Only Yesterday

by Webb, Peggy

  "Anthony's coming home." Her face was tight, her smile exaggerated, her skin hot.

  "His plane went down in the Pacific."

  "No." She raised a hand to stop him.

  "He was a hero, Miss Harris. He died for his country.”

  "NOOO!"

  "I'm sorry, Miss Harris. If there's anything I can do for you . . ." His voice trailed off, and finally Lieutenant James set the knapsack on the front porch. His footsteps sounded like cannon fire on the porch floor. At the steps he paused, then turned back to her.

  "If it makes you feel any better, Miss Harris, he was a damned fine soldier and a gentleman."

  Her face was frozen, her voice locked, her feet nailed down.

  The day was beautiful in the sun, as bright as the wings of a bluebird. She and Anthony would go sailing when he got home. They would picnic on the beach, then when the sun went down and the moon came up, they'd swim naked with nothing but the stars to keep them company . . . when Anthony got home.

  She would put on her white dress and walk down the aisle, and he would be waiting for her at the altar, when he got home. Anthony would lift her off her feet and twirl her around when he got home. He would . . .

  Pain knocked her to her knees. She buried her face in his knapsack, sobbing. Anthony was not coming home. He would never come home.

  Annie grabbed the knapsack and hurled it as far as she could. "You promised," she screamed. "You promised."

  Blinded by tears, she raced into the house.

  "Charlotte Ann," her mother called, but Annie kept on going.

  The clock was sitting on her bedside table, marking time until they would meet again.

  "You said you would come for me. You promised."

  Her hand closed over the cold plastic clock, and she collapsed onto the bed, hugging it close.

  Outside a sudden summer storm burst over the land, and the room was suddenly bright with lightning.

  "Charlotte Ann?" Her mother's voice was faint and far away.

  Another burst of brilliant light. Then she was sucked into a funnel of darkness.

  "Anthony . . . Anthony . . ."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The candle burned low, the air shimmered with electrical currents, and the clock lay on its side on the attic floor, split in half.

  Ann pressed her hands to her temples, trying to ease the pressure. Images crowded in on her, and raw emotions threatened her sanity. The images were vague, like something she might have dreamed long ago, and yet they were far more compelling than dream memories.

  Had they traveled through time, as Colt had suggested? Was he Anthony Chance? Was she Charlotte Ann Harris?

  What was the truth? And would she ever know?

  "The letters," she said suddenly.

  "They're all in the trunk."

  "Not Anthony's letters to my grandmother." She raced to the trunk. "Her letters to him."

  She knelt and scrambled frantically through the contents of the trunk. There were Anthony's letters to Charlotte Ann, a silk shawl, a box of photographs, a paper rose, a diamond ring, a silk dressing gown, a pair of satin mules, and in the bottom a wedding gown, wrapped in blue tissue paper.

  But no letters from Charlotte Ann Harris to Anthony Chance.

  Flushed, she looked at Colt. "They're not here. Her letters are not here."

  Colt knelt beside her and chafed her hands as if she were a shock victim he'd recently pulled from a burning fire. Which wasn't far from the truth.

  "It's all right, Annie," Colt said. "Everything's going to be all right."

  He handed her a mug of instant coffee. "Drink this. It's cold, but the jolt of caffeine is just what you need."

  Her mind was whirling like a merry-go-round, and while she sipped she tried to make sense of the strange events.

  "Better?" Colt said.

  "Better." She managed a smile. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure."

  "I don't know why. I've been a real witch."

  "Never a dull moment with you, Annie."

  She didn't protest about the name this time. Instead she concentrated on gaining control of herself.

  When she'd finished the coffee, Colt set the mug aside, then settled on the floor beside her, close but not touching. Just looking at him was temptation enough. She was grateful for small favors.

  "How did you know about your grandmother's letters?"

  How did she? They weren't in the trunk. She couldn't have seen them. Before the hurricane she hadn't known about the engagement to Anthony Chance, so nobody in the family would have mentioned them.

