Partners in Time #4: Family Matters

By Kristen Sheley

When fifteen-year-old Sam Foster finds out that his mother is going to get remarried, his first reaction is shock. His next reaction is thinking that with the help of his time machine, he might be able to go back and prevent his parents from getting divorced in the first place.

When Sam recruits Meg Clayton, his friend from 1850, he finds her missing her extended family and friends in Boston. Meg is quick to agree to Sam's request for help, not telling him how much she wishes she could fix something in her own life and that she has her own plans for change.

In this fourth book in the Partners in Time series, Sam and Meg attempt to manipulate his family history but it soon becomes apparent that repairing a fractured relationship is extremely complicated. Each time they make a change, it results in a present world that is nothing like Sam ever dreamed-or desired.

Will they ever be successful in fixing the past and mending the present? Or will Sam never be able to return home again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 15, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595620616

Kristen Sheley

Kristen Sheley grew up in the city of Beaverton, Oregon, and has been writing stories since the age of nine. Partners in Time is her first published series. She can be reached electronically at: [e-mail]

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 

MEG

Papa’s back! Mama, Sarah, Peter, Meg, look! Papa’s back!

At the sound of my youngest sister’s voice, I set down the shirt that I had been mending, rose from the chair, and hurried over to the doorway that led to the main room of our cabin. Indeed, I saw that our father had returned from his overnight trip to O’Hara for winter and holiday supplies. Elizabeth, not bothered by the flakes of snow that dusted Papa’s hat and thick woolen coat, was already clamoring to see the brown paper packages that were in our father’s arms.

What’d you bring us from town? she asked. Papa merely smiled and remained perched on the threshold of the room, the door still open to the frosty wind outside.

For goodness sakes, Elizabeth, let your father come in, Mama said, rising from where she had been sitting at the table and shelling walnuts. She removed the baggage from Papa’s arms and favored him with a brief kiss. How was the trip, David?

Cold, Papa said, reaching up to remove his hat and shake off the flakes of snow that still clung to the fabric. He handed the hat to my brother, Peter, who scurried off to hang it hearthside. Patrick is putting the horse away. From what news I heard in town, I think we may have a white Christmas this year.

Were you able to get everything on the list? Mama asked lightly, well aware of the extra eyes and ears in the room.

I did, and I have mail, too: a letter from your sister, Charlotte. Papa reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a slender envelope. Elizabeth and Peter did not seem terribly interested by this, but Mama, my sister, Sarah, and I all leaned forward with interest. There is a bundle of packages as well, but Patrick will bring those in after he puts away the horse and wagon, my father added.

Mama took the letter from Papa’s hand and looked at the front of the envelope. A wistful sigh escaped her lips. Our letters always seem to cross in the post. If only it didn’t take weeks for them to travel!

If only we hadn’t moved from Boston, I said under my breath, correcting her. It was no use to tell her such things directly; I knew that my parents had valid reasons for moving us to the territory of Oregon almost two years ago. Even so, it was difficult to remember that matter on holidays, especially at Christmastime.

Until last year, our Christmas traditions had been shared with the numerous kin in our family. We would gather together in my uncle Jonathan’s large home or at Aunt Charlotte and Uncle Darold’s brownstone. The smell of gingerbread and cider would be thick in the air, mingling with the turkey roasting for supper. All the children would gather hearthside to hear the story of the nativity told by Nana, while the adults in the adjacent room would sip from steaming mugs and recall past Yuletides with nostalgic smiles. I remembered the warm, fuzzy feelings from those reunions and rituals that had continued for years without deviation.. .until we had left Boston to head west on the Oregon Trail in the spring of 1849.

The memory of our first Christmas in the West still stung me. It was somewhat of a shock to go from generations of my family gathering in a large home to just our seven member clan in a four-room cabin in the middle of the frontier. There had been no roast turkey, no gingerbread, and no hot cider. Mama had not felt like herself for more than a fortnight, and it would be weeks before she would visit the doctor to discover the source of her discomfort was a baby, Samuel, who had been born last July. Our gifts were small and practical, and packages from our family in Boston would not reach us until early February. Everything had seemed so mixed up, so melancholy, so unlike a celebration that I had wanted to cry.

