More Than Meets the Eye: The Rewinding Time Series, #5

"Seek ye first the kingdom of God...

And all these things shall be added unto you."

Matthew 6:33 (KJV)

Dedicated

To my husband Bob Heal who firmly believes

all my novels would make blockbuster movies if only someone

in Hollywood sat up and took notice.

More Than Meets the Eye

An inspirational novel of history, mystery & romance

(book 5 in the Rewinding Time Series)

Copyright July 28, 2016 by Deborah Heal

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

This is historical fiction. While every effort was made to be historically accurate about the real people and events of the past, they were fictionalized to one degree or another. As for the contemporary characters, any resemblance to actual living persons is purely coincidental.

Other Novels by Deborah Heal

Available in audiobook, e-book, and paperback, the History Mystery Trilogy:

Time and Again (book 1)

Unclaimed Legacy (book 2)

Every Hill and Mountain (book 3)

Available in e-book and paperback, the Rewinding Time Series:

Once Again (book 1)

Only One Way Home (book 2)

How Sweet the Sound (book 3)

A Matter of Time (book 4)

Available in e-book and paperback, the Love Blooms at Bethel Series:

Holding On (book 1)

Two Hearts Waiting (book 2)

Keeping Faith (book 3)

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

BONUS: Free eBook Charlotte’s House

A Note from the Author

Acknowledgments

Let's Keep in Touch

The History Mystery Trilogy that Started It All

About the Author

Chapter 1

Merrideth stood on the sagging front porch of her very own house watching in satisfaction as the stuffed moose head she and Brett had carried from the hall sailed out of their hands and into the dumpster at the curb. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she grinned triumphantly at him. There. I said that would be the first thing to go.

R est in peace, Mr. Moose. Despite the demise of the moose, Brett’s voice was cheery and his breath came out in a puffy little cloud of white steam.

Merrideth hadn’t yet decided which side of Brett Garrison she loved more, the brainy physics professor in the well-cut suits or the brawny handyman in frayed sweatshirts and carpenter pants. Today he had shown up as the latter persona, ready to work, even though she had insisted that he didn’t have to.

He opened the door for her, and she hurried into the front hall to conserve all the deliciously warm air her furnace was pumping out. She owned a furnace—what a thought! It was an ancient thing that according to Brett would need to be replaced in the near future. But today her excitement for her new house far overshadowed any worries about furnaces.

I still can’t believe I said yes, Merrideth said, trying to ratchet her enthusiasm down to a level more suitable to a grownup woman—a college history professor at that. "I fully intended to say no, and I would have—probably—if you and your aunt Nelda hadn’t ganged up on me yesterday. How could I say no to a dying woman?"

We just wanted you to have your dream house.

It’s not so dreamy at present, is it?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And it does have good bones.

Through the framed doorway on their left was the living room, which connected to a separate sitting room via tall oak pocket doors. The dining room and kitchen lay in the same configuration to the right. Straight ahead at the end of the hall a staircase with broken and missing balusters led to four large bedrooms and an antiquated bathroom.

The house had started out in 1829 as a dry-goods store owned by a man named James Riggins. Later it had been enlarged and converted into a graciously appointed residence. With all that history and soul, she had decided it was the perfect house for her, even though it was currently in desperate need of restoration.

The first floor rooms were covered in oppressively dark faux-wood paneling and filthy green shag carpet, made even more horrible by numerous urine-bleached spots courtesy of the previous owner’s dogs. Not to be outdone in the ugly department, the upstairs rooms were wallpapered in such clashing colors and atrocious patterns that it all had to come down for the sake of her mental health and personal well-being. Fortunately, she had a talent for seeing past all that to the dream house beneath.

But every room in the house would require some degree of work to make it dreamy. Before they could even begin to do that, something had to be done about the previous owner’s possessions, which had been left behind when Mr. Dekker went into assisted living. He’d been so sure the new owners would appreciate his thoughtfulness. But as far as Merrideth could tell, not a single bit of it was worth keeping. The furniture—and every room was crammed full of it—was old. Only not antique old, just obnoxious decrepit junk that should have already been thrown out or recycled ages ago.

