All The Time In The World

By Zoë Chambers

Victoria Grey is looking to make a new start after the death of her husband, but she gets more than she bargained for.

She can’t stand the thought of returning to her roots in Georgia and conforming to her old-fashioned mother’s expectations. Instead, she chooses what seems to be a peaceful new home near Richmond, Virginia, and settles in to deal with her pain.

But Tory is soon brought to the realization that she’s not alone in the house. She meets and begins an awkward friendship with William, the spirit of a soldier who died late in the American Revolution. Slowly, their bond grows stronger, and Tory begins to wonder just how crazy she really is, being so content to spend her time with a ghost.

Enter Steve Gundersen, a young man who lives just down the street. A little gawky, yet somehow charming in his shyness, he makes it obvious that he wants more than just friendship from Tory. She’s flattered by his interest, and somewhat relieved at the thought of having a relationship with a live person; she eventually agrees to date him, something that doesn’t sit well with William at all.

This triangle grows more pronounced as time passes, with Tory alternately drawn to William and clinging to the prospect of a more normal life, but Steve is getting impatient. Unaware of William’s existence, and frustrated by what he sees as Tory’s slow response to his suit, he becomes more and more jealous of her time, until Tory finally realizes that she has to make a choice...before it's made for her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zoë Chambers
• Release date: Jul 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465952141

Zoë Chambers

Zoë Chambers was raised Southern, but now resides quite happily in the Midwestern U.S., where she enjoys snow for about two days per year before wishing it would hurry up and leave already. When she's not writing, she's reading, knitting, singing, dancing, taking pictures, or some combination thereof. She's an animal lover, a firm believer in equal rights, a traveler, a Netflix addict, and that one weird neighbor you never really get to talk to, but who bakes really yummy-smelling cookies.She lives with her husband and a whole lot of imaginary friends who sometimes dictate stories.

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All The Time In The World

by Zoë Chambers

Copyright 2004 Zoë Chambers

Published by Smashwords

Table of 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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter One

Wednesday, June 29th

Mom, we’ve been over this. I’m not going to get cheated.

Tory pressed the phone against her ear and closed her eyes. "I inspected the house the first time I was here, and I couldn’t find a thing wrong with it. Plus, the owner let me have the place two days early, rent-free, because the movers would’ve charged more on a weekend. I really don’t think that’s the sign of a bad guy." It was a struggle not to grit her teeth as she spoke. She managed it, but couldn’t quite keep the annoyance from entering into her voice, and her mother finally subsided at the sound of it.

All right, darling. No need to get upset. But she herself was upset, Tory could tell, and she leaned wearily against the kitchen counter, tucking the mouthpiece of the receiver beneath her chin so her mother couldn’t hear her sigh. You know your father and I only want what’s best for you.

That’s what I’m doing. What’s best. I’m sorry you can’t see that.

No, I can’t, and neither can the rest of the family. We don’t know why you want to live all the way up there in Virginia, alone, instead of coming home where you belong. There was a slightly bitter note in her voice now, and Tory held back the sharp reply that surfaced, purposely softening her tone.

I am where I belong. Or at least, she was busy trying to find out where that was. But God knew it wasn’t at home.

The rest of the conversation was stilted, the struggle between her determination and her mother’s hurt hanging between them like a specter, and Tory stood there for a long moment after ending the call, rubbing her temples in a vain attempt to ward off the headache she knew was coming.

That went well, she muttered. Shaking her head, she pushed away from the counter and returned to the living room to resume unpacking.

As she worked, she found her mind returning to the conversation, and she wondered for a moment whether her mother weren’t actually a little jealous. After all, she’d never been across the state lines of her native Georgia, herself, and now her youngest child had settled up a good eight hours away, in the Richmond suburbs.

