A Man She Couldn’t Forget (6 page)

Jonathan was in an orange haze. “Like hell you do.”

“I do.”

Suddenly, a crowd of little girls came rushing toward them, all dressed in Girl Scout uniforms. One was Catherine. Then Lucinda and two others she recognized as Brady’s sisters.

Brady smiled, motioned them to come closer.

“They won’t help,” Jonathan said, nodding to the girls who stood behind Brady. “Nothing’s going to help you now, Langston.”

Growing in size, bigger, broader, Brady slid his hand to the gun holstered against his thigh. The girls behind him were screaming, crying, telling him to stop, that Clare wasn’t worth it.

Abruptly, the scene switched. Clare was somewhere else. In a room with no doors. It was pitch-black in here. She couldn’t see anyone, just hear them moving around. From her hiding place, she whispered, “I’m sorry. God, Jonathan, I’m so, so sorry.”

B
RADY WENT WHERE HE ALWAYS
went when he was upset. He drove through the deserted city streets out to the Rockford suburb where he’d grown up, pulled his car into the driveway of the big house and stared at the exterior. Still the same slate-gray siding, sheltering three floors that had been home to two parents, five kids and an assortment of dogs, cats and rabbits over the years. Wishing his dad were still alive, he sighed heavily. Mel Langston had been an ideal father, not that Brady hadn’t butted heads with him. He was killed trying to save a kid from a burning building. Brady could still picture the firefighter funeral with all its gravity. He ached whenever he thought of it.

Swearing at himself for adding more problems to his night by reminiscing about his dad, he got out of his truck, climbed the steps to the front porch and went inside. It was ten at night, but his mother would be up. She had a nurse’s penchant for late hours and early morns, as she still worked part-time at one of the local hospitals.

What he didn’t expect was to find Samantha at the kitchen table with her. The two women looked alike with dark hair—his mother’s graying some—and blue eyes. Brady and his two brothers had the same coloring, but their facial features resembled his dad.

“Hey,” he said, trying not to show his anger at Sam for what she’d done in the restaurant. As the oldest, he was always protecting his sisters, even from himself.

Sam looked up. “I’m sorry.”

He chuckled. “Well, that takes the wind out of my sails.”

Crossing to the table where they sat drinking wine, he kissed Samantha’s head, then his mother’s. She clasped his hand and squeezed it briefly. “There’s my boy.”

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and joined them. He took a swig—the cold liquid felt good on his parched throat—and watched them.

Sammy finally said, “You can yell at me, Brady. I hate her, but I feel bad about upsetting her. I thought she was going to throw up all over Jonathan’s thousand-dollar suit.”

“We’re not that lucky.”

“Hush,” his mom said, but her eyes held mirth.

Brady blew out a heavy breath. “Things are a mess.”

“What else is new?” Sam asked. “Clare leaves disaster in her wake.”

There was a blast of a horn outside. “Saved by the bell,” his mom announced. To Brady she added, “That’s Jimmy. He’s come to pick Sam up, and Lizzy’s in the car, so he’s not coming in.”

“Give him my best.” Brady accepted his sister’s hug warmly and held on just a bit longer. His anger diffused as quickly as it had come. “And hug my niece.”

When Samantha left to join her husband and child, Brady’s mother turned to him. “You can tell me. I won’t criticize Clare.”

“I know, you always liked her.”

“Very much. She just lost her way, and I’m sorry you got hurt by it.”

He knocked back more beer, not wanting to think about the past two years, not wanting to admit his guilt, his terror and his confusion.

“Sammy told me most of what happened tonight at the restaurant.”

“I only got filled in by Harris.” His fist curled around the bottle. “I hate that man.”

“Honey…”

“I know it won’t do any good.” He looked after Sam. “She shouldn’t have said anything to Clare, but I can’t stand being mad at any of them.”

“Which is why you left your job and your marriage in Chicago when your dad died and came back home.”

“No, Mom. I came home because I was sick of being away from all of you. I never really wanted to stay there after art school. When I sold my first book, I could have moved back. But Gail wasn’t having any of it.”

“I still felt bad about your marriage breaking up over us.”

“My marriage was over long before I left Gail. And the point isn’t that I moved back then, it’s that I should have moved back before Dad died.”

“So you said.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s a done deal. And if I hadn’t moved back to Rockford, I wouldn’t have met Clare.”

