Remember Me (13 page)

“Sugar, you can’t go on like this. I know you were in a plane crash out there, but something else happened you ain’t talking about.”

Lucy wiped her eyes. “And I won’t now. I need a couple of days off. Then I’ll be fine.”

“You need more than a couple days off. You still making those pots and things?”

“Yes.”

“You get cleaned and changed, sugar. You and me are gonna talk to Roberto.”

When Lucy stood in the shower, all she could feel was a sense of relief someone else was taking charge for a change. The water from the wide showerhead sluiced over her body, leaching some of the fatigue from her muscles. She hadn’t been sleeping well since her return from Colorado, haunted by dreams in which Tom Hanson wasn’t the one who’d died in the crash. In those dreams, it was Brandon’s blank green-gold gaze staring at her. And wasn’t that the truth of the matter?

He might as well have been dead to her. Part of her wondered if what she was going through wasn’t in fact worse. At least if he had died in the crash, he would be gone and she would know, just like she’d understood the permanence of her grandmother’s death. This way, there was always the possibility torturing her that someday he might remember. What then?

Her movements were pure habit while she toweled dry, removed any makeup still remaining, and then dressed in the jeans and sweatshirt she always arrived and departed in. With her face makeup-free and her hair in a long braid, she resembled neither Jasmine LeFleur nor the Lucy Cameron Brandon had first met. She sighed and stared in the mirror. This was who she was. This was what and who she would be when she went into her studio in the morning and began working on the pots she’d been building.

In the meantime, she needed to sit down with Roberto. He and Tiffany were waiting for her when she came out of the dressing room. Lucy had always thought there was a sad, empty feeling to the club once the customers were gone and the lights had come up. Flamingo Road was a glitzy establishment, but like the women who entertained there, Lucy supposed it was often best seen in low light, not the glare of fluorescents.

“Have a seat, Lucy,” Roberto ordered, his voice its usual deep rumble. “When my star dancer comes backstage and breaks into tears, I need to know why. Am I working you too hard?”

Lucy shook her head.

“Then what is it? Have you reached the end of being able to dance?”

“I don’t think so, but I keep wondering. It’s always been fun for me in the past. I don’t feel it right now.”

Roberto took her hand in his. He had been almost like a father to her, though he wasn’t old enough, but she suspected he’d endured a tough childhood on the streets. Once or twice he’d mentioned taking off from foster homes. She never questioned how he’d come to own a place like Flamingo Road. Sometimes, Lucy had found, it was better not to delve too deeply into a person’s past.

“Look at me,” he ordered now. “What is it you want to do, Lucy?”

She swallowed, her hand trembling in his rough palm. “I want to be a potter like my grandmother. She didn’t make a great living, but it was enough.”

“That is a very solitary occupation,” he observed. “You would be content with such a life?”

Would she? It was a question she didn’t need to think about for more than a split second. “Yes. I would like to take it beyond what my grandmother did. I would like to exhibit my work, not just create pots and mugs to sell in some trendy tourist traps.”

“Are you good?”

She was taken aback by his question, but after she had a moment to think, answered, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Do you have a plan of how to make this career you want happen?”

Lucy shook her head. Roberto smiled. She had seen a similar smile before. She had seen the same look months ago when he had found a place for Tessa Edwards in his business office once the girl’s pregnancy began to show. Lucy hadn’t thought about her friend in a while. She would be getting ready to have her baby soon, but Tessa was no longer working at Flamingo Road. She had given her notice and explained she would be moving to the shore with the man who was now her husband. Lucy talked to her every once in a while.

Roberto had pulled out a pen and paper. He scribbled a couple names and phone numbers on it and then pushed it toward her. “Two people who can help you. One is for your head,” he told her and smiled. “The other is to help you follow your heart.”

Lucy’s gaze darted from the paper to his face. “Are you firing me?”

