Page 6 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

But if I was a betting man, I’d wager my life savings that pretty Rose has never modeled nude. She seems naïve, and chaste.

No respectable woman of my day would even think of spending the night in a man’s house unless they were married—or at least betrothed. And even then, there’d be separate bedrooms and a chaperone. Has this modern era discarded those conventions altogether?

“I’m not quite certain how you’ve managed to buy my house.” I’m unable to hide my indignation even though I have no right to be upset. How long did I think the property would remain in my name when I wasn’t around to claim it?

Before I can continue, she interrupts and says, “I believe it was sold by the county years ago for back taxes.”

“That makes sense. So since I am the interloper, you are well within your rights to ask me to leave.”

“And where would you go?” she asks, an indulgent smile on those pert, pink lips.

This stops me in my tracks.

I do the math. I saw some tea towels hanging over the edge of the sink. They were each cleverly printed with a calendar: 1984, 1985, and 1986. It’s conceivable one of my young nieces or nephews might still be alive and able to help me out, although today they would be what I would have once described as “old as dirt.” That was before I became “older than dirt.” I stifle a rueful chuckle.

“I might possibly have relatives?” I offer, though I know how lame it must sound.

“Sure, if they’re over one hundred and ten.”

One hundred and ten? I went to sleep in 1911. Either Rose is terrible at math or…

“Wh-what year is it?”

When she tells me, it makes my head spin. It was clear since the moment I returned to my senses that decades had passed since I laid down to sleep under the spell of the amulet.

When I saw the towels from the 1980s, it gave me a start, but knowing I’ve slept for over a hundred years, that we’re well into the next millennium, makes my stomach cramp and my heart ache.

“Everyone I’ve ever known is… dust,” I whisper, an echo of pain bursting in my chest.

I cup my palm over my forehead to think, and to hide the tears forming in my eyes.

“Look. If it’s okay with you, I’ll keep the bedroom for now. We can switch tomorrow since it appears you might be the real owner.” She reaches across the table and almost grips my hand, then pulls away. “I’ll grab two flat sheets and make the little bed you’ve been sleeping in while you take a shower. I imagine a hot shower will feel divine.”

She spears me with her emerald-green gaze. For the first time since I awoke, I see true compassion in her expression.

“We’ll talk in the morning and see if we can figure things out.”

Chapter Six

Rose

Even though I’ve taken my time airing out his room and changing the linens, he’s still in the bathroom. After showing him the magic of modern plumbing and instant hot water, he asked for scissors. I imagine he’s struggling with his beard.

I should have hurried to beat him into the bathroom, but I figured after a hundred years he needed a shower more than I needed to pee.

While I sit on the mattress waiting for my turn in the john, my mind bombards me with questions I don’t have answers for.

Is this for real? How on Earth did he survive? Nothing makes sense. Not only the big question of how a man could sleep, survive, and come out looking good as new after a century. But there are so many niggling little details, like how no one in all these years discovered this room, no matter how tiny. Or even how the bedding and his pajamas survived for all these years. Only one thing explains it.

Magic.

I’m over all my this-couldn’t-be-happening thoughts. There really is a tiny room with a bed in it behind the bookcase. More importantly, there’s a man in my bathroom humming a song from the turn of the century—the turn of the last century.

Finally, the handle turns and the door swings open. I rise, intending to do my business, but I don’t wait long enough and almost run into him outside the bathroom door.

The man who emerges is definitely not the same one who went in.

Rip’s caramel-brown hair is freshly washed and combed. I’ve never loved long hair on men, but on Rip, the thick, glossy hair that cascades halfway down his back looks amazing. His strong jawline is now smooth-shaven. He must have found my pink razor.

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