The Night Mark(36)
She had seen rooms like this before, in books, in old hotels, in houses turned into museums. There should be red velvet ropes around this room and a tour guide saying, “And here’s where the family would sit in the evenings and read together. Families spent more time together back then but not necessarily out of love. In winter, this would be the warmest room in the house... Now let’s move on into the kitchen, folks. And please don’t touch any of the antiques.”
Antiques? Maybe in Faye’s time, but here the sofa looked new and the ceramic flower jug on the mantel had no cracks in it, no signs of age. Even the books on the shelves looked new. Strange, but new. They were all hardcovers, every last one. Nice ones, too. Some were clothbound, others leather-bound. She flipped through a few. The colors of the clothbound covers were bright and bold and the pages had no foxing or staining. She knew some of the titles, the classics—Jane Eyre, Ivanhoe, A Tale of Two Cities, Emma... But the other books? The Rosary by Florence Barclay? The Devil’s Garden by W. B. Maxwell? The Tree of Heaven by May Sinclair? Ten Days That Shook the World by John Reed? These were not Will’s books. Will read Lee Child novels and Stephen King, all seven Harry Potter books, the occasional sports memoir and anything by Michael Lewis. He did not read Ivanhoe. Nobody read Ivanhoe.
Faye moved her lamp and saw a round-top table by the end of the sofa. Someone had painted a pretty little night scene on it—the moon, the stars, the ocean underneath them. On the table was something wrapped in brown paper and string. Faye carefully removed the paper and found a book inside—The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham. The cover was a dull tan and the title and author’s name were printed in black script. She opened to the copyright page. Faye dropped the book like it had bitten her. Copyright 1919. First American edition. The book was brand-new. The spine never cracked. The pages bright and the ink fresh.
Inside it was an invoice, a bill to be paid to a bookstore in Charleston, South Carolina. The date of the invoice read June 10, 1921.
It had been June 10 in 2015 when she’d woken up this morning. She’d also been Faye Barlow this morning. Tonight she was Faith Morgan.
But according to the plaque on the lighthouse, Faith Morgan had died on June 10, 1921.
How was Faith Morgan even alive? Hadn’t Pat said she’d drowned?
“She did drown...” Faye took a shuddering breath. Faith Morgan did die tonight—or she was supposed to have died tonight. In 2015 Faye must have died and somehow come back here in Faith’s place. But how? And why? What had Faye changed by coming here? Had she damaged the future? Fixed it? Did the life of this one girl in South Carolina in 1921 matter to anyone but Carrick?
Tonight as she’d been drowning in the ocean, she’d heard a voice calling for her. But now she understood the voice was calling for Faith, not Faye. It was Carrick’s voice. He had saved her life but it wasn’t her he meant to save. It was Faith, who he said was his daughter but clearly was not. If she wasn’t his daughter, his biological daughter, then was she his adopted daughter? A stepdaughter? No, those were real daughters, and no decent man would kiss his adopted daughter or stepdaughter the way Carrick had kissed her. A foster child? No. Faye was no child. Neither was Faith. She’d been seventeen at her death according to the plaque on the lighthouse. Maybe Carrick had taken her in? Faye’s mind whirred with possibilities. Either the man was a monster or she wasn’t related to him in any way. She feared the former, wanted to believe the latter. If she could ask him—but no, she shouldn’t. Too dangerous. She would seem insane to him, kissing him, not knowing the year. It was a miracle he hadn’t called for the men in white coats already.
Faye leaned against the fireplace mantel. She rested her head on her forearm and cried until she felt dizzy. It was 1921? Why did it have to be 1921? Of all the random, awful, stupid years to wake up in. Why not 2010 and she could meet and marry Will all over again? Why not 2006? She could have gone to the same college Will had. Even if he’d still died, she would have had him in her life for five years instead of only one. They could have lived in a world of indoor plumbing and electricity and vaccines and the internet. Had Carrick been Will, she would have given up all that and more gladly. But Carrick wasn’t Will and she had to accept that. She’d thrown herself at him tonight, and if she didn’t keep her guard up she would do it again, because it would be so easy—too easy—to pretend he was Will.
She forced herself to wipe away her tears.
“I’m in Freaky Friday, aren’t I?” she said to the empty room. Faye sighed, stood up straight. Either she was calming down or the shock was setting in. She had no idea how to react. Collapse into tears again? Scream? Run away? Surely this was the first time in history this had happened to anyone. Or maybe not? Maybe this happened all the time, and no one ever found out because no one would ever believe someone who said she was from the future. Faye wouldn’t. And if Faye wouldn’t, a lighthouse keeper in 1921 certainly wouldn’t.
Faye picked up her lamp again and wandered through the house.
In the kitchen she found another antique that wasn’t an antique—a black-and-white enamel stove. Copper pots hung from the ceiling. Cast-iron pans hung on the wall. And by the door there was a one-year calendar on a piece of white linen. A calendar just like her grandmother had in her house, a gift from a local bank. It said 1921 at the top, and underneath it was a New England farm scene. Faye backed out of the kitchen and into the living room again, where she bumped into the coffee table. On it she found a Sears catalog beneath a large hardbound Bible. No, not a Sears catalog—a Sears, Roebuck & Co. catalog. She picked it up and opened a random page. A men’s three-piece suit was for sale—$24.95. Not a bad deal. The Good Housekeeping magazine on the coffee table had a picture of a little girl in green carrying a hat box. The issue was dated May 1921 and the ink still smelled fresh on the pages.