Love Came Just in Time (2 page)

Take Abigail and Miles, for instance, in
“The Gift of Christmas Past.”
They find each other in medieval England thanks to Abby's trip down through Murphy's Pond and up through Miles's very pungent moat. They were left celebrating a lovely Christmas with their family, but that certainly didn't answer many questions about their future. It seemed only right to have another peek into their lives in
The More I See You
.

Megan and Gideon de Piaget were aided in their quest for love by three ghosts in
“Three Wise Ghosts.”
Not only will the newlyweds return, but those matchmaking ghosts will be back as well. (So many matches to be made, so few centuries in which to make them. . . .)

I've had numerous complaints about having left Ian MacLeod languishing in a Scottish dungeon. (Nobody really thought I was going to leave him there forever, did they?) In
“And the Groom Wore Tulle”
he finds his true love and the rest of his family several centuries in the future. (For his pre-history, consult
A Dance Through Time
.) And don't be surprised if he and the colorful Jane make future appearances. There are strange things always going on at that MacLeod keep.... No doubt Ian will be in on much of the action.

“The Icing on the Cake”
features a modern-day MacLeod named Samuel and his unlikely bride. He has siblings (they all seem to!), and I'm just certain they have stories as well just waiting to be told.

 

“DAMES,” BRUNO SAID, with a regretful shake of his head. “Whatcha gonna do wit 'em?”

Sir Maximillian Sweetums swished his tail twice, settled himself more comfortably on his cloud, and admitted to himself that he quite had to agree with his companion—as indelicately put as the sentiment had been.

“Ah, dear Bruno,” Sir Sweetums said, “there's the rub. Women don't like to be ‘done with.' Especially The Abigail. A most forthright and independent spirit, she is.”

“It ain't like you ain't tried, Boss,” Bruno offered. “Before you, uh, I mean while you was still, uh—”

Sir Sweetums held up his well-manicured white paw to spare the blushing bulldog further embarrassment.

“Yes, I understand.” It was very impolite to mention to a feline that his nine lives were up, but Sir Sweetums overlooked the faux pas. After all, he'd lived his turns to the fullest, using his considerable wits and wiles to their best advantage.

He'd had a different charge during each of his nine lives, and he'd seen eight of those mortal charges successfully settled. It was Number Nine who had, and continued, to elude his superior matchmaking skills. The Abigail. He'd tried, oh, how he'd tried.

He'd made an unmentionable deposit into the toolbox of a less-than-desirable handyman The Abigail had taken a fancy to. He'd leaped off the back of the couch over an insufferable attorney, snatching the man's hairpiece and wresting it to the ground. Snags in gabardine trousers, bloodcurdling yowls, sneak attacks from the bushes—they had served only to keep the undesirables from The Abigail. But a suitor to suit? Sir Sweetums wrinkled his aristocratic nose disdainfully. Nary a one, dear reader, nary a one!

That was before. Two years into his post-ninth life and subsequent Guardian Feline Association membership, Sir Sweetums had found the Right One for The Abigail.

Now it was just a question of bringing them together.

“Hey, Boss, uh, is you ready to go yet?”

Sir Sweetums tucked a bit of stray fur behind his left ear. “Yes, my friend, I believe the time has come. You saw to the details?”

“Yeah, Boss. Dat movie's on right now. Only how come dey don't have no parts for no Guardian Animals in dat one?”

“Perhaps The Capra was allergic.”

A thoughtful expression descended onto the bulldog's pudgy face. “Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “Maybe dat's it.” He looked up at Sir Sweetums and snapped to attention when he saw the feline was poised to jump. “Anyting' else, Boss, befores you go? Some Tenda Viddles? A sawsah of haf n' haf?”

Sir Sweetums was already leaping down athletically from the cloud. “No time, dear Bruno,” he called back. “We mustn't keep Fate waiting any longer!”

“Good luck, Boss! You's gonna need it,” Bruno added, in an undertone. “Dames,” he said, with a slow shake of his head. “Whatcha gonna do wit 'em?”

IT
WASN'T
A wonderful life.

Abigail Moira Garrett stood on the bridge and stared down into the murky waters below her. She couldn't even find a decently rushing river to throw herself into. The best she could do was Murphy's Pond and the little one-lane bridge that arched over the narrow end of it. Instead of meeting her end in a torrent of water, she'd probably do no better than strangle herself in the marshy weeds below. It was indicative of how her life had been going lately.

It had all started last Monday. Her power had gone off during the night, causing her to sleep until ten A.M. The phone call from her boss had been what had woken her. He'd told her not to bother coming in. Ever.

If only it had stopped there. But it hadn't. And why? Because she'd uttered the words, “It can't get any worse than this.” Those were magical words, guaranteed to prove the utterer wrong, words that drew every contrary force in the universe to zero in on the speaker with single-minded intensity.

Tuesday she'd been informed that because of a glitch in the system, it would take several weeks to collect unemployment.

Wednesday she'd been informed that she wouldn't be getting any unemployment because her Social Security number didn't exist. If she wanted to take it up with the Social Security office, their number was . . .

Thursday, her landlord had told her he wanted her out. Being between jobs, she had now become a freeloader and he wasn't taking any chances on her. Chest pains had begun that night.

On Friday her fiancé, whom she had always considered boyishly charming, boyishly mannered, and boyishly handsome, had left her a note telling her that since she no longer had a job and wouldn't be able to support him in the style to which he wanted to become accustomed after they married, he was moving on to greener pastures. To the woman in the apartment next door, to be exact.

And now, on top of everything else, Christmas was three days away. Christmas was meant to be spent with family, basking in the glow of friendship, food, and hearthfire. All she had to bask in was the odor of sweat socks that permeated her apartment, despite her attempts to dispel it. She had no family, no hopes for posterity anytime soon and, most especially, no cat.

She dragged her sleeve across her eyes. This was her second catless Christmas. She should have been used to it by now, but she wasn't. Just how was one to make the acquaintance of Sir Maximillian Sweetums, live with him for ten years, then be expected to live without him? One day he'd been there and the next,
poof,
he'd been gone. She'd cried for days, looked for weeks, hoped for months. But no Sir Sweetums.

And now that darned movie had just made matters worse. She had watched George Bailey lose it all, then regain it in the most Christmassy, heartfelt of ways. It certainly had been a wonderful life for him. All watching it had done for her was make her realize just exactly what she didn't have. Good grief, she didn't even have a Social Security number anymore!

She stepped up on the first rung of the railing and stared down into the placid waters. All right, now was the time to get ahold of herself and make a few decisions. She had no intentions of jumping—not that she would have done herself much harm anyway. Well, short of getting strangled in Mr. Murphy's weeds, that is. No, she had come to face death and figure out just what it was she had to live for.

She threw out her hands as a gust of wind unbalanced her. Okay, so maybe this was a little drastic, but she was a Garrett and Garretts never did things by halves. That's what her father had always told her and she had taken it to heart. Her dad ought to have known. He'd fallen off Mt. Everest at age seventy.

She stared out over the placid pond and contemplated her situation. So, she'd lost her job. She didn't like typing for a living and she hated fetching her boss coffee. She would find something else. And her apartment was hazardous to her sense of smell. She could do better.

Her fiancé Brett could be replaced as well. What did she need with a perpetual Peter Pan who had three times as many clothes as she did, wore gallons of cologne, and deep down in his boyish heart of hearts was certain she should be supporting him while he found himself? Maybe she'd look for a different kind of guy this time, one who didn't mind working and wouldn't hog all her closet space. She crossed her heart as she made her vow.
No one who dresses better, smells nicer, or works less than I do
.