And then there were Mr. Dekker’s personal belongings to be dealt with. There were stacks of outdated magazines, shelves sagging with mildewed books, pantry cabinets full of mouse-nibbled bags of soggy potato chips and stale cookies, and a bathroom medicine cabinet stocked with such delights as Mr. Dekker’s Just for Men hair color, a worn out toothbrush, and a half-used tube of Preparation H.

She had told Brett that it was enough that he gave her a house for Christmas; he wasn’t required to help her remodel it too. Thankfully, he had ignored her. And now there he stood ready to slay the beast for her, looking so gorgeous and perfect that she put her hands in her pockets so she wouldn’t accidentally start running them through his black hair.

So, Merri, he said with a contemplative frown that did nothing to detract from his looks, if you intended to say no to accepting this house, what was the important thing you wanted to tell me yesterday?

Never mind. I’ll tell you later.

He shot her a curious look, and she wished she hadn’t said it. What she had intended to tell him after Christmas dinner at Nelda’s house was that she had become a true-blue believer in Jesus just as they were. At the last minute, fear kept her mute. What if he thought she was faking it like some convict trying to gain early parole—or in her case trying to gain a husband?

Her friend Abby claimed that when Merrideth lived out her newfound faith Brett would be able to tell she was legit all right. Something about fruit of the spirit. Merrideth had no idea what that even meant, but she planned to dust off her Bible and find out.

Fortunately, Brett was too focused on the project at hand to quiz her further. She followed him into the living room, waded through the rabbit warren of dog-fur-covered furniture, and watched as he went to work hammering on the nails sticking out of the wall.

Brett?

Yes?

You do realize I don’t intend to keep this repulsive paneling.

He stopped hammering and looked at her in surprise. Of course not. It’s an insult to this house. But this loose piece has been driving me nuts from the first day we came here.

So you’re going to hammer in the nails before you pry them out?

You make it sound so crazy, he said with a self-deprecating smile. He pounded in another nail and then put his hammer back in its loop. There. Now I can think.

"And what do you think? Where should we begin, upstairs or down?"

Kevin and Bill will be here a little later to help me haul stuff to the dump. Once the furniture’s out of the way, I’ll start ripping down the paneling and the stupid dropped ceilings.

You can’t just throw the furniture away.

I thought you hated it.

I detest it, but— Merrideth couldn’t complete the thought because she was holding back a sneeze. When she was sure the urge was past, she said, But no matter how crummy it is, a lot of people would be grateful to have it. I thought we could take it to the Twice Nice thrift store.

That’s sweet of you to think of that.

Blood rushed to her face at the compliment, and she wished for the umpteenth time she could figure out how not to blush. Isn’t it pushing the bounds of friendship to ask Bill and Kevin to help on their Christmas break?

Don’t worry, they’d tell me if they didn’t want to. Before they get here, I’m going to run to the lumberyard to get what I need to fix the front porch.

Thanks, Brett, but fixing the porch isn’t really at the top of my to-do list. If she was going to move in before her classes resumed, they would have to concentrate on only the most essential work.

You’d wish it had been if someone broke a leg falling through the rotted floor and then sued you.

Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.

Don’t worry. Your homeowner’s policy will be in effect any day now. And I promise not to sue you if I get hurt anyway.

Wait a minute. What insurance? How much are the premiums?

I’ve got it covered.

And how much will it cost to fix the porch?

Not much. Just a couple hundred. Probably.

Dollars?

No, yen.

Ha. Very funny. How are you going to fit boards in your Jeep?

Now who’s being funny? The lumberyard will deliver—don’t worry, there’s no extra charge. Try to stay off the porch as much as possible until I get it fixed. Meanwhile, maybe you could get started bagging up some of the smaller pieces of junk. Like this, for example, he said, holding out a cracked penguin-shaped lamp.

Okay. Be sure to bring me back the receipt, and I’ll write you a check.

He was already out the door and did not respond. Either he had not heard her or was pretending he hadn’t. But as soon as he got home she would tell him that he had spent enough already, and she wasn’t about to let him finance the remodel project.

