wilson wrung her hands nervously as she showed Mr. and Mrs. Porpington-Potts into the living room. This was not the sort of encounter the Wilsons had had in mind when they had sent for them. She couldn’t help but wonder if Elizabeth had, in fact, figured out who the "friends from out of town" were, and had run off . . . again. If that were the case, she could be anywhere.

"Has there been any word?" Mr. Porpington-Potts said, his voice carrying the same accent Mrs. Wilson had grown so used to from Elizabeth over the past two years.

"My husband is with the police," Mrs. Wilson said. "As soon as they know something, they’ll call."

"I should be there with him," the man said, starting to stand. "I’m her father, after all . . ."

"It’s all right. My husband knows the desk sergeant, and both he and Elizabeth are well known in the community. Unfortunately, the police have a tendency to drag their feet on these things. They’re treating this as a runaway, and they keep insisting that she’ll call."

"She already ran away once, and she hasn’t called in two years," Mrs. Porpington-Potts said.

"And I’d imagine that Mr. Wilson is saying something along those lines to them. But it may take time to talk some sense to them." They sat in silence for a moment.

"May I ask you something?" Mrs. Porpington-Potts said. "You’ve gotten to know Elizabeth pretty well over the last couple years, I’m sure. Is it . . . is it possible she knew we were coming, and tried to avoid us?" Mrs. Wilson sighed.

"I’ve been wondering that myself," she said. "And I suppose it’s possible. But I don’t think that’s the case here, and neither does my husband. Elizabeth has always been an excellent employee. She works hard, she’s wonderful with the children, and I think she knows our house better than we do. We’ve grown very fond of her, as I’m sure she has of us, and just last week she said how much she liked working here. That doesn’t sound like a runaway."

"Perhaps she likes it here better," Elizabeth’s mother said.

"Mrs. Potts," Mrs. Wilson said, "we asked you both to come, because although Elizabeth seems content here, she is still angry. She has nursed that anger over the past two years. She is very evasive about her family life, and she grows . . . upset whenever someone mentions it." She sighed. "This isn’t healthy, and we invited you over, in the hopes that you could . . . clear the air."
"Believe me," Mr. Porpington-Potts said, "we would like nothing more than to be able to ‘clear the air’ with our daughter, but . . . I’m not sure you realize quite what you’re asking us to do. You really have no idea what things were like before. We’re not sure how . . . wise a reconciliation, or even a reunion, would be."

"And yet you came," Mrs. Wilson pointed out.

"Of course we did," Mrs. Porpington-Potts said. "We haven’t heard from our daughter since she ran away. We didn’t even know if she was still alive. We had to come, if only to know that she was, indeed, safe. Although now, she seems to have left again." She sighed. "Before she left, we said some things we shouldn’t have. We may never get the chance now to . . . to tell her how desperately sorry we are." There was a silence, during which Mrs. Porpington-Potts took a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

"Well, if you’ll excuse me Mrs. Wilson," Mr. Porpington-Potts said, "I think I’ll join your husband at the police station. Perhaps I can help him . . . talk some sense to them."

"Of course," Mrs. Wilson said, nodded. Elizabeth’s father got up to go.

Before he left, he turned back into the room. "Mrs. Wilson . . . there’s no point in denying the difficulties we’ve had with Elizabeth . . . And I don’t mind admitting that we haven’t always been the best parents. But when all is said and done . . . she’s our child and we love her. Perhaps almost as much as you do."

"At least," Mrs. Wilson said. Mr. Porpington-Potts tried to smile before leaving the room. Mrs. Wilson turned back to Elizabeth’s mother. "Mrs. Porpington-Potts, there’s a room prepared for you, if you’d like to lie down."

"No," she said. "Thank you, but I’d like to return to the hotel."

"Of course. I’ll drive you back." The two women got up and walked out of the room, wondering anxiously where their lost child was.

***

"Mr. Porpington-Potts stayed at the police station for another couple of hours, before also returning to the hotel for the night. Then the fire broke out, and the police had their hands full with that. There is no record whether the search for Elizabeth was ever resumed.

"The fire spread quickly, burning not only the hotel, but half the town, and killing many of the surprised people who weren’t able to escape it in time. It delivered a crippling blow to an already struggling town. Those whose homes were destroyed moved elsewhere, and soon the businesses followed. Over the next decade, people began abandoning the town in ever larger numbers. Some families, like mine, moved in, but it wasn’t enough to compensate for the population drop, and the whole town fell into disrepair. Seventy years after the fire, this is what’s left." The four women were all lost in thought. Elizabeth had started crying again, and Faith and Annalise both looked helpless and lost. Only Gabrielle had any kind of conviction on her face.

"Twenty years ago," Mr. Farthington continued, "the twelve people left in the village, including myself, made the decision to use the information we’d gathered from the nexus, and try to restore the time line. I volunteered to stay behind, and as I studied you all, I realized that this had become more than just a matter of turning you back to boulder and sending you home.

"All of you had difficult decisions to make. And either because of your youth, your stubbornness . . . whatever the reason, you had to be made to talk about these decisions. I realized that Blue Springs, 2070, could be a sort . . . of safe haven for all of you. A place to confront your problems." He paused. "I don’t know why the nexus brought you all here . . . but I can’t help but wonder if there is some sort of . . . sapient being at work. Some intelligence. At any rate, I hope that when you go back, you’ll find yourself better equipped to face those troubles rather than run from them." There was a long silence as Mr. Farthington finished his speech.

"Well," Gabrielle said, finally, "I know what I have to do. Mr. Giovanni’s life depends on my help."

"So does Albert’s, I suppose," Faith said. "I can at least meet him. Then we’ll see."

Annalise sighed, and picked up her violin. "I may never play another note . . . but I guess I owe it to Jonathon to try, after all he’s done for me. I just hope he takes me back."

"He will," Mr. Farthington said. Annalise smiled for the first time since her arrival.

"What about you, Elizabeth?" Mr. Farthington asked.

Elizabeth looked at them for a moment. "Well," she said, finally. "I think I’d like to back, if only to see what the Wilsons have to say about sending for my parents behind my back." She paused, and sighed. "Then . . . I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them."

Mr. Farthington smiled. "Thank you, all. Now, I think it’s time to send all of you home." He turned to Matt, who had been sitting quietly through the whole exchange. "And thank you, Matt for helping us. I suppose you should be returning to . . . well, wherever it was you came from. You can read the book, and find out how this story turns out."

"Well, I think I’ve had more fun being a part of the story than reading it," Matt said, getting up. "But before I go, may I ask a favor?"

"Of course," Mr. Farthington said. "But bear in mind, I still can’t help you with the money . . ."

"No, no, it’s nothing like that," Matt said. "It’s just that, well . . . I feel like I was a little hard on Annalise in her scene . . . I mean, it wasn’t me, of course, but still . . . well, I didn’t really get a chance to enjoy the music, so . . . I was wondering if she would play something for us before we go."

