“Jennifer Archer's THE ME I USED TO BE is a luminous novel, rich with depth, humor, and unforgettable characters. A poignant tale of long-lost loves and the redemptive promise of tomorrow, THE ME I USED TO BE is a standout in quality women's fiction. Look for more from this talented author: Jennifer Archer is one to watch.” - Britta Coleman, author of POTTER SPRINGS

"A deeply emotional story of one woman’s journey toward forgiveness. A tender tale of life's choices and the joys and sorrows they bring. THE ME I USED TO BE will warm your heart and lift your spirit. A must read for women of all ages!" - Ronda Thompson, New York Times bestselling author of THE WILD WULFS OF LONDON series

“Brilliantly conceived and written by Jennifer Archer, THE ME I USED TO BE is a poignant tale of one woman’s road to self-discovery. What she learns along the way is so touchingly emotional you can’t put the book down." - Candace Havens, Author of CHARMED AND DANGEROUS

Chapter 1

I slide a bubbling vegetable pizza from the brick oven, scenting the kitchen’s warm air with garlic.

"Allyson?” Joleen, my newest employee, though she’s worked here four years, steps up beside me. “There’s a lady at the register who wants to say hello.”

As Joleen hurries back to work, I set the pizza on the work counter and turn. My heart slides to my toes at the sight of a young woman up front with long auburn hair. But then I realize it isn’t this woman Joleen speaks of, but my neighbor Mary Keller, the blonde beside her.

Mary waves and calls, “Hi!”

I smile, wave back, then breathe again.

I’ve been seeing them everywhere today. On my early morning run before breakfast. In the car next to mine at a light on the way into work. On the sidewalk outside the café when I opened up. Girls and young women with red hair, skin as pale as milk. They’re all ages. Gurgling toddlers, gangly, gap-toothed pre-teens, laughing college students, stressed-out mothers approaching middle age.

Why am I startled each time I catch that flash of color so like autumn leaves? These girls, these women, have stalked me before. Many times. But always, always, each year on this very date. Today of all days, I should expect them.

I’ve learned only one thing helps drive their image from my mind. Work.

Concentrate, Allyson.

On the aromas of yeast, onion and sweet red pepper, the clatter of pots and pans, the rise and fall of voices and laughter in the adjoining dining room.

Empty your mind.

Get caught up in the rhythm of chopping and spreading, of pouring and slicing.

Behind me, the café hums and buzzes. Today, like all Fridays at The Slender Pea, my gourmet health food café, the lunch crowd always seems noisier than any other day of the week. People are pumped up for the weekend ahead, ready to relax and have fun. Businessmen loosen their ties.

Businesswomen kick off heels and swing swollen bare feet beneath the draping white table cloths.

I’m pulling double duty today since Guy Ward, the young man who shares the cooking with me, is off on day five of his week-long leave of absence. Guy and his wife Kylie just had their first child, and he’s home getting to know the baby. A girl, by the way. Pink-cheeked, mostly bald and squirmy. A gorgeous, living, breathing doll. And difficult to look at.

At least for me.

Her sparse hair is feathery brown, not red. And though I didn’t hold her when I stopped by their house to visit last night, I know exactly how she’d feel tucked in the crook of my arm, a warm, satin weight against my breast. I stared at those tiny fingers, wrapped so tight around Kylie’s thumb, and I knew that years from now, when the baby is grown and off living a life of her own, her mother will still feel that gentle grip, that connection.

Work. Concentrate.

When the kitchen wall phone rings for the sixth time, Teena, who is twenty-seven years old and has been with me since I opened the café’s doors ten years ago, picks it up as she passes by. “Ally-thon, I’th for you,” she says, lisping due to her recent tongue-piercing. She presses her palm over the mouthpiece to muffle all the noise. “I’th your thith-ter. Beverly.”

As if I don’t know my only sister’s name. “Tell her I’ll call her back when things slow down.”

“I can cover for you.” Teena jabs the receiver at me. “Here. Joleen hath everything under control out front.”