But no, Tory decided. She had great personal experience with her mother’s will; if Alicia Meyers Brandewine had set her mind to traveling, then traveling would have been done. So that left option B: that she truly and honestly didn’t want to go anywhere, and thus didn’t understand Tory’s own choice. And while it was true that parents had to let the babies out of the nest sooner or later, the landing spot she’d picked for herself, no matter how temporary it might prove to be, was a bit farther out of sight than they had anticipated. They’d expected her to come back to them, that was all. She couldn’t blame them. For that.

Ah, but that last bit was neither fair nor honest, was it? Her parents had done nothing wrong, and neither had her sisters, nor anyone else, other than her husband—and Tory herself, of course. If she wanted to point a finger at the cause of her current situation, she’d have to be careful not to break a nail on the mirror. Although she supposed she ought to be grateful to David; after all, it had been the settlement from his accident which had allowed her to move here in the first place.

It was always nice to find some sort of good in the loss of one’s husband. Particularly when hard on the heels of that loss came the discovery that he’d been in love with—or at least involved with—someone else.

Stop it, she told herself fiercely, and looked down into the box before her, blinking away the tears that stung her eyes. There was no sense in thinking about that right now, when she had so much to do. And really no sense in thinking about it at all, since there was nothing to do about it. David had been David, and it was too late now to even think about trying to change what was.

Tory bit her lip, lifting an unidentifiable bundle from the box and tearing away its wrapping of newspaper with somewhat more force than was necessary. It turned out to be a china figurine in the shape of an angel, kneeling with her hands folded in prayer, and she remembered suddenly that it had been a gift from David, back when they were dating. He’d said it reminded him of her.

Perhaps it was the glassy, bored blankness of the eyes, she thought nastily, and set it aside, making a mental note to start a pile of things to give to Goodwill, or whatever the local equivalent might be. She’d never liked the damn thing anyway.

This, she decided, was what she’d been looking forward to most: quiet. The heavily wooded back yard effectively blocked what little noise might have come from the road; the loudest sound she could hear was the squeak of her rocking chair, providing the perfect accompaniment to the soft rushing of the small creek nearby. That was all.

Tory closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the feel of the summer evening, the air heavy and soft against her flushed skin. I’m just going to rest a little while longer, she promised herself, then get right back to it.

She was thankful that she didn’t have any pressing engagements, one of the advantages of not knowing anyone in the area. The unpacking was going to take quite a while longer than she’d expected. She’d just had everything boxed up before the move, to be sorted at her leisure, and she hadn’t realized just how much of it there was.

Of course, most of it had been in storage until now. The combination of repaying David’s student loans and the cost of Chicago real estate had rendered them able only to rent, and the apartment had hardly been spacious. Still, they’d held onto everything, the unspoken promise between them that someday, there would be a house with enough space.

Well, it looked as though someday were here, didn’t it? At least for one of them.

She looked down into her glass of tea, wishing suddenly that it were something stronger, before shaking herself. Reality couldn’t be altered by temporary escapes from it, however enticing the idea may be at times. But she had to admit that it was damned strange, being a widow.

Widow. The word conjured up images of something dark and deadly, or of fragile little old ladies with sad, sweet smiles. Not twentysomething brunettes who were generally healthy as the proverbial horse—although she supposed that being defined by age, health and hair color was something rather pathetic in and of itself.

She wished there were more to it than that, something specific that would stand out in people’s minds when they thought of her, but there was nothing. No title, no degree, no achievements. She had always been plain vanilla Tory, and she knew it.

That was depressing as hell.

But then, wasn’t that part of why she was here, to try to find a way not to be so ordinary? After all, there was nothing like a change of scenery to kindle the spark of inspiration…she hoped.

And you really think you’re going to be able to write a book.

She ignored the doubtful tone of the thought; she was tired of that. Tired of a lot of things, not least of which was the constant feeling that somewhere inside her had to be…something. Something more than what she was, something memorable. And why not a writer? She may not have pursued it, but she’d always done well with creative writing in school, and even without actively planning to write, she had come up with quite a few ideas for stories over the years. She knew it was only her own opinion, but she thought some of them were actually pretty interesting.