Roberto leaned back and laughed. “No, love. Until you tell me you are through, I would like Jasmine LeFleur on my stage whenever she wants to be, but when she is there? I want all of her in the game, so you call the first number. She can help you with what’s bothering you…”

“A shrink?”

Roberto shrugged. “She is a good listener. We all need someone to talk to every now and then. Even me.”

“You?”

His mouth quirked. “Even me. Angelina, she has a good head and a good heart. Now, the second name? He is a friend of a friend–a gallery owner in Georgetown.”

Lucy stared at the names and numbers on the paper. When her lip began to tremble, she clamped down on it.

“Now, you have three days off scheduled. I want you to add two more. When you come back, you can tell me if you will still dance for me or if you are ready to move on. Okay?”

Lucy picked up the paper, stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans and stood. “Why couldn’t I love someone like you?”

Roberto’s dark eyes widened. “You are a woman any man would be proud to have at his side, but me? I am not a man women would be proud to have with them. You take care of your business, and I will see you next Saturday, okay?”

Lucy leaned down and kissed his cheek. With a wave at Tiffany, she grabbed her duffel bag and headed out to her car. Her fingers touched the paper in her pocket. Roberto was just full of surprises. Who knew?

Chapter 9

Brandon sat in Matt’s private quarters at Falcon’s Summit, a bourbon at his fingertips and his gaze on the fireplace. They had returned about an hour ago. Matt had promised to bring him the pottery piece, but an emergency in the kitchen had taken him away. Brandon could wait. It seemed all he was good for. He’d had to wait to make this trip while he went through first surgery and then recovery on his ankle. He hadn’t waited, rather he’d put off going back to work at Barrett. On one level, while he might be back to normal, the hole in his memory–now a much more vital one than even he had realized–had affected his confidence. If he couldn’t remember four days of his life, how could he run a multi-billion dollar company? What if his mind went blank again? What if there were already blank spots he wasn’t even aware of yet?

His cellphone vibrated against his hip. Brandon grabbed it and answered, “This is Brandon.”

“It’s Seth.”

The tone in his older brother’s voice put him on the alert. “What’s up?”

“Dad’s in the hospital. Mild heart attack, but the cardiologist is making noises about doing a bypass. Where are you at, bro?”

Brandon knew Colorado wasn’t the answer Seth was seeking. He wanted to know where Brandon’s head was. It was tempting to put this off on Seth, but they had done that to him for too many years. Brandon had wanted control of the company, now it seemed he would have it. Sitting straighter, he asked a question in return. “Where do I need to be?”

“Here. Mind and body. I can return on a temporary basis. Tessa and I had planned to move to the brownstone in Georgetown anyway with her due date getting so close, but I’ve been out of the loop. I’m your backup. You’re the main go-to guy.”

Brandon raked his fingers through his hair. Shit, he needed a haircut. He needed to get his ass in gear. Most of all, he needed to quit looking at the past and move on. “Tomorrow morning’s as soon as I can get out of here. How’s Dad?”

There was a short, sharp bark of laughter. “Not anywhere close to kicking the bucket and still the biggest son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever had to deal with.”

“What about Mom?”

“As stoic as ever, rushing about making arrangements in case any of our other siblings decide to visit the lion in his den.” Seth paused. “If Tessa’s due date weren’t so close, Bran, I’d let you do what you need to get done, but this time I got to use my membership on the Board of Directors to pull rank. The corporation needs someone at the helm.”

“I can do it.”

After hanging up, he phoned the company pilot to let him know they’d be leaving first thing in the morning. He had just finished his call when Matt returned.

One look at Brandon’s face and Matt asked, “What’s up?”

“My dad’s in the hospital facing bypass surgery. Seth called. I’m needed at Barrett headquarters.”

Matt nodded. “When do you leave?”

“Right at dawn.”

“Let me get you the pottery piece.”

