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|  | | A Switch in Time
While portraying John Wilkes Booth in a play at Ford’s Theatre, actor Roger Eberth switches places in time with Booth at the exact moment that Abraham Lincoln is shot. In the future, Booth is held captive by Roger’s fiancée, Camille Merce, who enlists the aid of physicist Ernesto Marquez in hopes of switching Roger and Booth back. However, John Wilkes has no desire to return to 1865 where he now knows he dies. He sets out to foil Camille and Ernesto’s plans. In the past, Roger must convince those around him that he is Booth so that history will run its course. As he plays his ultimate role in 1865, Roger hopes that Camille will find a way to bring him home.
| |  | | Painting Katherine
Washington, D.C. artist Vincent Vermay’s world is unraveling. He can no longer paint. He no longer understands Kate, his wife. Then Kate inherits an old Victorian in North Tonawanda, NY from her grandmother, Katherine Malloy. Vincent falls in love with the house and moves in. Kate remains in D.C. and the separation strains the marriage further. On the Victorian’s third floor, Vincent discovers a magical violin that takes him back in time to 1926, where he meets twenty-year-old Katherine Malloy. Katherine has given up her career as a concert violinist to marry Jethro Malloy, an abusive man. Katherine’s beauty gets Vincent painting again. He returns to 1926 several times to paint her portrait. He meets actor Norman Lassiter, who loves Katherine so much, that he quits acting and turns businessman, partnering with others to build a grand theatre in North Tonawanda. As Vincent grows closer to Katherine, he realizes what motivates his own wife. He also realizes that Katherine’s life would be better with Norman. Vincent can make this happen on December 30, 1926, opening night of Norman’s new Rivera Theatre. He can change Katherine’s life for the better. But dare he?
“I once was a painter,” Vincent Vermay said as he stared at the empty canvas sitting expectantly on the easel. He ran his hand through his brown wavy hair and sighed. “Once upon a year ago,” he clarified. The canvas stared back at him. Waiting. Always waiting. He reached out and touched the empty surface. It felt both smooth and rough beneath his fingertips. He had filled many such canvases with beauty over the course of his forty years. But since his fortieth birthday, he’d painted nothing. Nothing he’d dare show the public anyway. Nor had he shown them to |
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