"What do you say, Annalise?" Mr. Farthington said. "Just an audience of five . . . might not be a bad way to restart your musical career."

"I don’t know . . ." Annalise said, uncertainly.

"We’d all love to hear you," Gabrielle said. "Please?"

"Yes, that’s right," Elizabeth put in.

"I love the violin," said Faith.

Annalise sighed. "All right. But just a short one." They all settled back as Annalise pulled out her violin, once again, from her case. She imagined herself back on stage . . . then she thought better if it, and thought of herself back at the boulder, in her own time . . . home again.

Come on, Annalise, she heard Jonathon’s voice say. Somewhere in there is your passion for music. All you have to do is find it!

Suddenly, Annalise was playing the simple melody she had played since her earliest days on the instrument. It wasn’t perfect . . . but the melody flowed out of the strings, and for a moment . . . a brief moment . . . Annalise forgot about the critics, the problems of her world, and the fight with Jonathon, and just made music. And her small audience got a glimpse of the real Annalise Bridges.

When it was over, they all clapped, considerably more enthusiastically than before. Annalise blushed slightly, then bowed, and put her instrument back in its case . . . this time, without thinking of it as a coffin.

***

As they headed back to the boulder, Matt and Annalise talked quietly behind them. Elizabeth couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. After a moment, they gestured to Faith and whispered to her. She smiled and nodded. They did the same for Gabrielle a moment later. Finally, they brought Elizabeth. As they spoke to her, she smiled and nodded too. Matt had helped them once again.

"We’re here," Mr. Farthington said. "And now, our paths must part. Simply touch the boulder, and it will transport you back to your own time, at the exact time you left. What you do from there is up to you." He crossed to Elizabeth. "Elizabeth, I wish you the best with your parents."

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for helping me." She shook his hand, then touched the boulder and disappeared.

"Gabrielle, good luck with Mr. Giovanni. I’m sure you will succeed."

"Thank you, Daniel, and God bless you." She hugged him, then also disappeared.

"Faith," Mr. Farthington said, facing the young girl. "I think once you get to know Mr. Quinn, you will go through with the wedding."

Faith nodded. "I think I will too. Thank you."

"Good luck to you." She smiled at him sweetly, then proceed to touch the boulder and vanish.

"And Annalise," he said, facing the last woman. "For whatever it’s worth, I think the spark is still there."

"You’re a great inspiration, Daniel Farthington," the musician said. "I hope to always remember you, even if you won’t remember us."

"Thank you," said Mr. Farthington. Annalise hugged him, turned and gave Matt one last wave, then touched the boulder and was gone.

Matt and Mr. Farthington stood alone in the clearing. "Well," Matt said. "I have to say this wasn’t what I expected when I picked up this book."

"No, I wouldn’t think so. It’s not a very common occurrence," Mr. Farthington said. Matt laughed.

"Well anyway, it’s been fun. I’d best be going. I want to see how this story turns out."

"Good luck to you Matt. Perhaps we’ll meet again."

Matt smiled. "Yeah, maybe there’ll be a sequel."

The two men shook hands. "Happy reading."

"Good luck to you, Daniel." Daniel smiled, turned, and began his walk back down the street.

Matt watched him for a moment, then pulled out the piece of paper Daniel had given him, and read it. And suddenly, Matt was back in his own world, reading the book. Matt looked up. He was still standing next to the boulder.

He looked around. "What am I still doing here?" he asked. He read the paper again. Nothing. "What’s going on here? Mr. Farthington? Daniel?" He started running down the street, trying to catch up with the man, but it was getting difficult to see him. "Daniel? Mr. Farthington, where are you? Hold on, wait for me! Daniel? . . ."
***
End of chapter 6.

"What's next?"

Chapter Five: To The Multitudes

patience n. 1. calm endurance of hardship, provocation, pain, delay, etc. 2. tolerant perserverance or forbearance. 3. the capacity for calm self-possessed waiting. Example: "If Cassie had more patience while waiting for a section of the story she hasn't read yet, she wouldn't provide her brother with so much amusement." But perhaps this will help. This next chapter is about Gabrielle who Cassie portrayed in the stage version of this story. Of course, Cassie has already read this chapter . . . but I'm sure she won't mind reading it again . . .

***
"I had a hard time deciding what scene to pick out," Gabrielle said. "All the other women seem to be going through a crisis of some kind, but things have been going very well for me. I felt almost guilty that I didn’t have something equally serious to share." There was small chuckling throughout the room. "However," Gabrielle continued, "you did manage to pinpoint my biggest weakness as a preacher. I don’t really like talking about it, but since it’s become an issue now . . . I preach to the multitudes. I can stand in front of thousands upon thousands of people and give a sermon, and I will not be the least bit nervous or uncomfortable. But I’ve never been very good with personal counsel. I just can’t work one-on-one with someone very well.

"So I choose a conversation I had a week ago with my assistant, Brian. He helps in the office, and one of things he does for me is go through the mail, something I don’t especially enjoy and tend to put off, especially giving how much my mail has increased in recent years."

"All right," Daniel said. Gabrielle handed her story to Matt, and he began to read.

***

Gabrielle’s office, Blue Springs, Georgia, June 24, 1980, 1:56 PM.

Gabrielle hated the mailbag and everything it stood for. So when Brian, her unimposing and somewhat clumsy assistant, stumbled his way into her office, dragging what was obviously a very heavy mailbag behind him, and set it down before her, her heart understandably plummeted.

"It’s time for your favorite task again," Brian said unnecessarily, making a big show of wiping his brow and trying to catch his breath. Gabrielle sighed.

"No, no, no . . . didn’t we do this already?"

"Yeah, last week."

"I still have nightmares . . ."

"Oh, c’mon, it’s not that bad."

"Said the man who’s not getting ten million letters every day," Gabrielle said. Brian just shrugged.

"The longer you put it off, the bigger the pile is going to be," he said matter-of-factly. Gabrielle sighed again.

"That’s just a week’s worth of mail?" Now, Brian smiled.

"Actually we’ve done most of the work already," he said. "Most of the letters fall into basic categories, and we have a standard reply for them. But there is the occasional oddity that needs your attention." He reached into the bag and pulled out a small handful of letters.

"That’s it?" Gabrielle asked. Brian nodded. "Well, that’s a little better. What did you bring that bag in here for then?"

"Oh, I just wanted you to know how hard we all work for you," Brian said, barely repressing a smirk.

"Yeah, thanks," Gabrielle said dryly. "You just brought that in to scare me."

"That too. Shall we begin?" Gabrielle gave one more sigh just for good measure, but the task did not seem quite as daunting as before. Brian was good at putting Gabrielle in a decent mood before she had to do something awful.

"Fire away," she said.

"Well, this first one is from your mother, who wants to know why you haven’t written her and if you’re still alive."