Giving in, though I’d rather not talk to Bev or anyone else right now, I place a second pizza on the work counter behind me. “Thanks. I’ll take it in my office. Shout if you need me. And refill the raspberry tea dispenser, would you?”

I grab a stalk of celery from Teena’s hand as I pass by, taking satisfaction from the crunch as I bite into it, from the sharp, tangy taste.

Seconds later, I collapse in the chair behind my desk and scan the frames lining the opposite wall. There’s a magazine photo of me standing in front of the café on the day of the grand opening, certificates proclaiming The Slender Pea Portland’s best casual-dining choice for lunch five years running, a newspaper article recounting my “journey to success.”

I bite off another chunk of celery, slip on my reading glasses then pick up the phone. “Hey Bev, what’s up?”

“I’m on my break, thank God.” As usual, she sounds hurried, dramatic, and cynical. All signs that my sister is happy. “After a decade of teaching, my last period class has me seriously considering a new career.”

“Like what?” I ask, knowing she loves her work and would never give it up.

“I’m not sure. Something less stressful. Police work, maybe? Brain surgery?” She sighs. “I was thinking I’d drive over for the weekend and see if you can come up with any better ideas.”

My sister lives in Washington. Walla Walla. A long drive away just to cheer me up. I know that’s her true reason for wanting to come.

My appetite gone, I throw the rest of the celery stick into the trash. “If you’re worried about me being alone tonight, don’t be. Warren and I have a date.”

“Good.” At my mention of Warren, her voice bounces up, as if her vocal chords are on springs. Sometimes I think she likes him even more than she likes me. “I hope he has something special planned. You know, to take your mind off things.”

Closing my eyes, I picture the silver streaks in Warren’s dark, wavy hair, his teasing blue eyes and runner’s body. Not bad for fifty-six. Not bad at all. “He doesn’t, but I do.”

“Please say you’re going to tell him you’ll marry him.”

“Marry him?” Shuffling through a stack of mail, I huff a laugh. “He hasn’t asked. Not lately, anyway. He finally knows better. I’m happily single and staying that way. Forever.”

“Then what’s your big plan?”

“I’m going to ask Warren to live in sin with me.”

Beverly sighs again. “Oh, Ally.”

“What? I think I’m at least ready to take things that far. That is, if he’ll agree to live at my place. I worked hard for that house. I finally have it just how I want it. And, no way am I tackling the junk in my attic again.”

“I don’t understand why two people who want to live together don’t get married.”

“No marriage, no divorce. What better reason do you need?”

“Great attitude.”

"Marriage is just so…I don’t know…permanent. What if one of these days I decide I want to move to Timbuktu and he doesn’t?”

“Ally…”

I don’t have to see my sister to know she’s rolling her eyes and twirling a lock of silver gray hair around her forefinger. She’s always been jealous of my slow-to-gray brunette hair, while I’ve always envied her for doing everything right and in the right order. She met the right guy at the right time — after graduating college with honors — married him and raised two great kids — both girls — then went to work teaching school after they both fled the nest.

“Isn’t it Warren taking off to Timbuktu that you’re really worried about?” she asks. “History’s not going to repeat itself, Ally. You won’t wake up some morning and find out he’s gone.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I know Warren. He’s not some immature kid. He’s a responsible grown-up who loves you.”

“It doesn’t matter. Him leaving isn’t what worries me. That happened a long time ago. And I’m long over it.”

“Then, what’s the problem?”

Shoving the mail aside, I chew the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know. You just make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple, but it’s not as difficult as you make it, either.” Bev slips into counselor mode, a role she knows well with me for a sister. “Go into a marriage with the mindset you’ll work out any differences you face along the way and, chances are, you will.”

I want to believe she’s right. I want to marry Warren and live happily-ever-after, to have what Bev has with her husband. Trust. Stability. A love that endures through the bumpy times as well as the smooth ones. But I’m afraid, for me, that fairy tale existence is not meant to be. “I’ve never had a good relationship that lasted. Not even with Mom and Dad. Why should this one be an exception?”

“That’s not true. I’ve known you since I was two years old. Our relationship is good, isn’t it?”

I laugh. “You got me there. So, you’re different.”

