A Man She Couldn’t Forget (3 page)

“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.

B
RADY 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…

“T
HE 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.”

Her grip was firm. “Clare Boneli.”

They both took seats.

“Your Zucchini Boneli was wonderful.”

“My grandmother’s recipe.” She motioned to the mugs she’d set on the table. “Drink up before your cappuccino gets cold. I poured myself one, too.” She wore plain black pants that accentuated long legs and a white blouse that accentuated…He dragged his eyes to her face.

“Most of her recipes come from her extended Italian family,” Delia said. “But she puts her own pizzazz in them.”

A blush kissed Clare’s cheeks. It was adorable.

Brady sipped his cappuccino. “The drink is different, too. What’s in it?”

“A dash of nutmeg.”

“Unusual. As was the zucchini. What’s its secret?”

“Fresh zucchini, for one. I used to go out to the garden with Grandma and pick it. Couldn’t let it get too big, though, or it would be tough.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with your grandmother?”

“I lived with her.” Real sadness filled her eyes. “My parents were killed in a car crash when I was ten. Grandma and Grandpa moved to America to take care of us. Grandma only died five years ago. I still feel her loss.”

“I’m sorry.” Brady cleared his throat. “My dad died recently.” The expression on her face was so empathetic, at that moment he felt a strong connection with her. “It’s hard for me. But you were so little when your parents died. That must have been really tough.”

“It was. Grandma Clarissa was wonderful, though. She taught me to cook.”

“Her and culinary school and France.”

Clare shook her head. “You have to stop bragging, Dee. Let Brady get to know me on his own.”

“Finish telling me about the recipe.”

“Along with extra sausage, I use cream and butter in the mixture.”

He patted his stomach. “Oh, man, I’m going to have to work out extra hard tomorrow to stay in shape.”

“Hmm. Maybe we can run together. I can’t get Don or Max to go with me.”

A huge grin. “I’d like that.”

After they’d gotten back to the house and Max and the Kramers had gone to their respective places, Brady and Clare had talked long into the night. About their pasts. Their families. Their successes and failures.

She’d had big dreams then, as had he. They’d shared those, too. Who knew that, in the end, those dreams would pretty much destroy their relationship?

“T
HIS IS SILLY
. I
CAN’T EVEN
go into my own kitchen?” Clare stood at the threshold of her bedroom, staring out at the hallway that led to the rest of the condo. After leaving Delia’s, she and Brady had taken a walk, come back to the house, sat in the backyard and had lunch delivered. Then she’d come up to rest. Clare had fallen asleep just before Brady went to work in his home office. And now, at 4:00 p.m., she was restless. She sensed she wasn’t used to inactivity. Hadn’t she found sneakers and tennis shoes, along with a racket, in her closet? It was time she broached her own kitchen. She wanted to see her cookbooks. Get a glimpse of her old life.

Should she wait for Brady? He’d asked her to. Again she glanced at the hallway. Hell, she was thirty-six years old. She could go anywhere in her house if she wanted to. Besides, she had to start making her own decisions again. She knew in her heart it wasn’t her style to let someone else do it for her.

Still, it was with tentative steps that she walked down the hall, through the living and dining rooms. When she reached the archway of the kitchen, she stopped and surveyed the area. Immediately a sense of well-being flooded her.
This
was Clare’s space. She could feel it in her bones, her hands, even her breath. No longer afraid, she walked to the center island and smiled as she ran her hand over the granite countertop.

It was new, she realized. She’d remodeled in here, though she couldn’t recall what the old kitchen was like. She took in the triple-bowled sink in the island, the built-in soap dispenser, Sub Zero refrigerator and two ovens.

There was a second smaller fridge under the counter. Pulling it open revealed a cold wine storage filled with several bottles.

We’ll have the Romanée-Conti tonight, Clare.
Brady had drawn out the several-hundred-dollar bottle.
Publishing your first cookbook is a big deal.