"Give me that!" Gabrielle said, snatching the letter out of his hand. Brian chuckled. Gabrielle gave him a look, and read the letter.

"Wow," she said, "I guess it has been a while. I’ll sit down tonight and write her the longest, newsiest letter she ever saw. She’ll be in heaven." She set the letter aside. "What’s next?"

"While we’re on family matters, do you have a cousin in Decatur named George Pendleton?"
"Which Decatur? Georgia, Alabama, or Mississippi?"

Brian glanced at the address. "Illinois."

"Ah. Well, I have no relatives in Illinois that I’m aware of, and that name doesn’t ring a bell. What does he want?"

"The usual thing that people want from famous relatives. We get about ten or fifteen of these things a week. This looks like a thinly disguised request for a handout, but he seemed to know more about you than the others, so I thought I should run it by you."

"What sort of reply do you usually send to other requests like that?"

"We send a heartfelt letter of thanks for their interest and a copy of your pamphlet, ‘Gospels for the Eighties.’"

Gabrielle winced. "Ouch. That doesn’t sound very charitable, does it?"

"I know, but if we started giving handouts to anyone who asked for them, we’d go under."

"I know, I know. We do what we can. What’s next?"

"We have a request for some assistance from you. There’s a letter from a man who lives right here in Blue Springs, actually. He seems to be very much down on his luck . . . here, I’ll read you a portion of his letter. ‘Dear Angel Gabriel, I have been attending your services regularly for over a year and I need your help. I was laid off from my job almost two years ago, and unemployment has run out. I haven’t been able to find work, although I have tried. My wife packed up and left about six months ago and then our only son was convicted on cocaine possession and sent to jail. I’m alone in my house, which I may lose if I can’t keep up mortgage payments, and recently the doctor told me that I have some kind of stress induced heart problem. I’ve heard you talk about that guy Job in some of your sermons, who had all those bad things happen to him and he still believed in a good God. How did he manage that? I don’t have huge boils all over my body yet, but it seems to be just a matter of time. I’m beginning to think that you are my only hope. Would it possible for me to make an appointment to come and talk to you?’"

Gabrielle was silent for a moment after Brian stopped reading. "Is this man on the level, or is this just a sob story?"

"I did a little digging. Most of what he said checks out. He was laid off and his wife did leave him. And his son is in federal prison on drug possession charges. What he doesn’t mention in the letter is that they haven’t spoken for nearly five years. His son lived in California, and this man found out about the drug conviction about the same time his wife left." He paused. "He also doesn’t mention that he had a daughter who was killed in an accident a few years ago."

Gabrielle shook her head. "That’s not what I wanted you tell me, Brian. I wanted you to tell me that this was some hoax and that we could send him packing. I don’t know how to help him, except by giving him a handout, and we just discussed why we can’t do that."

"I don’t think it’s a question of money. I just think he needs counsel."

"That’s exactly the problem. You know I don’t do well talking with individuals. Put me in room with one person, and I’m suddenly tongue-tied and helpless. I just don’t have the gift for the kind of help he needs. Maybe we can refer him to another counselor, someone else who’s trained for this sort of thing. And . . . maybe we could break the handout rule just this once. He does need it, after all. I doubt my mysterious relative in Decatur does."

"I’ll look into it," Brian said. "Don’t let it worry you. Shall we continue?"

"Not now," Gabrielle said absently. "Let’s finish it later."

"All right. But by then, the pile of letters will be larger."

"Well, if I’m going to keep receiving letters whether I answer them or not, then I lose nothing postponing this a couple of hours, right?"

"Whatever you say," Brian said, and he left the room, leaving Gabrielle alone. She had done all she was able to do . . . and yet she felt like there was something more she should have done.

***

"Did Brian ever tell you who the letter was from?" Daniel asked.

"No," Gabrielle said. "I assumed he didn’t want his name spoken. He may not have even signed it; I never actually saw the letter myself."

"He did sign it. But he was apparently aware that you didn’t read your mail, so he requested that his name not be given, and signed it so someone could verify his information."

"Then, this letter is from the Giovanni gentleman you mentioned?"

"Yes," Daniel said. "You were the most difficult and interesting of the four women. Like you said, your disappearance is different than the others. The others have unresolved issues to resolve. But you were a strong pastor with no real clouds in your future. I knew that there must be some void left behind by your disappearance, but I couldn’t figure out what it was . . . until I found this letter in your file. Roger Giovanni turned out to be the key, and you didn’t even know his name until you arrived here." The man started sorting through the papers on his desk.

"So, what it so extraordinary about this man?" Gabrielle asked. "What help could I offer that a qualified counselor couldn’t provide better?"

"For one thing, you’re there. Blue Springs doesn’t have any such person, and the nearest man Brian could find who would talk to him for a reasonable price was in Atlanta."

"What about local churches? Another pastor?"

"Brian looked, but nothing panned out. Giovanni had put his hopes in you, and probably would have resisted going anywhere else anyway. I think he was looking for a friend as much as a counselor. But as bad as his situation was, your disappearance made it much worse."

"How so?"

"Just a few hours before you disappeared, Mr. Giovanni was seen waiting outside your house. I think he was trying to catch you as you were leaving and talk to you. But a neighbor saw him threatened to call the police. He hurried away but, as the neighbor claimed later, he looked angry and desperate. Your disappearance was noticed almost immediately, because you failed to return to your office from lunch. Before the day was over, your disappearance was national news, and by the next day, Mr. Giovanni was in custody under suspicion of abduction and possible murder. Your office hired prosecutor who was able to put together a very convincing case of circumstantial evidence against him, enough that when your body was never recovered and Mr. Giovanni couldn’t provide an adequate alibi, they brought him up on charges of murder and kidnaping. The trial was covered on all the major news networks, and Roger Giovanni became the most hated man in the country."

"My office prosecuted this man?" Gabrielle asked, shocked. She couldn’t imagine her own friends from work doing this.

"They were as mystified by your disappearance everyone else. They needed someone to blame."

"Well, then I’ll have to go back and prevent that from happening. Tell me how to return." Her previous reluctance had been completely turned around at the thought of her office prosecuting an innocent man. Maybe she couldn’t help him, but at least she could return and keep him from being arrested.

"There is more you need to know. It doesn’t matter how long you stay here; you will return at the exact moment you left. But I want you to get to know Mr. Giovanni. This is a conversation between he and his attorney, just before he was convicted. Matt?" Matt took the papers Daniel had found, and began to read.

***

Georgia State Courthouse, February 12, 1984, 3:03 PM.

The room was bland, like everything else in the building. But Roger saw it in a worse light. It was horrible, nasty place that could drive a man insane. He hated it. It was less than he deserved. The whole situation was less than he deserved.

"You have five minutes," the guard said to his attorney. "I’ll be outside if you need anything." If she needed anything. As if Roger really was a murderous lunatic who would try to kill the only person in the world who was interested in saving him.

