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The rest of the evening was pleasant, and when he went back to his room, Jonathan was thinking about having his own kids, teaching them to drive, proudly showing pictures as Mitch had. He sat on the divan, took out his cell and punched in Clarissa’s number.
She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.”
His mood lightened at the sound of her voice. “Hi, honey. It’s me.”
No response.
Damn it, didn’t she even recognize his voice? “Jonathan.”
“Yes, hi. How’s Chicago?”
“I’ve had a successful trip. But I miss you.”
Please say you miss me, too.
“Successful?”
“We got the contract.”
“Is that good?”
“Very. I’ll explain the details when I get back.”
“When will that be?”
“Friday night. I’ve made reservations at your favorite restaurant.”
A long hesitation. “Oh, good.” He heard another sound.
“Was that a yawn? Are you getting enough sleep?”
“Uh-huh. I’m in bed right now. I was watching TV.”
“Do you remember any shows?” He hadn’t thought of this side of amnesia—would she recognize songs, shows, films?
“A couple brought flashbacks.”
“Any of me? We used to watch Law and Order together.”
“Um, no, but I’ll make sure I catch an episode and see what happens.”
He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. This wasn’t her fault, but he could curse fate for what had happened. “Honey, it’ll come back. Don’t worry.”
“I know.”
“Go to sleep.” He waited. “And dream of me.”
When she hung up, he stretched out on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. He’d meant it when he’d told Mitch that he had never loved anyone like he loved Clarissa. And it had been going so well. Still, he hadn’t lost yet.
As he lay there, he convinced himself that as soon as he got back to Rockford, she’d start remembering him. When that possibility began to worry him—there were definitely some things he didn’t want her to remember yet—he pushed them out of his mind.
All would be well as soon as they could spend some quality time together.
It would. It would!
CHAPTER FOUR
WITH THE LATE-MORNING sun beating down on them, Brady stood behind Clare, one hand at her waist, the other on her arm. Man, it felt good to touch her again. Too good. His whole body responded to her nearness. “Adjust your hips to the left,” he said rather hoarsely. “That’s it. Now, turn your grip about forty-five degrees on the racket’s handle. Good. That’s how you hit your backhand.”
They’d been reviewing the mechanics of tennis, and she seemed to remember them with only one demonstration. “Got it.”
Reluctantly he backed away, but he didn’t move to the other side of the court. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Dr. Summers said I could play if we took it easy.”
“She told you that yesterday morning. I’m not sure she meant for you to run right out and do it.”
Rays of sun caught her hair, turning its blond strands lighter. He knew how silky it would feel if he ran his hands through it.
“Brady, you’re sweet to be concerned, but this is my fourth day home, and I’m dying for more exercise.”
“I’ll hit you some shots, but take it easy.”
He’d gotten a cage full of bright green balls from the clubhouse at Midtown Tennis, and they’d gone outside, forgoing the indoor courts. He knew she’d been playing at Harris’s swank country club, a place she didn’t recall, so he didn’t remind her. If only the rest were that easy.
From the other side of the net, she smiled over at him. “Thanks, Brady. For this and everything.”
“You’re welcome. I snapped my Achilles tendon four years ago playing basketball, and you were a huge help. So I’m returning the favor.”
She stared at him, trancelike. “You were a big baby about it.”
“I was not!” His eyes narrowed when he saw the gleam in hers. “You don’t really remember, do you? You’re making that up.”
“Gotcha.”
He laughed out loud as he took his position. “Ready?”
“I hope so.”
He hit a weak one over the net. She returned it easily.
Three more followed in the same vein.
She bounced the ball in front of her a few times, which used to be her habit when they’d played together. “This is boring, isn’t it?”
“We usually play harder.”
“Let’s put at least a little more behind the hits.”
They continued to lob the ball back and forth, using more oomph each time.
At a pause in the volleying, she asked, “Who wins, Brady, when we really play?”
“I do, of course.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You’re lying. I’ll bet I’m better than you.”
“Are you remembering that?”
“No.”
“Then, nope, I’m the better player.”
This time she laughed out loud, which hadn’t happened much since the accident. Laughter and pure fun had been a routine part of their lives together until Harris had come along. Snagging the next ball with her hand, she headed to the back of the court.
“That outfit looks great on you,” he called from behind her. It did, too, and made his mouth water. And it felt good to flirt with her again. This also had been part of their history—the innocent, suggestive remarks that made them both smile. Though for him, things between them had been far less innocent long before the accident.
She glanced down at the white skirt and red halter top she wore. When she pivoted back around, she gave him a haughty look. “You’re just trying to distract me.”
Huh. She was distracting him, big-time. “I don’t need to. I told you I always win.”
Stopping at the serve line, she faced him. “Let’s play a game.”
“I’m not—”
“I’ll take it easy, I promise.”
