Trisha telep ed, p.1
Trisha Telep (ed), page 1
Trisha Telepwas the romance and fantasy book buyer at Murder One, the UK’s premier crime and romance bookstore. She has recently re-launched this classic bookshop online at www.murderone.co.uk. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she completed the Master of Publishing program at Simon Fraser University before moving to London. She lives in Hackney with her boyfriend, filmmaker Christopher Joseph.
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Constable & Robinson Ltd 3 The Lanchesters 162 Fulham Palace Road London W6 9ER www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2009
Copyright © Trisha Telep, 2009 (unless otherwise indicated)
The right of Trisha Telep to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN 978-1-84901-042-9
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
First published in the United States in 2009 by Running Press Book Publishers All rights reserved under the Pan-American and International Copyright Conventions
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission from the publisher.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Digit on the right indicates the number of this printing
US Library of Congress number: 2008944139 US ISBN 978-0-7624-3781-8
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Printed and bound in the EU
Contents Acknowledgments Introduction The Key to Happiness Gwyn Cready MacDuff’s Secret Sandy Blair Lost and Found Maureen McGowan Stepping Back Sara Mackenzie
Sexual Healing
Margo Maguire
The Wild Card
Sandra Newgent
The Eleventh Hour
Michelle Maddox
Pilot’s Forge
Patrice Sarath
Saint James’ Way
Jean Johnson
The Troll Bridge
Patti O’Shea
Iron and Hemlock
Autumn Dawn
Last Thorsday Night
Holly Lisle
The Gloaming Hour
Cindy Miles
A Wish to Build a Dream On
Michelle Willingham
Time Trails
Colby Hodge
The Walled Garden
Michele Lang
Catch the Lightning
Madeline Baker Steam
Jean Johnson Falling in Time Allie Mackay Future Date
A. J. Menden Author Biographies
Acknowledgments
“The Key to Happiness” © by Gwyn Cready. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. “MacDuff’s Secret” © by Sandy Blair. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission
of the author.
“Lost and Found” © by Maureen McGowan. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. “Stepping Back” © by Sara Mackenzie. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by
permission of the author.
“Sexual Healing” © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. “The Wild Card” © by Sandra Patrick. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission
of the author.
“The Eleventh Hour” © by Michelle Rouillard. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. “Pilot’s Forge” © by Patrice Sarath. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of
the author.
“Saint James’ Way” © by Jean Johnson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. “The Troll Bridge” © by Patti O’Shea. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission
of the author. “Iron and Hemlock” © by Autumn Dawn. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Last Thorsday Night” © by Holly Lisle. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Gloaming Hour” © by Cindy Miles. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“A Wish to Build a Dream On” © by Michelle Willingham. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Time Trails” © by Cindy Holby. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Walled Garden” © by Michele Lang. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Catch the Lightning” © by Madeline Baker. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Steam” © by Jean Johnson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Falling in Time” © by Allie Mackay. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Future Date” © by A. J. Menden. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
Introduction
Love takes its own sweet time … (sigh)
Have you missed your romantic destiny? Were you fated for a lover who lived 800 years before you were born? Or maybe you were meant for a mate who won’t be born until 3,000 years after you’re gone? Ever wondered what it would have been like to pay a visit to the Wild West and meet your perfect cowboy? Spend some quality time with a sexy Highlander? Or be romanced by a technologically enhanced lover from the far, far future? Do you ever feel like a piece of you is missing and no matter how hard you try, no matter how many frogs you kiss, you are never going to stumble upon your true love? How can you possibly meet the man of your dreams when he is living in eighteenth-century Scotland and you are stuck firmly within the confines of Earth circa 2009! It might all seem unrelentingly bleak at times, but don’t despair – the heartbreakingly tragic barrier of time is no barrier at all when true love is at stake
– if you read the right books, that is.
