A Love For All Time

by Chloe Douglas

  Amazing the things a man will do differently when he gets to relive a day in his life.

  Hell, he’d actually earned some unexpected brownie points when he asked the lieutenant for two weeks’ leave and the name of a grief management counselor. And what do you know? She just happened to have the shrink’s business card right there on her desk. In a weird way, it was kinda like that old classic movie Groundhog Day.

  Except in his version of the plot, Lettitia didn’t show up at the precinct when he relived the same day the second time around.

  “Don’t go there,” Mick muttered to himself. He wasn’t ready yet to deal with the pain. He had two whole weeks to try to come to terms with it.

  Of course, now that he had two weeks off, he had no freakin’ idea what to do with those fourteen days other than hole up in his apartment with a bottle of Jameson’s at the ready. That was the only thing that might help to take his mind off of Lettitia. Even then, he’d probably have to get falling down, shit-faced drunk to reach the point of forgetfulness.

  The past seven days had been the most intense, compelling seven days of his life. And yet it already seemed as though it had happened to some other man in some other lifetime. If it hadn’t been for the souvenir that he’d managed to bring back with him, Mick might have been inclined to think that he’d dreamed the whole damned thing.

  Pulling the time device from his pocket, Mick stared at it for several moments before setting it on the bookcase. Hoping against hope, he’d returned earlier in the day to the time portal. After standing there for an hour with the useless device in his hand, he’d finally faced up to the fact that it wasn’t gonna happen—he was stuck in the 21st century. No amount of hoping or wishing was going to miraculously transport him back to London circa 1888.

  Restless, Mick tossed his sports coat over the shade of a nearby floor lamp before plopping into his well-worn Lazy Boy recliner. Reaching for the remote, he turned on the TV, then just as quickly turned it off. He wasn’t in the mood to watch some asinine sitcom. Or an action-driven police drama. He wasn’t even in the mood to catch the last half of Monday Night Football—which was about as low as a man could sink.

  Getting up from his chair, he wandered over to his computer desk and sat down. Long moments passed as he stared at the blank screen. Finally making up his mind to just go ahead and do it, he switched on the computer and logged onto the Internet. Bracing for disappointment—but figuring what the hell did he have to lose—he keyed the words “Lettitia Merryweather” into the search engine.

  Shit. No way.

  To his surprise, not only did he get a hit, he got more than one.

  Holding his breath, Mick skimmed the first entry—something about a Berkeley U Dissertation on the British Women’s Suffrage Movement—and clicked on it. What came up was a list of biographical entries. Hurriedly, he scanned down the page to the M’s. As he began to read the twelve-line entry, his heart pounded much too rapidly.

  Like most biographical summaries, it gave a date of birth, followed by a date of death. 1925. Lettitia had lived to be—Mick did a quick mental calculation—sixty-six years of age.

  Wiping his palms on his pants legs, he continued reading. Merryweather, an ardent crusader in the fight for women’s enfranchisement, never married. For some reason, that entry guiltily made Mick happy and also deeply saddened him. She was a graduate of the University of London. Now that definitely put a smile on his face.

  The rest of the entry was nothing more than a dry recitation of Lettitia’s activities on behalf of women’s suffrage—public addresses, published articles, that sort of thing. Mick clicked the print button, figuring he could find most of her speeches and articles at the New York Public Library.

  He then scrolled down to the bottom of the page. Noticing an old-fashioned photograph, he clicked to enlarge it. In the next instant, his breath caught in his throat as he examined the picture on his computer screen.

  Un-be-liev-a-ble.

  It was her. In living, breathing black-and-white.

  Riveted, Mick stared at the photograph. It was an outdoor group shot of a large gathering of women, most of whom were carrying signs or placards. The photograph was labeled March on Parliament, 1912. And there, standing front and center, wearing a banner across her chest that read “Women’s Right to Vote” was Lettitia. His beautiful, strident, imperious Lettitia. Her dark hair was liberally streaked with gray, and there was a beaming smile on her full lips. She looked like she was ready to take on the world.

  “You go, girl,” Mick whispered, so damned proud of Lettitia that he thought his heart might actually bust wide open.

  Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the photograph, transfixed. How long he sat staring, he had no idea. It was as though time had suddenly stood still.

  God, why couldn’t she have come back with me?

  Mick blinked back the tears that had been threatening to fall for the last eighteen hours. Knowing that Lettitia had been dead and buried for more than eighty-five years only compounded the pain.

  Scooting back in his chair, he got up and walked into the kitchen. When he saw a clean-enough glass on the counter, he grabbed it with his right hand while he reached for the bottle of Jameson’s with his left. Pouring himself a healthy measure, he raised the glass to his lips. Midway there, he realized what he was doing and emptied the glass into the sink.

  I hope that makes you happy, Tisha.

  Not in the mood for a drink, not in the mood to eat, he wandered over to the bank of windows that lined one entire wall of the loft. Listlessly, he stared at the streetscape below. Truth be told, he didn’t feel like doing much of anything.

  Seven days. That’s all it had been. Yet for some reason it seemed like he and Tisha had spent a lifetime together.