Margaret had been a friend for many years. She didn’t believe for a moment that Roger had kidnaped or murdered anybody. No one with half a brain would believe that either. Unfortunately, as Roger had recently noticed, much of the country had considerably less than half a brain.

They stood for a moment in silence, she looking at him, he trying not to look at her. Finally, he threw up his hands and sighed.

"What did I do?" he asked, to no one in particular. "What did I ever do to them? What have I ever done, except be a loving and supportive father and husband?"

"The prosecutor has done a very effective job of stirring up strong feelings against you . . ."

"Feelings? Is that the criteria for court cases now? How someone feels about me?"

" . . . and of making circumstantial evidence look a lot more sinister than it is."

"Circumstantial evidence has at least some basis in fact, doesn’t it? So, how does this . . . despicable excuse of a human being justify accusing me of killing my own daughter? There has never been an indication that her death was any more than an accident, I was out of the state when it happened, and I was out of my mind with grief! You were there!"

"Yes, and I strongly objected and he withdrew the comment. But the damage was done. He very effectively told people that their was another death in your life. If I had known he was going to do that, I would have tried to cut him off."

"It was bad enough having to deal with Patty’s death the first time. And Tony’s prison sentence, and my wife leaving . . . but to drag all that through the trial and make me relive it again has got to be the most contemptible thing I’ve ever seen. How is it that a man like that wins, while the ones who tell the truth lose?"

"If it had been someone less famous or popular than Angel Gabriel, the whole case would have been thrown out for lack of evidence. There’s no body, no weapon, no crime scene, no clear motive."

"And no alibi, don’t forget. No one saw me black out in City Park. I was unconscious until the police found me that afternoon, so naturally I must have killed her. Sounds logical, doesn’t it?"
"The public was outraged at her disappearance, and needed a scapegoat," Margaret explained, as if understanding the horrible situation would make it better. "You just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Which is why I ask . . . what did I ever do? When did God decide, ‘Hey, that Giovanni guy doesn’t have enough challenges in his life already, let’s get him laid off from his job. And since he can’t bring in an income, let’s have his wife up and leave him. And just for another plot twist, let’s kill off his daughter and get his son convicted of drug possession. Oh, and let’s give him a heart problem that he can’t see a doctor about, since he doesn’t have the money to pay the bill. Oh, and here’s the kicker! Let’s give him an opportunity to get help, have him seek out that opportunity, and have the whole thing backfire when she disappears and the country suddenly accuses him of kidnaping and murdering her. Let’s see how he deals with that situation!’"

"Stop it, Roger, honest to God!" Margaret said. She looked just as upset as he. "What’s happened to you? You used to be able to deal with anything. I thought you of all people . . . I’ve never seen you like this."

"Well, I’ve never been in danger of being executed either, so . . ."

"I remember a Roger Giovanni who always took charge of a situation. Those years when you were president of the school board were some of the best years the school ever saw. And you single-handedly organized the workers at the auto plant and started demanding better working conditions."

"Which is probably what got me laid off," Roger said, glumly.

"But you were a leader. People followed you respected you."

"You left out the part where I started losing everything and people deserted me. No one remembers that work I did for the school board anymore. Whenever anyone remembers that I was even on the school board, all they can think of is, ‘My God, we had a murderer running our schools?’ And as for the auto plant, the prosecutor used that against me, remember? He accused me of being quick to anger, militaristic, and desperate to get what I wanted by any means! I’m the most hated man in the country! No one remembers any of the good I did, except you, and I didn’t even see you until I was arrested!"

"I sorry, Roger," Margaret said, quietly. "I should’ve . . ." Roger was immediately sorry.

"No, I’m not blaming you for anything," he said. "I don’t expect people to drop everything and come help me when things get a little tough. But there it was. At the last, I had no one. So I went to the Angel Gabriel. Her sermons were so filled with optimism and hope, that I began to think that maybe there is some good in the world, and maybe things will get better. It was my only lifeline in this mess, so I wrote to her, asking . . . begging for help. But instead of helping, she disappeared, and brought this on. I keep hoping that . . . maybe she’ll just turn up, and say this is all a huge mistake."

"Well . . . that’s not likely to happen, I’m afraid."

"No . . . and for all your efforts, it will do no good. I’ll be convicted and hanged for all to see. I think that may be a release for me . . . maybe it’s for the best."

"We’ll get through this Roger," Margaret said, but the tears in her eyes gave the lie. "Don’t start talking like that." The guard re-entered.

"I’m sorry, your time is up. Closing arguments begin in an hour." He ushered Roger’s only friend out of the room, leaving Roger alone. It was the last conversation he ever had with her.

***

"Mr. Giovanni was, indeed, convicted. They put off executing him, hoping that he would reveal the whereabouts of your body. But when he didn’t, he was put to death." He paused. "He later received a Presidential pardon, due to so much circumstantial and faulty evidence against him in the trial. But the only one who cared was Margaret, his lawyer. Roger was long dead."

"I must help this man," Gabrielle said, decisively. "I can’t let this happen to him." Daniel smiled. It was the first definite answer he had gotten from any one of the four women.

"I have no doubt that you will, Angel Gabriel." Gabrielle smiled at him. "Now, I believe we have one more story to review."
***
End of chapter 5.

"What's next?"

Chapter Four: Watered Down Gin

Cassie's comment from the previous chapter: "No, see, I've read all this. It isn't new. *pout* Ugh. Is it really really completely totally done?" Yes, it's really, really completely done, but I'm only posting one chapter at a time. The good news is that I'm posting one chapter per day, so you'll get a section you haven't read yet on Tuesday . . . though I'll probably post it Tuesday night, so you won't read it until Wednesday. Still . . . anyway, here's Annalise's chapter. For those who haven't read it yet, enjoy! For Cassie . . . patience, dear sister.
***
"Annalise disappeared during the second World War, before the U.S. got involved. At that time, Americans were trying to live as normal lives as possible, aware that their country could become caught up in the war at any time. This may or may not have had anything to do with Annalise’s troubles, but it was the background that everyone was living against in 1940."

Annalise emerged from the other room, papers in her hand. She had been giving her argument careful thought, and was determined not to swayed by emotion in the way the Faith had been. Indeed, she had been fighting against that for the past year or so; she should have no trouble. She hoped. Somehow, someway, she would make Mr. Farthington see reason.

"Before we start," Annalise said, "I want you all to hear some of the reviews and letters concerning my performances during the last couple years."

"Very well," Mr. Farthington said, with infuriating calmness. Annalise handed Matt the papers, not breaking her gaze from Mr. Farthington as he read.

BRIDGES’ CONCERT QUITE DISAPPOINTING

We have been looking forward to a wonderful evening of violin music from Annalise Bridges. Ever since her triumph at Carnegie Hall a few years ago, she has been in great demand, and last night she finally arrived in Orchestra Hall for a much anticipated recital. To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. I had been told to expect nothing less than the next great American violin virtuoso. What I heard wouldn’t even stack up against a sixth grader playing "Hot Cross Buns" in her teacher’s living room.

