A Man She Couldn't Forget

CHAPTER TWO

MORNING FILTERED IN THROUGH the open window—cool air, the sound of birds chirping and the smell of newly mowed grass. Pulling the covers up to her neck, Clare burrowed into the pillow and sank deeper into the mattress.

Rested, she let her mind wake up with her body. When it did, gradually, the all-too-familiar anxiety began to wash over her, like a cold stream replacing all warmth. Where was she? Her eyes snapped open.

Sage-green walls. White trim. Overhead, a fan whirred. She groped the covers—a light quilt swirled with greens and whites interspersed with tiny red lines. Amidst the burst of color, blackness threatened to drown her.

Take deep breaths, Clare. That’s the best way to calm down. Someone’s voice from the hospital. She didn’t know whose.

So she breathed in and out, once, twice…she was settled when she reached six.

All right, all right, the facts were that she didn’t remember this room, this house, these people. But her short-term memory was intact: yesterday, late afternoon, Jonathan had brought her here. They’d come upstairs and there had been a confrontation between him and Brady. Clare had gotten a blinding headache, and Brady had carried her into the bedroom; she’d fallen asleep and not awakened until now, at 8:00 a.m. The long rest wasn’t unusual, as she’d slept most of the time she was in the hospital. Suddenly, she remembered the dream she’d had. She was cooking with an older woman, and her sister was there. Then there was something else. Something about snakes. She shivered, and her stomach knotted. She didn’t want to remember the dream, hadn’t wanted to remember the ones she’d had in the hospital, either. Her therapist had explained why…

Dreams are indicative of what you’re not remembering. To keep you happy, or sometimes sane, your conscious mind won’t let you recall incidents in your past. In cases of amnesia, the drive is even stronger. Psychologically you’re hiding what you don’t want to, or can’t, remember.

Was that true for her? Clare wondered. Was the cause of her amnesia psychological? It didn’t have to be. The workings of the brain were still somewhat of a mystery to doctors and researchers alike, especially when amnesia was involved. Her physicians had told Clare that the cause of her memory loss could very well be physical, even if her CT scans showed no residual brain damage from the bump on her head. Damn, not even knowing why she couldn’t remember things was frustrating.

Turning over, she pushed herself to a seated position and took in the rest of the room. Gleaming hardwood floors. A bank of windows overlooking the side and back yards. An adjoining room—the bathroom, probably.

Was she alone? Probably not. Brady said he and his friends—her friends, too—were going to take turns staying with her. She wished he had been here when she’d first woken up. Yesterday, just being near him had calmed her fears and anxieties. He must be a big part of the history she couldn’t remember.

Then she shook her head. Now that she had regained some of her physical strength, she should stop depending on anybody too much. She sensed that wasn’t her style. But fear and distress came too suddenly, too unexpectedly, and made her weak. Oh, well, no sense whining about it. Throwing back the cover, she slid out of bed and noticed she still wore her dress. The fabric was wrinkled, and she felt grungy, so she made her way to the bathroom.

It was huge. Windows lining the walls about a foot over her head, long and uncovered, let in the light but gave complete privacy. There was a dressing area to the right. A shower stall was on the left, made of light-blue fiberglass with a frosted glass door.

She stripped, turned on the faucet and stepped under the spray. It was heavenly, and for a few seconds she remembered being in this enclosed space; then the memory was gone. Squeezing shampoo from a bottle in the shower caddy, she washed her hair and luxuriated in the process and the scent of lavender surrounding her—that, too, was familiar. Gingerly, she touched the injured area. Sometimes it still ached.

Done in the shower, she crossed to the dressing room, admiring the vanity, the wooden chest of drawers and the closet.

From the latter, she chose pink capris and a white T-shirt. When she opened the underwear drawer—it was the first one she tried—she stopped short. Well, she liked pretty things. Sexy ones. Picking up a pair of leopard bikinis, she had a startling flash of a man taking the panties and a matching bra off her. It was a pleasant image and filled her with warmth, but it was gone too quickly. Whose hands were they? Jonathan’s? Or those of another man she was involved with before she met him? Would she ever remember being intimate with someone? How could she forget that? Dr. Summers had cautioned her that in some amnesiac cases, memory didn’t return. The notion chilled her and she dressed quickly.

