Sweet Memories

AUTHOR OF THE 
NEW YORK TIMES 
BESTSELLERS 
BITTER SWEET AND
 
MORNING GLORY

SWEET MEMORIES

.

Spencer ‘‘leaves the reader breathless.’’ 
New York Daily News

ISBN D-373-fl3237-D

(back cover)

LaVyrle Spencer’s unforgettable story of a man and a woman ... and a love that wouldn’t die.

She is as innocent as she is unsure ... he is a proud, sensitive man whose feelings of betrayal run deep. But will a bold decision she makes alone destroy the promise of their love?

Like a haunting melody that recalls a special moment, 
Sweet Memories
 will stir your senses—and your emotions. Once again, LaVyrle Spencer explores the world she knows and loves best... the vast territory of the heart.

‘‘Superb!’’ 
—Chicago Sun-Times

Her writing ‘‘captures many human complexities and emotions, that transcend both age barriers and genres.’’
—L.A. Times

ISBN0-373-63237-0

LaVyrle Spencer is “one of the finest romance writers around.’’
—Romantic Times

Praise for
LAVYRLE SPENCER

Romance Writers of America

Golden Medallion Award-Winner

LaVyrle Spencer “is a master storyteller.”
—Heart Line

"Spencer’s characters take on the richness of friends, relatives, and acquaintances.”
—Rocky Mountain News

Spencer’s writing is "both tender and heartrending.”
—Sunday Oklahoman

“Spencer tells a superb story.”
—LA. Daily News

"LaVyrle Spencer is a special writer.”
—Rave Reviews

"Spencer writes about ordinary people caught in extraordinary situations.''
—Boston Globe

"You will never forget the incredible beauty and sensitivity of LaVyrle's gifted pen.”
—Affaire de Coeur

LAVYRLE SPENCER

SWEET MEMORIES

This edition first published by Harlequin Enterprises Limited March 1991.

First published by Worldwide Library May 1984. Second printing by Worldwide Library July 1988.

ISBN 0-373-83237-0

Copyright © 1984 by LaVyrie Spencer. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any 
form or
 by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher. For information, contact: Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent Trademark Office and other countries.

TM is the property of Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

Printed in US.A.

With love

to the Huebners:

Jeannie

George

Jason

Tracy

and

Duke

And for my "other daughter"

Theresa Schaeffer

Chapter One

AT LAST
, 
Jeff was coming home, but he wasn’t alone. Watching the big-bellied jet taxiing to a stop, Theresa Brubaker felt two conflicting emotions—excitement that her “baby brother” would be here for two whole weeks, and annoyance that he’d dragged along some stranger to interfere with their family holiday. Theresa never liked meeting strangers, and at the thought of meeting one now, especially a 
man
, a nervous ache grabbed her between the shoulder blades. She worked her head in a circle, flexed her shoulders and tried to shrug away the annoyance.

Through the soles of her knee-high snow boots she felt the shudder and rumble of the engines as they wheezed a last inflated breath, then whistled through a dying decrescendo and sighed into silence. The accordion pleats of the jetway eased forward, its mouth molded against the curve of the plane, and Theresa riveted her eyes on the doorway set in the wall of glass. As the first footsteps of disembarking passengers thudded down the tunnel, she self-consciously glanced down and made sure her heavy gray wool coat was buttoned up completely. She clutched a small black leather purse against her left side in a way that partially concealed her breast and gave her reason to cross her arms.

Her heart tripped out a staccato beat of anticipation—
Jeff. My crazy clown of a brother, the life of the family, coming home to make Christmas what all the songs said it should be. Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays.
 Jeff—how she’d missed him. She bit her lower lip and trained her eyes on the door as the first passengers debarked: a young mother carrying a squalling baby, a businessman with a topcoat and briefcase, a bearded, blue-jeaned ski bum hefting a blue satchel boasting the word Vail, two long-legged military men clad in dress blues and garrison caps with visors set squarely across their eyebrows. 
Two long-legged military men!

“Jeff!” Her arm flew up joyously.

