A Matter of Time: An Inspirational Novel of History, Mystery & Romance: The Rewinding Time Series

By Deborah Heal

Note to Self: You can't afford your dream house, even if is the absolute best one you'll ever find. And stop dreaming about Brett, too. Remember, he's just a friend.

In Lebanon, Illinois the annual Victorian Holiday Festival kicks off a month of celebrating Christmas—and Charles Dickens. He's the town's claim to fame ever since he stayed at the Mermaid Inn during his 1842 tour of America. But judging from the snarky comments Dickens wrote in his travelogue, he was certainly not a fan of Lebanon.

Professor Merrideth Randall gets the opportunity to find out why when her "dream house" goes on the market, and a realtor gives her a key to the front door. Built in 1839, it sits right across the street from the Mermaid Inn, so it's the perfect place to use her amazing time-rewinding computer software.

Brett Garrison, brilliant professor of physics during the workday, and her witty partner in historical adventures during the off hours, goes along with her. Spending time with the man she loves—while pretending they're only friends—is even more difficult than she thought it would be. Together Merrideth and Brett meet an interesting assortment of Lebanon's citizens in 1842, and they finally find out what Dickens was really thinking when he wrote about them.

As usual, everyone from the past has much to teach Merrideth about mankind's sinfulness and God's plan to rescue them. Will she finally come to the point of trusting him, or will all the holiday hoopla around town get in the way of understanding the true meaning of Christmas?

What Readers Are Saying…

"Absolutely magnificent book! The last several pages in this book made me cry. That's not a surprise to me; I've cried at one time or another with Merri in every book. I love reading the personal perspective of every character from history that Deborah Heal's fertile brain has supplied for the readers."

"Kudos to the author. This one is a keeper. Step back in time and enjoy!" (Laura Davis, author of Unlocking the Truth of Daniel)

"Deborah Heal is one of my new favorite writers right up there with Jan Karon, Beverly Lewis, Diane Mott Davidson, and several others."

"Alongside the "time" journey, we also follow Merri on her Spiritual journey. She is unsure of all the claims of Christianity and we see her struggle to understand."

"I love how Deborah Heal incorporates the Gospel message into the story without being pushy and preachy."

"I am…"heartbroken" to learn there is only one more book to go. It's a painful beauty when characters seem more like friends, and I am already missing them."

"Can hardly wait for the final installment, although I will probably go through withdrawal when it comes to an end. Excellent author. Excellent read. Highly recommend."

Merrideth's historical adventures and her search for love and faith continue with the delightfully satisfying conclusion to the series, More than Meets the Eye.

The Rewinding Time Series: Christian time travel with a unique twist—computer software that "time-surfs" through the history of old houses. It's also squeaky-clean romance, guaranteed to be flinch-free. And the kind of historical fiction you like to read—believable!

And check out the History Mystery Trilogy, the prequel to the Rewinding Time Series. Meet Professor Randall as a "bratty 11-year-old" and see the origin of her amazing computer program.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deborah Heal
• Release date: Oct 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386352341

Book preview

Chapter 1

Merrideth put her sneakered foot on the next rung. I’m starting to rethink the plan. Her voice sounded wheezy, but then most people would be a little breathless under the circumstances. It was pitch black, except for the teeny beam from Brett’s penlight, and she was climbing the ladder in the haunted bell tower of McKendree College’s Bothwell Chapel. Allegedly haunted.

G etting nerves, are we? Brett said smugly, from a few rungs below her. It was your brilliant idea.

Well it seemed logical at the time.

No backing out now, Nancy Drew. You’re closer to the top than you are to the bottom.

Humph. Merrideth sniffed. I didn’t say anything about backing out. She had thought it, though. Her mild claustrophobia had kicked in the moment they entered the cramped ladder well. But with the students and faculty gone for Thanksgiving break, it was the perfect opportunity to time-surf in Bothwell Chapel, number seven on their bucket list of old buildings to be explored. No one would be there to observe them using her Beautiful Houses software, which she was determined to keep secret from the general public. And just as importantly, no one would be there to see the two of them together and make more of it than it was: just two friends engaged in a shared hobby. As for her true feelings for Brett Garrison—well that was another secret no one needed to know—especially not Brett himself.

She climbed two more rungs, and then at last her head was above the ladder and into the relatively lighter bell room. I can see it! The historic McKendree bell was suspended to her right and striped by moonlight shining in through the louvered windows.