The mirror reflected a stranger again, and fear started to coil inside her, but she forced herself to stay detached and examine her face. The bruises under her eyes were better today. Automatically she reached for a box, knowing cosmetics were in there. She used concealer to erase the last trace of black and was satisfied with the results.

“What the hell?” she said, and picked up the lipstick. It was pretty, and she liked it.

Then she blow-dried her hair just enough to get the water out and keep the mass of pretty waves.

Back in the bedroom, she stared at the doorway. Forcing herself to move to it, she stepped out into the hallway. It was short, and opened onto a large living room. She hadn’t seen the condo last night because she’d buried her nose in Brady’s chest as he carried her into the bedroom. Just the recollection of it made her feel better, and she wondered why.

The living area was one big space, demarcated by couches sectioning off a dining room that graced one end. Ceiling fans lifted the air around her, making her shiver. She snagged a sweater off a chair, where she must have left it before the accident, and slipped it on. Ahh. She recognized the scent. Her scent.

Slowly, she crossed to the doorway of another room off this one. It was her office, and sported a pink-and-blue striped couch that pulled out to a bed, she somehow knew. Her desk, bookshelves…evidence of her work. When her pulse quickened, she left without going inside. For that reason, she bypassed the kitchen, too.

There was no sign of Brady, no sign of anyone. Hmm. She walked to the windows in the back. A woman was in the yard weeding the huge garden.

Oh, Brady, thank you for digging this. I can grow all my herbs fresh for my recipes. She’d thrown her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

Hey, I helped. Another man, a very big, very handsome black man, teased her. Don’t I get a hug?

Wow! That was a very specific memory, and it cheered her.

Since no one was obviously in the condo, maybe the woman in the garden was the one keeping Clare company this morning. Grabbing her keys and sticking them in her pocket, she headed out of the condo and down the stairs to the backyard. The morning air was cool and a bit damp. She made her way across the grass and called out when she was a few feet away, “Hello.”

The woman’s head jerked up, and she looked over her shoulder. Once again Clare’s heart started to beat fast. Something was familiar about her, but it was the look on her face that upset Clare. Her dark brows knitted, and her mouth formed a definite frown. She wasn’t happy to see Clare.

Slowly, she stood. “Hi, Clare. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were awake. Brady had an eight o’clock appointment, so I came up to stay with you. I checked on you, but you were still sleeping. I thought I’d pull a few weeds, since no one’s had time to do it.”

“Thanks for thinking of that.”

The woman cocked her head as Clare came closer. Wide, almond-shaped eyes the color of chestnuts stared at her; hair to match swung in a short ponytail. She was dressed in pretty yellow shorts and a matching top. Clare gave her a tentative smile.

“You don’t remember who I am.”

“No, I’m sorry. But don’t take offense. I don’t remember anyone.” She swallowed hard and felt emotion clog her throat.

“Not even Brady?”

“Should I?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you things.”

Clare shrugged. “That’s not exactly true. The doctor said to make sure I don’t get too much information at once. But familiar people and objects are supposed to jog my memory. It’s already happened some.”

After a hesitation, the woman nodded. “I’m Delia Kramer, from the first floor.”

“We’re neighbors.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And friends?”

“Ah…yes.”

“Could a friend fix me some coffee?” She glanced back at the house. “I didn’t go in the kitchen yet. I’m afraid to.”

Delia came out of the garden. “I’m sorry, Clare. That must be hard for you.”

A flash of recognition of this woman listening to her and comforting her. “Did you always know what I was thinking? How I was feeling?”

“At one point in our lives.”

Confused by the comment, Clare was about to ask for an explanation, but Delia started walking toward the house and Clare fell into step alongside her. “I came to the hospital when you were in a coma. But the doctors didn’t want too many visitors after you awakened.” Another pause. “I sent flowers, carnations. Your favorites.”