Brandon had already steeled himself to feel no reaction. If seeing the lodge again, the crash site and the cabin had done nothing to stir his memory, what could a freaking clay pot do? Matt set it in his hand. Brandon’s eyes widened. He had expected something bigger, like a flower pot or at least a soup bowl. This thing wasn’t big enough to hold much more than a flower bud. He brushed the pad of his thumb over a surface smooth and polished like a gem. When he turned the pot resting on his palm, he saw it had been worked to resemble a seed in the first stages of germination.

Another image came to mind, this time of a slender woman’s hand with fingers that were elegant and strong. He heard suppressed excitement in her voice as she talked of the heritage of Native American pottery.

“Brandon? Are you okay, dude?”

“What?” He glanced at Matt feeling like he was just starting to resurface from beneath the depths of some thick, viscous liquid.

“Did you remember something?”

Brandon rubbed his forehead. “I–I don’t know. Can I take this with me?”

Matt’s gaze was troubled. “It’s yours, dude. You paid a thousand dollars for it.”

* * * *

Lucy stared at Roberto’s handwriting the following morning. Angelina O’Daniel. Now there was a true American melting pot. She tapped her finger on the paper while she sipped her coffee and stared out the window of her tiny breakfast nook into her postage-stamp-sized backyard. Spring flowers brightened the border of the patio. At the back of the yard, her kiln sat idle. She set her coffee cup down and picked up the phone.

Roberto was right. Everyone needed someone to talk to at some point. She had reached hers. After dreaming once again of the crash last night, Lucy knew she couldn’t continue. The nightmares were getting worse, not better, with the passage of time. That didn’t seem right. Luck was with her when she called. Angelina had time late in the day to meet her. Lucy hung up, feeling she’d made an appointment not with a doctor, but with a friend.

Buoyed by her success with Angelina, Lucy called the second number. At the upper crust sound to the voice on the phone at the other end, her nerve failed. Instead, all she asked was what the gallery’s hours were.

Chicken. That had always been part of her problem. She was scared to put her talent on the line. Scared to lay it out there where someone might tear her work–and thus her fragile ego–to shreds. Just thinking about it made her somewhat queasy.

Well, she knew the cure. She loaded her dirty dishes in the small dishwasher, then walked down the stairs leading to the glassed-in porch she’d converted into her studio. There was plenty of natural light and lots of shelving where she could allow pottery to dry before she glazed. Although she’d been working with techniques of hand-building pots, this morning she wanted the comfort of the wheel. The rhythm of the clay moving beneath her fingers would soothe her because it reminded her of her grandmother.

She used her foot to start the wheel, selected a ball of clay and centered it with her hands, dipping one in water to remoisten hands and clay while she worked. How many times had she sat nearby in her grandmother’s studio, watching? There had never been anything fancy about what she’d made, but the practical, serviceable bowls, cups and dishes had been turned with an attention to detail and craftsmanship. She had always stuck with light, earth-toned glazes because she said they reminded her of the ocean and the shore where they lived. They had also gained the interest of the tourists.

Lucy’s work differed there. Her glazes were a bold meshing of vibrant colors, the hues and tints of a sunrise or sunset, the vibrant energy of a night in the city. Maybe that was the part of herself she was still trying to accept. She had not carried on her grandmother’s tradition. Lucy had taken it and changed it. She’d made it her own. Her foot stopped pumping the pedal. The wheel halted. After cleaning the surface of the wheel around the pot, Lucy used a wire to separate it, then lifted the bat to the side to let it rest.

She washed her hands and examined some of the last items she’d glazed and fired. She recalled some of the techniques she’d seen in Falcon’s Head and Coyote Creek. As painful as it might be because those memories were tied to Brandon, she needed to think about them. Her glazing techniques weren’t enough. She needed more to make her pottery stand out, not an amusing conversation piece, but fine art people wanted to display. There would always be room for turning utilitarian pieces, but if she was going to make a name for herself, then she had to separate her work from the thousands of potters already out there. And she needed to market it.