She climbed the rest of the way up, and a moment later Brett stood beside her. Awesome, isn’t it? he said.

So you say. In the dim light it was impossible to see the bell clearly. Tell me, what does a thousand-year old bell look like?

It has a beautiful patina of verdigris. You should come back in the daytime to see for yourself.

I plan to. She started to put her hand on the bell, but stopped when he said, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

Why? I want to be able to tell people I touched the oldest bell in the United States.

Go ahead. If you’re not squeamish about pigeon poo.

She withdrew her hand and squinted warily at the dark ceiling. Are they roosting up there, just waiting to drop bombs on us?

Brett laughed softly. No, maintenance shooed the pigeons out years ago and then put up chicken wire in the windows to keep them out.

Merrideth looked around the room. What do you think? Feel any blasts of frigid air? Hear any moaning or rattling chains?

Nope. No piano concertos in F minor either. And if these circumstances aren’t right for paranormal activity, then I don’t know what would be.

Exactly. It was why she had decided they might as well do their time-surfing during ghostly visiting hours. Her primary reason for being there, as it was for exploring all the old buildings in the area, was to learn more about the history of Southern Illinois, both for her classes and the book she was writing. But if she were also able to debunk the ghost stories associated with the bell tower—well, that would be icing on the cake. Through the years, people had claimed to hear piano music playing in the chapel or someone walking around in the bell tower at odd hours. They said it was the ghost of a McKendree student who had hanged himself there.

Okay, she said. We can report that there are no ghosts in Bothwell Chapel.

Did you think there would be?

She rolled her eyes. Give me my backpack, please.

Brett took it from his shoulders and handed it to her. He had insisted on carrying it, just as he had insisted that she go up the ladder first so he could catch her if she fell. And ever since he had learned about the software back in July and had seen the toll it took on her mental and emotional health, he also insisted that she not time-surf without him. His protectiveness got annoying at times, but it was all part of the Brett Garrison package—brilliant professor of physics and advanced math during the work day, and witty partner in historical adventures during the off hours. Everyone on campus loved him, herself included, but as usual she brushed that thought away and commanded herself to think Friend, just friend.

They could have won Academy Awards for best actors in a dramatic comedy for the performances they had put on for the past six months. And still some people on campus seemed to think there was a sizzling romance going on between them.

There never had been one. Oh, he had blatantly made it known from the very beginning that he was interested in her, all right. But she had not wanted to wreck her new career by dating a colleague. Then, just when she realized she had fallen in love with him and that he was worth the risk to her career, he had abruptly put her firmly back in the friends-only category.

His conscience wouldn’t let him date someone he knew wasn’t a Christian and thus not marriage material. His decision showed integrity, one of the things she loved about him, but it had caused her a knife wound of pain and indignation. After her firestorm of emotions had calmed a little, she was able to admit that she did not believe the way Brett did. Not like her friends Abby and John either. Apparently it took a while to work up enough faith to be a true-blue believer who went around saying praise the Lord like Abby did. Or who believed that every single word of the Bible was true. Or who prayed even for small everyday problems as if God actually took an interest in such things—as if he really did answer prayers.

Meanwhile, until she measured up—as if that were ever going to happen—she was just grateful to have Brett’s friendship. Most days she was able to ignore the crack in her heart.

She took out her laptop, and they sat down on the dusty wooden floor next to one of the louvered windows. At least she hoped it was dust. Surely the maintenance staff had swept out the droppings when they banned the pigeons from the bell tower. A gust of cool air came in, ruffling her hair. She put the hood of her coat on, pulled the zipper up to her chin, and waited for the laptop to boot up.

Once it was up, she clicked the Beautiful Houses icon. The screen went neon blue, the light piercing the darkness and turning their aerie eerie. When the program finished launching, the blue light was gone and then the usual parade of showy houses began scrolling across the screen. At the top, a colorful banner read Take a Virtual Tour.

Beside her Brett rubbed his hands together in anticipation. And now for the moment of truth. Will it, or won’t it, go into time-surfing mode?

Be patient. As soon as she said it, the images on the monitor went haywire. After a second, the pictured cleared, and there was Bothwell Chapel.

Brett grunted happily, and Merrideth smiled at him.