Besides, she was a voracious reader herself. Wouldn’t a love of words lend itself to the ability to work with them?

Sure. And while you’re at it, why don’t you go direct, produce and act in a few films? You like movies.

How she wished she could shut up that naysaying little voice. But she’d heard it as long as she could remember; too much to hope that it would go away on its own. And as she’d been educated quite thoroughly while growing up, therapy and the like were for other people. Not Brandewines.

Of course, she wasn’t a Brandewine anymore, was she? But somehow she didn’t think her parents would quite go for that reasoning.

Lifting the glass to her lips, she tipped back her head to catch the last drops of tea, and was rewarded for her pains by an ice cube, detaching itself from the bottom of the glass and rapping her smartly on the nose. She supposed that was as good a sign as any that it was time to get back to work; with a last wistful look at her new back yard, she rose and went inside.

It was quite late by the time she finished the last box in the living room, having preferred to either discard or find a place for each item as she unpacked it, rather than have things scattered about on the floor for her to step on. Stretching luxuriously, she listened to her spine crackle, and suddenly realized how tired she was. She toyed briefly with the idea of starting on another room, but the wave of weariness that washed over her at the thought convinced her otherwise, and she turned toward the stairs instead.

She ran a loving hand over the wooden banister as she climbed, marveling at the glow that decades of use had produced, and all at once a feeling of rightness struck her, a certainty that she’d done well in coming here, that it had somehow been meant.

Pausing in the doorway of the bedroom she’d chosen as her own, she looked at the mattress upon the floor with many fond desires, but selected a change of underwear and nightgown from the boxes of clothing and headed resolutely into the bathroom to start the water.

The first taste of its warmth against her toes was heavenly, and she sank down into the tub with a purr of pleasure, feeling as though every muscle in her body had immediately forgiven her for the multitude of abuses that had been heaped upon them today. And it was a good thing, too, because tomorrow would bring more of the same.

Tory groaned at the thought, shaking her head. She was a loner and liked it that way, but she had to admit that there were times that it would be nice to have a friend. Or friends. Big, strong friends with plenty of time and availability to help one move. She giggled. Jesus, woman, why don’t you just put an ad in the paper? "On-call companion wanted. Must be willing to perform multiple tasks for little compensation. Individuals with own demands need not apply."

Her smile faded as quickly as it had come; that had hit uncomfortably close to the truth. She ran cold water over a washcloth, feeling the faint twinges that hinted at the return of the headache she’d had earlier. Lying back and resting her head against the edge of the tub, she wrung out the washcloth and spread it over her face, savoring the contrast of its soothing coolness against the heat of the bath. It took a while, but slowly, the chaos of her emotions seemed to settle into something resembling order, and she felt a pleasant sleepiness steal gently over her.

She had lain there for some time, drifting, when she was jolted by a sudden and absolute certainty that someone else had entered the room. She sat up in surprise, the cloth falling into the water with a splash, and glanced toward the door.

But she was alone, and she felt a faint rush of embarrassment that she immediately quashed. There’s no one here, Tory. So obviously, there’s nobody to see you jumping like a schoolgirl. Nothing to worry about.

But still, some part of her wondered.

Stupid, she knew. There was no possibility that anyone could have gotten out of the bathroom in the split second it had taken her to sit up and drop the washcloth, especially not without making some sound. And she’d locked all the doors, besides. She paused for a moment, listening and looking carefully around, and a nervous giggle escaped her when the continued stillness seemed to reproach her fears. See? Nothing.

Idiot, she muttered to herself. But the rest of her bath was carried out rather quickly, with more than a few glances stolen toward the open doorway, and she found herself afterward making a final sweep of the house, a large flashlight in tow. She didn’t need the light itself, but it was a little trick her father had taught her when she’d first left home: holding the flashlight in an overhand grip that left most of the heavy base available, so as to allow her to swing it hard enough to leave quite a lump on some unfortunate burglar’s head.