  Chapter 20

  Brooklyn, New York

  Six months later

  “Don’t stand so close.” The petite blonde who stood in the doorway of the New Life Women’s Shelter defensively crossed her arms over her chest. “Tall men give me the creeps.”

  Obliging the cagey blonde’s request, Mick stepped away from the etched glass entryway and set his toolbox on the front stoop. In his line of work, having a 6’3” frame often came in handy, particularly when dealing with a dangerous perp. Not so handy when dealing with a suspicious woman who obviously thought that he was some no-account wife abuser trying to connive his way through the front door of the women’s shelter.

  “Sorry—” he read the name badge affixed to her plaid shirt—“Marlene. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” Hoping to alleviate her qualms, Mick pulled a NYPD business card out of his breast pocket and handed it to her.

  Marlene examined his card. “What? Am I supposed to be impressed with this?”

  “Most people are,” Mick grumbled.

  “You know, anybody can have a business card printed.”

  Because it was a beautiful spring morning, Mick had awakened with an inexplicable urge to do something worthwhile on his day off. Going head to head with a skittish peroxide blonde hadn’t been on the day’s agenda.

  “The last time I was here at the shelter, I noticed that you guys needed some repair work done around the place.” He gestured to the large Victorian foyer on the other side of the entryway. “There’s a water stain on the ceiling. Since it’s obvious that there’s a leak in the upstairs plumbing, I thought that I’d lend a hand and fix it for you.” Mick knew that places like the New Life Women’s Shelter were always scrambling for funds, and upkeep was often shoved to the wayside. That was why he was there, toolbox at the ready.

  Marlene’s eyes narrowed as she gave him a wary appraisal. “Do you mean to say that one of Brooklyn’s Finest is actually gonna volunteer his free time to help the poor, abused women of the world?”

  Because Brooklyn’s Finest were often hamstrung by the law when it came to domestic abuse cases, Mick knew that there were plenty of battered women who held a misplaced grudge against law enforcement. He figured that
Marlene was one of those women.

  Not in the mood to argue, he said, “Let me speak to Judy.”

  “Judy?” One side of Marlene’s mouth turned downward at the corner. “Nope. No one here by that name.”

  “Judy Lowenstein… she runs this place.” At least she did the last time Mick dropped by.

  “Not since her father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. You wanna speak to Trish Jergen? She’s the new shelter director.”

  At last. We’re finally getting somewhere.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I would very much like to speak to Ms. Jergen.”

  “Too bad. She’s at a city council meeting.”

  Mick rolled his eyes heavenward, wondering what an honest, well-intentioned cop had to do to volunteer a little bit of time for a good cause. “Okay. When do you expect her back?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “How about you give me your best guess,” he muttered. Marlene’s shtick was starting to wear thin.

  “Within the hour.”

  Mick glanced at this watch. Obviously he’d made a mistake earlier when, acting on pure impulse, he’d jumped into his truck and headed over to the women’s shelter. I got better things to do on my day off. I’m outta here.

  Ready to hit the road, he reached for his toolbox. Only to change his mind a split-second later.

  “Listen, I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me inside so that I can get started on the plumbing job,” he entreated, suddenly deciding to stay the course rather than take his leave. “That kind of repair work takes time.”

  After gracing him with several seconds of guarded scrutiny, Marlene finally stepped aside, allowing Mick to enter the brownstone. “Before you get started on the plumbing, how about changing this overhead light fixture? I bought a new one the other day, but we don’t have the money to hire an electrician to install it.” She gestured to the ancient ceiling lamp that precariously dangled over their heads. “Do you think you can handle that?”

  Mick came very close to snidely informing Marlene that he could handle anything that she lobbed at him. Instead, swallowing his pride, he said, “Just show me where the circuit box is located. Then tell me where I can find a ladder.”

  Ten minutes later, Mick was eight feet up in the air, braced on top of the ladder. He had a pair of safety goggles perched on the bridge of his nose and a screwdriver in hand. In the process of unscrewing the old fixture from the metal bracket, he heard the front door open and close.

  “Who are you? And what do you think you’re doing on top of that ladder?” an unidentified female demanded in a raised tone of voice.

  Mick’s gut painfully tightened. Hearing the woman’s imperious tone of voice instantly called to mind another imperious female.

  Shoving the six-month-old memory back into cold storage, he took a deep, stabilizing breath before he craned his neck to glance at the woman who’d just entered the foyer. Whoever she was, she was tall, probably in the neighborhood of 5’10”, with a long mane of unbound black hair. Because she sported a pair of round, granny-style sunglasses, Mick couldn’t get a full gauge on her expression. Although the tightened lips didn’t bode well.

  “The name’s Mick Giovanni. And no wisecracks about how many Italians it takes to change a light bulb, okay?”

  While his self-deprecating gibe didn’t elicit a smile, it did soften the lines around her mouth.

  “Very well, Mr. Giovanni. That takes care of my first question. Now, do you mind telling me what exactly you’re doing in my foyer?”

  “What it does it look like I’m doing? I’m changing the light fixture.” It was on the tip of his tongue to inform Her Highness that he was also doing her a favor. “So, who might you be?” Other than a pain in the ass.