The view was of the interior of the sanctuary below them, not the bell tower in which they sat. The layout was the same—tall windows on three sides of the room and two aisles running through the pews. But the walls were painted a darker color than the current light gray, and the pews were plain oak, unlike the white-trimmed, upholstered ones there now. The carpet was gone, too, leaving the floor’s wooden planks exposed. That, more than anything, told her they were looking at Bothwell in its youth.

The time counter at the bottom of the monitor read November 27, 1888.

Our same month and day, Merrideth said. Weird.

It’s only thirty years old there, Brett said.

Hey, Number Man, McKendree College was founded in 1828.

Yes, but Bothwell Chapel wasn’t built until 1858.

Oh, right. She changed the date, and the screen scrambled—and wouldn’t stop scrambling.

Is it malfunctioning? Brett asked.

Amazing, I know, but you must be wrong about a date for once. As you can see, Bothwell Chapel apparently didn’t exist yet in 1858.

You’re in January. I’m guessing the building’s not far enough along to send out vibes. Try later in the year.

Can’t you just admit you’re wrong?

I am quite willing to admit I’m wrong. When I am.

Grinning, she ran the time forward at fast speed for a minute or so and then let it settle back to real time. Bothwell Chapel was back. The time counter said October 24, 1858.

I do apologize, Dr. Garrison. This is why I let you come adventuring with me.

Brett smiled. In contrast to the darkness, his teeth looked even whiter than usual. Glad to help, ma’am.

The gaslight sconces from 1888 were gone, as was the paint on the walls, leaving the chapel drab and cheerless.

Creepy, Brett said. I heard one of the janitors swear that once when he was in the basement of the chapel he heard someone running down the center aisle of the sanctuary.

Bothwell doesn’t have a center aisle.

But it did in 1858, he said, pointing to the screen.

"You’re right. That is creepy. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?"

"Not the kind you mean. But if ghosts really existed and one of them had the urge to run down the center aisle shouting hallelujah he could do it. But never mind that. Let’s go up to the bell tower and see who’s hanging around there."

"Hanging around. Ha. Ha. I have no idea why Beautiful Houses landed us in the sanctuary instead of the bell tower. It’s quirky that way. Unfortunately, we can only move out of it if someone comes in and we succeed in locking onto them. Then, even assuming he or she decides to go up to the bell tower, which surely didn’t happen every day—"

This could take a while.

As I told you when you insisted on coming.

I’m not complaining. Just stating a fact.

Shhh! Merrideth said, putting a hand on his arm. Maybe there are ghosts after all. Did you hear that?

What?

The sound of a low male voice came from somewhere outside Bothwell Chapel. That. She put her ear closer to the window and strained to hear. Who are they, and what are they saying? Can you tell?

Brett stood up soundlessly and looked through the louvers. At this angle I can’t see his face, but I’m pretty sure it’s Jim Mize. I can see one of the campus security cars parked in front.

Who’s he talking to?

I don’t see anyone else down there. So either Jim’s gone over the edge, or he’s talking on his walkie-talkie.

Did he just say something about seeing a blue light?

Yep.

Merrideth slapped her laptop shut, put it in her backpack, and rose inelegantly to her feet. Peeking between the louvers, she saw Jim’s foreshortened figure on the lawn below. If we stay quiet, maybe he’ll think he imagined the blue light and go away.

Brett laughed softly. He’d go away even quicker if we made a few ghostly noises.

Or, he might decide to moonlight as ghost buster and come hunting for us. Her concern turned out to be groundless when Jim started walking back to his car. She heaved a sigh of relief. Good, he’s leaving. She started to get her laptop back out, but Brett put his hand on her arm.

Actually, I think he’s waiting for backup.

He was right. Instead of driving away, Jim was standing next to his car looking down the street.

How fast can you get down that ladder?

We’ll find out, won’t we?

Motivated as they were, they made it down surprisingly quickly—without breaking any bones—and came out the chapel’s side door. Brett locked it with the key he had been given when he agreed to be a substitute sound technician for events held there. Keeping in the shadows close to the building, they crept to the corner and risked a look. Jim and another man were purposefully striding down the front sidewalk toward the chapel’s main door, both carrying large flashlights with beams that zig-zagged across the lawn.

They ducked back around the corner. It’s like breaking out of prison, Brett whispered. Only without the machine guns and attack dogs. This may be the only time in history someone had to escape from a chapel.

