Olivia Woods inserted the huge blacksmith-wrought house key and stepped into Ballard House just in time to escape flurries of large wet snowflakes emitted from large granite cloud formations. A crack of lightning followed by an explosion of thunder brought her to the eighteen-light window facing the street. Well that put the kabosh on practicing piano today. Her little car wasn’t made to toboggan and Yorktown didn’t have snow equipment. The good news? The wet snow melted as it touched the street. She couldn’t risk her ankle on a patch of ice. Another crack exploded directly overhead. She grabbed the window to steady herself. Fingertips matched to her fingertips a hand took shape on the other side of the glass.
A tingle began in her head and tendrilled through her body and extremities.
A mere shade at first, he solidified before her eyes.
A man.
She pulled her hand back to her chest and stood mesmerized. Where had he come from?
Her spirit called to heaven, Lord Jesus, protect me.
Glowing blue-green eyes pierced her. Jaw-length dark hair framed his chiseled face. He wore the voluminous white shirt of a docent.
In a flash he moved toward the door.
She ran in slow motion to reach the latch.
He stopped on the other side of the old screened door. “I have no wish to harm ye.”
She flipped the eye-hook inwardly rolling her eyes at the “safety feature”.
“Ye can see me.” An Elizabethan accent shaped the words. Wonder filled his countenance.
“Why? Are you a ghost or something?”
Eyes cast down to the slatted porch, “No one has seen me in—many years.”
“Are you or are you not a ghost?” Or worse? A mist of questions filled her mind. He couldn’t be an angel because he didn’t tower over her and inspire great fear like she’d read of Gabriel. For the same reason she didn’t think he was a demon either, but they could be charming and deceptive. No, it was the plain ole ordinary fear of strangers making her heart beat like a bass drum.
“Well, I have never died if that is yer meaning.”
Clever response, but she wasn’t fooled. Devil spirits couldn’t die. “Can you die?”
“I always thought so. Certainly my ancestors have all died, but I might be a special case.” A half smile softened his chiseled features.
Not only did he sound like Masterpiece Theatre, he looked like her dream of a tragic eighteenth century hero. Masculine. Masterful. Snow frosted his dark hair. Sleeves bloomed from a hand-embroidered waistcoat which hugged his form to black breeches buckled below the knee above white stockings. Silver buckles twinkled from his shoes. He didn’t charm her, but he did interest her.
“What makes you so special?”
“Tis a long tale meant for a roaring fire on a winter night and full tankard of ale.”
Olivia glanced beyond him to the road still only wet with snow. Shocks of pale orange lightning lit the thunderous clouds. She looked down long enough to see her wrist watch. She couldn’t decipher its face.
“Well, I’d best be going. So if you will move, please.” She waved him off to the side and stepped onto the porch.
“Will ye come back?”
“I don’t know.” Of course she would come back, the Christmas Open-Town was in three weeks and she was stationed here to demonstrate and play the antique piano.
“Before ye leave may I know the name of the lady to whom I have been speaking?”
Oh, he was charming alright, positively swoony.
“I’ll start, shall I?” He cleared his throat and took a step back. “May I introduce myself? Maxwell Ballard at your service.” He bowed and extended his hand.
She felt her mouth fall open. “Maxwell Ballard of Ballard House?”
He placed his hand on his chest. “Maxwell Ballard of Pearl Hall, Yorktown, Virginia Colony.”
It couldn’t be. Maxwell Ballard had gone missing Christmas 1769.
“You’re missing.”
The blue-green eyes lit with mischief. “I’m,” he patted his chest with both hands, “right here. And you are?”
She stuck out her hand. “Olivia Woods.”
He stepped closer to take her hand which was nearly twice the size of her own.
“Y’re freezing.” He added his other hand to encase the hand he still held. “Would ye care come inside? To warm yerself before embarking on yer journey?”
She shouldn’t. She needed to consult someone who knew about these kinds of things. Was there any such person?
If he really was Max Ballard it would solve a couple of centuries-old mystery. Not that any but real history nerds like herself would care about that. On the other hand his knowledge of colonial Yorktown would be unprecedented. He would need to be protected, she wasn’t sure exactly what from, but her sense of unease grew in a different direction.
What if he wasn’t here when she came back?
“Only if you will tell me where you’ve been.”