His mother’s expression was grave. “Which in some ways would have been a good thing, given the circumstances.”

He shook his head.

“How long has it been since the accident?”

“Seventeen days and twenty hours.”

“Oh, honey. And she still doesn’t remember you?”

“
Nada.
” He shrugged. “But she’s getting flashes of our past together. Thankfully, it’s early on, when things were pretty good between us.”

“It’ll all come back.”

He averted his face. His mother had always been able to read her children like books. He was the easiest. From bringing frogs into his bedroom, to cutting school, to the first time he had sex, there had been no secrets between them.

Except one. Now.

“You want that, don’t you, Brade? For Clare to remember?”

Sadness filled him. It happened every time he thought about Clare’s accident. And he was so tired of keeping this to himself. “Maybe not.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Something I haven’t told anyone.”

When he didn’t go further, couldn’t, she took his hand. “I won’t judge, I promise.”

“I know you won’t. It’s just hard admitting this to you. I’m…ashamed of myself.”

“Tell me, son.”

“The reason Clare was out on the road late that night?”

His mother nodded.

“It was my fault, Mom. I caused Clare’s accident and memory loss. And I’ll never forgive myself.”

“N
OTHING LOOKS FAMILIAR
?” Jonathan asked as he and Clare stood on the set of
Clarissa’s Kitchen.

It was easy to tell he was disappointed, Clare thought. Sometimes he looked so unhappy, it made her feel guilty for not remembering things. That, coupled with the anxiety still stirring inside her from the dream last night, had her wishing she hadn’t come to the studio today.

“No, I’m sorry, nothing.”

She studied the show’s set—a nicely laid out space with a steel refrigerator to the audience’s right, built-in ovens on the left and the counter cooktop facing the cameras. The walls were a creamy-yellow, and wooden cabinets graced the area. There was even a fake window with pretty wooden shutters. But in contrast to her own kitchen, Clare felt chilled by the strangeness of the place, even though she’d seen the set, at least an earlier version of it, on the tape she and Brady had watched.

Also disconcerting were the people who knew her when she walked into the studio this morning. She remembered no one. Several WRNY staffers greeted her, asked how she was and wished her well. She wondered if they liked her. God, she hoped she wasn’t a prima donna.

Gently, Jonathan touched her arm. “Maybe we should try your dressing room.”

“Whatever you think.”

He led the way, with her next to him. As usual, he was dressed in a suit that was beautifully tailored. “Are your suits handmade?” she asked.

Stopping just as they entered a hallway off the set, he turned to her. “Yes. I brought you to my tailor. He makes all your clothes for the show.”

“I…I saw them in my closet.” Beautiful outfits in a variety of styles, none of which she recognized as her own. She hadn’t worn any of them yet, and today was dressed in a casual one-piece sage-green outfit with short sleeves and cropped legs. A chunky necklace and a three-strand green faux pearl bracelet she’d found in the jewelry box matched the clothes perfectly. “I feel comfortable dressed like this for some reason.”

Jonathan’s face tightened. “For now, you don’t need to wear anything more…chic. We do have to talk about the shooting schedule for the winter. It starts in July.”

They were on hiatus, Clare had been told, but more shows needed to be taped before the end of the year. Still…

“Jonathan, you don’t expect me…I can’t…I don’t remember anything. How can I possibly film a show?”

“Don’t panic.” He took her hand in his. It calmed her, as did the understanding in his gaze. Those kinds of looks, the soothing, heartfelt ones, made her more comfortable with him. “I won’t push you to do anything. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“You’re being considered for other things. There’s been talk of moving the show to the Cooking Channel.”

“Really? That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Very. Do you remember the Cooking Channel?”

“Yes. Ramona Rich. The Barefoot Princess. I watched some on TV this week and knew about the people and the programs.”

His whole demeanor brightened. “I’m glad. That means you’re getting back to your old life.”

She frowned, thinking of what she’d learned about her
old life
in the past six days. “Brady said I have a cookbook in the works, too. It sounds like a lot for one person to do. I’m not sure I’m up to doing both now. Truthfully, I wonder how I ever did it all.”

“You won’t have to worry about that.” He didn’t meet her gaze. “The, um, cookbooks will be ancillary if the show is picked up nationally.”

That didn’t sound right. “It’s a bit much to take in.”

“Let’s go sit and talk about this.”