He caught sight of Theresa at the same moment she saw his lips form her name. But sister and brother were separated by a fifteen-foot-long ramp and handrail, and what seemed to be one-quarter of the population of Minneapolis greeting incoming arrivals. Jeff pointed her out while she read his lips again—“There she is”—and shouldered through the crowd toward the crown of the ramp.

She was scarcely conscious of her brother’s companion as she flew into Jeff’s arms, lifting her own around his neck while he scooped her off the floor and whirled her in a circle. His shoulders were broad and hard, his neck smelled of lime, and her eyes were suddenly swimming with tears while he laughed against her temple.

He plopped her onto her feet, smiled down into her joyous face and said gruffly, “Hiya, Treat.”

“Hiya, snot-nose,” she choked, then tried to laugh, but it came out a chugging gulp before she abashedly buried her face against him again, suddenly conscious of the other man looking on. Beside her ear, she heard the smile in Jeff’s voice as he spoke to his friend.

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yup, you did,” came the stranger’s voice, rich and deep.

She backed up. “Tell him what?”

Jeff grinned down teasingly. “That you’re a sentimental fool. Look at you, tears flooding everything, and all over my dress blues.” He examined his crisp lapel where a dark blotch showed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she wailed, “I’m just so glad to see you.” She dabbed at the tear spot on his jacket while he touched her just beneath an eye.

“You’d be sorrier if you could see how those tears make the freckles you hate so much stand out like new pennies.”

She slapped his finger away and dabbed at her eyes self-consciously.

“Don’t worry about it, Theresa. Come on, meet Brian.” Jeff clapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her to face his friend. “This is the light o’ my life, who never let me chase women, smoke pot or drive when I drank.” At this last, Jeff winked broadly. “So let’s not tell her what we did last night, okay, Scanlon?” He squeezed her shoulder, grinned down fondly while his teasing did absolutely nothing to disguise the deeper note of pride in his voice. “My big sister, Theresa. Theresa, this is Brian Scanlon.”

She saw his hand first, with long, tapered fingers, extended in greeting. But she was afraid to look up and see where his eyes rested. Thankfully, the way Jeff had commandeered her shoulders, she was able to half hide behind him with one arm about his waist while extending her own hand.

“Hello, Theresa.”

She could no longer avoid it. She raised her eyes to his face, but he looked straight into her eyes, smiling. And what a smile!

“Hello, Brian.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I’ve heard a lot about you, too,
 she thought, but answered gaily, “I’ll just bet you have. My brother could never keep anything to himself.”

Brian Scanlon laughed—a pleasant baritone rumble like a soft roll on a tympani—and held her hand in a hard grip, smiling at her from beneath the horizontal visor of his military hat that made her suddenly understand why some women shamelessly chase soldiers.

“Don’t worry, he only told me the nice stuff.”

Her glance fluttered away from his translucent green eyes that were far more attractive than in the photographs Jeff had sent, then Brian released her hand and moved to flank her other side as they headed away from the gate area toward the green concourse, still talking.

“All except for a couple of stories about our nasty childhood pranks, like the time you stole a handful of Grandpa Deering’s pipe tobacco and taught me how to roll it up in those white papers that come with home permanents, and we both got sick from the chemicals in the paper when it got in our lungs, and the time—”

“Jeffrey Brubaker, I did not steal that tobacco. You did!”

“Well, who found the leftover papers in the bathroom vanity?”

“But who put the idea in my head?”

“I was two years younger. You should have tried to talk me out of it.”

“I did!”

“But that was after we got sick and learned our lesson.”

All three of them dissolved into laughter. Jeff squeezed her shoulder once more, looked across the top of her head at Brian and set things straight. “I’ll be honest. After we got greener than a pair of garter snakes she’d never let me smoke again. I tried it more than once when I was in junior high, but she squealed on me every time and managed to get me grounded more than once. But in the end, she saved me from myself.”

To Theresa’s left, Brian’s laugh rolled like faraway thunder. She noted its full, mellow tone, and now, when she spoke, that tone became even fuller, richer.

“He did tell me about another incident with home permanents when you gave him one against your mother’s orders and forgot to set the timer.” While he teased, he studied her hair. Jeff had said it was red, but Brian hadn’t expected it to be the hue of a poppy!