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Authors: Tamera Alexander

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BOOK: Remembered
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Patrick addressed the gathering of friends, and time seemed to slow.

She couldn’t see Jack yet, though his face filled her mind. She scanned the crowd. What blessings God had given her in this new country. And what blessings she would have forfeited had she not followed God’s lead. She only wished her
maman
could see what her daughter’s journey had wrought.

Briefly bowing her head, Véronique touched the cameo at her neckline and went back in her mind to a world away, one more time, to a day treasured in memory—to the day when she’d painted the picture of Versailles. And she strolled the gardens, hand-in-hand, with her beloved
maman
and sat by the canal where the two of them had feasted on bread and wine and cheese. She imagined her life as a canvas and the events of it, miniscule brushstrokes. Seen up close they meant little. But when given perspective, each splash of color, every dab of paint, however small or large, dark or light, was meant for her eternal good. God had proven that in recent months.

And she prayed she would always remember.

The violin music resumed. The veil across the entrance parted. And Véronique lifted her gaze to see the rest of her life waiting for her at the end of the aisle.

————

Jack stoked the fire, wanting to give his new bride the time she needed. He’d checked the chimney twice to make sure smoke wasn’t leaking anywhere, and he resisted the urge to go back outside into the cool night air and check it again.

Their cabin was sound—what he’d built so far, anyway. Only two rooms, but he would add another before winter came, for Véronique’s father and Peter.

He glanced at their bedroom door, wondering how long she’d been in there. It felt like hours, yet the clock on the mantel told him that not much time had passed.

The wedding that morning would reside in his memory as nothing short of spectacular—all credit going to his new bride. It looked as though everyone in town had been in attendance, but he actually remembered very few faces.

As soon as Véronique had started down that aisle, everything and everyone had faded from view.

He glanced at the bedroom door again, then pulled out a chair and straddled it. He was debating whether to pour himself another glass of Miss Maudie’s cider, when the door opened.

He jumped to standing.

Véronique stepped out, and he swallowed, suddenly wishing he had something stronger than cider.

Her nightgown was fancier than anything he’d imagined her wearing tonight. Not that he was complaining. The way the gown hugged her in some places, while draping from others, brought a single overriding thought to his mind—marriage was a good thing.

“Would you like to have time to change, Jack?”

He stared at her, unable not to. “I don’t really . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t really have anything to change into.”

“In that case, when you are through in here” —she glanced behind her—“I’ll be in th—” “I’m through in here.”

She smiled, looked away, and then looked back again. Her tiny hands gently fisted and unfisted at her sides. Her gaze couldn’t seem to settle on any one thing.

Oh, how he loved this woman. He took her hand and led her into the bedroom. The room was warm, but he left the door ajar to share the heat from the hearth.

He walked to her side of the bed—or what he guessed was her side; they’d have to figure that out later—and turned down the covers.

Close beside him, she looked at the bed, then at him. “I am not yet ready for sleep, Jack.”

The tease in her voice prompted a grin. “That’s a good thing, because sleep’s about the last thing on my mind.”

He faced her and ran his hands slowly down her arms and back up again, letting them rest on her shoulders. He stepped closer until their bodies touched, and he kissed her like he’d wanted to since that first time on the trail.

She tasted like cider and cloves and something else sweet. Her hands moved over him, tentative at first but growing more confident as the kiss progressed.

She suddenly drew back and gazed up at him. “Jack?”

“Yes?” he whispered.

She ran a hand over his chest, lingering on the buttons of his shirt. “I have been considering something.”

He quelled a groan. He loved talking to her, but talking wasn’t exactly highest on his list right then.

She pressed close and wove her arms around his waist. “Some time ago, I passed by a shop window and . . . something drew my attention. Since then, it is all I think about. In fact, I can think of nothing else.”

He would agree to buy her just about anything right now if they could just continue what they’d been doing.

“I was not looking, you understand.” She slowly raised a brow. “But it caught my eye.”

And that’s when he understood. Jack pulled her closer, doing his best not to smile. Starting at the nape of her neck, he traced a feathersoft path down her back with his hand. “Is that so?”

She shivered and a promising look moved into her eyes. “If it is agreeable to you, Monsieur Brennan,” she whispered, “I would very much like to . . . buy a bonnet. One that was made especially for me.”

Jack tilted her face so her mouth would meet his. “That was made especially for us both,
mon amour
.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Jesus, your mercy is immeasurable, and my need for it—the same. To Joe, thank you for spending the better part of a day meandering through Cimetière de Montmartre with me. I’ll never forget that experience, and what came from it. Kelsey and Kurt, God gave you both to us, and I couldn’t be more thankful. It’s with eager anticipation that your dad and I look forward to the unfolding of your lives.

To Deborah Raney, your wonderful critiques are better than Iced White Chocolate Mochas! I love the way you push me. Don’t ever let up! To Lauren Miller Gonikishvili, thanks for sharing your knowledge of the French language. Blessings in your new marriage, and any mistakes in French . . . are my own. To Karen Schurrer, my editor, if books are “babies” then this one sure had a long birth, my friend. Thanks for your patience and for being open to my changes in the story upon my return from Paris. To Charlene Patterson, Jolene Steffer, Ann Parrish, and Sharon Asmus . . . your touches are all over this book, and your encouragement means the world to me. To Doug and June Gattis, my parents, my thanks for reading this manuscript in varying stages, and for always asking for more! To Dr. Fred Alexander, my favorite father-in-law, my appreciation for donning your editor’s cap once again. You wear it well! To Virginia Rogers and Suzi Buggeln, your comments while I write always challenge and encourage! To Naila Kling, my unofficial “Publicist Extraordinaire,” your “word of mouth” skills are unmatched, my dear! And your check is in the mail!

I offer my deepest thanks to you, my readers, who have written numerous letters and e-mails asking to know more about Larson and Kathryn Jennings, Matthew and Annabelle Taylor, and most of all . . . sweet Sadie. My appreciation for how you’ve embraced these characters and their stories. You could not pay me a greater compliment. Until we meet again in the next series (coming in 2008), I pray God’s richest blessings upon you and would love to hear from you!

————

TAMERA ALEXANDER is a bestselling novelist whose deeply drawn characters, thought-provoking plots, and poignant prose resonate with readers. Having lived in Colorado for seventeen years, she and her husband now make their home in Tennessee, where they enjoy life with their two college-age children and a silky terrier named Jack.

Tamera invites you to visit her Web site at
www.tameraalexander.com
or write her at the following postal address:

Tamera Alexander
P.O. Box 362
Thompson’s Station, TN 37179

BOOK: Remembered
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