Time-travel romance has had a colourful history. But after a torrid heyday in the 1990s and early 2000s, full of Highlanders, pirates, Regency viscounts, and interplanetary hunks, it subsided into the background as edgier, fa ntasy-based, modern subgenres like paranormal romance and urban fantasy pushed to the fore to blossom into overnight sensations.1Suddenly there wasn’t much room left for time travel. It occasionally saw fantastic flights of imagination from individual writers, but more often than not stayed on the sidelines, something of a wallflower, the plain, shy girl at the dance. But while paranormal romance swept the nation, time travel bided its time. And through the looking glass of the paranormal phenomenon, time travel began to develop some (more) paranormal elements of its own.
The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romanceis just one of many fresh, modern reassessments of time travel romance (think of the current much-hyped release of the filmThe Time Traveler’s Wife , in cinemas across the stratosphere!). It’s a brand-new beast, this time travel collection, yet with many, many nods to time travels origins. A massively eclectic collection of timeless romances from a diverse range of writers, some old, some new, but all playing with the conventions of genre, and with a paranormal glint in their eye. And while you’ll still find an array of traditional time travel romances here – contemporary women whisked back to earlier historical periods and flung headlong into the waiting embrace of warriors, lords and lairds – this collection brings the time travel romance genre into the twenty-first century (forget simply travelling back in time, the future holds lots of surprises, too!).
From the ubiquitous Scottish glens and Victorian parlours, we incorporate a bit of the manga-influenced futuristic time travel of the fantastic, but sadly defunct, Shomi collection from Dorchester Publishing, and give a friendly nod to the new Time Raiders series from Silhouette Nocturne (created by the fabulous Merline Lovelace and Lindsay McKenna). Using a little (really little) bit of science, and a whole heck of a lot of fantasy, you’ll not only find fish-out-of-water stories here, but everything in between!
The impossibility of getting a double half-caf venti low-fat mochaccino (or a decent sleep on a proper mattress, if you’ve been flung back into the Dark Ages) pales in comparison to the warmth of your true love’s arms (believe me). New, revamped, reinvented, and reinvigorated, time travel is due its renaissance.
Isn’t it abouttime ?
The Key to Happiness
Gwyn Cready
The man was nondescript, Kate thought. Pleasant but entirely nondescript. Grey hair, grey eyes, medium height and as old as her parents, if not older. A face in the crowd, if this were a movie. In fact it dawned on Kate, as he leaned in to speak, that he’d probably been seated next to her for most of Van Morrison’s “Moondance”, though she hadn’t noticed exactly when he’d slipped into the chair next to her.
“I imagine you enjoyed the cake.” He spoke a little louder than necessary, to be heard over the wedding band. He re-angled his seat a degree and smiled.
The statement was unusual. Not quite a come-on – well, certainly not a come-on, not from someone old enough to have danced to “Moondance” on vinyl – but not your usual conversation starter.
“I did, yes.” She took a quick glance at her plate. She’d eaten two-thirds of the slice – half the cake part and all the strawberries between the layers, but almost none of the frosting – not enough to be called out for overindulgence. She struggled with emotional overeating and had an immediate visceral reaction to any reference to her appetite.
But the man’s eyes held no irony or judgment. The tweedy flecks of blue and green in the hazy irises showed only polite curiosity.
“Strawberries are my favourite,” she said. “In fact, that’s how Carly – the bride – and I met.”
“Really?”
“We were in seventh grade, working the annual strawberry-sale fundraiser for our softball team. We ate more than we sold, I think. God, I was so sick. I threw up for three days.”
He smiled. The lines that appeared around his eyes gave him a warmth she hadn’t seen before. She
wondered if he smiled a lot.
“That’s a nice dress.” He nodded towards the sateen bridesmaid skirt crinkling as she moved. “I take it the bride likes pink?”
“Oh, my God, it’s a good thing Carly didn’t hear you say that. This,” she said, gathering a handful of fabric, “is watermelon. Not pink. Not red.Watermelon.”
“Clearly, I’m not as familiar with the fruit colour wheel as I should be.”