Or as in this case, some imaginary burglar. The house was empty except for herself and her thoughts…although that, she thought wryly, was enough of a crowd lately. Switching off the bedroom light with a decisive movement, she padded over to the mattress and lay down. Not bothering with a blanket in the room’s warmth, she turned on her side and snuggled deeper into the pillow, sighing with pleasure. Her last coherent thought was one of mild surprise, that she should be able to relax so quickly after her fright.

Safe here. She fell asleep with a smile upon her face.

Chapter Two

Someone was there, watching. She knew it absolutely, even as she switched on the lamp and scrambled up, grabbing for the flashlight and holding it in a threatening grip. Wild-eyed, she spun around, peering into the farthest reaches of the room.

Nothing. The door to the hall was closed, just as she’d left it, and the house was perfectly still, nothing reaching her ears but the slight rustle of leaves upon the trees outside.

She glanced at the clock and groaned. Five a.m., the perfect time to have a bad dream and not be able to get back to sleep. But she was damn well going to try anyway.

No more pizza before bed for you, woman. Her voice trembled, and she smiled sheepishly at the sound of it, getting ready to climb back into bed.

But it could have been the closing of the door that woke you. She winced, not wanting to admit that, not wanting to go look. Suddenly she was six years old again, terrified of the dark and wishing fervently for Mommy or Daddy to go chase away the monster. Completely irrational, unnameable fear washed through her, and she realized with a start that her hands were trembling.

Stop it, she whispered fiercely. You’re being ridiculous. But there was no denying the sense of dread.

Unfortunately, there was also no one else to do what needed to be done. She thought briefly of calling the police, but considered the embarrassment of possibly reporting a prowler who wasn’t there, and subsequently being marked as the new nutcase in town.

No. She would deal with this herself. Setting her teeth in an effort to keep them from chattering, she took a deep breath and headed out to explore, switching on the lights as she went.

Some time later, she returned to the bedroom with a feeling of deep irritation. Once more she’d found nothing amiss in the house. Damn it, Tory, go to sleep and stop freaking yourself out. She turned off the light and moved to the mattress, flopping down in a huff. She was tired, the ache in her overused muscles had returned, and she had a delivery to accept in a few hours. She needed sleep.

But her brain apparently had other ideas, and she finally gave up. She’d have to just look at it as getting an early start on the morning. Sighing heavily, she rose to head downstairs; this was not going to be a good day.

The music from the CD she’d thrown on had finished a few minutes before, but she was still idly singing the last song under her breath when she pulled the photograph album out of the box, and the sudden freezing of the notes upon her lips was almost comical.

Almost. She turned the book over in her hands, already sure that she would see the words Our Wedding Day inscribed in silver upon the cover. After all, how many white leather photo albums did she own?

Knowing full well that she’d regret it, she settled back into a sitting position, placed the book on her lap, and opened it.

Oh, God. Of course David’s smiling face would have to be the first thing she saw. But then, that was really what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Tory bit her lip as she studied his expression, looking for some hint that perhaps he’d been unhappy even then. But there was nothing hidden in the brown eyes that looked up into hers, except shy excitement and a touch of pride.

By contrast, her own gaze seemed to have been a bit shadowed. Of course, maybe that was just her perception, knowing what she did now....

But no. If she were determined to do this little bout of soul-searching, she was damned well going to be honest about what she found there. She’d come here to start over, to try to be what she wanted to be, and denial had no place in that.

Taking a deep breath, she looked down at the photo and forced herself to admit the truth. She hadn’t been in love with her husband. What should have been devotion had instead been fondness, and a feeling that she’d better go ahead and marry him, because this was as good as it was likely to get.

But hell, how did she know he hadn’t felt exactly the same way? Heaven knew David had never been the type to give in to any kind of violent passion…at least, not with her.

Looking blankly down at the stiffly-posed couple in the photograph, she let her mind drift back to the night he’d asked her to marry him. It had been as though he’d followed a script: a romantic dinner at her favorite restaurant, with the proposal itself happening just before dessert. He hadn’t knelt, of course. That just wasn’t David. But he had given the obligatory speech—and it had felt that way, even then—about wanting to spend the rest of his life with her, would she do him the very great honor....