It was too dark to see it, but she knew he was grinning. She had to clap a hand over her own mouth to keep from giggling—or from singing with the sheer joy of being on another adventure with Brett. Nancy Drew should be so lucky. When they heard the front door shut, Brett took her hand and they slunk away. Because their apartments were only a few blocks from campus, they had walked rather than leave their cars sitting in front of the chapel to cause gossip. Now she was glad, because it meant the adventure wasn’t over quite yet.

The street was eerily empty, but the town’s Victorian-style streetlights illuminated their way forward. A scattering of snowflakes danced like fairies in the halos around each lamp, and a few landed to frost Brett’s black hair. From the glimpse she had caught of his face, she could tell he was cognizant of the insanely romantic atmosphere. He was maybe even thinking about kissing her, but she knew he wouldn’t. Sure enough, after a moment he casually dropped her hand under the pretext of pulling up his hood. And then they were back to working toward those Academy awards.

She took her gloves out of her pockets and put them on. Even with their thick fleece lining, they were a poor substitute for the warmth of his hand.

Just so you know, I’m going back to the bell tower one of these days, she said. So if you insist on time-surfing with me—

Let me know when you want to go, and I’ll be there. Only I suggest we go during daylight hours next time.

It would certainly be easier, and I think we’ve proved that the only ghosts in the bell tower were us.

When they reached the large old house where her apartment was, she was glad she had remembered to leave the porch light on. The other three tenants had already vacated ahead of their landlord’s January first deadline, so other than a light from her window on the second floor, the rest of the building was dark.

Brett followed her onto the porch and into the foyer, seemingly intent on escorting her all the way to her door. Normally she would have protested that he was carrying the gentleman routine too far, but now that she was the only one rattling around in the house, she dreaded walking into her apartment by herself.

On the stairs behind her Brett said, How’s the hunt going?

Not so well. The only apartments available at the moment are so tiny I’d go stir-crazy. But I guess I’m going to have to settle for one of them before too much longer.

They reached her door, and he touched her coat sleeve. Are you all right staying here alone?

I’m not worried. You said yourself Lebanon is essentially crime-free.

There’s always a first time, so don’t forget to lock your door.

I’m not stupid. I always lock it. And it’s a good lock, too. John saw to that.

Listen, I’ll talk to the owner of my building. One of the condos is vacant, and he may be willing to temporarily rent it to you until you find something better.

She couldn’t come up with a response to his offer. An apartment down the hall from Brett was the last thing she wanted. Talk about going stir-crazy.

He frowned. I know it would be pretty bland compared to this old house.

His condo’s total lack of curb appeal and architectural interest were off-putting to be sure, but that wasn’t what held her back, and he knew it full well. But since they weren’t talking about the elephant in the room, she might as well go with the excuse he had just offered her on a plate.

There is a beautiful old house in town even more charming than this one. I’ve been dreaming of buying it ever since I moved to Lebanon, and now there’s a for-sale sign in front of it.

Where is it?

Across from the Mermaid Inn on St. Louis Street.

Ah, yes, the Mermaid. I believe it’s number ten on our list.

I’d like to propose adding my house, too.

How about tomorrow we slip away from the crowd and you can show me?

What crowd?

The Victorian Holiday Festival crowd.

I wasn’t planning on going. It doesn’t sound like my cup of tea.

I take it you weren’t in the faculty lounge when Marla White gave her annual speech. I’m surprised she didn’t hunt you down and tell you her thoughts on the subject.

And what are those?

I’ll try to summarize. I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that today is Black Friday, the biggest sales day of the year for malls and box stores. But tomorrow is Buy-Local-Buy-Small Day for the little guys. All the stores will have their wares ready for Christmas shoppers. Marla says we are required to go to the Victorian Holiday Festival because such events keep Lebanon’s small businesses in competition with the big boys in the city. As annoyingly sanctimonious as Marla is, I have to admit she’s right about this particular hobbyhorse. So I always go. A lot of the faculty members do.

I’ll think about it. I hate Christmas shopping. I usually put it off as long as possible.

Brett laughed. How man-like of you. It’s not so bad. I think of it as a quest. The goal is to get all your Christmas shopping done in one day so you don’t have to worry about it anymore. Of course you have to wade through all the pseudo-Victorian claptrap to find stuff, but that’s part of the challenge. And then at the end of the day, you sleep guilt-free, knowing you’ve done your civic duty. So there. You have now heard the spiel.

Merrideth smiled. I’ll have to think about it. Thanks for the adventure, Brett. And the escort home.

See you tomorrow.

