Intimate Strangers (7 page)

She still couldn't remember anything and now disturbing dreams began to plague her. One night she roused groggily, her heart pounding. She knew she had been dreaming, but a deep, ominous sound had filtered into the dream, mixing with the all-pervasive feeling of fear. As her lids began to slowly fall over her sleep-glazed eyes, again she heard the sound and, panic stricken, her eyes wide with terror, her breath coming in deep gulps, she clutched the blanket to her chin. Then a low chuckle started at the base of her throat and rose to escape through her lips. It was a dog! That's what she heard, a dog barking somewhere. How silly for her to fear the shadows and sounds that came in the night.

Sleepily wondering whose dog was barking, she rolled over onto her side, dozed off and drifted into a dream room. She walked through the mist that made the perimeter of the room seem shrouded in fog and over to a brightly lit couch and chair where Roarke was standing beside a huge box wrapped with green satin ribbon and a huge bow covering the lid of the box, all shimmering under the glow of a nearby lamp.

"Roarke, what a beautiful bow!" She clapped her hands together in childish delight. "I love green, but what's in the box? Come on, darling, why a present? It's not my birthday or anything."

Roarke smiled and took her hand. "Just wait; you'll see what's in it in a minute." His arms slipped around her waist, moving slowly, caressing her side as his hand stroked her back. "Can't you guess what's in the box, Sara?"

Sara snuggled closer into his arms, tore her eyes from his face, and looked again at the box, shimmering, glowing white and green on the floor at her feet. "Roarke, there's something in it! Something alive! The box is moving!"

The whimper emanating from the box made Sara shift her body in Roarke's arms and suddenly she once again found herself awake, lying in bed, blinking her eyes, bemused by the dream, but instead of fear and panic, a warm feeling of security filled her senses.

But it was the pulse-thudding, stomach-turning, paralyzing nightmares that dominated her sleep and, in the middle of the night, she would wake up drenched with perspiration. In her dreams screaming people pursued her as she ran blindly toward some unknown person who seemed to represent safety. In her dreams her movements were always in slow motion, and the feeling of terror pervaded her being, a living entity taking over her soul.

She mentioned these nightmares to Ted when she saw him on one of her check-ups. He put his hand on her shoulder as she sat up on the examination table. "Do you want some sleeping pills? I don't like to prescribe them, but in this case, I don't want you to become ill from lack of sleep either."

Sara shook her head, "No, Ted, thanks anyway. I don't have that much trouble sleeping, although I hate the dreams. Sometimes they're so scary, it's as though something awful is going to happen and I'm powerless to stop it. It's just like everything else—I don't seem to have any control over my life, awake or sleeping!"

"Now, wait a minute, Sara. They are exactly what they are— dreams, nothing else. They're not any forecast of doom. You're frustrated because you're not remembering that much yet. That's the only thing these dreams mean—your frustration. Have you discussed them with Roarke?"

Sara hung her head. "No, I haven't told him. I… I don't want to worry him if there's nothing to worry about."

Ted went to the door of the examination room and opened it. "There really isn't. You're healing fast and in no time you won't be needing me anymore."

That night when she woke up, sobbing and shaking uncontrollably from the fearful dream, Sara remembered Ted's words and prayed they were true.

Nervously she waited for Ted to come into the room. She didn't know if she was happy or not about having the cast removed, but it would eliminate her excuse to stay in her room.

"Are you ready, Sara?" Ted's jovial voice boomed from the doorway.

"No, but I don't have much choice, do I?" Sara answered, glancing over at the small, shiny electric saw laying on a table beside her.

When the buzzing noise began, she closed her eyes and turned her head.

"All done. You can open your eyes now."

Sara looked down at the wrinkled skin of her foot. Twisting it around, at first slowly then with a little more speed, Sara laughed. "It feels so light! But it feels so good, a little stiff but no pain. Are you sure it's going to hold me up? I don't know how to walk without a cast. I've used crutches for so long, I'm almost afraid to try to walk without them."

Ted smiled broadly and helped her to her feet. "Come on, walk with me into my office. Go easy now." He put his arm around her waist and slowly they walked together into Ted's private office.

Lowering herself down onto the couch, Sara straightened her leg out in front of her. "It held, Ted, it's really okay. I could run if I wanted to, couldn't I?"