They headed down the long corridor and reached the dressing rooms. On her door was what she recognized as one of Brady’s designs. He’d painted a big pink star with a blond, green-eyed female face on it. She chuckled.

“How adorable.”

“That’s our Brady.” Jonathan took out a key and opened the room.

She stepped inside ahead of him. Very classy. Grass cloth walls, a vanity table with a large mirror surrounded by small lightbulbs. And a white leather couch across the way. It smelled like the fresh flowers that sat on the table.

She crossed to them. “These are lovely.”

“Thanks. I thought they might cheer you up. You like roses.”

Delia’s words in the garden came back to her.
Your favorite flowers are carnations.
Often it felt like her friends from the condo and Jonathan were talking about two different people. Or that the amnesia had made her schizophrenic.

Shrugging, she crossed to the couch and sat. “Sit down, Jonathan. I want to discuss what happened last night.”

When she’d awakened this morning, Jonathan had made coffee and was ready to go home and change. He’d spent the night on the couch. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in conversation, so she let it go. But after the dream, especially, she wanted to talk to him.

He dropped down beside her. “What did Langston say about his sister?”

“I haven’t seen him. I went next door after you left, but he wasn’t there.”

“Maybe he spent the night with Lucinda.”

Her heart gave a little lurch. The thought of Brady with the beautiful woman was…unpleasant.

“When I went into my bedroom last night, I heard you arguing. What’s going on between you two? I know I asked you before and you only said you were different kinds of people. But I sense a lot of hostility, and I want to know what the real problem is.”

His face flushed, and she saw his hands curl into fists. Obviously, this was a sore subject, one that angered him. He looked at the ceiling. When he turned back to her, he seemed more in control. “When I came into your life, Clarissa, he and his buddies had to make room for me. They made it very clear that they didn’t like sharing you.”

“They said I got busy at work.”

“Yes. And you and I became involved. We spent a lot of time at the station and together socially. I guess you could say I took you away from them.” He shrugged a shoulder. “To be fair, I don’t blame them for that. I’d feel the same if they snatched up all your time.” His hand fisted again. “But I hate Langston’s possessiveness about you.”

For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the dynamics of these relationships. Literature about amnesia said the memories closer to the trauma came back last, but this animosity between Brady and Jonathan had obviously been going on for years. Suddenly, the snake dream and the cowboy dream made sense to her. And frightened her. She’d been so vulnerable in both scenarios.

Gently, Jonathan picked up her hand. “Did you hear me, Clarissa? I said we were close. We spent our nights together, too.”

Uh-oh.

“You don’t remember making love with me, do you?”

A quick vision of tangled bodies and sweaty flesh flashed through her mind. There was a fleeting sensation of heat and a burst of passion, then it was gone.

“Did you recall something?”

“An image.” She swallowed hard. “And a feeling.”

He leaned in close and slid his arm around her. His other hand rested on her throat intimately. “A sexual one?”

Again, the muscular feel of a man’s body next to her, on top of her. Then a blinding sense of connection. Oneness.

“Yes.”

“That’s us, Clarissa, together.” He looked in her eyes. “I’m dying to kiss you.”

Pure panic seized her. “No, Jonathan, I’m not ready for that.”

“It’s been so long.”

“Three weeks.”

He watched her for a minute, then drew back. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you.” He gave her a cute grin. “You’re pretty irresistible, though. And we had a good sex life.”

He was so sweet and understanding about her refusal—about everything, really. Except her relationship with Brady. “It’s nice of you to take this so well. It can’t be easy. You’ve done so much for me since the accident.”

“I’d do anything for you, honey. Any time.” He stood. “I thought maybe you’d like to say hello to the show’s producer now. I know he’s in today, and he’s been worried about you.”

Clare was tired and wanted to go home. But as she’d said, Jonathan had done so much for her and despite what he’d said, it had to be difficult for him that she couldn’t remember their intimacy. “That would be fine.”

He drew her up by the hand and pulled her close. She cuddled in, trying harder to recall the feel of his chest, his scent—which was great—his physical presence. She didn’t, but she felt more comfortable with him, at least. Maybe he was right. Now that he was back, maybe she’d remember being close to him.

He kissed the top of her head, and as they parted, something caught her eye. On the table next to the couch was a framed photo. She stooped over and picked it up. It was of her and Jonathan, on a beach. They were both dressed in swimsuits and smiling at the camera. They looked happy to be together. Once again, she wondered why she couldn’t remember the joy of being with him, reflected so clearly in the picture.

