Remember the Time Read online

  Remember the Time is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook

  Copyright © 1997 by Annette A. Reynolds

  Excerpt from The Vow by Juliana Garnett copyright © 1998 by Juliana Garnett.

  Excerpt from This Fierce Splendor by Iris Johansen copyright © 1988 by Iris Johansen.

  Excerpt from The Baron by Sally Goldenbaum copyright ©1987 by Sally Goldenbaum.

  Excerpt from Lightning that Lingers by Sharon and Tom Curtis copyright © 1983 by Thomas Dale Curtis and Sharon Curtis.

  Excerpt from Tall, Dark, and Lonesome by Debra Dixon copyright © 1993 by Debra Dixon.

  Excerpt from Dream Lover by Adrienne Staff copyright © 1995 by Adrienne Staff.

  Excerpt from Legends by Deborah Smith copyright © 1990 by Deborah Smith.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79875-6

  Cover image © Andre Blais/shutterstock.

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

  v3.1_r1

  For Mary Ann Dolphin, my “idea gal” and one of the best friends a woman could have. Thanks for your faith. I couldn’t have done it without you, no matter what you say.

  To LTC Fred, who deserved a Purple Heart for putting up with me for all those years. Thanks for being …

  A very special thank you to: Paul Rabbitt, my favorite male cousin on my mother’s side, and rock-hound extraordinaire; Val Dumond, who helped me get the ball rolling; my agent, Julie Castiglia, for seeing the possibilities; and my editor, Shauna Summers, for leading me the rest of the way.

  P.S. I love you, Mom!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Abandonment and Ruin

  Chapter One

  Preservation

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Renovation

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Reconstruction

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Restoration

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  About the Author

  Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Juliana Garnett’s The Vow

  Excerpt from Iris Johansen’s This Fierce Splendor

  Excerpt from Sally Goldenbaum’s The Baron

  Excerpt from Sharon and Tom Curtis’s Lightning That Lingers

  Excerpt from Debra Dixon’s Tall, Dark, and Lonesome

  Excerpt from Adrienne Staff’s Dream Lover

  Excerpt from Deborah Smith’s Legends

  PROLOGUE

  The front porch of the Victorian house provides the only relief from the afternoon sun. The threat of a thunderstorm will only make the heat worse, and the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia hunkers down to wait out the summer of 1977. Likewise, the three teenagers who sit sprawled on the porch in various states of heat prostration.

  “Can it get any hotter?” Kate asks, her voice taking on just the slightest hint of a whine.

  “Don’t say that.” Paul watches a fly take a desultory stroll across his forearm.

  “Bet it’s hotter than this in Arizona,” Mike comments.

  “But it’s a dry heat,” Paul and Kate say in unison. Paul looks down at Kate and they grin at each other.

  No one on that porch doubts Paul Armstrong will be in Phoenix next summer. He is the golden boy of Staunton High School’s baseball team. Making it to the majors isn’t a pipe dream for Paul. His self-confidence will make it happen.

  Kate groans as she raises her head from Paul’s lap.

  “Where’re you going, Ms. Moran?” Paul asks, his fingers closing around her wrist.

  “Get more tea.”

  “Ya gotta kiss me first.”

  “It’s too hot,” she moans, but they all know she doesn’t mean it.

  Both boys watch Kate’s walk to the front door. Her cutoffs are short and her legs are long. Mike silently sings the praises of summer. The screen door slaps closed behind her and, for a few seconds, the relentless drone of the cicadas is silenced.

  Mike feels a rivulet of sweat trickle down the nape of his neck. He looks over at his best friend. “How’d you get so lucky?” he asks.

  Paul slouches lower in the porch swing, setting off a gentle rocking motion. “It’s that Armstrong charm.”

  Mike snorts and shifts in the wicker armchair.

  “Hey, we both had an equal shot at her.” Paul’s voice holds the hint of a shrug. “She picked me.”

  Mike remembers it differently, but says, “Yeah. I guess she’s not as smart as she looks.”

  “I heard that, Michael Fitzgerald,” Kate states, pushing open the screen door.

  “Heard what?” Mike asks innocently.

  Kate perches on the porch railing and rolls the cool glass across her forehead.

  “You know I love you both. Just different.”

  “Please don’t give me that ‘I love you like a brother’ routine. It wounds me,” Mike says in what he hopes passes for mock pain.

  The glass at her lips, Kate rolls her eyes at him then closes them and tilts her head back to take a long drink.

  Her thick auburn hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, but a few heat-damp strands cling to her neck. Mike wants to lift them, blow on her hot skin. He wants to put his mouth there and taste her. The thought brings on the beginning of an erection and he guiltily glances at Paul.