“And things could be different with Mom and Dad if you’d forgive them. They aren’t getting any younger, Ally. They know they handled things badly. They’ve been beating themselves up over it ever since.” Her voice softens. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard. But it’s been a long time.”

My heart closes off at the mention of my parents and forgiveness in the same breath. Tough luck, I think. Too little, too late. “Don’t start with me about that, Bev. Not today.”

For several seconds she doesn’t say anything, then, “What prompted this decision about Warren?”

I swivel my chair to look out the window. Not a red- haired female in sight on the street beyond. No green eyes boring into me. Accusing, questioning, dismissing. Maybe it’s a sign. “It’s time I moved on, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

My throat knots. “She’s thirty-five years old today, Bev. Thirty-five. If my daughter wanted to meet me, I would’ve heard from her by now. I made it easy enough for her to find me. All she has to do is contact the adoption agency. I have to quit waiting for a phone call that’ll never come.”

A family that will never exist.

“She could still contact you.” My sister sounds concerned, and as sad and doubtful as I feel. “But you’re right that it’s time to move on. You’ve got to quit punishing yourself. Allow some happiness into your life that doesn’t involve work.” She pauses. “Warren’s going to want to get married. You know that, don’t you? You can’t put him off forever.”

“Who knows…maybe some day.” I smile. “When I’m older.”

Beverly snorts. “Older?”

“Okay, so we can twine rosebuds around my walker for the trip down the aisle.”

“Trip being the word of concern here. It’d be nice if you married while your vision’s still strong enough to see your groom smiling at the end of that aisle.”

I cock my head to one side and drum the desktop with my fingertips. “Think about it. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Warren could be the something old and my hair could be the something blue.”

"Tacky.”

As if on cue, Teena pokes her dyed-pink head into the office. “Ally, we have a problem out front.”

“Hey! Here’s the something I can borrow now. Teena’s nose ring. It’ll look great with my blue hair.”

Scowling, Teena mumbles something about my sanity. “Ally, I’m ther-iouth. You know that little roach problem we were having?”

“Roaches?” Beverly says with disgust. “Did I hear Teena say you’ve got roaches?”

“Water bugs, not roaches.” I scowl at Teena. “And only one. A tiny one. When you run a restaurant they go with the territory. They come in with the boxes of food. You just have to stay on top of it.”

Teena sniffs. “A cuth-tomer just found our one water bug thwimming in hith thoup.”

Groaning, I remind myself to call the exterminator again when I hang up. “Tell him no extra charge for the added protein. And lunch is on me.”

“No way.” Shaking her head, Teena turns to leave. “You tell him.”

I groan again. “Gotta go, Bev. I have to see a man about a bug.”

After I pop the question to Warren, we decide to skip dinner and go straight to dessert.

He dips a strawberry into the whipped cream, slips it into my mouth then unbuttons the top of my blouse. “Why do you want us to live together, Ally?” His eyes hold mine.

Leaning back against the bed pillows, I swallow the strawberry and reach for his waistband.

“Because of your great…” grinning, I grab his belt buckle, “big…” I begin to unfasten it, “throbbing…” I slide the belt through the first loop, “heart.” Warren chuckles, and I add, “Because we’re good together.”

He frees the second button of my blouse, his knuckles skimming across the sensitive space between my breasts. “Try again.”

I close my eyes, feel the third button release. “Because I’m ready. Because we have fun.” And you make me feel beautiful… young… alive. My breath catches as he opens the clasp between my bra cups. “Because I can’t stand waking up in the morning without you beside me.”

“Not good enough,” he mutters just before his lips brush across the top of one breast. “Try again.”

Seconds pass in a silence broken only by the sound of his breathing and mine. “Because I love you,” I finally whisper.

His head lifts. I open my eyes and he looks into them, grinning the dimpled grin I adore. “Finally. It took you long enough.”

It’s true. I love Warren Noble. Funny, fabulous, fifty-six-year-old divorced father of two grown kids. Wonderful conversationalist who challenges me. Skilled surgeon with a great bedside manner both in and out of the hospital. Marathon runner. Owner of magic hands. And my heart. I love him. I’m fifty-two years old and, until now, I’ve never said those words to any man. Only to a boy of eighteen, and I was sixteen at the time. A girl, not a woman.

