All Our Tomorrows. Irene Hannon

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      “Can I walk you to your car?”

      Surprised, Caroline shook her head. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. The parking lot’s right behind the building. I’m just going to set the night alarm, then head down the alley.”

      David gave the dim passage a quick look. “I’d feel better about it if you’d let me see you to your car. My mother always told me that a gentleman should never let a lady walk down a dark alley alone.” His lips quirked into a grin.

      David was a gentleman, no question about that, Caroline reflected. Even her mother would approve. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if they were dating or anything.

      But I wish we were.

      The startling thought came to her unbidden. How could she think such a thing? This was the brother of the man she’d loved—and lost. The man she still loved. She wasn’t interested in getting involved with any man, let alone David.

      But she had to admit to herself that she found David’s presence in the alley—and her life—comforting. He made her feel protected, cared for. And special somehow.

      IRENE HANNON

      is an award-wining author who has been a writer for as long as she can remember. She “officially” launched her career at the age of ten, when she was one of the winners in a “complete-the-story” contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. More recently, Irene won the coveted RITA^® Award for her Love Inspired book Never Say Goodbye. The RITA^® Award, which is given annually by Romance Writers of America, is considered the “Oscar” of romance fiction. Irene, who spent many years in an executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company, now devotes herself full-time to her writing career.

      In her spare time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions, singing in the church choir, gardening, cooking and spending time with family and friends. She and her husband, Tom—an ordained cleric who juggles ecclesiastical duties with a career in international sales—make their home in Missouri.

      Irene invites you to visit her Web site at www.irenehannon.com.

      All Our Tomorrows

      Irene Hannon

      MILLS & BOON

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      He has made everything appropriate to its time.

      —Ecclesiastes 3:11.

      With thanks and gratitude to the Lord for the

       many blessings that have graced my life.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      “You’ll never guess who I saw today.”

      Caroline reached for a roll and gave her mother a bemused glance. She never won at this game, which had become a standard part of their weekly dinner. Judy James knew more people than the President of the United States. Or so it seemed. “I haven’t a clue, Mom.”

      “Guess anyway.”

      Instead of responding, Caroline popped a chunk of the crusty roll into her mouth, savoring the fresh-baked flavor. No question about it—her mom was a whiz in the kitchen, even if she did have a few idiosyncrasies. Like her penchant for outrageous hats. And her eclectic taste in decorating, thankfully confined to the family room, which had done time as a South Seas beach shack, a Japanese tea house and a Victorian parlor—to name but a few of its incarnations. In light of those eccentricities, Caroline supposed this silly guessing game was a tame aberration. And it was one she felt obliged to indulge, considering how much she owed her mother, who had been a rock during the difficult months when grief had darkened Caroline’s world, blinding her to everything but pain and loss. She couldn’t have made it through that tragic time without the support of the older woman sitting across from her.

      “Okay. How about…Marlene Richards.”

      A thoughtful expression crossed Judy’s face. “Goodness, I haven’t had any news of Marlene in quite a while. Whatever made you think of her?”

      “I reviewed an obit today for a Maureen Richards for the next edition of the paper. No relation, it turns out. But it made me think of Marlene. She was a good Sunday school teacher. A bit unconventional, but all the kids loved her. I wonder what ever happened to her?”

      “When she retired, she went on a mission trip to Africa. Liked it so much, she stayed. Last I heard, she lived in a little village somewhere back in the bush and taught school.”

      At her mother’s prompt and thorough response, Caroline smiled and shook her head. “How in the world do you do that?”

      “What?”

      “Keep tabs on so many people.”

      “I make it a point to stay connected. And speaking of staying connected…do you want to guess again?”

      “Nope.” Focusing her attention on the appetizing pot roast, Caroline cut a generous bite and speared it with her fork.

      “All right. Then I’ll tell you. David Sloan.”

      The hunger gnawing at Caroline’s stomach suddenly turned into an ache that spread to her heart, and her hand froze halfway to her mouth. “David Sloan?”

      “Yes. Isn’t that a strange coincidence? I was at the post office, and as I was leaving I must have dropped my scarf, because the next thing I knew this nice young man came up from behind and handed it to me. He looked familiar, but it took me a few seconds to place him. He didn’t remember me, of course. We only met that one time, just for a few minutes and under such sad circumstances. But when I introduced myself, the oddest expression came over his face.” Judy tilted her head in the manner of an inquisitive bird. “Kind of like the one on yours right now.”

      Caroline lowered her fork to her plate, the pot roast untouched. David Sloan. Her fiancé’s brother—and the man who bore at least some measure of responsibility for his death. For a moment, the taste of resentment was sharp and bitter on her tongue, chasing away the fresh flavor of her mother’s homemade roll. But then her conscience kicked in, dissipating her resentment with a reminder that she bore the lion’s share of responsibility for the tragedy—and