What was that, Meg? my mother asked me, looking up from the envelope.

I pressed my lips together and shook my head. I did not dare complain before the younger children. It was nothing important.

Mama’s keen green eyes remained on my face until Sarah distracted her. Can we read the letter now? my sister asked.

After supper, Mama promised, tucking the mail into the front pocket of her apron. Peter, can you help your brother bring in the packages? Elizabeth, leave your poor father alone and come set the table. Sarah, please tend to Samuel. I need to finish cooking, and I cannot abide his crying much longer.

My brother and sisters hurried to their tasks. Without being directed to do anything, I turned around and went back to the bedroom I shared with my sisters. Prior to Papa’s arrival, I had been painstakingly mending holes and tears in assorted articles of clothing for my family. I sighed and picked up the shirt of Patrick’s that was missing two buttons, taking a seat in the chair next to the window. My mood was as dark and as gloomy as the sky outside.

My fingers moved the threaded needle in brisk jabs through the fabric, attempting to vent my emotions in a constructive, productive manner. In my haste, the needle slipped, and I felt a hot, stabbing pain in my index finger. I withdrew it quickly and popped it into my mouth, sucking on the bitter taste of blood.

Sarah slipped into the room a moment later, bracing the baby against her chest and rubbing his back. Samuel’s cries set my teeth on edge. I removed my finger from my mouth and frowned. Must you bring him in here?

Sarah nudged the door to the main room closed with her foot. Mama is trying to speak with Papa, she said. They cannot talk above Samuel’s crying.

Well, I cannot think above his crying.

Sarah sat down on the foot of the bed she shared with Elizabeth. What is to think about if you are simply mending?

A story that I am working on, I fibbed. Please, Sarah, can you take him out of the room and leave me alone?

Sarah tilted her head to one side, studying me through dark eyes that were the same shade as our father’s. Is something bothering you?

Yes. The crying of the baby.

Sarah shifted Samuel to her lap. He is just hungry, I think. Did you hurt yourself?

I looked to my finger, which was bright red and oozing another drop of blood. Do you think I did this on purpose?

Sarah frowned. Why are you are so crotchety, Meg? Be happy. Papa is home safe, and in two days it will be Christmas.

What is there to be happy about? I stabbed the needle into the spool of thread. Don’t you remember last December and how dour it was for us out here? How lonely and isolating it was when compared to the holidays in Boston?

I remember those good, old times, Sarah said, a note of nostalgia in her voice. Yet here we are. There is nothing more that we can do about it.

Frustrated by the truth of her words, I put the mending aside and stood. I did not wish to partake in a conversation with my sister, but the only place that could offer me desired solitude would be the outdoors. I had the mad urge to breathe some fresh air, even if that air would be icy and damp. Alas, I had scarcely set foot into the other room when Mama placed the bread in the middle of our dining table, announcing that supper would begin momentarily. This denied me the escape that I desired, for there was no possibility that I could take my leave without notice.

When we began our meal, I attempted to distract myself from my despondency by gazing around the table at my large family, scrutinizing each person in turn. Across from me sat my brother, Patrick, the eldest of us children at eighteen. His hair was blond, reminiscent of our Nana’s, and his blue eyes sparked with intelligence. Patrick had intentions, I knew, of owning his own business in O’Hara, but for now he remained with us and helped Papa with farming. Patrick still treated me as if I was a young child, and at times he could be terribly insufferable.

To his right was dark-haired Sarah, age twelve. Sarah was bright, perhaps the brightest of all of us, and she had an insatiable appetite for knowledge and learning. When we had left Boston, my parents had lamented that she would be denied an education beyond what a frontier schoolhouse could provide. Society, too, was not yet ready to accept women in the fields of science as Sarah so dreamed of doing.

Directly across from Sarah was our brother, Peter. He would turn eleven in less than a month. He looked a great deal like a masculine version of our mother, with the same delicate build, brilliant red hair, and eyes as green as the grass. He was quiet, reserved, and loved helping our father with the chores around the farm. I suspected that out of us children, only he would be the one to sincerely enjoy the life of a farmer. He had a gifted understanding of both nature and land.

