Goldie approached the counter a little hesitantly.
“Y-you know me?” she asked.
“Of course. Room 9. Miss Maraschino. Like the cherry,” Maddie giggled.
“And, uh… w-when exactly did I check in here?” Goldie inquired.
“Silly,” Maddie teased. “You just got here yesterday. Did somebody have one too many hot toddies last night?”
It was at this point that Goldie noticed the rack of postcards at the end of the counter. They featured a photograph of a western-style main street with printing over it that said: “Greetings from Sparkledove, Colorado.”
“Colorado?” she blurted, astonished. “I-I’m inColorado?”
“Sparkledove, Colorado,” Maddie verified. “The perfect place for Christmas.”
“Are you shittin’ me?”Goldie bellowed.“I’m in Colorado? Freakin’ Colorado!”
She turned and saw the push-open double front doors just eight feet or so beyond the circular sofa, then hurried over to them and went outside.
“You’re going to want a coat, dear!” Maddie called after her.
Stepping outside onto the sidewalk, Goldie suddenly stopped, amazed by everything around her. The front doors of the Sparkledove Arms emptied onto a main street, a little less than a quarter mile long, and a town that looked like something straight out of the Old West. The sidewalk where she stood was paved, but that was just in front of the hotel. The rest of the town had plank sidewalks. Some of the buildings were brick with dates on their fronts that read 1866 or 1870. Others were wood and featured squared front facades that hid a cable roof. All were packed together on a main thoroughfare with five cross streets. The collection of businesses ranged from a gift store to a general store, grocery store, bookstore, real estate office, gem store, and others. As if the old-timey look of the town wasn’t enough, just beyond the east and west ends of this main street were mountains. Mountains that dramatically shot up several thousand feet at a thirty-degree angle or steeper. As her eyes scanned them, she saw patches of snow at the higher elevations.
“How the hell did I get here?”she yelled.“I’m in a John Denver nightmare!”
There were cars and trucks parked here and there, and a couple even rolled past her on the main street, but they were all vintage antiques.
“This-this must be one of them livin’ history towns like that place in Virginia,” she decided. “What its name? Williamstown. No. Williamsburg. Colonial Williamsburg!”
Even though she was cognizant of the thirty-six-degree temperature, she ignored the cold, crossed a side street, then stepped up onto a wooden plank sidewalk, stunned by everything around her. She didn’t understand how she had woken up in Colorado. Or why she wasn’t injured after being struck by a car. Or why everything around her was from a different time. She didn’t understand—until she came to a trash container outside of a store and noticed the date of a discardedDenver Postnewspaper that was sitting in it. It read: Tuesday, November 24, 1942.
“Whaaat?” she exclaimed.“What?”
Goldie plucked up the newspaper and read the date again. Then goose bumps appeared on her arms, and she started to tremble. Maybe it was from the cold, or maybe it was the realization that something unbelievable and unexplainable had happened to her. It was aTwilight Zonemoment. She glanced up from the newspaper and looked around—reallylooked around—at the town again. In the gem store window, she saw a poster that read: “Buy War Bonds.” In the grocery store window, she saw a hand-painted sign that announced: “Butter on Friday.” She took a few steps down the wooden sidewalk until she came to an artisan pottery store window and saw a picture of FDR on display in the window.
“Jesus Christ!” she said under her breath. “The clothes reallyaredesigned by Eleanor Roosevelt!”
Letting the newspaper slip from her hand, she wandered down the sidewalk to a shop called Clara’s Gifts that had a nice Christmas display in its front window. Now quite aware of the cold, she decided to step inside.
The wooden floor of Clara’s was old and squeaked when she entered, but the store was cozy and comfortable. There were glass Christmas tree ornaments, freshly made pine wreaths, shelves of Santa dolls, a display of angels, a cabinet featuring hand-painted Russian nesting dolls, and an assortment of other gifts. There was also an old Philco radio on a shelf playing Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas.” In a back corner of the store, a woman in her mid to late sixties stood on a ladder with her back to Goldie. She was quite fit for her age, with a dancer’s figure and mostly white hair that was nearly as long as Goldie’s and tied into a ponytail. She had just begun to hang some holiday roping from the top of a shelving unit, but stopped and started to come down the ladder, hearing someone enter the store.
“We don’t open until 10 a.m.,” she said. “But if you need something right now, I guess I can make an exception.” She turned and saw her visitor. “Say, honey, what are you doing running around in short sleeves without a coat? You wanna catch your death?”
“I think I already have,” Goldie replied vaguely. “J-j-just bear with me a second,” she asked. “I’m… I’m in Colorado. Right?”
“Right,” the lady smiled. Like everyone else Goldie had seen, she was dressed in period clothing.
“And—do you mind me askin’ today’s date?”
“Wednesday, the 25th,” the woman replied. She had nice green eyes like Goldie‘s and a kind face.
“Wednesday, the 25th?” Goldie repeated, hoping the woman would finish.
“Wednesday, November 25th, the day before Thanksgiving,” the woman replied, now looking at her concerned.
“Wednesday, November 25th, in the year of our lord?”
“1942,” the woman answered. “Are you alright, honey?”
