HF01 - Almost Forever

  Praise for Almost Forever

  “Deborah Raney books always captivate me! Almost Forever is a beautifully written and enthralling read. It made my heart sing, dance, cry, and turn more than a few flips!”

  —Cindy Woodsmall, New York Times bestselling author

  “As a Deborah Raney fan, I expected a great read and I got it. Almost Forever began with a gripping scene and held me enthralled to the end. Don’t miss this one!”

  —Karen Young, bestselling author of Blood Bayou and Missing Max

  Praise for Deborah Raney’s Clayburn Novels

  “Anyone who has loved and lost . . . and dared to love again . . . will celebrate Doug and Mickey’s journey.”

  —Kim Vogel Sawyer, bestselling author of My Heart Remembers

  “Deborah Raney writes from the heart with a story that probes the depth of human sorrow, the grit of endurance and the ability of love to rescue us when we’ve forgotten how to dream. Yesterday’s Embers will leave you warmed long after the last page.”

  —Harry Kraus, MD, bestselling author of Salty Like Blood

  “Two broken souls from different worlds. . . . A heartwarming tale, with a pulse-pounding finish.”

  —Creston Mapes, author of Dark Star (about Remember to Forget)

  “I was enthralled from start to finish . . . Raney’s books always touch the heart in deep ways that keep me thinking about the undercurrents long after I turn the last page. The Clayburn series is a keeper!”

  —Colleen Coble, author of The Lightkeeper’s Daughter

  Praise for Deborah Raney’s A Nest of Sparrows

  “Raney intertwines poignant moments with genuine humor and refuses to make her characters one-dimensional.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Readers will lose their hearts to the characters in this jewel of a story. Polished and excellently plotted, Raney’s novel is engrossing from start to finish.”

  —Romantic Times

  Almost Forever

  a hanover falls novel

  award-winning author

  Deborah Raney

  Published by Howard Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Almost Forever © 2010 by Deborah Raney

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Subsidiary Rights Department, Simon & Schuster, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  In association with the Steve Laube Agency

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Raney, Deborah.

  Almost forever : a Hanover Falls novel / Deborah Raney.

  p. cm.

  1. Married people—Fiction. 2. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3568.A562A79 2010

  813'.54—dc22 2009039515

  ISBN 978-1-4165-9991-3

  ISBN 978-1-4391-2362-1 (ebook)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  HOWARD and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact:

  Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Edited by Dave Lambert and Ramona Cramer Tucker

  Designed by Stephanie D. Walker

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  To my “Club Deb” friends:

  Debbie, Deb, Debbie

  Elaine

  Bev

  When I count my blessings, you guys are high on the list!

  Acknowledgments

  Many, many thanks to the following people for their part in bringing this story to life:

  For help with research, ideas, proofreading, and “author support,” I am deeply grateful to Rick Acker, Kenny and Courtney Ast, Ron Benrey, Tim Larson, Ryan and Tobi Layton, Mark Mynheir, Cara Putman, Terry Stucky, Max and Winifred Teeter, Courtney Walsh, the writers of ACFW, and especially the Kansas 8, who gave wings to my idea.

  So many of you prayed for me as I wrote this book. You’ll never know how much that means to me. And special thanks to Kim Peterson for praying me home—in writing—on the final week of finishing this book. What a blessing that was!

  To my critique partner and dear friend, Tamera Alexander, thank you for everything you add to my life. You are truly a gem.

  Thanks to the selfless directors and volunteers who keep homeless shelters all across our nation up and running, providing a much-needed service—and often a first introduction to Jesus—to those going through trying times.

  To my agent, Steve Laube: you’re the best! Deep appreciation to my wonderful editor, Dave Lambert, at Howard/Simon & Schuster, and to Ramona Cramer Tucker, who is always a delight to work with.

  To our precious children and grandchildren, and the amazing extended family God has given us: you all are the joy of my life.

  To my husband, Ken: it’s been a rough year, but I can’t think of anyone on earth I’d rather tough it out with than you, babe. May our next thirty-five years together be as blessed as the first thirty-five.

  “Fear not, for I have redeemed you;

  I have summoned you by name; you are mine.

  When you pass through the waters,

  I will be with you;

  and when you pass through the rivers,

  they will not sweep over you.

  When you walk through the fire,

  you will not be burned;

  the flames will not set you ablaze.

  For I am the LORD, your God,

  the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.”

  ISAIAH 43:1–3

  She started away

  from the building, not

  liking how dark it was

  out here . . .

  1

  Thursday, November 1

  Bryn drew the queen of diamonds from the stack of playing cards on the wobbly table between her and Charlie Branson. The grizzled Vietnam vet eyed her from his wheelchair as she discarded an ace. She put on her best poker face and pretended to rearrange her hand. From somewhere behind the peeling paint on the west wall, the pipes clanked in the bowels of the old hospital-turned-homeless-shelter, and the furnace kicked on. Not that it would raise the temperature in this mammoth icebox by one degree, but something about the hiss of radiators was comforting.

