They say that you can never go back home again. But it’s not the home that changes, it’s the traveler.
Beth Cardall’s Diary
Matthew tentatively grasped the doorknob, unsure of what lay behind it and even more unsure of how he would respond. He thought back to the previous Christmas Eve, when the strange couple had forced him out of the apartment with a baseball bat. The idea of encountering them again was far less frightening than the prospect of finding Charlotte in bed, struggling to live—to witness her death. Or, had she already passed? He looked back to the road, to maybe catch a glimpse of Beth’s car, but it was gone.
He turned the knob. He was not surprised to find the door unlocked, for the same reason he knew he was to be there. He slowly opened the door, took a deep breath and stepped inside, crossing a threshold of time and sealing the past behind him.
He glanced around the quiet room. The apartment was exactly the way he remembered it. Their furniture was back. The wood paneling was gone and the walls were painted vanilla yellow, adorned with their pictures. On the front room wall, above the sofa, was Charlotte’s bridal picture. He was back. Two thousand eight was back. He looked to the open bedroom door and cautiously took a step toward it. Then he heard a voice. “Matthew?”
Just then Charlotte stepped out of the bedroom, her head cocked to one side as she fastened an earring. She wore a bright Christmas sweater tight enough to accent the small bump of her waist. “Where have you been, love?”
He just stared at her and her stomach. “You’re okay.”
She smiled. “Of course I am, silly. I told you it was just a little late afternoon morning sickness. Where have you been?”
He stared at her. “I, uh, went for a walk.”
“Without a coat?”
He walked up and threw his arms around her. “Charlotte.”
She laughed. “Careful, you’ll muss me up. Now hurry and change, we’ll be late for Mom’s party.”
“Of course.” He went into the bedroom to dress. Some things in the room were the same, some different. There were new clothes in the closet mixed in with clothes he recognized. He put on some corduroy jeans and a sweater he’d never seen before. Charlotte was waiting by the door holding a small wrapped package when he walked out.
She looked him over. “I love that sweater. Didn’t Mom give that to you for your birthday?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I think she did. She’ll be glad you’re wearing it. Do you have the keys?”
“No. Where are they?”
“Where we always put them.”
Matthew went into the kitchen and was relieved to find that the keys were in the same drawer they always were. He looked around the room. It had changed. It was decorated in Tuscan design.
“Come on, Matthew, we’re late.”
“I’m coming,” he said.
Charlotte took his hand as they walked out of the apartment. “That was so sweet of you, hugging me like that. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but don’t let it out.”
“I was just thinking how I’d never get over it if something happened to you.”
“What made you think of that?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He looked back at her. She looked different now. He could still see the little girl in her. “How old were you when you were diagnosed with celiac?”
“That’s random,” she said. “I don’t know. Just little, I think six.”
He nodded. “Six,” he said. “Of course.”
Snow was lightly falling as they walked out to their car. Matthew opened the door for her, then climbed in the driver’s side, turned on the heater and pulled out of the apartment’s parking lot. The streets were mostly deserted and he pulled into the turn lane at the first intersection they came to. Charlotte looked over at him. “Where are you going?”
“I thought we were going to your Mom’s.”
“This isn’t the way to Mom’s.”
He turned through the intersection, then pulled over to the side of the road. “You know, I have a really bad headache. Would you mind driving?”
“I’m sorry. Of course.”
Matthew climbed out of the car and walked around while Charlotte slid over to the driver’s seat. He climbed in and fastened his seat belt.
“I didn’t know you weren’t feeling well,” Charlotte said. “Are you feeling up to this party?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Charlotte pulled out into the street, made a U-turn, then drove south up toward Big Cottonwood Canyon. Ten minutes later they pulled into a gated subdivision of large, exclusive homes. The road was blocked by a wide red-and-yellow-striped gate arm festively strung with Christmas lights, next to a security guard’s shack. The uniformed guard opened his window. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you,” Charlotte said. “We’re visiting my mother, the Breinholts.”
Breinholts?
“Just a minute, please.” The guard lifted a phone, spoke to someone, then waved them forward as the gate arm rose. A minute later Charlotte pulled into the circular driveway of a large stucco and rock home near the end of the subdivision.
The home was a towering, gabled structure with a massive rock chimney and large gaslight fixtures across the front of the house that flickered against the gray winter sky. Even in winter the landscaping was lush, and large pines in the yard had been professionally wrapped in twinkling Christmas lights. Matthew looked at it in awe. “How many years has she lived here?”
“Ever since she married Kevin.”
He looked at her. Kevin?
“How long ago was that,” Charlotte said to herself, “fourteen years ago? I think I was ten or eleven.”
Matthew looked over the structure. “That is one big house,” he said to himself.
Charlotte stopped the car beneath the stone portico leading to the home’s entrance. “You sure you’re feeling okay? How far did you go on your walk?”
You have no idea, he thought. “A ways.”
“Well, if you need to leave, just let me know. Mom will understand. By the way, Kevin had some cancers removed from his arm, so he has a bunch of bandages, in case you’re wondering.”
“Is he okay?”
“They were just being cautious. You know how Mom is when it comes to cancer.”
They got out of the car and walked up beneath a long portico to the front door—a tall, arched, carved-wood door with heavy brass metal fixtures. Charlotte pushed it open into the bright, marble-floored foyer, and they were met by a rush of light and warmth. “Mom, Dad, we’re here,” she called.
A well-dressed, elegant-looking man, with gray temples walked into the foyer. He wore a broad, pleasant smile. “Charlotte, Matthew, Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Daddy,” Charlotte said, running to him. They hugged.
“How are you, Matt?”
“Great,” he said. “Merry Christmas.” He motioned to the bandages on Kevin’s arm. “You okay?”
“It’s nothing. All benign, but thanks for asking. You need to try some of my wassail. I think I finally nailed it.”
“I’d love to.”
Kevin said to Charlotte, “Your mom is still putting her face on. She’s been up there for nearly an hour. Maybe with you here she’ll finally come down.”
“I don’t know why she does that,” Charlotte said. “It’s just us.”
“I told her that. But you know your beautiful mom, she always wants to look her best. I’ll let her know you’re here.” He walked to the foot of the circular staircase and shouted, “Beth, the kids are here.”