She opened the front door and flung the penguin lamp into the dumpster to keep the moose company. And then she went to get the garbage bags she’d brought.

Merrideth was standing on the front porch sneezing like a maniac when Brett returned an hour later.

Are you getting sick?

She held the bridge of her nose, trying to convince the next sneeze to go back from whence it came.

No, but my nose does not approve of something in there.

Maybe it’s the dog fur, Brett said. You’ll be all right when I get the furniture out.

She would have chided him for being illogical, if she could speak. They had sat for hours time-surfing on the furry couch and she hadn’t sneezed once. Now, a few minutes spent gathering trash had her sneezing her head off.

"Well, you can’t stand out here in the cold, or you will get sick. Why aren’t you wearing your coat?"

I’ll go in soon. I think the fresh air is helping. She sneezed. Sort of.

He scowled at her.

Don’t frown at me. I’m not doing it on purpose, you know.

Silly. He opened his coat and pulled her into his warmth. I was frowning at whatever invisible meanies are making you sneeze.

Oh. It was nice—both the physical warmth and the emotional. But she pulled away, because any minute Brett would realize that he was exhibiting decidedly boyfriend-like behavior and worry that she would think he was leading her on.

She was confident of few things in life. But one thing she knew for certain was that Brett loved her as much as she loved him.

Even loving her, he had resolutely reassigned her to the category of platonic friend a year and a half ago when he realized that she wasn’t a Christian and thus not Marriage Material. She had been crushed.

Now, she could barely contain her elation—the joy of her faith and the joy of knowing one day she would marry Brett.

Of course he didn’t know that yet. She smiled, imagining his reaction to her thoughts. For crying out loud, they had only kissed twice, and she was already planning their happily ever after.

Chapter 2

Merrideth woke the next morning with a smile on her face. The dream that had put it there flittered away before she could hold onto it. Amazingly, the clock indicated that it was after eight, but still she lay there luxuriating in the peaceful morning.

Usually, her first thoughts upon waking were anxious ones about the state of her bank account or that this would be the day her landlord would inform her that she had to move out because there was another, more worthy person who needed the condo he reserved for special cases. Typically, after she had sufficiently worried about those and other financial matters, she moved on to the main attraction—an anxious, hopeless yearning for Brett.

But this morning those thoughts no longer had the power to peck at her brain. Why should she worry about such things, knowing as she now did that God actually loved her, so much that he had sent his Son to die for her? And as if that gift weren’t enough, he had thrown in as a bonus the house she had dreamed of owning. And one day He would also give her Brett.

Through the thin walls, she heard him moving around in his condo. Eventually, there would no longer be walls between them. They would wake up on Sunday mornings, and every other day of the week, together. In the same bed. Oh, happy thought! But not one to dwell on without torturing herself.

Smiling still, Merrideth threw back the blankets and went to get ready for church.

WHEN BRETT OPENED THE door of his condo his eyes widened in shock. Merri! Honey, your eyes.

The endearment was an indicator of just how bad she looked—as if she didn’t always feel like a drab peahen next to him. Apparently, I have not been as successful with my makeup as I hoped.

I’m glad you caught me. I was just about to leave for church.

He looked at his watch, which gave her the opportunity to drink in his appearance without him noticing she was drooling. His white shirt was open a few buttons, revealing a little of his chest. His hair was still wet from his shower and his citrusy aftershave wafted up her nose, making her long to move in closer.

Come in and tell me what happened. After she was inside, he scrutinized her red, swollen eyes. No offense, but you look like you were in a fist fight.

Ha ha. Apparently I’m having an allergic reaction.

Hopefully just to Mr. Dekker’s junk and not the house itself.

Hopefully. Can I go to church with you?

His eyes widened again. Sure. I’d be happy if you did. You know that.

Even if your friends think you’ve been slapping me around?

I’ll take my chances. I’m just glad you want to go. Wait here while I grab my tie.

BY THE TIME THEY GOT to Brett’s church, he had her laughing so much that she forgot to worry about how she looked. And of course none of his friends were rude enough to comment on her appearance, but then maybe they thought she always looked like a squinty-eyed pig.