Emboldened, she looked around for the books themselves. She caught sight of a display on a set of oak shelves on the far wall. When she got up close, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, good Lord, I don’t believe it.”

Face out were six cookbooks. All entitled
In Clarissa’s Kitchen, Meals and Memories from Italy.
Her picture, with long hair, was on the cover of each. The first showed her in a casual dress, her hair down around her shoulders. Volumes two and three sported a similar pose. In four, though, her outfit was more sophisticated, and her hair was pulled back in a knot. Gracing the covers of the last two volumes were photos in different expensive outfits and more conservative hairdos.

What was that? Next to each of the cookbooks was a glossy version. Picking one up, she was hit with a flash of memory.

We got a coffee-table book contract, Clare. The publisher wants to do versions for display.

Whose voice was that? Jonathan’s? No, she was sure it wasn’t. Who then? Was someone she worked with totally missing in her life now?

Feeling as if she were about to step off a cliff, she opened the cover. On the inside flap was
A Note from Clarissa.

Suddenly she realized she held a journal of sorts of her life. She swallowed hard and her hand tightened on the book. Should she read it? Would it be too much? She began to tremble—in anticipation or dread?

The decision was taken from her by a knock on the door Brady had asked her to leave ajar. He appeared in the archway. Still wearing the shorts and T-shirt he’d walked in, he looked concerned. “You’re awake.” He raised dark brows. “And came out here by yourself? I thought we agreed at lunch that you’d wait for me.”

“No, that was your suggestion. I feel foolish, needing a babysitter, being afraid to go into my own kitchen.” She sank back on a stool at the counter, clutching the cookbook to her chest. “When I came in here, and took out one of these, I felt good.”

He smiled, said, “I’m glad to hear that,” and joined her at the bar, dropping down on the stool next to her. Since waking up from the coma, she didn’t like people crowding her, but when Brady stretched his legs out facing her, she braced her feet on the bottom rung of his stool. He nodded to the book, and his blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “You should be proud of those. You’re a big success.”

She smiled back at him, wanting to know more about him. “What about you? Are you a success? I don’t even know what you do.”

For a minute, he looked puzzled. “I’m an artist. Actually, an illustrator.”

It was like getting hit with a blast of cold water. “Oh, the sketches in the hallway? They’re yours. I had a visceral response when I saw them. Brady, they’re terrific.”

“You were the one who insisted they be mounted and hung out there. You had them framed even before I said yes.”

“Where’d I get them?”

“Um, mostly from the books I’ve published.”

“You publish books, too? Which ones? How many? Can I see something else you’ve done?”

His gaze dropped to her chest. “You’re holding one.”

“Huh?”

“Turn the book over, Clare.”

She tensed, afraid for the first time since she’d come into this room. She stared at him warily.

“Go ahead. It won’t hurt you. It’s a good memory.”

She turned the book around.

On the back was his picture. Dressed less formally than she, he wore pressed jeans, a silk T-shirt and a taupe blazer. His hair was a bit shorter, but his eyes were the same, long-lashed, crystalline-blue. She read the note with his picture, then peered over at him. “You illustrated my cookbooks?”

“Uh-huh. The anecdotes you wrote and my illustrations are what set them apart from all the other gazillion cook-books on the market.” He hesitated. “We have a new one in the works, too.”

She found herself pleased at what he told her and wanted to know more. “I have a cooking show, too. Are you part of that?”

His expression darkened. “I’ve been a guest. Your viewers wrote in that they liked it when I was there.”

Though she couldn’t recall any of what he was telling her, she could imagine someone with his good looks and apparent charm would be a hit with women watching the show.

But he didn’t seem too happy about this. “Are you still on the show?”

He shook his head. “Clare, you don’t remember anything about this?”

“No.”

A deep frown creased his forehead.

“Why aren’t you on the show anymore?”