Without his instruction, the mechanics of the serve were there for her: throw the ball up, racket angled behind down her back, over her head, slam! During the course of the serve, her top pulled up and Brady got a very nice glimpse of a tanned patch of skin on her midriff. Arrgh!
He barely reached the ball in time because of his double take on her stomach, but he managed to hit it back. She raced forward and sent it soaring over the net. He didn’t even try to get to the shot.
Her hands went to her hips. “You missed that on purpose.”
“I did. I don’t want you playing too hard.”
“I won’t, but I gotta move. I need exercise, I need to sweat.”
He opened his mouth but bit back a sexual innuendo. Those were better left unsaid right now. “Maybe a little.”
She served three more times and won the game. “Told you I was good,” she gloated.
He grinned. “My serve.”
He let her win a few points, but took the last three of the next game. She was running around—and sweating—and breathing hard. “God, this feels good.”
On another volley, she charged the net to return his short lob. Brady hit it back way over her head. She raced toward the ball and was just about there when she stumbled and went down. “Ohh…”
Leaping the net, he was at her side in seconds and knelt down. “Damn it, what was I thinking?”
“I twisted my ankle a bit. It doesn’t hurt much.” She rubbed her foot. “I’m sorry I pushed. Probably too hard.” She shrugged her shoulder. “But it felt good.”
Chuckling, he reached for her foot. Very gently, he untied her sneaker, removed it and her sock. He palpated her sole, her ankle and her shin. “Hurt?”
She sighed. “No, it feels good.”
“The injury feels good?”
“It isn’t injured. Your fondling me feels good.”
Oh, Lord, now she was flirting.
“I was not fondling!” A smile quirked at his lips. “I was checking for damage.” He glanced around. “We’re done here.”
“I guess.” After sliding her sock and shoe on, he stood and offered her his hand. “Here, let me help you up.”
She took the assistance. When he didn’t let go after she was on her feet, she moved in close to him. His arms slid around her as if he’d never stopped hugging her. His whole body tightened. “You okay? Dizzy?”
“No. I like it when you hold me. I feel safe. We must be really close.”
He had to clear his throat. “We are.”
She drew back. “Thanks.”
“Time for a nap?”
“Not on your life. I’m so tired of sleeping.” Her eyes sparkled like the old Clare’s. “I know. Let’s go to the grocery store.”
He grabbed the cage and started picking up balls. “I wondered when that would kick in.”
“What?”
“The grocery store’s your favorite place.”
“You think it would be okay to go there, or would it push my memory too much?”
“I think it’d be okay. Let’s finish up here, and we’ll head over.”
They pulled up to Weidman’s fifteen minutes later. Clare had hoped for a bit of recognition at the sight of the big blue sign on the huge storefront, but none came. Brady squeezed her hand and held it after they exited his Blazer. Once inside, he got a cart and set it in front of her.
“Where to?” she asked.
“You tell me.”
“Hmm. I’ll wander.”
First she went to the dairy counter and selected goat cheese. Then she headed to the vegetable department. They strolled along, and Clare seemed to absorb the sounds and sights and smells of her surroundings. She picked up onions and juicy tomatoes. Bypassing the bagged kind, she chose curly red lettuce in a bunch. They kept going: chicken, canned artichokes. By the time she snagged a couple of loaves of fresh bread, she turned to him. “I have the ingredients for a chicken artichoke dish I used to make.” Her face lit, and she smiled broadly. “Oh, wow.”
“You remember.”
“Yes, suddenly.” She closed her eyes. “There’s more.”
“What?”
“Me behind a counter, facing cameras, wearing a pretty fuchsia apron with embroidery on the front of it.” She looked at him. “I made this dish in one of my cooking shows, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, one of the first demos you did.”
“Do you like this recipe?”
“A lot.”
“Will Max and Delia come if I cook tonight, do you think?”
“If they’re free.”
But he wasn’t so sure of his statement. Max and Delia had each stayed with her a couple of times, Max overseeing mostly when she was sleeping. He knew Delia had brought over a photo album and showed her pictures of their life together. Clare had laughed at the way she looked in college, made jokes at the images of herself surrounded by boxes on moving day, and got tears in her eyes over the baby pictures of Donny, whom she’d helped raise. But there was still an underlying tension among them all.
When she and Brady reached the checkout line, something else occurred to her. “Do I have tapes of the shows, Brady?”
“Uh-huh, from the studio.”
“I’d like to watch this one, then make the meal.”
Without speaking, he paid the cashier. He had a bad feeling about her watching the show that had, in the long run, taken her away from him.
“I’ll stop if I get a headache or upset.”
“I don’t think you should rush your memory.”
“I won’t.”
Though he was worried about this step, he was pleased about one thing. Over the course of the past few days, she’d taken to asking his opinion, his permission sometimes, like she used to in the old days. It had gone both ways and they’d spent a lot of years consulting each other on choices and decisions to be made. It was only right that she should now, after what they’d meant to each other.
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