Of all the churches she had tried out during the past two years, Faith Fellowship was her favorite. Previously she had assumed it was just because it was Brett’s church. But this time she knew it was more than that. Pastor Brown had a way of making the Bible sound so straightforward and simple, and yet he gave listeners plenty to think about. At the end, when he invited people to come forward to accept Christ, she had a strong urge to walk the aisle, letting the world know of her salvation. But the fear of seeing skepticism on Brett’s face kept her glued to her seat.

On the way home she laughed at the thought that came to her. God sure has a sense of humor.

I know, Brett said, turning to glance at her. But what makes you say so?

The sermon. I assume Pastor Brown has been preparing it for a while. And yet the very Sunday I planned on rolling up my sleeves and getting to work on my house, he goes and preaches on the fourth commandment.

For the third time that morning Brett’s face registered surprise. So you don’t plan to work this afternoon?

Only on keeping the Sabbath holy.

His brow furrowed in bewilderment. She smiled innocently and went back to watching the scenery go by outside the Jeep.

Chapter 3

Brett’s Jeep was parked in front when she got to the house the next morning at eight. The sanitation crew had already been by to empty the overflowing dumpster, so it was ready for the next round of junk removal. And the porch’s rotten floorboards had been replaced by sturdy, new oak planks, which meant they wouldn’t have to worry about breaking any bones when they walked on it.

The guys had worked for hours on Saturday but still barely made a dent in removing all the useless furniture. And since they had filled Kevin’s pickup according to sizes and shapes that fit the most efficiently together, no room in the house had been completely emptied. She had tried to help them, but the dust they stirred up made her start sneezing again. So she had stayed out of their way and spent the entire day clearing out the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets and scrubbing them with disinfectant cleaner. A faint lemony smell still lingered in the air although it was overlaid with the scent of dirty dog.

Brett wasn’t in the living room, nor in any of the other first floor rooms, and he didn’t answer when she called up the stairs. A loud screech came from somewhere in back of the house. She went through to the kitchen and opened the back door.

He shouted, Merri! Don’t come out. In his gloved hands he held the end of a massive rope. The other end of the rope was tied to one of the columns holding up the porch roof.

She pulled her foot back into the kitchen. Why are you playing tug-of-war with my porch, Brett?

Didn’t I tell you it needs to come down?

Not that I recall. But I’m not overly sad to see it go. The architecture, and I use the word loosely, doesn’t come close to coordinating with the style of the house.

I’m happy you agree. It’s rotted through because the fool who slapped it onto the back of the house—by my guess, sometime in the last few decades—didn’t think to put flashing where it connects to the house. And to make matters worse, the shingles are paper-thin and leaking like a sieve.

I agree that it’s going to have to come down, but for now shouldn’t we focus on the highest priority items?

Oh, all right. Be a spoil-sport. He dropped the rope and followed her inside.

"The front porch looks awesome, by the way," she said, rewarding him with her best smile.

It will look even better when I shore up the piers it’s sitting on.

Well, at least it’s safe now. I intended to come over yesterday and cheer you on, but I got involved reading and forgot. Sorry.

You wouldn’t have found me here. I went to see Aunt Nelda.

So, you’re saying the fairies fixed the porch floor in the night?

I’m saying I did it this morning while you were getting your beauty sleep. It worked, by the way. The swelling in your eyes is completely gone.

Ignoring the blush she felt coming on at the implied compliment, she held out the white bag in her hand. I stopped for donuts on the way. And I brought a thermos of coffee to go with them.

Bless you, he said, bounding onto the creaking porch beside her.

You’ve already put in a day’s work, Brett. You should go home and rest.

I’m just getting started. Give me donuts, and I can work all day.

If you work hard enough, I might even throw in lunch.

Kevin and Bill got there a few minutes later, ready for another long day.

I have an idea, Bill said around a chocolate-glazed donut. How about we just stack the furniture on the curb and pray for someone to come along and steal it? Think of the trips we’d save to the thrift store.