BRIDGES’ PASSION HAS VANISHED

Annalise Bridges’ concert was off to a bad start before it began. Two days before, we received word that she was suffering from a bad cold and may not be able to perform at all. But by last night, she was sufficiently recovered. I hate to say this, but she would have done better to cancel the performance. Everything she played was lackluster and tentative. I tried to chalk it up to her recent illness, but there’s something more going on here. I heard her in San Francisco a few years ago and she was magnificent. What has happened to the fire and energy that gripped her performance then? She looked nervous and uncertain when she walked on stage, and she played as if she was thinking about anything except her music. She will not further her career with performances like this.

"This is a letter," Matt said, moving on to the next paper. "Dear . . . I can’t make out the name . . . I went to Annie’s recital last night." Annalise sighed. She knew who had written that letter. There was only one person who ever called her ‘Annie.’ She hated that name.

She was awful. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, she’s been getting worse for over a year now, but last night was a new low. She kept hitting wrong notes, and it sounded like she lost her place once. When one of the strings broke in the middle of the Mozart, she had to stop. She couldn’t go on. She looked like she was ready to cry. I’ve heard her play those pieces brilliantly, but it sounded like she was sight reading. I’m really worried about her. When I talked to her last week, she seemed distant and distracted. I can’t even get a reaction from her by calling her "Annie." I don’t know what she’s been going through, but I wish I could help her. She was so good and I was so proud to be able to say that I grew up with her. But when she plays today, it’s as if she doesn’t think she can do what I know she can do. She’s lost her confidence somehow, and I hope Mr. Reed or someone can help her snap out of it, because if this keeps up no one will ask her to play. The violin has been her life as long as I’ve known her, and I don’t know what she would do without it.

"It would seem," Mr. Farthington remarked, "that there are others who believe in your abilities, besides Mr. Reed. You have a good friend there."

"She’s been my friend since grade school," Annalise said. "We started taking violin lessons together. She hated them and quit after a month." She smiled, remembering Evelyn's vehement hatred of the violin, in contrast to Annalise’s intense passion for it, and how they had always remained friends nonetheless. Until recently. "She always made a big show of . . . thinking me a fool for playing the violin. But when I said I was going to quit . . . she was always begging me to play again. I finally got angry with her . . . we haven’t spoken since then." She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think about the issue at hand. "Matt, if you would read the following scene, please." Matt nodded, and turned his eyes down to the page in front of him.

***

Blue Springs Town Hall, Friday, February 23rd, 1940, 3:15 PM.

Jonathon Reed tried not to wince, but it was becoming harder and harder. Annalise was murdering Vivaldi’s Concerto in A Minor in much the same a way a beginning violinist would . . . and Annalise had never played like a beginning violinist. She had been a child prodigy, amazing many musicians, including Jonathon himself. She had been a brilliant musician as a child, and had improved throughout her whole life. Until now.

Jonathon tried to force a neutral expression as Annalise played the last few out-of-tune notes of the piece. The few people sitting in the audience looked relieved that it was over. But none looked more relieved than Annalise herself. The audience applauded politely--a few scattered claps, in sharp contrast to the roar of shouts and whistles that had used to come at the end of Annalise’s performances--and Annalise left the stage quickly, not even bothering to bow. Jonathon knew that he had a very short window during which to find her while she put her instrument away, before she left the hall. She had been avoiding him recently.

"Annalise?" he said, finding her backstage. She sighed. "We need to talk."

"I know it was bad; you don’t need to tell me," she said.

"You decided it was going to be bad before you even went out there," Jonathon said. "You played as if you were already defeated."

"I told you this was a bad idea," Annalise said. "Almost no one came. The hall was cold."

"Annalise, what’s going on?" Annalise sighed, staring at her violin case.

"I can’t do this anymore," she said, quietly.

"Yes, you can," Jonathon insisted.

"Have you read the reviews? ‘The kick of watered down gin’ is the most recent comparison to my playing."

"I don’t need to read the reviews to know that you aren’t playing as well as you can. I know you can play better than this. Everyone knows you can play better than this. Even the people that write the reviews."

"I used to be able to play, Jonathon, but I can’t anymore. I’ve lost my ability."

"That’s nonsense."

"Weren’t you listening to me out there?" Annalise exclaimed. "I saw you wincing. No one wants to listen to me play. I don’t even want to listen to me play."

"You can’t lose an ability unless there is some physical reason for it," Jonathon argued. He was not a particularly imposing figure, but he could be intimidating when he got passionate in his arguments. "If someone chopped off one of your hands, then you wouldn’t have the ability to play the violin. But there is no physical reason why can’t as well, if not better, than you always have. What you have lost is your passion for music. You used to love the violin. You were one of the only students I had who actually looked forward to her lessons every week. There was a gleam in your eye every time you picked up your instrument. Your hands were twitching to play Mozart and Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky and any other of the slew of composers you loved. But lately, when you come to lessons and you perform, you act as though you don’t even want to be there. I can’t think why."

"Well, I can," Annalise said, coldly. "Perhaps I’ve ‘lost my passion’ because I’ve realized that I can no longer do what I used to do. Do you think that I don’t want to be able to play? You make it sound like I just suddenly got bored with music. I want to play like before . . . but I just can’t."

"So, you’re not even going to try?"

"I’ve been trying. That’s how I ended up like watered down gin. No more. The musical world has tossed me aside, so I’m moving on to other things."

"Like what?" Jonathon asked, shocked, disappointed, and angry all at the same time. This was the first time Annalise had openly talked of giving up music. "Music has been your dream for has long as I’ve known you! How can you think of throwing it away?"

"What else is there to do, Jonathon?" Annalise asked. "Can you give me back my ability? Do you have it stored in a box somewhere, in case of an emergency?"

Jonathon sighed, and his voice became gentle. "I think what you need to do is find out what’s really bothering you. Your ability is still inside you, Annalise, but you’re blocking it somehow."
Annalise looked at Jonathon, and for a moment it looked like she might do it. Then, she looked away and picked up her case.

"I think what I need to do is face the fact that I can’t play anymore and move on," she said, walking away. "And I think that you and everyone else would do well to do the same. Now, if you will excuse me Mr. Reed, I’m going home."

"I’m not giving up you, Annalise," Jonathon said to her. "Even if you’ve already given up on yourself." Annalise turned to face him.

"Watered down gin," she said coldly.

"Even watered down gin has some kick left," Jonathon said. Annalise stared at him for a moment, then turned and disappeared out the door.

***

"How long ago was this?" Mr. Farthington asked, as the scene disappeared.

"About a month ago," Annalise said. "That was my last public performance. Mr. Reed scheduled more, but I ended up canceling them."

"Did you two speak after this?"

