Hello Friends:

With Christmas right around the corner, I wanted to share a holiday gift with all of you. Next year, 2026, will be the 15th anniversary of the publication of Her Dear & Loving Husband. Even as I write those words, I can hardly believe it. To celebrate, I’ve been writing short stories set in the Loving Husband world, and I’ve been having a wonderful time revisiting old friends from new perspectives. If you’d like to see the other Loving Husband stories, you can check them out for free on the Loving Husband Extras page.

Thank you, thank you to all of the James and Sarah superfans around the world who continue to contact me. James and Sarah continue to find new fans every day, which still amazes me.

For your Christmas reading pleasure, here is the latest Loving Husband short: “Dreams and Departures.” Sending love and best wishes from Las Vegas. Happy holidays, everyone.

The rare books room at UCLA was Sarah Alexander’s favorite place in the noisy world of Los Angeles. It was quiet there, insulated from the constant hum of traffic and ambition that defined Southern California. Surrounded by centuries-old texts and the particular smell of aging paper and leather bindings, she could breathe.

She was cataloging a collection of seventeenth-century documents that had been recently donated—letters, land deeds, and personal journals from colonial New England. Her hands, gloved in white cotton, moved carefully over a woman’s diary from 1691. The handwriting was cramped and faded, but Sarah could make out fragments …the fear grows daily…accusations spread like wildfire…we trust no one…

A chill ran through her, and for a moment, the library shimmered and faded. In her mind’s eye, Sarah saw herself in a room with wooden walls and casement windows, flickering candlelight and a sense of danger pressing in from all sides. Then the vision was gone and she was back in the climate-controlled archive, the fluorescent lights humming overhead.

She set the diary down with trembling hands. This had been happening more frequently lately—these glimpses of something she couldn’t quite name. As if the past were reaching out to her through the documents she handled. She checked her watch. Five-thirty. Time to close up and head home. Home. The word sat strangely in her mind, as if it belonged to someone else. 

The house in the Hollywood Hills was nice enough, Spanish revival, white stucco walls, three bedrooms, a well-tended garden, and a view of the city. Nick bought it when one of his films had been a surprise hit. He’d been so proud when he brought her there the first time, giving her the tour like a kid showing off a new toy. Sarah pulled into the driveway and sat in her car as she gazed at the warm lights glowing from the valley below. From the outside, the house looked like a home. Like a life, or like happiness. Sitting there, the engine ticking as it cooled, she felt empty. Inside, a note sat on the kitchen counter in Nick’s bold scrawl. 

Babe—had to fly to Vancouver, reshoot problems. Back Thursday. Love you!

Sarah read it twice, waiting to feel something. Disappointment? Relief? Instead, there was hollow absence. She opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of water, and went to her office. The one room in the house that felt even remotely like her own. Her dream journal sat on the desk, a leather-bound notebook. It had been slim then, and empty. Now it was fat with entries, the binding cracked from use. She opened it to the first page and read.

May 15—I am in a small town, a village, colonial era judging by the inhabitants’ Pilgrim-style clothing. Fear lives here,  palpable and thick. People whisper and point. Someone stands accused–of something–I am not sure. I see him again, the faceless man, standing protectively beside me. I sense that he is concerned…

She flipped forward in the journal, stopping here and there, reading fragments of her dreams. They were all similar, always the same time period, always the same sense of fear and suspicion. Always, somewhere in the dream, there was the faceless man. She never saw him clearly. The details shifted and blurred, frustratingly out of focus. But she knew him and loved him with an intensity that left her gasping when she woke. In the dreams, he was hers and she was his, bound together by something deeper than choice or circumstance, bound by that light, fairy-like string. 

Sarah turned to a blank page and wrote the day’s date. She sat with her pen poised, struggling to articulate the thoughts that had been growing in her for months now. This journal entry was not a dream. It was her reality. 

June 3—I’m not unhappy, exactly. That would be easier to name, easier to fix. I’m just… absent. I feel as if I’m living someone else’s life, following a script written for a different character. Nick is a good man. Kind, successful, handsome. On paper, everything is perfect. But I don’t feel anything when he walks in the room. I don’t miss him when he’s gone. Is this what marriage is? 

My nightmares are growing more vivid. Last night I was running through dark woods, branches catching at my long skirts. I was trying to catch up to him, the faceless man, but other hands held me back. “He’s gone,” someone said. “Let him go.” But I couldn’t and I screamed because losing him was worse than death. I woke up crying. Nick’s side of the bed was empty since he was already in Vancouver, and I was grateful he wasn’t there to see me sobbing over a man who doesn’t exist. I knew he would berate me for having these dreams again, as if I can control them. 

I’m a librarian and a scholar. I believe in facts and evidence and rational explanations, yet I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, sometime, I knew this man. And if I did, why is he haunting me now?

Sarah closed the journal and pressed her palms against her eyes. Years of marriage to a man who barely saw her, years in a city where she was certain she never belonged, years of feeling like she was waiting for something. Or maybe, she thought, she was finally waking up.

* * * * *

“You seem distracted.”

Sarah looked up from her coffee to see her friend Margaret watching her with concern. They were at a café in Westwood, meeting for their monthly lunch that had somehow become a quarterly occurrence, then twice a year. Or maybe they’d just never been as close as they’d pretended.

“Sorry,” Sarah said. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“The dreams again?”

Sarah had mentioned them once, months ago, in a moment of weakness. Margaret had suggested a sleep specialist, maybe some medication. Sarah had smiled and changed the subject.

Margaret stirred her latte, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. “Have you thought about seeing someone? A therapist, I mean. You’ve been having these dreams for some time now.” Margaret leaned forward. “Sarah, I’m worried about you. You seem, I don’t know, like you’re not really here. Like you’re waiting for something.”

