The Mammoth Book of Time Travel Romance (2 page)

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, fantasy-based, modern subgenres like paranormal romance and urban fantasy pushed to the fore to blossom into overnight sensations.
¹
Suddenly 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 Romance
is just one of many fresh, modern reassessments of time travel romance (think of the current much-hyped release of the film
The 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 about
time
?

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 their
quinceañera
,” 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 in
The 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.

Cute? Kate looked again. He
was
cute in a sort of teddy-bear kind of way. There was something about middle age that lurked sexily beneath the surface of some men. Some men, like some women, didn’t earn their attractiveness stripes until much later in life. But he was way too old for Kate. What was Becky thinking?

Patrick was smiling. “A frosted watermelon blur.”

“Moondance” had ended. The guitar player hunched over the mic. “When a ma-an loves a woman …” Kate caught Mark’s eye. This was number two on his list of “Top-Three Overplayed Wedding Songs”. She grinned.

“Kate,” Patrick began.

“Would you mind?” She put a staying hold on his sleeve. “I’m going to pop over there to say hello. Watch my stuff.”

The tweedy hue in his eyes sparkled. “Will do.”

The only good thing about the dress, Kate thought as she made her way across the room, was the fact the overlapping folds of satin made her B-cup breasts look twice as big as they actually were – though that sort of
trompe Voeil
was definitely a doubled-edge sword if said breasts were called on to make a live appearance.

Mark put down his drink and straightened. “I called it.”

“You did,” she said. “Two in a row. Know any other party tricks?”

“Yeah, but the last time he did it,” Mark’s friend said, “the other ponies got jealous.”

Kate giggled, and Mark gave them both a good-natured smile. He sensed the infinitesimal pause and handled it deftly. “Kate, this is my room-mate at Penn, P.J.; P.J., this is Kate Garrett. Mayor’s office, right?”

Kate nodded and shook P.J.’s hand. “You going to law school, too?”

“I wish. Archaeology. All that logic stuff is beyond me. I’m more of a shovel man. If two sharp whacks with a blunt instrument doesn’t take care of the problem, it’s out of my league.”

Kate laughed again and P.J. beamed.

Mark offered his hand. “Can I assume you’d be interested in a few moments of living
la vida loca?”

“My Spanish sucks,” P.J. said. “Do I need to deck him for you?”

“Gracias pero no
,” Kate said and added to Mark, “I would love to.”

He led her by the hand to a relatively empty spot on the parquet and began to dance. While no Ricky Martin, he moved with exuberance and responded to Kate’s moves with a happy ease. He even managed to lead her through an under-the-arm twirl. Kate found herself smiling even more than she’d expected.

“I’m sitting next to the guy you came with.” Kate had to raise her voice as the band was bringing the song into its final lap.

“P.J.?” Mark was doing a very funny move as he avoided the violent rhythmic swinging of a beaded scarf belonging to a woman who’d apparently been waiting all her life to dance to “La Vida Loca”.

“No,” Kate said. “Him.”

But when Mark turned in the direction she pointed, the table was empty.

“Unless this guy hid in the trunk, I can assure you, it was just P.J. and I in the car.”

“He said he knew you. Older guy. Medium height, grey eyes, named, um – Oh, wait, there he is.”

But when Mark turned again, the scarf nailed him. He clutched his eye, wincing. “I think I got some spangle in my eye.”

Kate led him off the floor and scored some eye drops from one of the contact-wearing bridesmaids, but Mark kept closing his lid whenever he tried to apply it.

“Jesus, you’re worse than my three-year-old nephew,” she said.

“I -I – It’s my eye, you know,” he whined.

“Now you’re sounding like him, too.”

She ordered him on to his back on the floor and was pleased to see him submit without a complaint. Then she told him to close his eyes.

“The last time this happened,” he complained, “I ended up with a bad case of crabs and someone else’s shoes.”

“You’ll be pleased to know you are in danger of neither tonight.”

“I don’t know if ‘pleased’ is the word I’d use,” he muttered slyly, and she gave him a look.

She had to hang over practically on top of him to get the right angle. He smelled like the really expensive French-milled soap she once found in the bathroom of the re-election campaign’s biggest donor. She wondered if she’d ever smell as good. “Now, close,” she ordered, and when he did, she let one eye drop fall into the inside corner of each eye. “Open.”