  But she remembered them so clearly. The way Charlotte Ann described waiting in the house Anthony had built, the terms of endearment she used, the gut-deep fear that she would lose the love of her life.

  Ann had a floating sensation, as if her spirit were circling somewhere in another realm and her body had been left behind on the attic floor.

  "Don't you know, Annie?" Colt took her hands and placed a tender kiss in her palms. "We're the lovers in those letters. Anthony Chance finally kept his word to his Annie."

  What he said felt so right, so perfect. Their instant attraction, their striking likeness to the lovers, the way Colt used Anthony's exact phrases, the compelling sense of déjà vu. It all made sense in light of what Colt was saying.

  And yet, believing him meant taking a giant leap of faith in a realm as misunderstood as it was mystical. It meant discounting such things as logic and common sense and carefully laid plans.

  And it meant breaking Rob's heart.

  "I don't believe you," she said.

  "Didn't you learn anything when you went back the second time?"

  "I didn't go back in time. I had a small blackout spell, that's all."

  "How do you explain your knowledge of your grandmother's letters?"

  "Logic. Anthony wrote to her. She must have written back."

  Colt plucked the paper rose from the trunk.

  "Remember this?"

  Flashes. Images. The breakfast tray, the smell of the new house, the wrenching pain of good-bye. Where did it all come from? What was happening to her?

  She shook her head, unwilling to admit what she was seeing, feeling.

  "Yes," she said. "I remember. When I searched the trunk I found the rose tucked between the folds of my grandmother's silk dressing gown."

  Was that disappointment she saw on his face? Disapproval? Heartbreak? She couldn't bear to look.

  The attic suddenly felt small and stifling.

  "How soon do you think we can leave?" she said.

  "As soon as it's safe."

  "What's your best estimate?"

  "I'm no magician, Annie . . . merely a reincarnation."

  "Don't say that!"

  In New York she'd always been in command, no matter what the situation. Nosy landlords, bossy art gallery owners, snobbish clients, lovers’ spats—she was equal to them all. And yet storm-trapped in the attic with one handsome man, she couldn't seem to control anything, least of all her feelings.

  More than anything in the world she wanted to touch Colt, merely touch him. And it was broad daylight. What would happen when it got dark?

  Without warning the tears started. She tried to dash them away with the back of her hand, but they kept coming.

  "I'm sorry. I'm really not a crybaby. I don't know what's the matter with me."

  o0o

  Colt couldn't bear her tears. Furthermore, he couldn't bear to be the cause of her tears.

  "There now." He took her in his arms. "Go ahead and let it all out. After the last few days you deserve a good cry.”

  "You think so?" Her smile was watery.

  "Indeed, I do."

  "I hope you have a handkerchief handy."

  "If we run out of linen, you can use the tail of my shirt."

  She hiccuped once, then boo-hooed in earnest. He patted her shoulder and smoothed her hair and murmured words of comfort and generally enjoyed the hell out of the moment, wh
ich would have made absolutely no sense to him if it hadn't been for his recent experience.

  If anyone had told him two weeks before that he'd be claiming the identity of a man who died in a plane crash in World War II, he'd have said they were crazy. But in light of his incredible journey back through time, he now understood things that had made no sense to him. For instance, the way he dated then discarded women, like a man constantly searching.

  He had been, of course. Searching for Annie. And now that he'd found her, he'd be damned if he was going to let her go.

  But neither would he push. He was a patient man. He could wait a few more weeks, even months. After all, he'd already waited more than fifty years.

  Charlotte Ann Harris had loved Anthony Chance. But that was another time. The trick was to make Charlotte Ann Debeau love Colt Butler, a man she knew very little about.

  He pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of the jeans he'd been wearing and handed it to her.

  "Thanks." She wiped her face and blew her nose. "I must be a mess."

  "You are, but a gorgeous mess."

  "My nose gets red when I cry. Like Rudolph's."

  "Like a rose."