“Pink is for NASCAR junkies and girls at theirquinceañera ,” Kate explained. “And red is for Detroit hockey fans and sluts.”
“Heavens, I see the bride has some strong opinions.”
“And the only possible accent colour,” Kate added, tugging at the dangling stones at her ears, “is a green you could only call, well …”
“Rind?”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve been through bridesmaids’ hell, I can see.”
“And the seventh circle is on the horizon.” She gazed at the knot of pre-teens gathering for the bouquet
toss.
“I hope it goes with watermelon.”
“Oh, let me correct myself.” She held up a finger. “Not just ‘watermelon’. Carly considers it ‘frosted
watermelon’ because of the shiny watermark-type things swirling around in the fabric.”
“Got it.” He nodded uncertainly.
“Am I scaring you?”
“If I’m honest, yes.”
Kate shook her head and sighed. “My wedding’s going to be on the steps of the City/County Building
with, like, six people watching and me wearing my friend Rema’s sari.”
“Your mother will never go for it.”
She looked at him again. It was a comment with broad application, but there was something about the tone that suggested a specific understanding, not a mass market aside. “Do you know my mother?”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m here for them.” He gestured towards two men in their mid-twenties leaning back on their elbows at the bar. One was a groomsman, a broad-shouldered blond in his last year of law school at Columbia named Mark Donovan, and the other a shorter and slightly chunkier Irish-looking guy who had just elbowed his friend in the ribs and made an under-his-breath observation. Kate thought she’d been introduced to him as well, but she couldn’t remember. Mark caught her eye and gave her a lopsided grin. When they were introduced by Carly’s aunt before the ceremony, he’d made a joke about the likelihood of the band playing “Moondance”.
“Oh?” She straightened. “You know Mark?”
The man gazed down for an instant, then nodded. “For a long time.”
Mark reminded Kate of Robert Redford inThe Candidate – a painfully handsome, world’s-his-oyster sort of go-getter who would pelt effortlessly across any finish line life put in front of him, six strides ahead of his closest competition. Kate, an aide in the mayor’s office, was a political junkie. She could already plot Mark’s rise from assistant district attorney to whiz-kid congressman with a penchant for fiscal responsibility and green issues. She had to admit she found his quiet confidence attractive.
“He’s in law school, I hear.”
“He’s going to make a great attorney,” the man replied, nodding. “I’m Patrick McCann, by the way.”
He held out a hand. Kate shook it.
“Kate Garrett.” His hand was firm and dry, and it seemed like he held their clasp a moment longer than necessary. She noticed for the first time that his clothes, while well tailored, were more the uniform of a traveller than a wedding guest. He wore a loose-fitting jacket, his pants were a lightweight fabric with cargo pockets and his white linen shirt was open-collared. He wore no wedding band. She was surprised she’d looked, but even more surprised at the ring’s absence because he radiated the relaxed ordinariness she’d come to associate with long-time married men, not the restless charm of players like her father. She shrugged. Maybe he wasn’t a ring wearer.
“Are you in town for the wedding?” She tucked an auburn tendril behind her ear.
He considered. “Yes. That and to catch up with a friend.”
She nodded. The couples on the dance floor moved to the make-out session rhythm as the song neared its end, some intent on their partner, others on the band or the bride and groom. This was the third hour of the reception, and it was grinding to a close. She wondered if Mark danced. Maybe if the band started a more uptempo number she’d make her way on over to ask him. Shyness, thank God, had never been her problem. It wouldn’t serve in politics, where straightforwardness or at least fearless lying was a part of the job.
The man – Patrick – seemed to be on the verge of saying something just as a high-pitched, “There you are!” made her turn. Kate’s high-school friend and fellow bridesmaid, Becky Schaal, was scurrying towards her, arms outstretched. Kate jumped up to take advantage of the proffered hug. “They need me for a picture,” Becky cried, breaking away and waving. “See you on the conga line.” Kate hoped she was kidding. As she sprinted away she caught Kate’s eye and pointed to Patrick behind an open hand. “Cute!” she mouthed.