  When Mike sees those amused hazel eyes looking back at him he knows he’s been caught.

  ABANDONMENT AND RUIN

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  The initial assault on his body knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, he was swept along in the tumult of the newly born river in the Arizona desert. Rocks pummeled him. One particularly jagged stone hit his leg with such force that it slashed his jeans and cut open his thigh. He could
feel the warm blood swirling around him, contrasting sharply with the cold water. A small manzanita tree swept past him, caught his left arm, and pulled it back. He could hear the snap as a bone broke. The pain made him scream, and then there was nothing but numbness.

  The thoughts that flashed through his mind were quicksilver and, in some ways, senseless. There goes the season. Followed by, Kate’s gonna be so pissed when she sees me. And then, I’m gonna have to buy Stu a new Jeep.

  A lethargy had come over him and the idea of sleep floated around his mind like a pleasant daydream. But there was something he needed to do. What was it? God, he couldn’t think anymore.

  Paul could hear something over the thunderous crashing of the water around him. It must’ve been Mitch. Mitch is gonna be late. I’ll have to explain it all to his wife … Opening his eyes, Paul caught sight of the Jeep and remembered the most important thing. The thing he’d forgotten.

  It took all the concentration he had left for him to reach out his right hand and grasp the side mirror. His legs—his whole body—were whipped backward by the oncoming water, and he screamed again when something hit his lacerated leg with the force of a twenty-pound hammer.

  There it was! He could see his wallet wedged between the dashboard and the windscreen. If he could just reach his wallet, open it up, look at that photograph—he’d be able to find the strength to get through this. The decision he’d made earlier was too important to be sidetracked by a few cuts and bruises, or a broken arm.

  He was only thirty-four years old. He was healthy and strong. Dying was not on his agenda. Not for a very long time. All his intensity—all the life he had left—went into pulling himself up to the open window.

  But he never heard Mitchell’s terrified shout. He never saw the boulder that crashed through the flimsy canvas roof of the Jeep, shattering the windshield, and his skull. He never got to hold the photograph hidden in the recesses of his wallet.

  The search for Paul Armstrong and Mitchell Browder began at one P.M., immediately after the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department received the call from Kate Armstrong. Kate made the call immediately after Browder’s wife phoned from the airport, complaining that her husband had failed to pick her up, and “I’m standing here with a cranky four-year-old and every damn toy she’s got and five suitcases.”

  The search ended at 2:48 P.M. because Paul Armstrong and Mitchell Browder were just where they said they’d be.

  The four-wheel-drive vehicle carrying a deputy and a member of the rescue squad sped along the dirt road. When they saw the unfamiliar sight of a river running through the desert, the deputy reverently whispered, “Flash flood,” and immediately put in a call for an emergency vehicle. The two men breathed a sigh of relief when they spotted a man sitting on a large boulder. Their relief would be short-lived.

  He fit the description of Mitchell Browder, and the deputy was about to cancel the call for emergency services when the stillness of the figure struck him. The two men got out of the car, not bothering to close the doors, and walked toward the lone man. He didn’t move. He didn’t acknowledge their presence. When the deputy called out his name, he didn’t hear. He simply sat, staring at a point somewhere in the distance. When the man from the rescue squad drew closer he could see the mud caked on the man’s clothing. When he stepped in front of him and repeated his name, Mitchell Browder slowly moved his head upward, revealing a face streaked with dirt and tears.

  “Mr. Browder, where is Paul Armstrong?”

  “He’s gone,” Mitchell answered in a hollow voice.

  “Gone where, Mr. Browder?” the deputy asked in a patient voice. “Which way did he go? My partner will go find him and I’ll stay with you.”

  Mitchell shifted his eyes away from whatever he had been staring at and turned them on the man who stood before him. They seemed to burn with pain and fear, and the deputy took a step backward.

  And then Mitchell Browder said the words that stunned first the men standing in front of him, and then the entire nation.

  “He’s not far away. I watched Paul Armstrong die right over there.”

  Mitchell lifted a hand that felt heavy with the weight of his words, pointing to the nearly unrecognizable Jeep that sat buried in the muddy rubble of the flash flood, and then silent tears coursed down his face once again.

  “He didn’t stand a chance,” stated the sheriff, thinking she was out of earshot.

  “It was over very quickly,” said a friend, who was also a doctor on call at the hospital, afterward.

  “He didn’t feel any pain,” the coroner had pronounced, taking her hand.