Seated beside Peter was Elizabeth, the youngest girl, who would be five in February. With her pale skin, curly yellow hair, and emerald eyes, she was a petite, doll-like beauty. She loved pretty, feminine things. The more lace on her dress, the better. Elizabeth much preferred quiet games indoors or helping in the kitchen than romping outside, and messes worried her tremendously.

To my right was my mother, commandeering one end of the table and trying to mind baby Samuel as well. Although I tired of his crying and care at times, the baby held a special place in my heart. He was the only one of my brothers and sisters to share my curly auburn locks and hazel eyes.

My mother, I thought with a vague sense of concern as I looked to her, did not appear as young as she used to be. Her hair was threaded with white near her scalp, a sharp contrast to the brilliant red, and tiny lines now furrowed out at the corners of her eyes. Mama had always been a small woman in both stature and frame, but she had grown stouter after the birth of my youngest brother.

Papa sat at the head of the table, between Elizabeth and Sarah. When he was around Sarah, everyone could tell they were father and daughter, as they shared the same dark Clayton hair, brown eyes, and pale skin. Papa wore a neatly trimmed mustache and kept his hair short, customs that were habitual from when he labored as a banker in Boston. Like Mama, I saw new signs of aging as I stared at him. Grey was beginning to creep into his hair and creases were forming at the corners of his mouth and eyes. His posture remained straight, however, and his waist was slim from the hard labors on the land.

This was my family, so small now in comparison to the large circle of relatives and friends I had grown up around.

Papa had returned filled with gossip from the town. A new hotel was to be built come spring. A fresh shipment of muslin and cotton had arrived at the mercantile. Our church would be getting a new pastor in February, when our current one would be leaving us for a congregation in the state of California.

As Papa had been gone only one day, there was comparatively little news to share with him. The baby was still cutting his first tooth. Patrick and Peter had fulfilled the chores normally done by Papa without any trouble. Elizabeth’s head cold was much better, while Sarah had learned a new recipe that Mama had patiently taught her.

Only I remained quiet as the rest of my family chattered around me. Strangely, my silence attracted the attention of my father as the dishes were collected from the table. He touched my shoulder as I bent over to remove his plate to wash. Are you feeling well, Maggie? You have barely said a word this evening.

I mustered a faint smile for him. I am simply tired.

Papa’s eyes lingered on my face, concerned. Perhaps you should turn in early tonight. You don’t want to fall ill so close to Christmas.

The idea of putting an end to this day sooner rather than later tempted me, and I nodded at his suggestion before leaving his side to continue my chore.

After supper, when the table was cleared, the baby put down for the night, and the fire stoked, Papa settled down in his favorite chair with the letter to share. In spite of my glum spirits, I remained behind to hear the reading.

’November 10, 1850,’ Papa began, once we had settled around him. "’I hope this letter finds you all in good health and humor. Darold, the children, and I are doing well. The twins turned nine in August, while Oliver celebrated his fourth birthday on the first of September. Mother gave Tess a doll that had belonged to Grandmother Ellen for the occasion, while Darold presented Terry with his first shotgun. Oliver was given a toy one, as he had begged for a gun of his own. The children are happy for the hats and scarves that you sent to them. They have already put them to use, as we have had a very cold fall here in Boston.

"’Our sister, Josie, is still teaching at the woman’s academy in Pennsylvania. I worry about her lack of suitors, but she does not seem to give the matter much concern. Her books are family enough for her, she says, and the students are like her children.

’Three weeks ago, Darold and I had tea with David’s sisters, Victoria and Helen. They are both doing well, as is their brother, Jonathan. The elder Mr. and Mrs. Clayton are still in good health. They send their love to all of you and have promised their own letter forthcoming.’

Papa paused, his eyes still scanning the paper in his hand. He looked up at Mama and caught her eye, his face suddenly grave. I stared at him, baffled, and turned to regard my mother. Her own face was puckered with an expression of befuddlement as she studied Papa, her hands hesitating in her embroidery work.