Honor. Yeah, that was a really important concept to you, wasn’t it, David? Her eyes narrowed from the pain of the thought, her mind moving inevitably to another set of photographs.

Sadly enough, they’d been the last ones she’d seen of him: digital shots that showed him holding the camera at arm’s length, the better to capture the full image of him, and the blonde whose head had occupied his lap.

Despite her efforts to ignore the memory, it persisted. She hadn’t even known David owned a camera other than his phone; it had been among the personal effects collected from the car’s wreckage, and sometimes she still wished that it had been damaged in the collision so she couldn’t have seen its contents. At least then she could have pretended not to know about Rebecca.

Of course, it had been obvious what was going on, the moment it was revealed that David’s office assistant had been with him at the time of the accident. But somehow, whether out of obligation to him or just a sick need to punish herself, she wouldn’t let herself believe it without proof.

It was a stubbornness she’d regretted ever since. There were some images that, once allowed into your mind, completely refused to leave no matter how much you wanted them gone.

The memories continued to wash over her, accompanied by what she supposed was the requisite self-recrimination, and a harsh smirk twisted the corner of her mouth at the irony of it all. She’d been just as dissatisfied as David, but she hadn’t even dreamed of approaching him about it—and certainly not of having an affair. That just wasn’t done; she had made her bed, and had determined quite grimly to lie in it. She’d never expected that it would be her traditional-minded husband who would go against that thinking.

But then, it appeared she hadn’t known him quite as well as she’d thought, didn’t it? With a half-sigh, half-snarl Tory shoved the book from her lap and rose.

Sleeping with the secretary. Christ, David, even your sins were boring. It was a temptation to kick the photo album, it being the closest thing she had to the man himself. But she merely bent to pick it up, then dropped it unceremoniously into the nearest box. The hell with facing up to past mistakes. All she needed to do was avoid repeating them, and since she didn’t intend to even come close to that situation again, the reminders could at least be put where she didn’t have to look at them. She gave a satisfied nod as she straightened, then froze.

Someone else was in the room. The hair on the back of her neck prickled sharply with the instinctive knowledge, and a shudder passed through her body even as she turned, half expecting to see that the crew delivering her bed had let themselves in somehow.

But yet again she saw nothing, and suddenly her anger seemed to surge upward, rising to spill from her lips in a reaction she knew was absurd, even as she spoke. Look, stop staring at me, all right? I’m not here to hurt you, or the house, or anything. Just leave me alone. She paused for a moment, just as though she actually expected a reply, then shook her head.

Idiot. But her voice was subdued, as deeper and more unwilling memories began to surface, awakened by her embarrassment.

Her father, telling her to stop being ridiculous, that there was nothing there. Her grandmother’s endless admonitions that Satan lay in wait everywhere, to trick unwary children. Her cousins, laughing.

Spooky Sue, whatcha gonna do? The boogeyman is comin’ and he’s gonna get YOU!

A tiny laugh was startled from her by the childish voices echoing within her mind; she’d thought she had forgotten that. Spooky Sue, she murmured. Was it any wonder she’d started to go by her middle name at the age of eleven?

But she was rudely yanked from this reverie by the sound of a truck pulling into the drive, and she hurriedly pushed the rest of the boxes out of the way and went downstairs to greet the deliverymen. After all, getting a real bed was a lot more important than thoughts of the past.

And more aggravating by far, she discovered later. Delivery had been included in the purchase, but assembly cost extra, and feeling particularly adventurous that day, she’d decided to try her hand at putting the thing together herself…in retrospect, an obvious mistake. The pieces absolutely refused to stay together long enough for her to tighten the fastenings well enough, and damn it, she needed a break. For one thing, she was starved.

Ten minutes later, sandwich in hand, she headed into the only finished spot in the house: the living room. She curled up into the armchair she’d placed before the large picture window and