Ted looked at her strangely. "Run?" he asked. "No, I don't think I'd try to run just yet. You're going to be using a cane for a few weeks to take some of the weight off that foot." He paused. "Why would you want to run, Sara?"

Sara glanced around the room, a little uncomfortable.
Why did I say such a dumb thing
? She cringed inwardly. "I really didn't mean it literally, Ted. Although, to be perfectly honest with you, I've had times when I've wanted to run. I guess no one knows until they've gone through it how terrible it is not to have a past. Everyone has memories and people they can relate to but… but I don't."

"Still nothing, Sara?"

"Oh," she sighed, "I have mental flashes occasionally of things but nothing that I can tie together and say, yes, I remember that."

Ted sat on the couch beside her. "Sara, I've been thinking, I have this friend who's a psychiatrist. Maybe he could help you."

Startled, she cried out, "Psychiatrist! Do you think I'm crazy?"

Quickly Ted reassured her. "No, no, Sara. Nothing like that. But have you ever thought there might be something in your past that you're afraid to remember? Or that you just don't want to remember? There's a slight possibility your amnesia is psychosomatic."

Sara grabbed Ted's arm, clenching it tightly. "You don't believe me either. I've had the feeling Roarke doesn't believe me and now you. This isn't a game I'm playing, you know." She winced at the word
game
.

Ted put his hand over hers. "Sara, calm down. Of course I believe you have amnesia. I was just trying to figure out what might be the reason it's lasted this long. And Roarke believes you. Why would you say such a thing? We're both trying to help you. I'm sorry I've upset you, my dear. That's the last thing I'd ever want to do."

Relaxing a little, Sara murmured, "I know, Ted. I'm just so… so jumpy. It seems like it's taking me forever to get well."

Ted patted her cheek. "Sara, you're going to be fine. Try not to worry so much. I still say one of these days, like a bolt out of the blue, your memory will return and everything will fall into place for you."

At home in her bedroom Sara timidly walked around, leaning heavily on the cane. She tried not to dwell on Ted's words, they scared her so badly. If only she could talk things over with Roarke, but she knew she couldn't. They were fine as long as they chatted casually, but she just couldn't tell him her fears.

Slowly she made her way to the huge window leading to her balcony. The small area was a shining spot of consolation to her self-imposed isolation from the rest of the house. Breathing the fresh spring air, she drew it deeply into her lungs as she went over to the rail of the balcony. Leaning down and resting her chin in the palm of her hand, she closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of the sun on her face.

"Oh, how I love my flowers," she murmured low, and across the back of her closed lids a picture formed, the colors at first dull and muddy but, as she watched, they became brilliant, vivid, and alive.

It was she, kneeling down on the earth, prodding its warm firmness with a trowel, carefully digging around a bed of flowers.

"What on earth do you think I pay a gardener for, Sara?" It was Roarke's deep voice behind her, firm but filled with the sound of indulgent love.

She turned the upper portion of her body to face him. "Roarke, you know I love my flowers, how can I let someone else take care of them? They need my tender loving care!" She struggled to her feet and, as she leaned over to pick up the trowel, squealed in mock pain as she felt Roarke's fingers nip at the fleshy part of her buttock. "What are you doing, Roarke Alexander?"

"Just letting you know there's someone else who needs your tender loving care." And with deep laughter low in his chest, he swept her into his arms and started walking toward the house.

At a sound behind her, Sara turned and the vision cracked and splintered, falling away in tiny fragments to reveal Martha standing in the bedroom, her arms full of large tablets and carrying some sort of a small metal case clutched in one hand, followed by Bradley, balancing her lunch tray in his hands.

"What on earth…?"

"Come in here, Miss Sara. I want to show you something."

She put the case down and opened one of the sketch pads and held it so Sara could see a drawing of a black puppy.

Sara sat down on the edge of the bed, taking the pad in her hands. "Martha, what a good sketch! Look at those eyes, they almost glow with life. Who did this? It's very good."

Martha chuckled. "The artist was you, Miss Sara. When you're steadier on your feet, you can come downstairs to your workroom. All your paints are there. In fact, your easel still stands in the corner, waiting for you. These are some of your sketch pads and I brought up the case with your charcoal, pencils, and some watercolors in it for you."

Sara looked up, moving her eyes slowly from the sketch she held in front of her. "I did this?" she asked incredulously. "I paint? Why didn't you tell me sooner, Martha?"

