The Goodbye Bride (8 page)

Hallelujah.

He paced the floor as he waited for the clerk to pull up the license. She'd put on some kind of easy listening music that was probably supposed to keep him calm. Instead, his nerves jangled like loose change in a server's apron.

The music cut off. “Mr. Callahan, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“I found the record. Would you like me to fax you a copy?”

“That'd be great.” He gave her his fax number. “How long do you think it'll take?”

“I'll send it as soon as I hang up.”

“Thank you so much.”

Zac signed off and pocketed his phone. He walked over to the machine and waited, hands on hips. Soon as he had a name, he'd
do a little Googling and find Mr. Right's phone number. Or maybe the license had that information. Could it really be so easy?

Maybe the guy would even come pick her up. He felt a pinch in his gut at the thought. Could he put her in a car with someone who was a stranger to her? Maybe he should—

No
, he chided himself.
She's not yours anymore.

The machine whirred to life, and a paper fed through. As soon as it was done, he picked it up and scanned it.

Brad Martin. Portland, Maine. Age 29. Caucasian.

Bingo.

He headed down the hall and knocked on Lucy's door.

“Brad Martin,” Zac said the instant she opened the door. His eyes studied her intensely, the silver flecks sparking.

Lucy stood in the doorway, conscious of her sleep-tousled hair and makeup-free face. The pills made her so drowsy. Maybe that's why she couldn't think straight.

“What?”

“Brad Martin. Mean anything to you?”

“Um . . . no.”

“Are you sure?”

“I've never heard—is that his name? My . . . fiancé?”

He held up a paper. “They faxed your wedding license.”

“Let me see.” She took the paper and scanned the information.
Brad Martin
. She frowned
. Brad Martin.
The name meant nothing to her.

“Maybe he goes by Bradley.” His tone was urging, hopeful.

She shook her head, staring at the paper a moment before she handed it back. “Nothing. Sorry.”

He turned around and walked away. She followed him to his office where he sat behind his desk and went to work on the computer.

She stepped behind him and watched as he typed the name into the search engine, confining the search to the Portland area. A moment later twenty-seven results appeared.

He sighed. “Great.”

“Look. It lists their ages.”
Why are you helping?

Leaning forward, he scrolled through the list. “There's no twenty-nine-year-old Brad Martin,” he said a couple minutes later. “But this one's twenty-eight. Got to be him, right?”

“Maybe.”

He picked up the handset and began dialing.

Her heart pounded. “Wait. You're calling now? What are you going to say?”

He spared her a look. “Me? Oh no. It's your fiancé.” He finished dialing and handed her the phone.

Panic tumbled through her. “What do I say?”

“Ask if he knows who it is. If it's him, he'll know your voice.”

Her face must've shown the panic she was feeling because his eyes warmed. “He'll be relieved to hear from you.”

“Hello?” a male voice said on the other end of the phone.

Her throat closed up, her eyes locked on Zac. Was this him? The man she was engaged to? The man she was supposed to love? Wouldn't some part of her know his voice?

“Hello?” His tone was impatient. Or maybe expectant. Hopeful?

“H-hello. Is this Brad?”

“
Lucy?
Lucy, is that you?”

“Y-yes.”

He swore. “Do you have any idea—” A hard sigh cut through the words. “Where are you?”

She was suddenly reluctant to give her exact location. “I—I'm up north. I had an accident. I hit my head. I don't remember anything.”

“I know. I've been in touch with the hospital. They're looking for you, Lucy.”

“Who?”

“Who? The police. Everyone. I filed a missing person report.”

“The police?” Her eyes shot to Zac's.

His brows pulled together.

“I'll let them know I found you. Why didn't you call me? I've been worried.”

“I told you, I don't remember anything.”

Silence spread across the line until she was almost ready to call his name and make sure he was still there.

“What do you mean by ‘anything'?” he asked finally.

“I—I don't remember the last seven and a half months.”

More silence. “
Nothing?
”

“No, I—I'm afraid not. I don't even remember moving to Portland. I don't remember meeting you at all. I don't remember dating or anything. We—I had to research on the computer to even find your name.”

“No kidding.”

His reflective tone struck her as odd. But she wasn't processing things correctly. He was probably in shock. He'd been going through a crisis of his own.

“You don't remember our wedding day?”

“No. Only waking up on the floor of a diner.”

“Will it come back—your memory?”

“I don't know. The doctor said it might or might not. I was afraid. I—I came up north.”

“I'll come get you. Where are you?”

She recoiled at his offer. She knew she was being silly, but there was something about him she didn't like. He seemed . . . calculating somehow.
It's all in your head, Lucy. He was your fiancé, for heaven's sake.

“Thank you, but no. I'm—I'm going to stay put awhile. I need to rest and recover.”

Zac shook his head adamantly, mouthing,
No
, while Brad tried to talk her into coming back. Her head was pounding again. Brad continued to reason with her, but his strident tone grated on her. She wanted to hang up the phone.

“I have to go, Brad,” she said, interrupting his speech.

“You can't just walk away, Lucy. You have a job here, friends . . . me. Just let me—”

“I'll call you later.” She hung up the phone before he could argue. Her heart was pounding, and her breath felt squeezed into her lungs.