Clare smiled. “That’s why I liked them so much.”

In truth, Clare had wondered why no one had visited but Brady and Jonathan. There were flowers from others, none of whom she remembered, and a few calls after she woke up. Her sister had phoned a couple of times from France. She’d cried when Clare didn’t remember her, and often had tears in her voice when she called back. Damn it, how could you not remember your own flesh and blood?

When they arrived at Delia’s first floor condo, they went in through a set of French doors leading into a kitchen, which was roomy with warm wood everywhere. Because it seemed right, Clare took a stool at the island instead of the breakfast nook. Delia assembled the coffee and when it began to drip, turned around. This time, her expression was pained.

“What’s wrong, Delia?”

“It’s just that I haven’t seen you at my kitchen island in a long time.”

“No? You said we were friends. And we live in the same building.”

“I—let’s talk about something else. Your hair looks great short.”

“Please, just tell me that one thing. Why haven’t I been here in a while?”

Delia leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “You got really busy with your cookbooks and TV show.”

“But we were close before that?”

“Yes, we were college roommates, then you went to culinary school, and I got my master’s degree. I’m an elementary school teacher, now.”

“My sister’s a teacher, too.”

“I know. Cathy and I have a lot in common. Anyway, you were maid of honor in my wedding. After you finished your training, you moved here when a condo opened up because we owned one.” She glanced over at a picture by the window. “You don’t remember anything? Anyone?” Her voice caught on the last word.

“I have flashes. I knew I used to sit at the island.” She frowned. “So I must have been here a lot.” When Delia just stared at her, Clare nodded to the photo. “Is that your husband?”

“Excuse me for a minute.” Her voice quivered and Delia disappeared into what looked like a powder room off the kitchen.

Standing, Clare crossed to the window and picked up the picture. It was of a man in army fatigues. Closely cropped hair. Dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked so young and handsome and hopeful. Oh my God, he was dead. She knew what had happened.

Delia had been at the computer when Clare had come in through the front door and into this kitchen. She remembered how bereft she’d felt but knew she had to be strong for her friend…

“HEY,” DELIA SAID. “I’m e-mailing Don, but I don’t know how to begin.” Her hand went to her stomach. “How do you tell somebody thousands of miles away he’s going to be a daddy? He’ll be happy, though.” She frowned. “Damn that army reserve. I told him he never should have signed on. He’d be here…”

Finally she looked up. Her face sobered. “Clare, what…” She stood and hurried over to her friend. “What is it, what’s happened?”

“Dee, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The army people, I saw them outside approaching the front door. I told them I was your friend. I insisted they tell me first…so you wouldn’t be alone…”

A knock on the door, as loud as a gunshot.

“What is it?” Delia’s fingers bit into Clare’s arm. “What is it?”

“Honey, I’m sorry. Don’s dead…”

CLARE RECALLED WHAT she wished she hadn’t…crying through the whole official announcement, days of grim reality, nights of holding her friend while she sobbed out her pain. But Delia had gotten through it, with the help of Brady, Clare and someone else. The guy helping Brady carry the couch, the guy from the garden.

Now, however, Clare felt the loss all over again. It was as if someone she knew and loved had just died, making Clare take in a quick breath.

She heard Delia move behind her. “What are you doing?”

Setting down the frame, Clare turned around. “I remember. I’m so sorry.”

“You look so sad. Do you remember Don himself?”

“No, just when we found out he was killed in action and how I felt then.”

Delia shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. I’ll try harder.”

Delia swallowed hard. “I appreciated all you did for me, Clare. I couldn’t have gotten through his death and the aftermath without you.”

Which must have made their estrangement even harder. With that thought came pain behind her eyes. Briefly, she closed them and was able to will it away.

The coffee finished dripping. Delia poured them each a mug and brought both to the counter, where Clare reseated herself. Then Delia removed vanilla-flavored International Delight from the refrigerator and sat down. Clare picked up the bottle and poured some of the sweet liquid into her coffee.