  Charlie drew a card from the tattered deck and flung it away too quickly. He must be close to going out. Good. It was two in the morning, and Bryn was hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before it was time to get breakfast going for the shelter’s residents.

  Her husband’s twenty-four-hour shift at the fire station ended tomorrow. Adam had said something about taking her to a matinee, and he’d be suspicious if she fell asleep during the movie. Of course, his invitation had come before their big fight. Knowing him, he’d still be brooding and they would stay home and sulk—or argue.

  Bryn shifted i
n the chair and rubbed the small of her back. She’d foregone sleep to stay up and play cards with Charlie in an effort to settle him down. He and the new guy had gotten into it again, and Charlie had been too worked up to sleep. He’d balked at her suggestion to read, but she knew the real truth—he was lonely. Just needed someone to sit with him.

  Bryn had met Charlie at the library where she worked part-time. He was the most well-read man she knew, a fact that endeared him to Myrna Eckland, the library director at Hanover Falls’ public library. Myrna had given Charlie a few odd jobs in exchange for the right to spend his days reading in a quiet corner of the stacks before wheeling to the shelter each evening—after securing his word that he wouldn’t miss his daily shower, of course.

  Bryn slid the jack of diamonds from the draw pile and discarded it, but something made her stop and listen. Somewhere above them she heard an out-of-the-ordinary noise. She looked at Charlie. “Did you hear that? Shhh . . .”

  He put his free hand to his ear but shook his head. “I don’t hear anything, sis, but that don’t mean nothin’. My ears are no good.” He craned his neck toward the hallway, listening again. “It’s not the dogs, is it?”

  Zeke Downing, a new client at the shelter, had brought a bulldog pup named Boss with him when he checked in two weeks ago. The pup had nipped at Charlie’s dog, Sparky, the first day Zeke was here, and Charlie had gone ballistic.

  Sparky was a stray that Susan Marlowe, the shelter’s director, let the old vet claim. Susan made Charlie keep the dog chained outside and buy its food out of his VA disability pension. But Charlie loved the mutt, a Labrador mix. Any friend of Sparky’s was a friend of Charlie’s, and any enemy of Sparky better watch out.

  More than once, Zeke and Charlie had almost come to blows over the dogs. Bryn thought Sparky could take Boss without much effort, but Zeke was able-bodied and twice the size of Charlie. It would not be a pretty picture if the two men ever actually duked it out.

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “So help me, if that SOB let that mutt loose again . . .”

  “Charlie . . .” She shook her head and feigned a stern look. “You’d better not let Susan hear you use that kind of language.”

  “What? Mutt’s not a bad word.”

  “You know what I mean.” His smirk made it hard not to laugh. Bryn was mostly teasing, but Susan did have a zero-tolerance policy when it came to cursing.

  “I didn’t actually say anything.”

  “Yeah, but you know Susan . . . even initials are pushing it with her.”

  He rolled his eyes and fanned out his cards.

  “I don’t think Zeke’s even here tonight.” She held up a hand, listening for the sound again. “Besides, it doesn’t sound like dogs. Maybe it’s just a siren, but it sounds different . . . more like a squeal. You don’t have a battery going out in your hearing aid, do you?”

  Charlie laid down his cards, put his thick pinky finger to his ear, and twisted. “That better?”

  She shook her head. “I still hear it.”

  “This old building has so many creaks and groans I’m surprised anybody can sleep here. That’s the only good thing about these blame things”—he adjusted the other hearing aid—“I can just turn ’em off.”

  The noise didn’t sound quite like distant sirens, but nevertheless, she shot up a quick prayer for her husband the way she always did when she knew he might be out on a run. Guilt pinched her. Adam wasn’t even supposed to be on duty tonight. He was only there because she’d talked him into pulling an extra shift. Ironic, given all the grief she’d thrown at him about the long hours he worked.

  With Adam being low man on the totem pole, he always had to work holidays, and too many weekends. Sometimes Bryn wondered why they’d even bothered to get married if they were never going to be together. She thought she would go crazy if she had to spend one more long night alone in their little cracker box of a townhome. That was the whole reason she’d started volunteering here, taken the night shift. And how much worse would it be when they had kids?

  The faint noise droned on. She looked at the stained ceiling. “It almost sounds like it’s coming from upstairs.”

  Charlie shook his head and a glint of mischief came to his eyes. “Listen, girlie, if you’re just trying to weasel your way out of this game, you can forget it.” He drew another card and wriggled bushy eyebrows at her. “I’m about to clean your clock.”

  They took turns drawing and discarding cards in silence, but Bryn kept one ear tuned to the sound. Charlie was right: the noises in this old building had scared her to death the first time she’d worked the late shift. It was probably just the pipes creaking again, but it sounded different somehow tonight.