“That’s exactly how I feel.” 

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know.”

Margaret sat back, clearly unsure how to proceed. Finally, she said, “How are things with Nick?”

Sarah looked out the window at the traffic streaming by on Westwood Boulevard–the endless cars with everyone rushing somewhere yet no one quite arriving.

“Fine,” she said. “Things are fine.”

“Sarah?”

“What do you want me to say? That I feel like I’m living in a beautiful prison? That I wake up every morning and wonder how I ended up here?”

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Sarah sipped her cold coffee. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m glad you’re finally being honest.” Margaret reached across the table and squeezed Sarah’s hand. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Even as Sarah said it, she knew it was a lie. She knew exactly what she was going to do. 

* * * * *

The bedroom was dark and empty. Nick wouldn’t be home until the next day. Sarah shook off her latest nightmare, something about a rope and a tree, and walked to her office on shaking legs. She opened her laptop and, without quite knowing why, typed “university librarian positions” into the search bar. The first result was a posting for an archivist position at a historical society in Boston. The job involved cataloging documents related to New England’s rich history. That sounded interesting. Then she saw the librarian’s position at Salem State College as the Humanities liaison, which would include working closely with the History and English professors. It would be a nice change from working in a mainly solitary position in an archive. She clicked through to the full description, reading it once, twice, three times. It was perfect for her qualifications. It was in Salem, and she had always felt drawn there. Something about the seaside town felt inevitable, as if the position had been waiting for her and her alone. Before she could talk herself out of it, Sarah opened a new document and began writing a cover letter.

* * * * *

“You’re leaving me.”

Nick stood in the kitchen, still in his travel clothes from the Vancouver flight, staring at Sarah as if she’d just spoken in a foreign language.

“The truth is, I don’t think I was ever really here.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know it doesn’t.” Sarah wrapped her hands around her tea cup, needing something to hold onto. “But I can’t stay here anymore. I’m not happy. I haven’t been happy in a long time.”

Nick sat down heavily at the dining room table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried. You didn’t hear me.”

“When? When did you try?”

“Dozens of times. Hundreds, maybe. But you were always somewhere else—on set, in meetings, on the phone. And even when you were here physically, you weren’t really here. Neither was I, I guess. We’ve been living parallel lives, Nick. Not a shared one.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Is there someone else?”

“No, not…” How could she explain? “I’m leaving because I feel like I’m suffocating. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry.” Sarah set her cup down and looked at her husband, a handsome, fundamentally superficial man. “You deserve someone who loves you the way you deserve to be loved. Someone who fits into your world, who wants the same things you want. That’s not me. I don’t think it ever was.”

“So what, you’re just going to walk away?”

“I’ve had a job offer in Massachusetts at Salem State College and I’m going to take it. Actually, I’ve already taken it.”

“You’re moving across the country to a dinky little place in Massachusetts?” Nick’s shoulders sagged and he stared into the tabletop. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I can see that you’ve already made up your mind.”

“Yes.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Two weeks. I need to pack and finish up at the library.”

“Two weeks.” Nick walked to the window and looked at the view he’d been so proud of. “I thought we were happy.”

“You were happy, I think.”

Nick was quiet for a long time. Finally, he said, “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“Thank you.” 

* * * * *

The next two weeks passed in a blur. Sarah sold or donated most of her belongings—she didn’t want reminders of the life she was leaving behind. She kept only her most beloved books, her journals, her essential belongings. Everything was boxed up and shipped to the house she had already rented in Salem. She wasn’t even bringing her car. If she was lucky, she’d never have to drive again. 

Her colleagues at UCLA were confused by her sudden departure. Her friends were concerned. Her mother, when Sarah called to explain, was devastated and let Sarah know in no uncertain terms. 

“But why?” Annabelle kept asking. “Why Salem? Why now? What about Nick?”

Sarah and her mother never had understood each other, and Sarah couldn’t explain it in a way that made sense to anyone else. She just knew, with a certainty that went beyond reason, that she needed to do this.

* * * * *

On her last night in Los Angeles, Sarah sat in the empty house with her dream journal in her lap. Nick had already moved out, staying with a friend while they worked out the details of the divorce. The house echoed around her, empty as it had always felt. She opened the journal to a fresh page. 

August 20—Tomorrow I leave for Salem. I’ve said my goodbyes and closed this chapter of my life. I should be terrified. I’m leaving my job, my marriage, my entire life for a feeling I can’t explain and a place I’ve never been. But now at least I feel as if I’m moving toward something instead of simply existing. 

The dreams haven’t stopped. If anything, they’re getting stronger. Last night I dreamed of him again. Still no face, only an outline, a presence. But I heard his voice this time, clear as day. “And then we shall be free,” he said. 

I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if I’m chasing a ghost or a memory or my own desperate need for meaning. I don’t know if I’ll find anything in Salem except the same job in a different library. But my very soul is pulling me there and I can’t ignore it anymore.

Nick asked me again what I’m looking for. My answer was “Something more.” But that’s not right. I’m looking for something true, something that belongs to me, not because I chose it but because it chose me. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I’ll get to Salem and realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. But staying here, living this safe, comfortable, empty life, that would be the real mistake. I’m certain of it.

Sarah closed the journal and looked around the empty house one last time. Then she stood, picked up her bags, and walked out the door to the taxi waiting outside where the Los Angeles sky was hazy with smog and city lights, the stars invisible. When the taxi pulled out of the driveway she didn’t look back.

East. She was headed east, toward Massachusetts, toward Salem, and whatever it was that waited for her there. Maybe it would be the life she was meant to live. Maybe it would be the faceless man in her dreams. She wouldn’t know unless she tried. Finally, after so many years of waiting, she felt as if she were going  home.