"Yes, several times," Annalise said, thinking about their arguments. "He kept insisting that I get help for my ‘problem.’ I just couldn’t make him understand. We usually ended up yelling at each other. The last time we talked was earlier today . . . I think I finally got through." But she didn’t look happy about it.

Mr. Farthington looked at her for a moment, then picked up a few more papers from his desk and handed them to Matt. "Here’s what happened to Mr. Reed after you disappeared. Matt, if you would." Matt nodded, and looked at the paper.

***

Jonathon Reed’s office, Blue Springs, Thursday, May 23rd, 1941, 4:00 PM.

Jonathon stared bleakly out the window. He had just gotten off the phone with his last student, telling her not to bother coming in for her lesson next week. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on lessons lately. It was as though whatever had afflicted Annalise had rubbed off on him. He had an idea how she had felt now . . . even if he had never known why she felt that way.

"Sir?" Jonathon turned at the sound of his secretary’s voice. "The architect is on the phone. He says he needs a decision from you about the project."

Jonathon smiled, ironically. "The Bridges Performing Arts Center?" he asked. It was almost a laugh to call it that now. "That’s what it was going to be called. I wanted today to be the day. I wanted it to be groundbreaking day. It would have been her birthday present." He sighed. "She could have been great, Claire. She was the best violinist of her generation. She had a whole, beautiful career ahead of her." He looked out the window again. "I wish I knew what happened."

"No one can explain her disappearance," Claire said, sadly.

"That’s not what I mean," Jonathon said, shaking his head. "She left a long time before she disappeared. I don’t know how many times I tried to help her . . . but she always turned away, and continued to deteriorate as a musician. No one remembers how great she once was. All they remember is that she gave up on herself in her last years, canceled appearance after appearance, abandoned a recording contract, and then disappeared without a trace. How can I name something after that sort of person?"

"Perhaps you can name the building after someone else?"

"Who? Blue Springs has no other musician of note . . . no pun intended. Annalise was unique. Her name alone could have drawn musicians and artists from all over to come here and study and perform. But lately when I mention her name, people have trouble remembering who I’m talking about. There just . . . doesn’t seem to be much point anymore." There was a moment of silence.

"What should I tell the architect?" Claire asked, finally.

"Tell him I’m abandoning the project. I doubt he’ll be surprised. He probably just called as a formality anyway." Claire looked at him for a moment.

"Yes, sir," she said, and left the room.

In a few minutes she was back. "Sir, Miss Evelyn Teal is here to see you."

Jonathon nodded. He had been expecting her to show up since dismissing Betty. "Show her in," he said. Might as well broach this now.

Evelyn, a short, red-headed, brassy young woman, walked in. Jonathon remembered her for her passionate hatred of her violin lessons. Performance had never been her thing.

"Hi," she said, shortly. Jonathon turned to face her.

"What can I do for you, Evelyn?"

"Well, you can start by explaining to me what the hell you think you’re doing."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Jonathon lied.

"Don’t play dumb," Evelyn said. "You’re no good at it. Betty told me you dismissed her. Why?"

"I’ve referred her to Mr. Stone. She’ll be in good hands."

"I’m not concerned about Betty, and you know it, so cut the crap. Betty was your last student. You’ve been sending students away for the past year."

"I’ve decided to ease up on my work schedule," Jonathon said.

"Damn it, Jonathon, you don’t have a work schedule anymore! You’ve given up, just like Annie. She vanished, and you decided to quietly fade away. Claire just told me you’re not going to build the concert hall, you’ve stopped making appearances yourself, and now you’ve dismissed all of your students. Are you trying to make Annie look cheerful by comparison?" Jonathon sighed.

"You knew her longer than anyone in town. Do you remember her enthusiasm?"

Evelyn laughed, sadly. "How could I forget? She left me exhausted sometimes. I remember one night, about ten years ago. She was staying overnight with me, and she kept playing snatches of tunes she’d been working on. She kept me up most the night, jumping from Mozart to Gershwin to Beethoven to Paganini to Kreisler . . . by three-thirty I was ready to sleep, but she was still going strong. That’s the Annie I like to remember." Jonathon smiled.

"It’s the Annie I like to remember too," he said. "It’s what I remember the most about her. She was always so excited to be learning new techniques, new music . . . it was infectious. When the lessons were over, I felt somewhat winded, but exhilarated. It was her passion that inspired me to build the music center in the first place. I felt she needed a large space to display her enormous talent." He sobered. "But then the light went out. God only knows where she is now. And no one remembers her passion for music anymore. And I found that I invested so much energy in her, that I don’t feel like doing anything else. I told her once . . . when she was going through her slump, I told her that I’d give up on music before I gave up on her."

"You never gave up on her," Evelyn said. "Not while she was here."

"Yes, I did," Jonathon said. "Just before she disappeared . . . I think that’s why she left. I can barely even remember that old Annalise anymore."

"Someone has to keep that memory alive," Evelyn said, urgently. "By giving up like this . . . if you end your own career as a musician, then she is gone. You were the one who inspired that passion, Jonathon! You can’t give up on her like this!"

"I already have, Evelyn," Jonathon said, sadly. "That’s why I dismissed Betty. I’m taking early retirement and moving away. If it were just a matter of her disappearing, I might stay. But it’s more than that. I don’t want to remember the child prodigy, who turned into . . . watered down gin."

Evelyn stared at him angrily for a moment . . . then her face softened, and her eyes turned down. She shook her head. "What happened to her, Jonathon?"

"I was just going to ask you the same thing," Jonathon said.

"She was never alone," Evelyn said.

"No," Jonathon said, turning to the window. "No, she wasn’t. But she thought she was. She had to face it by herself. Now, she’ll never know how many people she affected by shutting us out."

They stood in silence for a long time. The Evelyn spoke, resigned. "Where will you go?"

Jonathon sighed. "Someplace where no one knows about Annalise Bridges, and no one talks about Hitler." He turned to face Evelyn. "Do you suppose there is such a place?"

"I doubt it," Evelyn said, sadly. Jonathon turned back to the window, and they both mourned the loss of their friend.

***

"Less than a month later, Mr. Reed packed up and left town. He surfaced briefly in Southern California, hiring himself out as a musician for weddings and such. After that, he was never heard from again. I looked for other records of him; I couldn’t even find a death certificate." Annalise stood numbly. She had never seen Mr. Reed in the way she had seen him in the scene--depressed, dejected, and devoid of any feeling. It had been him who had inspired her to play, because of his sheer love of music. She never realized that she had affected him the same way. And she never realized how many people had hurt. Annalise felt moisture on her face. She was letting her emotions rule her . . . but she didn’t seem to care anymore.

"I don’t know what to do now," she said, quietly.

"You have the same choice as Faith," Mr. Farthington said. "You can go back and continue as you are now, pushing people away . . . or you can accept the help your friends are offering and resume your career."

"Or I could stay here," Annalise pointed out.

"That would not be advisable for a number of reasons I can’t go into right now," Mr. Farthington said.