Kevin chuckled. Not likely in Lebanon, Weisner. But we’d probably be arrested for littering.

After the men polished off the rest of the donuts, they got to work. Merrideth decided that today she would sequester herself in one of the bedrooms until they were finished stirring up dust.

So she took the wallpaper removal kit she had bought at the hardware store to the bedroom she had chosen for herself. Some genius had papered the walls in hideous orange and brown ducks. But she happened to know that somewhere beneath that was the beautiful wallpaper with blue roses that James Riggins had put up for his wife in 1842.

In the corner next to the bedroom door, the pattern of ducks was interrupted by a series of dark smudges running from floor to ceiling. The average person would never notice that the smudges were actually the words Welcome, Mr. Dickens, written in reverse, but Brett had. Even with his nearly superhuman talent for seeing patterns he probably wouldn’t have figured it out if he hadn’t specifically gone looking for it. And he wouldn’t have known to look except that they had been present—virtually anyway—when Mr. Adams from the Mermaid Inn across the street had asked to borrow a strip of Mr. Riggins’ wallpaper to make a banner to welcome the famous author to Lebanon. They had used boot black to letter the sign, and eventually it had bled through to the duck wallpaper.

Removing and preserving the Dickens artifact for posterity was of primary importance to Merrideth, but she knew that would require a professional, someone skilled in restoration. Fortunately, she had found one without too much trouble. She made a mental note to call the woman when her office opened at nine. Meanwhile, she could remove the rest of wallpaper—or at least what she could get to with all the furniture crowding the room.

She opened the kit and got started.

An hour and a half later, Merrideth sat back on her heels and assessed the progress she had made. It was disheartening. Only a few of the ducks were gone. And in the places where she had managed to get the nasty fowl off her bedroom wall, various other patterns peeked through from countless layers of wallpaper hung by previous homeowners. Unfortunately, none of the layers she uncovered were even remotely like the beautiful Victorian-era paper she had seen when time-surfing through the house’s past.

And she had followed the directions, too: score a smallish section of the wall with the new-and-improved pointy tool thingy, spray the patented chemical on the spot, wait five minutes, and then remove the wallpaper with the specially-designed scraper, which she had purchased separately for an additional five dollars because the company swore you needed it in order to get the job done properly. The illustration on the back of the package showed a woman dressed in designer jeans smiling proudly at the long curls of wallpaper falling effortlessly from her scraper. Easy-peasy. Yeah, right. All Merrideth had to show for her labors was a very short and sticky pile of bits and pieces of wallpaper, most of them confetti-sized.

She called the only person she knew who might be able to help.

Hey, what’s up? Abby said when she answered her phone.

Not a lot. Remember the lovely duck wallpaper in my bedroom?

Who could forget?

Do you think it’s regular wallpaper or vinyl-coated?

Why?

Because when I spray the removal gunk on, instead of soaking into the paper, it just runs down the wall and puddles on the floor. I just read the fine print at the bottom of the box, and it says, ‘For vinyl-coated wallpapers use our heavy-duty product, Wallpaper Magic.’

Are the duckies glossy?

A little. But I can’t decide if that’s because they’re vinyl-coated or just shiny from kids’ grubby hands. All I know is that they’re laughing at my attempts to eradicate them. The ducks, not the kids.

Sorry. I was so overwhelmed by the ugliness that I didn’t notice what kind it was.

Okay, question two: can you paint over wall paper?

Not if it’s vinyl-coated. And you wouldn’t want to anyway. It just accentuates where the strips are joined, and thus ends up looking like solid-colored wallpaper. People wonder why you bothered. Or worse, it looks like the kind of plastic wall panels used in low-end mobile homes from the 1960s. Either way, not good.

So do you have any brilliant tips for getting the stuff off?

Yes, hire someone else to do it. But since that costs a bundle, I suppose you can’t do that. I’d come help you but I’m stacked up with appointments all week. The dentist today, the orthodontist tomorrow, haircuts on Wednesday, annual checkups on Thursday, and so on and so on.

Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure out something.

Abby laughed. Maybe you’ll figure out how to love orange and brown ducks.

After