  “I’m the shelter director, Trish Jergen. And not only do I not care for your attitude, Mr. Giovanni, but I had fully intended to change that light fixture myself.”

  So the imperious Ms. Jergen wanted some Brooklyn ‘attitude’, did she?

  Screwdriver in hand, Mick climbed down the ladder. Once on solid ground, he purposely walked over to Trish Jergen. Shoving his safety glasses to the top of his head, he snatched hold of her right hand and slapped the screwdriver against her palm.

  “Go for it,” he said with a challenging smirk.

  “Really, Mr. Giovanni!” She yanked off her sunglasses, focusing the full might of her gray-eyed glare directly at him.

  For several drawn-out seconds, they went eyeball to eyeball.

  Christ. Poleaxed, Mick couldn’t tear his gaze away from Trish Jergen’s eyes.

  At that moment, all of the arcane stuff that Phoebe Mazursky had rattled about soul mates and karmic destinies suddenly coalesced into one big kernel of instant enlightenment.

  “When next you two meet, you will know. The recognition will be that palpable.”

  “Did you just say ‘really’ in an indignant, huffy tone of voice?” he asked her.

  Trish stared at him as though he’d up and lost his mind. And, considering the absolutely crazy-ass notion that he was currently entertaining, maybe he had.

  A few seconds into their showdown, the lady capitulated. “Yes, I believe that I did say ‘really’ in an indignant, huffy tone of voice.”

  Mick grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

  “However, I have no intention of issuing an apology for having used that tone of voice with you,” she informed him in the next instant.

  “And I don’t expect you to.” Mick’s shoulders started to shake with silent laughter. “For starters, it would be completely out of character.”

  At hearing that, Trish Jergen’s head jerked slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What I meant to say is: how about I buy you dinner tonight?”

  “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Putting a hand on her hip, Trish regarded him undisguised skepticism. “But I don’t even know you.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mick said, grinning from ear to ear. “We can figure that part out after dinner.”

  “What part?”

  Mick hesitated, uncertain how much to divulge.

  Midway into his deliberation, he suddenly remembered that Phoebe had been adamant he’d only have one chance to get it right. That the decisions he made would either lead him to his lost love. Or steer him far afield.

  Only one chance.

  “The part about me and you having known each other over the centuries,” he told her, taking the plunge.

  Waiting with the proverbial bated breath, Mick watched the play of emotions that crossed Trish Jergen’s face. First, there was bewilderment. Followed a few seconds later by a guarded curiosity. Then, after a lengthy pause, an intrigued fascination. And in that instant, Mick knew, knew with all the certainty that a man could have, that he was looking eternity in the face.

  God Almighty, I actually found her.

  Her eyes crinkling at the corners, Trish returned his smile. “You, Mick Giovanni, have got yourself a date.”

  About the Author

  Chloe Palov, writing romance as Chloe Douglas, was born in Washington, D.C., and graduated from George Mason University with a degree in art history. Although she began her writing career in the romance genre, Chloe switched gears several years ago, making the leap to thrillers, written under the name C.M. Palov. Chloe is excited now to be returning to her romance roots. Chloe lives and writes with a menagerie of furry family members from her home in Virginia.

  ChloeDouglasBooks.com

  http://facebook.com/ChloeDouglasBooks

  Please see the next page for a preview of

  Chloe Douglas’s next novel Our Time is Now.

  Chapter 1

  “Give ’em hell, boys!”

  Although late in the day, the sulfurous tang of gunpowder hung thickly in the air as volley after volley of intense firing raged between the two battle lines. Trying to rally his troops, a blue-clad officer scrambled over a rocky ravine waving a bayo
net. A group of soldiers followed close behind, the thrill of combat gleaming in their eyes.

  Rising from an earthen embankment, a line of gray-uniformed skirmishers met them head-on, yelling raucously as they fired their muskets.

  Jessica Reardon jerked like a puppet on a string, startled to find herself in the path of a charging cavalry trooper. Before she could leap out of the way, the soldier’s mount came to an abrupt halt, showering her sneakers with a layer of dirt. The uniformed rider thrust his arm in her direction, the elaborate gold braid on his gray coat sleeve glistening in the fading sunlight.

  “Miss Reardon, the 4th Cavalry under the command of General Sitwell is preparing to charge. Are you ready to shoot?”

  Jessica removed the lens cap from the camera that hung around her neck. “Ready to fire at will, Captain Stoddard.”

  It was the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Lewis Creek, and as a reporter for The Greenbrier Dispatch, Jessica was there to cover all the action. The event had drawn throngs of Civil War reenactors, intent on recreating a bit of West Virginia history. Although, one hundred and fifty years ago, it’d been hotly contested as to whether this area of the eastern Alleghenies belonged to the Commonwealth of Virginia or to the newly formed state of West Virginia.

  “Ma’am, would it be impertinent to ask if you will be in attendance at this evening’s regimental ball?”

  Jessica gulped, unnerved to discover that beneath Captain Stoddard’s nineteenth-century uniform and courtly manners, there lurked a twenty-first century man on the make. “To tell you the truth, Captain Stoddard—”