"Because Mr. Roarke said the most important thing for you was rest and I agreed with him one hundred percent. I know you don't remember, but you were so dedicated to your painting that once you started something, you would work for hours on end, ignoring time, food, and even Mr. Roarke. And look at you right now"—Martha's eyes took in her thin body—"you're skinny as a rail. I couldn't have it on my conscience if you missed meals because you were too busy painting. But since Dr. Maxwell took that cast off your leg this morning, in a couple days you'll be as good as new, so I figured it was time to remind you of your drawing."

"Whoa, slow down, Martha," Sara chuckled. "You don't have to convince me that I'm too thin. And I agree with you, now that I'm able to get around, I probably will eat better." She tapped the sketch pad with her hand. "I really drew this?" she asked again, still a little amazed by this revelation.

Martha drew her shoulders up and lifted her chin proudly, "Indeed you did, young lady. In fact there are several of your paintings hanging in a gallery in Washington, D.C., at an amateur art exhibit. Mr. Roarke took Bradley and me to see them." Hastily Martha put her hand over her mouth and turned to Bradley. "Do you have the table set?" she asked almost brusquely.

Puzzled, Sara started to ask her what was wrong, but Martha interrupted her. "Please eat all your lunch, Miss Sara. I sure wouldn't want Dr. Maxwell to think I didn't feed you right and that it's my fault you're so skinny."

Patting her arm as she made her way past Martha, Sara said comfortingly, "Don't worry, Martha, I wouldn't let him blame you."

As she was leaving the room, Martha paused. "Oh, Miss Sara, Mr. Roarke called and said to expect him for dinner. So why don't you take a nice long rest and I'll fix up a special dinner to celebrate your cast coming off today."

Pushing open the sliding door, Sara grappled with the cane in one hand and the oversized tablet and pencils in the other. She didn't feel like sleeping; she felt too restless. Settling herself on the chaise, she placed the sketch pad on her lap. Flipping back the cover of the pad, she studied the blank paper. How did she start, she wondered, putting the pencil point against the paper. She frowned as nothing came into her mind then blinked her eyes.

Like thick clouds moving across the sky opening suddenly to reveal the blue behind them, a mist opened slowly in the middle of the paper and revealed blue water and brown sand. Sara watched spellbound as two figures materialized. The vision sharpened and she saw herself sitting on a beach beside Roarke, a huge sketch pad in her hands, her hair blowing in the light breeze.

"Come on, Roarke, hold still! I want to sketch you; darling. That dune and the dried grass behind you will be a wonderful background," she begged.

Roarke laughed, his eyes glowing and reflecting the sun. She was sketching madly, her hand moving so fast it was blurred. Following the trail of the piece of charcoal she held in her fingers were the lines of his face which was coming to life on the paper. Roarke leaned over and brushed a grain of sand off her nose and abruptly Sara was back on her balcony, stunned by the scenario she had envisioned. She reached up to her nose but shook her head.

Glancing down at the sketch pad, she was astounded to see Roarke's face staring back at her.
Did I draw this
? she wondered, absorbed with the sketch. She did draw it, the paper had been blank when she sat down, she was positive of that. Quickly ruffling the pages of the pad, she thought that maybe she had done it sometime before this, but the rest of the pages were bare also.

The thought of her flashback electrified her. Except for the one in the hospital when she remembered the pajamas, this was the strongest memory she had experienced yet. In a daze she studied the face drawn on the paper.
This isn't the Roarke I know
, she protested to herself.
I've never seen him look like this
. The eyes were soft and filled with love, the dark hair tousled on his head as though blown by a brisk wind. Lips curved in a sensuous smile that made her heart beat faster. She could almost feel those lips on hers.

Struggling to her feet, she made her way back into her room.
This isn't the way he is
, thought Sara bitterly.
This is a drawing of some younger Roarke I don't know
. She tore the sheet of paper out of the sketch pad and threw it across the room, where it landed on the floor near the door. She sat down at the table, her pencil tearing furiously at the paper.
This is what he looks like to me! This is what his marriage to me has done to him
! With each bitter thought her pencil slashed across the paper, and when she finally dropped the pencil on the table, the man drawn on the paper looked back at her—a handsome face with cold eyes glittering behind half-lowered lids, mouth closed in a firm line with furrows across the broad forehead and running alongside the straight, full lips.