"But . . . I don’t know if I can . . . it’s been so long . . ."

"Annalise," Mr. Farthington said, looking at her. "It won’t be easy, I acknowledge that. And it will be a bumpy path at first. But you have lots of friends who will help you along the way, and there is no reason why you can’t recapture that passion and talent you once had." Annalise sighed.

"I’ll need some time," Annalise said.

"I understand. While you think about it . . . we’ll move on to the next story. Gabrielle, I believe it’s your turn."
***
End of chapter 4.

"What's next?"

Chapter Three: Stories

For someone from another world, Matt was not a particularly imposing figure. He was a nondescript young man, with a mop of brownish hair, crooked glasses, and a bewildered look on his face. Faith wondered how someone as unremarkable as he was allowed to spy on them . . . or read about them, as the case may be. But then, he had communicated with them, and here he was standing in the middle of the room. Readers of stories were not supposed to be able to do that. There was something special about this boy.

Mr. Farthington shook the boy’s hand. "Your name is Matt, then?"

"Yes," Matt said. His voice was not particularly imposing either, now that it had a body.

"Matt . . ." Mr. Farthington muttered. "Strange. For a moment I thought you were going to say Tim. I wonder why that is . . ."

"I don’t know," Matt said. "I’ve always been Matt as far as I know." But he sounded uncertain.

"Very well, Matt," Mr. Farthington said, getting back to the business at hand. "You understand what we want you to do for us?"

"Sort of," Matt said, looking around him. "Um . . . how exactly did I get here? I mean, a minute ago I was a . . . disembodied voice from realms beyond, or something . . . and now I’m . . . actually here."

"Well, what was the last thing you read?" Mr. Farthington asked.

Matt tried to remember. "It was . . . the end of the second chapter. I said, ‘Okay," and then it said, ‘Just like that, Matt was a character in the story.’"

"Exactly. You read it, and it came true."

"But I’m not reading anymore. So, how can all this still be happening?"

"Well, there are many Readers, and I imagine that someone is still reading the story. So the action will continue, except that now, you are a character in the story."

"And this . . . same sort of thing will happen when I read the scenes you want me to read?"

"In a way. You will be reading scenes from history, so the historical setting will seem to form around us. Those of us here will become the major players in the scene. Sort of like play acting."

"Play acting? I won’t have to sing or dance or anything, will I?"

"No, no, of course not. Unless of course, the role you are portraying is a singer or dancer. But even if that happens, the music and moves will come naturally to you, as will the dialogue between characters. All you really have to do is read; the rest will come naturally. This should be more convincing than looking at data on a computer screen, and it should give the women a better sense of what happened."

"And to be fair," Annalise said, "we want you to help make our cases as well. We agree that a human face should be put on these scenes, because we feel that Mr. Farthington has become so wrapped up in his--what did you call it?"

"Data processing," Elizabeth prompted.

"Data processing," Annalise continued, " that he may be blind to the reasons behind our actions."

"So, I’d be reading for both of you?" Matt asked.

"Yes," Mr. Farthington said. Matt thought for a moment.

"Do I get paid for this?" he asked, in the typical fashion of a young man looking for easy money.

"I’m afraid not," Mr. Farthington said. "In my time, there is no cash money, and besides, it would not exist for you in your world."

Matt looked hesitant. "I don’t know . . ."

"Oh, come on Matt!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "It’ll be fun!" Matt gave her a look one might give an annoying younger sibling.

Faith walked up to him. "What if you asked you really, really nicely?" she asked, putting on the cutest, saddest little face she could manage. Matt wavered slightly, for Faith was quite a pretty young woman, and the sight of a pretty young woman in distress, asking really, really nicely for help, would waver just about any young man.

"Oh, for Heaven’s sake!" Elizabeth snapped, impatiently. "Are you going to help us or not? If not, then we’ll find someone else!"

"Okay, okay!" Matt yelled, yielding to this final approach with imperfect grace. "I’ll do it!" Matt and Elizabeth sighed in unison, exasperated. "Can we start with her?" Matt asked Mr. Farthington, pointing to Elizabeth. "Do I get to play her father?" Elizabeth looked like she was about to say something unladylike, when Mr. Farthington interrupted.

"I think we’ll start with Faith," he said, "since she’s from the earliest time. Faith, I’ll let you make your case first. What would you like to show me?" Faith had been giving this some thought since the subject had come up. She wanted to show Mr. Farthington how much she didn’t want to marry a man she didn’t know. Unfortunately, since she didn’t know him, she couldn’t give any real argument against him. She decided to focus on her dislike of marrying a perfect stranger.

"I’d like you to see the conversation I had with my father a few days ago."

"Very well," Mr. Farthington said. "Gabrielle, would you show her how to work the computer, please?" The woman nodded, and led Faith into an odd, bare chamber that she hadn’t noticed before.

"Do you know what day you had this conversation with your father?" Gabrielle asked.

"It was . . . last Friday. The twenty-eighth of June."

"I presume this concerned your engagement?"

"Yes."

Gabrielle pushed something and spoke to the wall. "Faith Hutchinson, June 28th, 1850, conversation with father concerning engagement." There was a pause, and couple sheets of bright white paper slid out of a slit in the wall. Gabrielle picked them up, and handed them to Faith. Faith read the first paragraph. It was written like a novel, but as Faith read the scene, she recognized the conversation. It was the same, word for word, sigh for sigh, movement for movement. Amazing!

They returned to the other room, where the others were waiting. Faith handed the story to Matt.

"Faith will probably be playing herself," Mr. Farthington said. "You, Matt, will probably be in the role of her father--what is his name?"

"Joseph Hutchinson," Faith answered.

"Okay," Matt said, looking at the papers as if not sure what to do with them. "Should I . . . should I read out loud, or . . . ?"

"You can if you wish, but it really doesn’t matter. We’ll see the scene nonetheless. You may begin whenever you’re ready."

"Okay," Matt said again, shrugging. He looked down at the paper and began to read . . .

***

The Hutchinson Plantation, Blue Springs, Georgia, Friday, June 28th, 1850, 1:18 PM.

Joe Hutchinson was not a particularly imposing figure. He was tall, but not large, with a swatch of auburn hair that he had passed on to his daughter. He maintained his chiseled, calm composure, but inside he was concerned.

"You wanted to see me, father?" Joe turned to where his daughter was standing in the doorway. At sixteen, she was already quite beautiful. Her long auburn hair was elegantly coifed and her face still maintained the innocence of her childhood. She looked up at him questioningly.

"Yes, Faith. Come in." Faith walked into the room. "I want to talk to you about something."

"Yes?" Joe could tell she already knew what this was about. Joe had half expected this day to come; his daughter had always been willful, and although she had never had any problems with the arranged betrothal before, time and maturity could change one’s outlook.

"I received a letter from Albert Quinn," the man continued. "He told me that he has sent you four letters in the past week, and that you haven’t answered a single one of them. He was concerned that you might be ill."