  She laughed. He loved that about her, that she could go from tears to laughter in a heartbeat.

  "You're a hard man not to like, Colt Butler."

  "I'm a hard man."

  "You'll be happy to know, I've decided not to take offense at anything else you say. After all, you risked your life for me."

  "Shoot. Where's the fun in being a pain in the butt if I can't get a rise out of you."

  He'd made her smile again. That was progress.

  "No more talk of the past," he said.

  "Agreed." Relief flooded her face.

  "What do you say we share another pastry and then head to bed?"

  She glanced toward the pallet they'd shared, and her cheeks turned pink "I'm not all that sleepy," she said, suppressing a yawn.

  "I am." He dragged the chaise longue out of the dusty corner of the attic and spread the best of the covers over it. "Miss Ann Debeau, your bed."

  "What about you?"

  "For the duration of our stay, I'm claiming the floor." A stubborn look crossed her face. "No argument," he added.

  "Okay. No argument."

  She settled onto the chaise and pulled the covers up. Colt blew out the candle, then wrapped himself in the patchwork quilt.

  "Good night, Annie."

  " 'Night, Colt."

  A single star lit the attic window, as bright as a promise.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The minute Ann woke up she sensed a change. Dust swirled and danced in the patches of sun that shone through the window. She turned her head slowly and saw Colt at the window, resignation in every line of his body.

  Ann lay still under the covers watching him, her heart in such tumult, she thought she was going to split in half. Something alerted him—a sigh, a breath, a thought.

  "Annie?" He pivoted and smiled at her, but it was not his usual carefree grin. "You're awake."

  "Yes." She threw back the covers. "I see the sun's out."

  Barefoot, she joined him at the window. His arm slid around her, and she leaned against his shoulder as naturally as a willow bends into the wind. His boat, lashed to the magnolia tree, drifted the length of its rope, swaying gently. The angry force of the waves had carried away all the debris, and nothing stood between them and the boat except a shining expanse of water.

  "I'll swim out and get the boat," he said. She nodded, too full of emotion to speak. "Get whatever you want to take with you. I'll get as close to the window as possible."

  "It's over, then."

  He cupped her face. "It's not over, Annie. It will never be over between us."

  He kissed her softly, then with a wink and a smile he climbed out the window.

  "Be careful," she called after him, then watched until he was safely in the boat.

  The only thing she took besides her toiletries was her Felix the Cat clock. Then touching the dried roses Colt had given her, she made a promise. "I'll be back for you, later."

  A beam of sunlight illuminated her grandmother's portrait as Ann climbed out the window.

  o0o

  News of the dramatic rescue reached the press, and reporters were waiting for them. Bulbs flashed and microphones were stuck into their faces as Colt helped Ann from the little boat.

  The reporters shouted a barrage of questions: "Miss Debeau? What was it like being stranded in Windchime House? How long were you there? How did you manage for three days? What are your plans now?"

  She answered all their questions as briefly as possible, and then they turned their attention to Colt.

  "Mr. Butler, what made you risk your life for Miss Debeau?"

  Colt looked at her, and she saw the answer in his eyes.

  "In any rescue operation, there's always risk," he told reporters, his face giving away nothing.

  "Yes, but this one was particularly risky." The woman from the Times Picayune pushed her way forward. "What made you do it?"

  "Miss Debeau has been through a terrible ordeal. I'm sure you'll understand if we cut this interview short."

  Colt put his arm around her and whisked her away.

  "Thanks," she whispered.

  "No problem." He ushered her into his car.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "My place. You'll have more privacy there than at a motel."

  o0o

  His place, as he so modestly called it, was an enormous polo ranch on Highway 32 east of Point Clear. In spite of the damage from high winds and torrential rains, the estate was lush and inviting, peaceful in the way of country estates with acres of woods and sparkling lakes and rolling meadows as far as the eye could see.

  Horses grazed in fields and frolicked in the paddocks. Birdsong and the perfume of summer flowers filled the air as if all of nature celebrated the end of the storm and the beginning of a season of promise.