“Lucy, you have to go back,” Zac said. “You have an apartment or a house, a job, and all your money is—”

“I know! I will.” But she wouldn't be going with Brad. She was so tired of people telling her what she had to do. She knew she had to go back. She surely couldn't stay here and mooch off Zac. But she had to sort out her life somehow before she made any kind of decision.

“Why didn't you tell him where you are?”

“I don't know.” She rubbed her temples. “I didn't want him to know. I don't like him.”

Zac smirked, his eyes mocking her. “Well, you must've liked something about him.”

Lucy pulled her shoulders back. “This isn't funny, Zac. You got your way. You're getting rid of me like you want, so just . . . just put a sock in it!”

She stormed out of the office and returned to her room. She shook out two more pills and washed them down with the lukewarm water on the nightstand, then sank onto the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. She'd probably be passed out again in twenty minutes, but that was just fine. She was starting to prefer unconsciousness.

Chapter 9

I
t was late by the time they entered Portland. Lucy had dozed part of the way, gladly giving in to oblivion. She didn't want to think about the moment when Zac would leave her. Just the thought that she'd never see him again made her chest so tight she could hardly breathe.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. The streetlights washed over his face, highlighting the masculine angles. Shadows crouched below his brows and in the hollows of his cheeks. Her eyes fell to his lips, drawn out in a tight line. She would never kiss those lips again. Never feel the gentle sweep of his fingers across her skin. Never enjoy the safety of his strong embrace.

She'd thought she'd bought some extra time when Zac was unable to find her address, and she'd pleaded with him not to call Brad again.

But he had an ace up his sleeve—his cousin Abby, a private detective who lived in Indiana. She'd found the address in under an hour. Lucy lived in a downtown apartment on Park Street, unit 6.

Zac took an exit, and they coasted through a residential neighborhood. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he
wordlessly navigated the darkened streets. Eventually the neighborhood gave way to a commercial area with higher buildings and stoplights at every corner—none of it familiar. She tried to picture her apartment and failed. But a different problem came to mind.

“Wait a minute. How are we going to get in?”

He cleared his throat, speaking for the first time in miles. “We'll find the super.”

“What if he's not home?”

“Then we'll check next door. Maybe you left a key with a neighbor like you did in Summer Harbor.” His low voice rumbled through the cab.

“And if I didn't?” He wouldn't just leave her there on the stoop, would he?

“Abby's taught me a few tricks over the years. I can pick a lock when I need to.”

He turned onto Park Street and slowed, coasting as he read the street numbers. They were in the three hundred block, so he accelerated. Soon they entered a residential neighborhood that had a Boston feel, with tall, narrow buildings crammed together, stoops leading up to sets of double doors.

His foot eased off the pedal and the car slowed. His brows pinched together as he stared out the front windshield, and his lips went tighter still.

She followed his gaze to a handful of people gathered on the stoop of a brownstone.

“Oh boy,” he said.

“What's wrong?”

“Is there a back—? Never mind.”

He passed the building, and the people watched them go by. A couple of them stood. A man swung a camera to his shoulder. She
noticed a white van that said KPTV on its side. And another white van with an unreadable logo.

Zac turned into a parallel slot just down the street and cut the ignition.

“What's going on? Was that my building?”

He looked at her across the darkened space. “Here's what we're going to do. We're going to walk fast, pass by them. Stay close to me, and don't say anything. Nothing at all. Got it?”

“This is about
me
?”

His sigh was long and steady. “Your fiancé must've contacted the police and let them know you're all right. It must be public record. You're a missing person, suffering from amnesia, and you're Audrey Lovett's great-niece to boot. I guess that's news. You ready? We need to make this quick.”

No. Heck, no, she wasn't ready. But Zac was already out of the truck and heading round to get her.

He opened her door and took her arm. Her legs wobbled as they marched toward the small crowd. Her heart raced, her lungs struggling to keep up. She clutched Zac's arm, needing support.

As they neared, the people turned and headed toward them, microphones in hand, two video cameras. A light flashed, making her blink. Then another. She ducked into Zac, and he put his arm around her, drawing her into his side.

And then the mob was upon them.

“Lucy, is it true you have amnesia?”

“Where have you been, Lucy?”

“What can you tell us about your accident?”

“Who's the guy, Lucy?”

“No comment,” Zac growled, turning a shoulder in and plowing through the group.

Lucy almost had to jog to keep up. They reached the stoop, and she scampered up the steps beside him.

“Lucy, how much do you remember?”

“What's your prognosis?”

“Why'd you leave your wedding?”

“They're calling you the Runaway Bride. Any thoughts on that?” They slipped through the door and darted for the stairs. Behind them the door fell closed, shutting out the questions. Zac stayed close as they climbed a flight of steps, then another.

Her breaths were heavy by the time they reached the top. “What about the super?”

He pulled two little tools from his pocket. “We're going straight to plan C.”

Lucy looked down the stairwell while he worked, afraid the reporters were going to come crashing in the door. Their questions haunted her. How long would they stay out there? Was she going to be trapped here?

Runaway Bride?

“Maybe we should just find the super. It'll say on the mailbox.”

His hands went still, and he angled a look up at her, his eyes intense. “You remember the mailboxes?”

“No . . . I just assumed.”

He visibly deflated, then went back to his tools. “I almost have it.”

A few minutes later he turned the knob and the door opened. He held it for her and she crossed the threshold, finding a light switch on the wall beside her. The apartment smelled like new carpet and lemons. Zac shut the door behind her, fiddling with the doorknob.