“You knew that was for you?” Delia asked.

“Uh-huh. Do you want to talk more about Don?”

“No, I want to change the subject.”

“Then, yes, I knew this was for me. Sometimes I just know things. It’s all so odd.”

“What does it feel like? Not remembering?”

“Very scary. And unsafe.” She swallowed hard and massaged her temples. “When I try to remember, I get pain in my head. But some of what I recall since I came home yesterday is comforting. And smells trigger mostly good stuff.”

“You have a lot to deal with.”

“Especially alone.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without Donny.”

“Your son.” A flash of red hair and freckles filled her mind. “I remember what he looks like. Is he here?”

“No, every June when he gets out of school, he goes to stay with Don’s parents for a while. I miss him, but it’s good for them.”

“Tell me about him.”

Delia had her laughing out loud at the precocious seven-year-old’s antics when the French doors to the kitchen opened.

“If this isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”

Delia smiled warmly at Brady. More warmly than she’d originally greeted Clare. “Isn’t it? Just like old times.”

Stepping inside, Brady kissed Delia on the cheek, then touched Clare’s shoulder. He smelled even more familiar—she knew that cologne—making her lean toward him. He looked good, too, in jeans and a navy-blue shirt tucked in at the waist. Brady Langston kept in shape.

“Good morning. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I woke about eight. Delia was in the garden, and somehow we ended up here.”

Delia had gone to the counter, poured another cup of coffee and added sugar. She served it to Brady and they exchanged a meaningful look. “Thanks, Dee.”

Clare didn’t have her memory back, but she knew certain things. Entering a house without knocking, a nickname, being served coffee without asking how it was taken and sharing pointed glances all indicated intimacy.

Apparently Delia and Brady had stayed close while Clare had grown apart from them. She wished she could remember why.

BRADY SAT AT THE DRAFTING table in his home office and stared at the walls, bookshelves and computer. On his desk sat the page proofs of one book to go over, and the beginning of another was in front of him. But right now, all he could think about was Clare.

After he found her at Delia’s, they talked over coffee. Mostly she was comfortable, until something came up that she didn’t remember. Then she’d get agitated and, worse, fearful. He couldn’t stand watching her be afraid. After a while, he suggested a walk and she seemed to be itching for exercise. Why not? She’d never sat still for a minute before, even if she didn’t remember that. Two long weeks in a hospital bed had decreased her strength and stamina but not her desire to move.

As they walked, she peppered him with questions about the Kramers, and he tried to fill her in the best he could. Don’s death was still hard for him to talk about, even though he’d known the guy the shortest period of time. Brady had moved into the old house ten years ago when the others were all settled in. He soon came to love Don, like they did. And like Max and Clare, Brady had been devastated for a long time after their friend died.

Such grim thoughts often came these days when he was alone. He dragged himself up from the chair and walked into the living room. He’d insisted he and Clare leave their doors open in case she needed him. When he reached the front of his condo, he smiled at his own whimsy of creating the birds, which were supposed to represent the five of them. He fingered the goldfinch, Clare, who’d flown the coop. Shaking his head, he stepped into the hall. No sounds from her place. He went back to work, sat at the drafting table, and was just getting into Raoul the Rat and Millie the Mouse when the phone rang. Caller ID told him it was his agent, which was the only reason he answered.

“Brady? Hi, it’s Leo.”

“Hey, Leo.”

“How’s Clare doing?”

“Better. She’s home. I’m on watch this afternoon, but she’s sleeping, so guess where I am?”

“Please, tell me you’re in your office.”

“I am. And Millie and Raoul got one more page.”

“Thank God. The publisher’s breathing down my neck. They gave the extension, but begrudgingly.”

“Thanks, Leo.”

But what could they do anyway? Brady worked at his own pace and did things in his own time frame. It used to drive his workaholic ex-wife Gail crazy. He was successful though, and their marriage had struggled along a bumpy road until tragedy struck and Brady’s whole life turned upside down.

