Excerpt
Chapter 1
August 1975
Someone was singing the spiritual “Didn’t My Lord Deliver Daniel?” It’s a great song, with its dual message of strength and hope, not to mention a neat, almost jazzy, feel to the tune. I’ve always liked it. I was about to join in on the chorus when I realized the someone singing was, in fact, me.
I was sitting on a park bench in Riverside Park overlooking the Hudson River in New York City. I’m a dancer who can whip off triple pirouettes with my eyes closed and finish in the right spot, yet everything around me seemed unbalanced, as though the universe was tilting. My world view seemed off.
Focus. I needed to focus on an object and get my bearings back. I glanced down at the sheet music I was holding, an arrangement of “Didn’t My Lord Deliver Daniel?” with handwritten musical notes on the page penned by folk singer Marcus Kennedy and dated August 21, 1975. I had no clue where it came from or how I came to own it or what I was doing singing it. However, since I was nuts enough to be belting out gospel tunes while sitting alone on a park bench, I was glad I was doing so on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Not a soul was paying me the least bit of attention.

Something was also off about my outfit, which consisted of an ankle-length multi-tiered cotton skirt in hues of green and blue, with a cream-colored peasant top. The dark-brown faux-suede wide belt encircling my waist was a perfect match for my knee-high boots. All normal. But something wasn’t right. I could swear I’d bought everything, from boots to blouse, at a vintage stall in Oak Cliff, Texas...this morning. I recalled changing into a skirt, blouse, and boots from cotton capris, sleeveless tee, and sandals in a makeshift dressing room at the stall. The recall did not include stepping onto a plane wearing the new threads and flying to New York City.
The top was long-sleeved, yet I was shivering, an action that had nothing to do with the temperature. After all, it was August and not exactly cool. Nope. This was fear. I was scared. I didn’t remember my name. I didn’t remember how I got to this bench. I didn’t remember where I’d gotten a copy of this sheet music, emblazoned with the name of my favorite musical artist.
An oversized canvas duffel bag with the logo “Retro Records” stamped on the front took up the rest of the space on the bench. I didn’t recognize it either, but I figured, what the heck, open it and check out the contents. If the bag was mine, perhaps there’d be some kind of I.D. tucked away in a pocket and I could find out who I was. And yes, I was aware I sounded ridiculous. I unzipped the bag and discovered an eclectic, jumbled, messy, hodge-podge of items scattered inside. There were two pairs of jeans, two leotards, one pair of black tights, one pair of pink tights, one pair of jazz dance sneakers, a black T-shirt, a blue T-shirt, and a very flirty black lace dress clearly meant for dancing at a nightclub.

Tucked inside a sturdy cardboard case was the rare “ghost train” cover copy of folk singer Marcus Kennedy’s vinyl recording, Remake the Song. Several torn and abused magazine articles, more like clippings, all of them missing names and dates of publication, all of them with scratch-outs from a purple-inked pen, were also tucked in the cardboard case. Intriguing and not helpful. Something to explore later. Nearly hidden beneath the black dress I found a file folder holding sheet music to “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” The date of publication for this particular arrangement was August 21, 2025. There was a note at the top next to the date with the cryptic phrase, For December, if you choose to go back, also written with purple ink. Like the clippings, interesting, but unhelpful in my quest for answers.
A second note was stuck to the cover of a brand new daily planner. I skimmed it, searching for a name, and found an entry, dated August 28, 1975, in the same handwriting (and, yes, purple ink) as the odd message about December: Open Auditions for dinner theater production of Dames at Sea at Thirty-Ninth Street Studios. Ten a.m. Go! At the very bottom of the duffel bag was a pocketbook-slash-coin purse.
Jackpot! I opened the pocketbook and stared at the Texas driver’s license photo of Shiloh Meridien, who looked to be about eighteen. The expiration date was June 24, 1975. I felt certain the girl was me. I knew my birth date was June 24, 1955. But there was something out of sync with the picture and the dates, because I also knew I was older. By fifty years and two months.
What had started as bewilderment now became sheer panic. I stared down at the ground and tried to breathe.

“Shiloh, look at me.”
I lifted my head and stared at the chubby woman standing in front of the bench. She’d encased her short frame in a striped yellow-and-black bumblebee costume, complete with yellow wings on the shoulders and little yellow antennae balls behind her head. They were bobbing, although she hadn’t moved.
“Oh, man. I know you. You’re Fiona Belle Winthorp Donovan, yes?” I said. “Wait. You hate the Winthorp part. Sorry.”
She growled, “I despised that man.”
“Why?”
She glared at me.
“Okay. Never mind. Not vital to the problem at
hand. I have managed to locate what I guess is my name on a driver’s license, but it’s ancient. I’m really glad you’re here, because I’m pretty much freaking out.”
“Understandable. Ya made quite a trip.”
“From where?”
“Ah, well, lass, I’ll be explainin’, but I gotta warn
ya, yer about to be freaked out more than yer already freaked. And, if we’re going to be precise and factual, the operative word isn’t so much ‘where’ as ‘when.’ ”
I groaned. “Seriously? Thank you for adding to the confusion and angst. Fine. But, please, end the suspense. Go ahead and hit me with whatever.”
Instead of verbally responding, she reached into a bag bigger than the duffel at my side. She pulled out a huge, silver-plated hand mirror and held it in front of my face.
I stared at my reflection and tried not to pass out. “I’m going to pass out.”
“No, yer not. Breathe. Deep. Again. Slower.” 4

Remake the Song
I took a deep breath, then another before hoarsely saying, “Fiona Belle, the trip you mentioned must have been to one amazing plastic surgeon, because unless this is a trick mirror, the image I’m seeing is me, but the way I looked when I was about twenty.”
“No surgery involved and I’m aft ta be provin’ it to ya. Lift yer leg in a whachacallit, a develope. Other folks in the park seem to be focusing on other things, but ya should hold onto yer skirt anyway, to keep it modest.”
I did as commanded, robotically at first, then in amazement as I stretched my right leg up to my ear. A feat last accomplished when I was about forty-five. I slowly returned my foot to the ground.
“What’s happening?” I paused. “No, hang on. I’m getting a full tidal wave of images. You and I were at the Final Destination Flea Market in Oak Cliff. Eating awesome cranberry-orange scones and drinking iced coffee, which I’d wager had a large dollop of booze in it. You were, heaven help me, offering me the opportunity to time travel.” I shook my head. “And did those words just exit my mouth?”
“It’s true. All of it. And, brave, wise lass that ya are, ya took it. The opportunity.”