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Jeff Winston, forty-three, didn't know he was a replayer until he died and woke up twenty-five years younger in his college dorm room; he lived another life. And died again. And lived again and died again -- in a continuous twenty-five-year cycle -- each time starting from scratch at the age of eighteen to reclaim lost loves, remedy past mistakes, or make a fortune in the stock market. A novel of gripping adventure, romance, and fascinating speculation on the nature of time, Replay asks the question: "What if you could live your life over again?"
she apparently turned away from the mouthpiece, called in an aside: "Honey! It's that Phillips girl that Jeff said might call, remember? Could you find me that envelope he sent?" She came back to the phone. "Pamela? Hold on just a minute, dear; there's a message for you here from Jeff. My husband's getting it." "Thank you. Could you tell me where Jeff is, where he's living now?" "He's out in California, in a little town--well, right outside it, he says--called Montgomery Creek, up close
trousers--he had noticed that, was embarrassed by it, even through the crushing pressure in his chest ... and then the red-rimmed darkness, then nothing. Until now. Here in the shop in Karijohansgate, back home in Oslo, where he'd first learned his mercantile skills, where he'd first found his calling in the world of commerce. The shop that had been razed for an apartment block, twenty years ago. Peter opened the ledger on his desk, saw the date, looked at his hands and saw young, smooth
Emory, no question about that: the South's most studied effort to create a classically Ivy League-style university, one that the region could call its own. The planned timelessness of the architecture was disorienting; as he jogged through the quadrangle, past the library and the law building, Jeff realized it could as easily be 1988 as 1963. There were no certain clues, not even in the clothing and short haircuts of the students who ambled and lounged about the grassy expanses. The youthful
dropped it in her hair. He reached to retrieve the flower, and the motion became a caress. She softened at his touch, and he gently ran the white petals along her cheek, pressed them lightly to her lips and then to his. "Oh, honey," she whispered, moving closer to him, "I don't mean to be a scold. It's just that this has got me so worried for you, I can't--" "Hush," he said, holding her face in both his hands. "There's nothing to worry about, I promise." "But you don't know--" He
he said. "It could be years before those kinds of assertions are proven or disproven. Besides, we're more interested in events in Southeast Asia, not the ups and downs of these little Arab states." Pamela shook her head decisively. "You're wrong there. Vietnam is a lost cause; it's the Middle East that'll be the pivotal region during the next two decades." The man looked at her thoughtfully, fished another cigarette from his crumpled pack. "There's a minority faction at State that's