Hearts Through Time

NINE

Once inside the car, Nick gripped the steering wheel and revved up the engine. He flashed Abigail a teasing grin. She just loved it when he looked at her that way. He was such a charming man—and such a flirt!

As he pulled the car out of the parking lot and turned down the street, she waited for the invisible force to pull her back to her prison, but nothing happened. The farther they drove from the building, the happier she felt.

The top of Nick's car was down, and soon, a lock of her hair lifted away from her face and stayed there. Hitching a breath, she lifted a hand to her hair to feel what was going on. It was then when the wind blew against her, teasing more strands.

Happily she laughed and tilted her head back, threading her fingers through her fullness to allow the wind to sweep it away from her face. She closed her eyes, enjoying the coolness against her skin. She didn't know what it was—and right now she didn't dare question too much—but being with Nick made her feel more alive than she could possibly imagine.

"Where do you want to go? Any place special?" he asked.

Abigail glanced his way. "Actually, yes. Will you take me to where I used to live?" She frowned. "At least I hope the house is still there."

"Sure. Just direct me as I drive."

She gave him directions, but as worry settled into her heart, she trembled. What if the house wasn't there? Then again, what if it still stood? Would seeing the house bring back bad memories—memories she'd hoped to never think about again? Things were just so different, and she couldn't live in the past.

Yet living in Nick's time was an adventure, as well.

During the drive, Abigail felt as if she'd been placed in another dimension. People dressed so differently now. She had expected that, yet some of the clothing—or lack thereof—was so lewd. How could people show so much of their bodies and not be embarrassed? Not only that, the women practically draped themselves over the men or openly showed affection. How inappropriate!

The buildings weren't as nice as she remembered, either. Clearly, people in this century had not taken care of the structures. Why were words and strange symbols painted on some? Windows had been broken but not fixed, and bricks were crumbling. Didn't anyone care for beauty any longer? Had people lost respect for everything?

As Nick turned up the street where she used to live, Abigail closed her eyes, praying the house would still be there. The car slowed to a stop, but she didn't dare open her eyes.

"Abby, honey, it's okay," he whispered in her ear. "The house is beautiful."

She popped open her eyes. Bright lights shone on the three-story whitewashed mansion. A black and gold iron fence surrounded the yard, and flowers and shrubs lined the steps that led to the wraparound porch. Large, round columns posted around the porch held up the second-floor deck.

Abigail sighed and placed her hand on her chest. The gold-framed windows were new, and so was the door, but other than that, everything was as she had remembered.

Memories assailed her—times with her father in this very house. Birthdays, parties, and other social functions were the highlights of her life. She'd become the woman of the house at age five when her mother died. Whenever her father needed to entertain, Abigail took charge of the planning, and the parties were often attended by important people from all over California.

The staff at the newspaper—her father's employees—often came to the house. In fact, Abigail knew everyone by name, and she thought of them as her family. They spoiled her almost as much as her father did, especially her father's good friend, Harry.