  Susan was in the dining room, sleeping. She’d told Bryn she would take the middle-of-the-night rounds, but Bryn decided she’d do a walk-through as soon as they finished this hand, just to be sure nothing was amiss.

  She’d almost forgotten about the noise when a dog started howling outside the building. Charlie’s head shot up. “Now, that I heard. That’s Sparky.” Pressing his forearms to the wheelchair’s armrests and lifting his rear off the seat, he repositioned himself. He picked up his cards, fanned them out in gnarled fingers, then laid them facedown on the cluttered table before maneuvering his chair backward. “I need to go check on him.”

  Bryn gave a little growl and jumped up. “Charlie Branson, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you put Sparky up to this. I am one card away from gin!”

  He gave a snort. “Don’t you worry, sis. I’ll be right back.”

  “Stay here. I’ll go see what’s up.” She scooted around Charlie’s chair and went to peek down the hallway. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but she jogged to the end of the hall, fumbling with the key on the lanyard around her neck as she ran. The doors to the shelter—housed in the building’s basement—were locked at eleven each night unless the smokers could talk the volunteers into letting them have one last cigarette before they turned in.

  Bryn punched in the code to disable the alarm, unlocked the door, and hurried up the short flight of stairs that led to the street-level parking behind the building. The November air hit her face, and her breath hung in a fog.

  Sparky was tied in his usual spot. He yanked at his chain, alternately yipping and howling. Sparky looked like a black Labrador in color and build, but Charlie was proud of the dog’s lack of a pedigree. “He’s a mutt like me . . . Heinz 57,” Charlie told anyone who asked.

  Bryn knelt and framed the silky black head in her hands. His ears were on alert and his hackles stood stiff. “Hey, boy,” she crooned. “What’s wrong? Is that mean doggie giving you trouble again? Huh? Is he?”

  But Zeke wasn’t on tonight’s sign-in list, and Boss wasn’t tied up out here.

  Bryn looked around to see if something else was causing Sparky’s excitement—maybe another animal—but the parking lot was empty except for her car and Susan’s, and the dilapidated old station wagon Tony Xavier lived in during the daylight hours when the shelter was closed.

  She shushed Sparky again and stroked his head as he pushed his muzzle into the cup of her hands. But the minute she turned toward the door, he started in yapping again.

  She went back and took him by the collar, unclipping the chain. “What’s wrong, fella? You want to go for a little walk?” She scratched his head and panned the parking lot.

  Dim light from the lone streetlight at the end of the lot caused the building to cast deep shadows. “You’re okay, boy. Let’s walk a little bit.”

  Sparky stood at her side, on alert, his breaths coming short, like he was on the trail of a rabbit.

  She tightened her grip on his collar and clicked her tongue like she’d heard Charlie do before he wheeled his chair around the bumpy parking lot, Sparky in tow. She started away from the building, not liking how dark it was out here, and already hearing Adam’s lecture if he found out she was here by herself at two in the morning—if he found out she was here at all. Spa
rky angled back toward the building.

  “What’s wrong, boy? I thought you wanted to go for a walk.”

  He kept tugging, so Bryn let him lead her back to the building. Making an odd whimpering noise, he angled toward the door.

  “Uh-uh, boy. Sorry. You know you’re not allowed. Come on, now. You go to sleep. Charlie’ll be out in the morning.”

  She leaned down to reattach his chain, but at the sudden bleep! bleep! bleep! of an alarm blasting, Sparky shook loose of her and took off around the side of the building. Stupid dog.

  But what was going on? She was certain she’d disabled the alarm before she came out.

  Leaving the dog, she ran back into the building. “Where’s Susan?” she shouted. Surely all the racket had awakened the director.

  “Haven’t seen her. What’s going on?” Charlie wheeled toward her, confusion clouding his face.

  “I don’t know. Could it be a fire drill? Do you have those here?” She’d only been volunteering at the shelter for three months, but they’d never had a fire drill while she was on call. Charlie would know, though. He was a fixture here.

  He waggled his chin at her. “Drills, yes, but never known ’em to do one at two o’clock in the morning.”

  According to Susan, Charlie was the first person they’d taken in when the shelter opened two years ago, and he’d been here ever since, in spite of a policy that discouraged long-term residency.

  Charlie made a three-point turn with his chair. “Sparky’s okay?”

  “He’s fine, but I took him off his chain, and he got away from me.” She had to shout over the blare of the fire alarms. She didn’t even know where the alarms were . . . where to shut them off. She fought to remember what she’d learned at the training sessions about the procedure in case of fire—and came up blank.

  She cast around the hallway, trying to think what to do next. Sixteen clients had signed in tonight, not counting the guys who worked night shift but had called to reserve beds for the night. Why wasn’t anybody awake? This shrieking was enough to wake the dead. But the hallway was empty except for her and Charlie.