Faith smiled, weakly. "Well, that’s silly. I’m just fine." Joe sighed. That wasn’t the point, and she knew it.

"Then why don’t you answer the letters?"

"I guess . . . I just don’t know what to say." She was still evading the issue.

"You used to answer his letters all the time, Faith. What did you say then?"

"I said the most silly things," Faith said, blushing slightly. "Little girl things, really. I couldn’t say them now."

"Why not?" Faith sighed, finally deciding to face the issue with her father.

"When I was little, I thought being betrothed would be fun. I used to write back about our wedding, what our family would be like, what people were doing . . . silly things. It was all a game to me. But now, the wedding day is getting closer, and it’s not a game anymore. I’m getting scared. And . . . I just don’t know what to say to him anymore."

Joe’s countenance softened. He had suspected this might be the case. Much as he might wish it otherwise, his daughter had grown up. "That’s perfectly understandable. But you should at least acknowledge that you received his letters; it’s impolite not to."

"Father, I don’t even know Albert," Faith said, getting to the real problem. "I’ve only met him once, and that was five years ago. How can I spend the rest of my life with someone I don’t know?"

"Haven’t you gotten to know him through his letters?"

"But what if he isn’t the same man in writing that he is in person?"

"Faith, when Elias Quinn and I arranged this marriage, we believed to be a good match, and I still believe it today. Albert’s a good man. He has maintained the farm very well since Elias died. He treats his workers well, and the farm is prospering."

"But I still don’t know him," Faith said, growing more upset. "I don’t know the sound of his voice; I’ve never heard him laugh; I’m not even sure what he looks like. He is incomplete in my mind. If I weren’t betrothed to him, I wouldn’t even remember that meeting five years ago. And if I can’t get a clear picture of him to hold in my memory, how can I picture myself being with him forever?" She choked up, and for a moment it seemed she would burst into tears. But she composed herself, and faced her father firmly. "Father, I don’t want to marry Albert."

Joe sighed. He hated to see his daughter so upset. He knew that she would be happy with Albert, but he didn’t know how to convince his daughter of that. And he didn’t want to force her into a marriage she didn’t want. But he also knew that Albert adored Faith, and he would be heartbroken if she broke off the betrothal. What could he do?

"I’ll tell you what I’ll do," he said, getting an idea. "I’ll send for Albert and ask him to come visit you. If, after you’ve talked to him face to face, you truly don’t want to go through with the marriage . . . I won’t force you." She looked relieved.

"Thank you, father," she said. Joe gave her a small smile and dismissed her. The job was only half done. He only hoped that Faith wouldn’t do anything foolish.

The man sighed, and went about getting ahold of Mr. Quinn.

***

Her father’s study disappeared and the messy cubicle of the future returned. Faith and the others stood in silence for a moment. Faith had just literally relived the conversation with her father, in the presence of the others.

"That really happened to you?" Matt asked. He was such a simple young man . . . and yet what a strange power he had. He had merely to read the words on the page, and a scene appeared.
"Yes," Faith said. "Just a few days ago."

"Did you see Albert then?" Mr. Farthington asked.

"No. His farm is twelve miles away. It would be another week before he could arrange to come. This is the last time I talked to about this to anyone. But it was always on my mind."

"I see," Mr. Farthington said. "It is time to show you what happened to Albert after you left." He began sifting through the clutter on his desk. "Your father organized an exhaustive search for you. The number of hours he spent searching for you were second only to Albert. After two months, they called off the search." He finally found what he had been looking for. "Matt, if you would read these please." He handed another set of papers to Matt. "What I have just handed Matt is a couple of entries from Albert Quinn’s personal journal."

June 29, 1851

It’s been nearly a year since she left, and yet I can’t seem to think about anything else. Questions, old and new, continue to nag me constantly. Where did she go? Why did she leave? Her father said she was having second thoughts about the betrothal. Was there something I said or did that drove her away? I have gone over and over every letter I ever wrote her, but I cannot find anything. I only wish I knew what it was, though it would do no good; it would not bring her back. Still, the thought that she left because of me gnaws at me the most.

"His journal is filled with entries like that," Mr. Farthington said. "Here is another from several years later.

April 15, 1855

There has not been a day all these years that I have not seen her face in my mind and wondered, Where are you? Are you alive or dead? Even after all these years, the pain of her absence is still fresh. My family has tried to distract me other matters, and some neighbors have introduced me to other women. But it is useless; I cannot face anyone else. I know I will never find another like Faith. The woman I love is gone.

***

"Albert." Albert looked up from his journal. His mother stood at the doorway. She had aged considerably since the loss of her husband. And now she was slowly losing her son. Albert hated what he was doing to her, but it could not be helped; the pain was too strong.

"Albert, this has got to stop," she said. "She’s been gone for nearly five years, and she isn’t coming back. It’s time to start living your life again." Albert remained silent. This was not the first time she had said this, and it would surely not be the last. "You’ve let the entire farm run down. We haven’t had a decent harvest in years and we’ve had to sell most of our possessions just to put food on the table.

"I don’t care anymore, Mother," Albert said. "I don’t care about the farm . . . not without Faith. I thought I would be spending the rest of my life with her . . ."

"Albert, you can’t live like this," Mrs. Quinn said, gently.

"Well, I don’t care much what happens to me either," Albert said, smiling sadly.

***

"The Quinn plantation continued to deteriorate," Mr. Farthington said. "Crops were not planted; fields became overgrown with weeds; many of the workers left for other places. And it is said that Albert went quietly mad with grief. When the Civil War came to Georgia, the Quinn plantation was attacked, and Albert was killed. The farm provided an ideal location for Union soldiers in the region; several campaigns devastating to the South were launched from Albert’s farm. When General Sherman marched through, he collected the soldiers, torched the farm, and marched unimpeded into Blue Springs, destroying most of the town. No one was there to offer any resistance."

"All this happened," Faith said, slowly, "because I didn’t marry Albert?"

"Well," Mr. Farthington said, "the Civil War would come whether you married him or not. However, Albert’s madness and neglect of the farm were because of your disappearance, and it made the war that much more devastating to Blue Springs. Eventually, the town was rebuilt, but it was a difficult time."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"You have the opportunity to go back and change things, for the better."

"Will that mean I’ll have to marry him?"

"I think that if you go back and refuse him, the results will be equally catastrophic. Everything I’ve seen seems to indicate that the best future for Blue Springs is the one with the two of you together. But I cannot compel you to marry him. That is your decision to make. However, I will repeat your father’s advice: meet him, and get to know him, before you decide whether or not to go through with the wedding. Give Albert a fair chance."

Faith nodded, sobered by what she had seen. "All right, I will. Should I go back now?"

"Not yet," Mr. Farthington said. "We have other stories to tell."

"This is interesting," Matt said. "Who’s next?"
***
End of chapter 3.

"What's next?"