Now…after all these years.

It’s as if a part of my soul that I’ve locked away too long has finally been freed. I’m laughing and crying and kissing him, and I can’t stop; I don’t want to stop.

Warren laughs, too. “Marry me, Ally,” he says between kisses.

Oh, God. Bev’s psychic. “Warren—”

“I’ve been waiting a long time.”

“Not so long.” Only nine months since the first time he asked. Then again three months later. After that, he quit trying.

“It feels like forever. We shouldn’t just live together, we should make it official. I want the world to know you love me.” He places his hands at either side of my face, slides his fingers into my hair, pushing it back. “This sexy, smart, fantastic woman loves me. And I love her.” Our foreheads touch. “So much. I love you so much, Ally.”

His lips taste salty from my tears. Salty and tender and oh, so sweet.

“Will you marry me?” he asks in a voice as quiet and warm as the May night outside my bedroom window.

A ‘yes’ wavers at the tip of my tongue. I’m still terrified, but I know it’s the right answer. The only answer. I was crazy to believe we could ever do anything else. “Yes,” I say quietly, then laugh and shout,“yes!”

He pulls me into his arms.

"When?” I ask. “Where?”

“This weekend. I don’t want to wait and give you a chance to change your mind. We’ll fly to Vegas tomorrow afternoon. Hell, we’ll fly to Hawaii, if you want, and say our vows barefoot in the sand.”

Scooting off the bed, I stand and press my fingers to my mouth, unable to believe this is happening or how excited and crazy young I feel. Like I’m starting over. Like anything’s possible. Like everything that’s happened in my life was for a reason. To lead me to this place where I belong, to this man, and now I can put the past behind me.

I decide to call Teena and ask her to handle things at the café, then remember I’m catering a bridesmaid luncheon on Sunday afternoon. “Oh, no, honey, I’m sorry.” I wince at him. “I can’t leave this weekend. We have something going on at the Pea on Sunday. I can’t get out of it.”

“Can’t Teena and Joleen handle things? They won’t mind when you tell them you’ll be on your honeymoon.”

I start pacing. “It’s for the mayor’s daughter. Her bridesmaid luncheon. I’ve never left Teena and Joleen and Guy alone to do something so big. This might not be the best event to start with.” I bite my lip. “I don’t know.”

When I pass by him, Warren grabs my hand and tugs me back down onto the bed. “Let me convince you.” The doorbell rings. He nibbles my neck. “Ignore it.”

I wrap my arms around him.

The doorbell rings again. And again.

“Damn,” he mutters.

Letting go of him, I lean back. The bell rings a fourth time. “I’ll get rid of them.”

“Hurry.”

I refasten my bra and start to work on the buttons of my blouse as I head through the bedroom and into the living room. The hardwood floors are cool beneath my bare feet. In the entry hall, I flip on the porch light then look through the front door peephole.

A boy wearing a sweat-stained backward ball cap stands on the other side of the door, staring down at his shoes. I guess his age to be fifteen, sixteen at the most. Here to sell me something for a school fund raiser, most likely. I hope it’s that and not one of those poor dropouts who come around peddling magazine subscriptions. I hate seeing kids in that situation, hate turning them away when they look like they’re on their last dime. Inevitably, I end up with more subscriptions to add to my ever-growing pile of magazines I’ll never have time to read.

I unlock the door and open it just wide enough to peer out. “Hello.”

He has a tiny gold loop earring in his left ear. The shaggy tufts of hair curling out beneath the bottom of his cap are light brown.

“Miss Cole?”

Something about the shade and shape of his restless green eyes is familiar. Hauntingly so. “Yes?”

“Allyson Cole?”

I nod. “Can I help you?”

His eyes change, become as hard and cold as emeralds, sending a tiny shock of alarm straight through me. That’s when I notice the large duffel bag at his feet. Lifting it, he steps closer to the door and gives me a cocky grin. “Hello, Grandma,” he says. “I’m Nick. Nicholas Pearson.”