Papa looked down to the letter and continued, somewhat reluctantly. ’Now I must share some sad news, Rebecca: Our mother is not doing well. In late October, she had a bad spell and has since been bedridden in our home. Darold and I are tending her as best we can, and the doctor stops by every day. He is not optimistic. Please pray for her, and keep her in your thoughts. The doctor does not believe that she will make it to the New Year.’

Mama drew in a breath at the news, exhaling it in a soft Oh! Her embroidery dropped to her lap, forgotten. I suddenly felt as if someone had reached into my chest and grabbed my heart with hands of ice.

Nana, I thought, my eyes wide. My grandmother had been a constant, supportive presence in my life from my earliest memories. Our grandfather had died before I was born, and when my brother, Patrick, had arrived in 1832, Nana had moved in with Mama and Papa to help with his care. She had lived with us until we had moved from Boston, at which time my aunt Charlotte had invited her into her own home with her family.

Of all the people whom we had left behind when we had come west, I had missed my grandmother the most. Before we left, she had given me a small locket to remember her by. The jewelry had belonged to my grandfather’s own mother, Margaret, after whom I was named, and it had come with Margaret McNary from Ireland when she had immigrated to America with her new husband. My hand reached up automatically to the charm, and I ran a thumb over the smooth metal, seeking comfort.

May I see the letter? Mama asked softly. Papa passed it to her without a word. Mama studied her sister’s cursive script, rereading the passage to herself. She handed it back to Papa a moment later and then closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, looking as if she had lost all her strength. Oh, Mother, I heard her say softly.

Papa watched her with concern. Shall I go on, Becca?

Mama nodded, her eyes still shut. Papa picked up the narrative in the letter, but it was simply a cascade of chatter to my ears, just news and gossip that meant little to me anymore.

It was not fair, I thought to myself, bowing my head to study my lap. I hated how we were on the other side of the country from our family. I was never going to see my grandmother alive again. While this idea had occurred to me when we had left, the matter had not sunk in until just now, with word of her impending death.

She could be gone already, I realized. The letter had been written more than a month ago.

Although Papa’s voice droned on, I stood and quietly left the room, unable to bear the prattle any longer. The back bedroom was dark, but I did not trouble myself to light a lamp. I sat down on the edge of my bed and gazed outside through the frosted windowpanes. My throat felt tight, and a headache was beginning to settle in behind my eyes. I reached up and pulled the pins from my hair, letting the unruly amber locks flow freely down my back. I combed my fingers back through the tangles, hoping to soothe the tightness in my scalp, but the sensation remained.

Nana, I thought sadly. If only we had not moved. If only there is a way to see her again. If only there is a way to turn back cruel time and—

Oh, but there is! I realized suddenly, my hands falling to my sides. My friend, Sam Foster, could help me out! Unfortunately, he was quite impossible to reach, living in a time one hundred and fifty-five years in the future. Sam had in his possession a device that allowed him to bend the fabric of time to his whims. We had met five months earlier by accident, and I had seen him a couple of times since.

Unfortunately, his arrivals were impossible to predict, determined by his own preferences, and I hadn’t any way of contacting him from here. Frankly, that issue had never been addressed between us.

Drat, I thought, disappointed.

I was not certain how long I sat there in the dark before a soft footstep from nearby drew my attention away from the window. Turning my head, I saw Mama standing in the doorway, a holder containing a small length of candle clutched in one hand. She came into the room and sat down next to me on the edge of the bed. How are you, Meg? she asked, her voice gentle.

How would you expect me to be? I asked, my hand going to my necklace once more. I could not stop the words that rushed to my lips. I wish we hadn’t moved all the way out here. I hate being away from everyone.

Mama sighed. She leaned over and set the candle down on the small table at the bedside. I know that the move has been hard for you. It has been hard for all of us. Please believe me when I say that it was for the best.

I knew the truth to her words, but the ache in my chest did not ease up in the slightest from the reminder. I wish I could see Nana again before she passes, I whispered, looking down once more at my lap, my throat tight with tears.