B
RADY WAS IN THE ATTIC
, sweating off the effects of a fitful sleep. He hadn’t come home last night, mostly because he couldn’t bear the thought of being in the condo next to Clare’s while she slept beside Harris.

And maybe did more.

So he’d bunked in his old room at his mother’s house and tossed and turned all night long, thinking about Clare with Jonathan. Brady had gotten up about dawn and cooked his mother breakfast when she awoke. He’d come home to a note—at least Clare had done that—which said she’d gone to the station with Harris. Was she getting back to her old life so soon? The thought filled him with a familiar sadness and reminded him of times he wasn’t sure he could go through again. So he’d headed up here to use the weights.

As he sat on a padded bench, he didn’t start the reps right away. Instead, he took in the remodeled attic space. When they both started earning good money, he and Clare had hired a contractor to redo this area. They’d knocked down the walls between the attic over her condo and his, reinforced the floor and put in several skylights. Air-conditioning kept it cool in the summer and baseboard heating warmed it in the winter. Near the new windows was a Jacuzzi big enough for four. The rest was a large workout area and a bathroom. He’d picked free weights and a tread-mill. Clare had added an elliptical to use when it was too cold to run outside. They both agreed on a TV, which over the years had been upgraded to a 52-inch entertainment center. He could watch sports from anywhere in the attic, and she could catch a show on the Cooking Channel. The room was a real perk, and they’d been lucky to have the space included in their purchase price.

What’ll we do when one of us moves out?
he’d asked Clare.

Whoever moves out first, the other gets ownership.

They’d even put it in writing.

And before the accident, Brady had been very close to owning the whole attic floor of the old Victorian. He let the memory come, exacerbated by his presence in the attic, in
their
space, where they’d also come to be alone, talk or figure out a problem. When the images of what had gone on up here became too much for him to think about without going crazy, Brady picked up the remote and turned the TV on to a sports channel. As he watched the highlights of a Yankees game, he did arm curls and leg lifts until his muscles burned and he was breathing hard.

Just as he stopped, he heard behind him, “Wow!”

Clare came into his line of vision. She was wearing one of his favorite outfits. And a necklace he’d bought her.

“Hey, there. You must be feeling better.”

“I am.” She smiled weakly. “I heard the TV from the hallway downstairs because you left the door open.” Once again she scanned the area. “What
is
all this?”

His heart clutched in his chest at her not remembering their pet project together—or, more importantly, the time they’d spent up here. “Joint property.” He gave her the skinny on what they’d done.

“It’s so cool.” She crossed to the Jacuzzi. “I love this, don’t I?”

“You know you do?”

“Uh-huh.” She sat on the edge of the padded tub. Her hair was soft and wavy around her face and she pushed back the locks that fell over her eyes. “Like I said, I just know some things.”

He gave her a weak smile.

She watched him as he picked up a towel and wiped the sweat off his face. “Brady, we need to talk about last night, but you can finish your workout first.”

“No, now’s fine. I need a break.”

“Your sister doesn’t like me. I could tell at the restaurant. Is it because of the too-busy-at-work stuff?”

Partly. “I think so.”

“And you have a girlfriend.” She clasped the necklace in her palm like a talisman. “Right?”

“Lucy and I date. It’s not serious.”

Her delicate sandy brows knitted. “It is to her.”

He stretched out his legs to ease his tight muscles. “What makes you think that?”

“Women’s intuition.”

“I’ve been honest with her about how I feel, Clare.” Well, not totally, not since the accident, but he couldn’t tell Clare that. “She wants more from the relationship than I do, but she agreed to my terms.”

“And you don’t want more with her.”

“I haven’t in the past.”

Clare stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Something about this is familiar. Did we do this often? Talk about personal things?” She scanned the area. “Here?”

“We were best friends. We came up here a lot and confided in each other.”
Don’t ask,
Brady warned himself.
Don’t ask.
“Speaking of which, did Harris stay with you last night?” He hated himself for interrogating her, but he had to know.

“He slept on the couch.” Her gaze narrowed on him. “Do you really think I’d—Hell, is that how you see me? That I’d have sex with somebody I didn’t remember?”

“I thought maybe last night with him might bring your memory back.”

“Nothing like that happened!” She still seemed offended. And irked. There was an edge in her voice when she asked, “What about you? Where’d you go last night?”