“Did you hear me, Brady?”

Not exactly. His mind went where it always did these days. “Something about a delivery date.”

“Funny.”

“I don’t know when it’ll be done, Leo. I’ve promised to help out with Clare. I want to.”

“You’re in a perfect position to do that. You work at home, she’s next door.” A pause. “You sure there’s nothing going on between you two other than friendship?”

He hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sure.”

There was a knock on his open door, and then a “Yo…”

“Someone’s here. I gotta go.”

“Scan and e-mail me what you’ve done.”

“You know I don’t like to do that, Leo.”

“It’ll calm my nerves.”

“Take a Valium.” Max appeared at his door, and Brady motioned for him to wait.

“Come on. I need a Millie and Raoul fix.”

“Maybe. Talk to you soon.”

After he clicked off, he stood and faced his longtime friend, Max Mason, whom he’d known since high school, when they’d hung out together and avoided playing football. Max was big enough to compete, though, with the build of a linebacker. Brady had based a character on him once, Mixy, the huge lovable rat. Max feigned outrage, but Brady had seen a few copies of the book on his buddy’s shelf.

They hugged like men do—a bear clasp and pats on the back. Brady had always been grateful for Max’s friendship, especially in the past year.

When he drew back, Max asked, “How is she?”

“She’s home.”

“I thought maybe. I saw the open door. I can help now. I got some time off.”

“You did?”

“I said I’d help.” He dropped his big form into the mahogany leather chair and propped his feet up on the ottoman.

“I know, but she’s not your favorite person anymore.”

His dark eyes narrowed and he ran a hand over his shaved head. Brady remembered when he’d worn it in an Afro. “No matter. If Dee and I don’t help, you’ll run yourself into the ground.” He glanced at the desk. “Or worse, put aside your work again to help her.”

Brady wasn’t up for an argument, especially one they’d had so many times. “Want something?”

“No, I’m going to catch a nap. Long flight.” Max was a pilot for a private company and had been flying his boss around the country while Clare lay in the hospital. “I won’t say any more after this, but I gotta get one thing off my chest.”

“Max…”

“I love you, bro. I don’t want her to hurt you. Be careful and protect yourself.”

“Point taken.”

When Max left, Brady found it impossible to get back to his book. Again, he pushed away from the desk, got up and headed to Clare’s condo. This time, he went in and found her in bed on her side, her hands under her face like she always slept. The pretty green sheet had slipped off, so he tucked it around her. His whole body responded to the sight of her, and the scent of her that permeated this room. Hell, this was all he needed now.

She looked so fragile, bruised and fearful, even in slumber. Her brow furrowed and she turned over fitfully. How on earth could Brady abandon her now?

Because she abandoned you. And Dee. And Max. Even her own sister.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had a Clare hex on him, and nothing could dispel it. He’d felt this way since the first day he met her…

“THE MEAL WAS TERRIFIC.” Brady lazed back in his chair and spoke to Josie, the owner of Meloni’s. This place was Max and Don and Delia’s favorite restaurant, and his other cotenant in the house worked here. Having recently moved into the old Victorian, Brady had yet to meet Clare Boneli.

“Our assistant chef made it.” The small, white-haired Italian woman smiled. “Which of course is why you’re here.” She picked up Brady’s credit card—he insisted on paying—and smiled at his friends. “I’ll be right back. Want something else?”

“Cappuccino would be nice,” Don suggested. “Maybe the chef can join us.”

“Sure. She’s cleaned up already.”

When Josie left, Brady asked, “That meal was something. Where did she learn to cook like this?”

Delia grinned like a proud mama. “After college, she went to culinary school, then she studied in France awhile.”

She explained more about Clare’s background until they heard, “Talking about me behind my back?”

Turning, Brady saw a slender blonde with eyes the color of grass carrying a tray of mugs.

“Yep, I’m filling Brady in.”

Brady stood, took the tray and set it down. “You must be the chef.” He held out his hand. “I’m the new tenant, Brady Langston.”