  Over and over again, the same meaningless phrases blew across her consciousness until she simply stopped hearing them. How the hell did they know? Although she had been spared the sight of his once beautiful now unrecognizable face, she had been forced to look at his battered body. A body that had been untouched by a surgeon’s knife, despite thirteen years in baseball. It seemed to her that he had hurt very much.

  Paul had tried to convince her to go with them that morning. But Kate was sick to death of everything to do with Arizona. She’d been married to Paul Armstrong, and consequently baseball, for thirteen years. It wasn’t fun anymore. The constant moving, the road trips, the hundreds of hours spent alone, the limelight that Paul lived in as the Giants’ phenomenal second baseman—all these things had worn her down. She’d almost not come to spring training this year. Almost. But at the last moment she’d changed her mind, knowing that separation from Paul would be even more devastating to their marriage. This was his last chance to make it better. Kate had done all she could. She didn’t think she could live without him, but knew something had to give. And that “something” wasn’t going to be her any longer.

  And as she sat, dry-eyed, on the couch in the living room of her parents’ Tempe home that night, surrounded by people who whispered and murmured and hovered, that was the one thought that assaulted her mind.

  How am I supposed to go on without you?

  It wasn’t until the next day that she cried.

  Mitchell Browder stood in front of her while she sat on that same couch. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked at her forlornly—helplessly. He held a small plastic bag that he continually passed from one hand to the other. When he finally began speaking, his words came out in torrents of pain.

  “I’m sorry, Kate. I’m so sorry! I don’t know what else …” He stopped and swallowed hard. “God, he was my best friend on the team. They just let me out of the hospital, and I wanted to come by and tell you how sorry … I don’t know what else to say. It doesn’t seem like enough. If there’s anything I can do to help you … anything.”

  Kneeling in front of her, he held the bag out with both hands. When she didn’t take it from him, he gently placed it on her lap.

  “These are some of Paul’s things. They forgot to give them to you at the hospital. They were going to send over some stranger to give them to you, but I wouldn’t let them.”

  She tried to smile, but the effort it took was too great.

  “He saved my life, Kate.” Mitchell’s voice broke. “He saved me and then he died. I’ll never be able to repay him. I don’t know what to do …”

  And then this man, who had been through too many injuries to count, who was as tough as nails when it came to the vagaries of his career, began sobbing like a small child. His tears widened the crack in her heart, and she reached out for him.

  They held each other for long minutes, and then she sent him away.

  He was wiping his face with the back of his hand, standing in the archway that led to the hall, when he suddenly said, “The rose was for you. He wanted you to have it.” Kate’s grief-stricken eyes stared at him blankly, but he didn’t want to have to explain any more and he walked away.

  The bag he’d given her had fallen to the floor. As she reached for it, she saw where his teardrops had landed on the tiles. Tangible evidence of pain. Her fingers closed around the bag and she s
tood, knowing she’d never look inside.

  Kate’s mother found her in the guest room. There was a phone call for her. It was Mike Fitzgerald. Did she want to take it?

  She hadn’t even heard the telephone ring, but, yes, she wanted to talk to Mike. She always wanted to talk to Mike. He was the best friend she’d ever had.

  And when she picked up the receiver and heard him say “Katie? Darlin’?” her loss hit her fully, and the tears finally came.

  PRESERVATION

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  “Homer? You up here?” Kate stood on the postage-sized stamp of a landing and waited. Homer? “The door to the tower room was half open and she reluctantly pushed it aside. “There you are.”

  He lay in the rectangle of weak sunlight the window admitted, a well-scuffed baseball between his huge paws. Kate knelt down in front of the black Lab. “You know I don’t want you up here. It’s a nice day. You need to be outside chasing squirrels or something.” He gazed at her with liquid eyes, and she reached out to stroke his head. Kate’s voice softened. “Hey, I miss him, too.”

  Her knees creaked as she stood, reminding her of the recent passing of her thirty-seventh birthday. “Getting old, Homer,” she whispered, as she let her eyes slowly examine the contents of the room.

  In two steps she was facing a set of shelves. Taking down one of the twelve baseball gloves, Kate slipped her left hand into it and punched the well-worn leather. Dust flew into the still air and sparkled in the shaft of light. She replaced the glove on the shelf and moved to a small chest of drawers. Her hands hesitated momentarily before sliding open the top drawer. She lightly passed her fingers across the fabric of a gray road jersey, feeling more than reading the appliquéd letters that spelled out his name and his number—five—in orange and black.

  Resolutely pushing the drawer closed, she spoke to the dog once more. “Hey, Homer … remember the time he dressed you up and took you trick-or-treating?”

  At the sound of his name, the dog’s ears moved up a notch and he gave his tail a halfhearted wag.

  “Think the socks are too much?”