Mama’s arm slipped around my shoulder in a gentle hug. I wish the same, she murmured, her hand beginning to stroke my loose hair. She was a wonderful mother to me and a wonderful grandmother to all of her grandchildren. It is terrible to have such news so close to Christmas.

I wish we could simply undo it all, I said softly, raising my head to look at the steady flame of the candle. I wish we could simply make it so we never moved. Everything would be so much better!

My mother was silent for a moment, though her hand continued to stroke my back. Perhaps, but such wishes are impractical, dear.not to mention impossible.

I tightened my lips together and drew away from my mom’s embrace. I would like to be alone, Mama, I said stiffly. Please.

I heard my mother sigh. Elizabeth will be put to bed shortly, she said. You shan’t have much time to yourself.

I nodded, frustration once more bubbling in my breast. Mama left the candle with me when she departed into the other room, and I was left alone again with only my thoughts to occupy me. I bowed my head and closed my eyes, a warm tear sliding down my cheek as I thought about my grandmother. If only we had not moved to Oregon! If only I could see Nana one last time!

If only Sam would return for a visit!

CHAPTER 2 

SAM

Hey, slow down, Sam! What’s your rush?

I stopped and turned around. My sister, Zoey, was struggling to catch up with me through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of fellow travelers. Two days before Christmas, the Portland International Airport was internationally insane. I was more than a little eager to get out of the throngs of people and to the outside world. Mom was supposed to pick us up curbside, and our flight had already arrived half an hour late. Add on the twenty or so minutes we’d had to wait at baggage claim, and we were seriously tardy.

Maybe if you’d packed a little lighter, you wouldn’t have any problems keeping up, I told my sister once she reached my side, gasping a little from the effort of dragging two big suitcases on wheels. Swung over one shoulder was also a massive bag the size of a small child. See, I’ve just got a backpack, and this mini suitcase. I’m not having any problems making my way through everything.

You’re a guy, Sam, Zoey said flatly, not amused. She raised a hand and used one long fingernail to sweep aside a dark strand of hair out of her eyes. "You don’t need to worry about makeup, hairdryers, the right shoes, the right accessories—

Yeah, and thank God for that, I agreed heartily.

Zoey twisted her lipsticked mouth into a scowl. God, you’re a smartass.

At least I’m not having trouble walking through an airport, I said, turning around to continue on my way. But I gotta admit I’d rather have a sister like you than the Terrible Twins all the time.

I heard Zoey heave a sigh as she went after me, her suitcase wheels squeaking as they rolled across the psychedelic terminal carpet. If I had a choice, I guess I’d rather have a fifteen-year-old brother, she admitted grudgingly. The twins are nuts. I swear that I’m never having any kids.

I smirked a little, knowing something about her future that she couldn’t possibly fathom then. Anyone who wants to have kids should just baby-sit a couple toddlers for a night, I said, thinking of the past week’s exploits in a household with the Terrible Twins. I’ll bet those teen pregnancy rates will plummet. I stopped suddenly in my tracks, just missing an elderly woman with a walker who had abruptly slammed on the brakes.

Zoey plowed into my backpack a second later. Sam, God! Go!

You want me to run over little old ladies? I asked, glancing at my sister over my shoulder. Her sulky expression told me that she could not care less about the geriatric.

Zoey suddenly stormed forward, cutting past me. I hate this, I heard her mutter as I followed her now-brisk pace, the suitcases wobbling in her wake. I hate that Dad can’t live somewhere closer than stupid L.A., and that the custody says he just has to see us around Christmas, and Mom wants us, too! When I’m eighteen in March, I’m totally done with this! Done.

Well, lucky you. You’ll be pissing off at least one parent every year. Let me know how that works out.

Zoey didn’t respond, having reached the sliding glass door that led to the curbside pickup. The doors were already opened, letting out another group of people dragging suitcases and the occasional mysteriously shaped bundle that was almost certainly a Christmas gift. Zoey took two steps outside, away from the doors, and let her suitcases drop from her hands. She wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. Oh my God, it’s freezing out here!

She was the one dumb enough to wear just a short skirt and a long-sleeved t-shirt. In jeans and a black fleece, the cold wind wasn’t really an issue for me. Zoey, move your crap, I said.