I didn’t say I’d go.

He just grinned and trotted down the stairs, whistling Jingle Bells.

Chapter 2

Mentally checking Natalie’s name off her shopping list, Merrideth eased past a sticky-fingered boy licking a candy cane and stepped out of Tina’s Treasures onto the sidewalk. St. Louis Street was always quaint with its brick pavement and nineteenth-century storefronts. But decked out for Christmas it was in quaintness overdrive. Strings of tiny white lights dripped from the Victorian light posts all along the street and from the merchants’ windows, signs, and every other thing from which it was possible to hang them. Only a little of the snow from the night before still remained, and it would be melted before the day was over. But the merchants had filled their windows with the fluffy, fake version and added antique toys, sleds, and trainsets or Christmas trees decorated with silver tinsel and Victorian ornaments. Their windows could not compare to the holiday extravaganzas Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s produced every year, but smiling shoppers paused to admire each display just the same.

She hadn’t run into Brett yet, but that wasn’t surprising given how crowded the street was. It was closed to vehicular traffic, except for the antique, horse-drawn carriage that clip-clopped back and forth with Santa at the reins. There were also random street entertainers, food stands, and the ubiquitous Porta-Potties that went with such events. A surprisingly large number of people had turned out to support their local small businesses. Only a few Scrooge types carried no shopping bags and only hurried from one store to the next to get their cards punched for the drawing and to take advantage of the free refreshments being handed out by the merchants.

Happy holidays, Professor Randall.

Merrideth did a double take. For a moment she thought she had actually been transported back to Victorian times. But it was only Kevin Kent from the math department who stood there wearing a brown frock coat, a stovepipe hat, and faux mutton chops on his jaws. Perched on his shoulders was a little boy wearing a tiny blue velvet suit with a jaunty striped scarf around his neck.

Hi, Kevin, Merrideth said. Or should I say Bob Cratchit? And this must be Tiny Tim.

How could you tell?

It’s just for pretend, the boy explained confidentially. My real name is Sam.

I won’t tell, Merrideth said solemnly.

Do you know about numbers, too? Sam asked.

Merrideth laughed. Not much. Not like your dad.

But Professor Randall knows a lot about history, Sam.

Do you always wear costumes to this thing, Kevin?

He grinned. "Only when I get roped into being in A Christmas Carol. The cast is going to perform as strolling carolers."

That should get everyone in the Christmas spirit. Or at least in the shopping spirit.

Kevin smiled. And hopefully remind them to buy tickets for our production. Gotta go, Merrideth. See you. He started down the street.

I’ll watch for you. Goodbye, Tiny Tim.

Kevin broke into a trot, and Sam waved to her as his father jolted him along.

Now, back to shopping. She had found several nice things, but the afternoon was getting away from her. She wished she had talked herself into coming sooner. But her Christmas list was short, so if she hurried, she still might actually be able to get her shopping done in one day.

The first thing she had bought when she got there was half a pound of peanut butter fudge in The Sweet Shoppe. It did nothing toward getting her Christmas list whittled down, but she figured she needed a treat to sustain her through the ordeal of shopping. Next she had found McKendree sweatshirts in little kids’ sizes at the college’s temporary gift kiosk. Lauren would love one, but as soon as the student clerk had handed her the bag, she started having second thoughts. Would a college sweatshirt play into Lauren’s preoccupation with mapping out her life? A third grader should be playing hopscotch, not worrying about which college she would go to. McKendree wasn’t even on her list, but maybe the sweatshirt would remind her of other options besides moving clear across the country to some Ivy League school. Yes, Abby would thank her for the sweatshirt. And she was pretty sure she would approve of the discreet little silver angel earrings she had bought for Natalie, who had conveniently just gotten her ears pierced.

The girls were easy to shop for, and she could usually come up with something half-way decent for Abby and John, too.

They were her pretend family. Her real family stymied her gift-giving efforts every Christmas. Her mother tended to return whatever she bought for her, and her father never even acknowledged receiving the packages she sent him. Maybe he didn’t like what she got him and was following the if-you-can’t-say-something-nice-don’t-say-anything-at-all rule. Maybe the gifts didn’t make it past prison security. Either way, it seemed pointless to ask him about it.

Somewhere down the street the carolers began singing We Wish You a Merry Christmas. She decided to take a break from shopping and go listen to them up close. There was no use kidding herself. What she really wanted was to find Brett,