  An old man who looked like a cross between a Santa Claus and a grizzly bear greeted them at the front door.

  "Annie, meet Uncle Pete."

  Colt's uncle took both her hands and kissed her warmly on the cheek. "You're Charlotte Ann's granddaughter," he said. "There's no mistaking the resemblance."

  "You knew her?"

  "Your granddaddy was a friend of mine. They boarded horses just down the road. He used to bring Charlotte Ann out here to ride."

  "I barely knew my granddaddy, and didn't know my grandmother at all. Perhaps you can tell me more about them."

  "Over chicken soup. You're skinny as a rail."

  Pete led the way to the kitchen, and Colt winked at Annie.

  "Don't let him intimidate you, Annie. He's spent thirty years trying to whip me into shape."

  Pete set two heaping bowls of soup on the table. "You'd still benefit from my advice, if only you'd listen." He sat beside Annie and nursed a big cup of coffee. "Colt never listens to a thing anybody says. He's always marched to his own drummer."

  "I'm sure Annie doesn't want to hear about me. Why don't you tell her more about her grandparents."

  On the contrary, Ann wanted very much to hear more about the man who had climbed through the attic window and stolen her heart, but she didn't tell him that. As long as she wore Rob's ring, she had no right to say such things.

  And even if she didn't wear his ring, she still had no right to assume a personal role in Colt's life simply because of what had happened in the attic. Until she could sort through those events, she was going to proceed with caution.

  "This soup is delicious," she said.

  "Thanks. I made it from scratch. I'm a darned good cook, if I do say so myself." His gaze slid from Ann to Colt, then back again. "I taught Colt everything I know about cooking."

  Ann laughed. "I thought his talents didn't extend beyond cold toaster pastries."

  "You haven't seen half his talents yet." Ann nearly choked on her soup. "Wait till you see him
ride. Do you like polo?"

  "Pete . . ."

  Colt's good-natured warning brought Pete back around to the subject of Ann's grandparents.

  "Let me see, now ... I knew Richard for many years. Everybody did. He was the postmaster of Fairhope."

  "Is that how he met my grandmother?"

  "Yep. During the war she was all the time going to pick up letters, and when the letters stopped, Richard went a-calling to see what was wrong. Your granddaddy was like that. A fine, caring man. He worshiped the ground Charlotte Ann walked on."

  Enthralled, Ann leaned across the table, devouring every word. Her parents had been interested only in their own lives, and Aunt Gilly hadn't been one to pass on oral family history. Not that Ann would have listened. Life occurred in stages, beginning with the self-centered stage that lasted from childhood through early adolescence. After that came the striving stage when getting through college and starting a career were all that mattered.

  Ann believed that everything happened in its own time. And now was the time for family history.

  Pete talked until she began to nod off.

  Colt took her hand. "Say good night, Uncle Pete. Annie's going to bed."

  "Are you always this bossy?" she asked on the upstairs landing.

  "It's one of my many talents." His grin was wicked. "You want to see my others?"

  "I'm too tired to rise to the bait."

  He opened the door to a spacious bedroom filled with antiques. Inside, he kissed her on the forehead.

  "That bed looks so inviting," she said.

  "Yes, it does."

  Suddenly self-conscious, she realized that their thoughts were straying in the same direction. Her theory about attraction being based on the element of danger vanished in a sigh.

  "Take off your clothes, Annie."

  "What?"

  "I'm going to wash them." Colt handed her a robe hanging on the peg behind the door. "You can wear this. And I think you'll find an old T-shirt of mine in the top drawer over there." He nodded toward a cherry highboy.

  "Thank you, Colt." She stepped back a discreet distance. "You've been more than kind."

  He kissed her hand. "You're more than welcome, Annie, my love."

  Everything that had been between them in the attic burst into full flower, and she was tempted right then and there to shed her clothes and lead him to the big double bed. So very tempted.