Not answering, he stood and went to the fridge. Pulling out a beer, he uncapped it and took a long swig. She watched his throat work and felt something…warm inside her. He set the beer down on the counter and stood across from her, his hands braced on the granite.

“Your boss, Jonathan, wanted the show…scaled up, you might say. A scruffy artist hanging around in a state-of-the-art kitchen didn’t hit the target audience he wanted.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, did I call you a scruffy artist?”

“No! He did.”

She struggled to remember. Instead, images of snakes clouded her mind, just like in the dream. Her temples hurt again. “I don’t remember any of it.”

He didn’t say more, just watched her. Hurt clouded his eyes.

“Why didn’t I stand up to him?”

“Ah, the sixty-four thousand-dollar question.” Before she could respond, he asked, “Do you remember anything about…our relationship?”

She nodded. “Yes, good things. I had flashes as soon as I came home yesterday—cooking for you, you carrying up grocery bags, helping with the garden.”

“Those are early memories.”

“From how long ago?”

“About eight or nine years.”

“My therapist told me that research says those memories often return first. The ones closest to the event that caused the amnesia—if it is psychological—come back last.”

“Yes.” He appeared embarrassed. “I read that on the Internet.”

“The memories that aren’t coming back? Those are the times when I hurt you, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t say that, Clare.”

“You didn’t have to. And it isn’t only you. Delia, too. My own sister doesn’t even call much.”

“Cathy’s sensitive where you’re concerned, ever since you were little and your parents died. But she loves you, Clare, and she’s coming as soon as she gets back from Europe. You’ll have a great reunion.”

“Still. It’s so odd feeling good things for all of you and…them not being returned.”

“They are returned. We’ve just had a rough time of it lately.”

Standing, she circled around the bar and approached him. This close, she could see the nick from shaving he must have gotten this morning. His chest rose and fell, and his features were taut. “Brady, I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you in the past. I sense we were really close.”

“We were.” His voice was husky, calling forth a memory that fled before it fully formed.

Suddenly she wanted this man to hold her again, like he had when he’d carried her last night. So she moved into him and slid her arms around his waist. As natural as spring rain, his arms encompassed her. His sigh matched hers. Closing her eyes, she placed her head on his heart.

Though she didn’t remember what she’d done, it was obvious she’d hurt this heart of his. The thought shamed her.

“H
OW IS IT GOING AT HOME
?” Anna Summers, Clare’s psychotherapist, smiled over at her from where she sat on a stuffed chair in her hospital office. Clare had taken a similar chair opposite her in the cheery space—sand-colored walls, nice Berber carpet, wooden accents. She felt good in here, too, and had been more than willing to come back on this Wednesday morning.

“It’s better than being in the hospital. Some of my memory’s come back.” She told Anna about the flashes she’d had about Brady, Delia and Don, Max and cooking.

“Interesting. They’re all about the people from the house.” She cocked her head. “None about Jonathan?”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe because he had to go away and the others are around all the time. I’ve talked to him every day on the phone but, truthfully, the conversations are strained. It’s hard enough facing people you don’t know in person.”

“Maybe it’s his absence. But you’ve known him the shortest time. Remember, with retrograde amnesia, the earlier memories come back first.”

“I was just talking to Brady about that.”

Anna crossed her legs and adjusted the skirt of her beige suit. “How does it feel to be in your house?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it like sleeping in a stranger’s bed? Like you’re wearing someone else’s clothes?”

“Not at all. I sense everything’s mine. I chose something to wear this morning without fretting about it and felt immediately at home in the kitchen.”

“It’s good that everything isn’t foreign.”

“I guess. But other things aren’t so good.”

“Like?”

Clare fidgeted with the bracelet she’d put on with khaki pants and a yellow blouse. “I’ve found some other things out about my life. About me. Some bad things.”

“From these flashes of memories?”

“No, those were all good. But the tension among Max, Delia and me became obvious right away. So I asked about it.” She told Anna that she’d grown away from her group of friends. “The problem is I don’t feel that way about them now. I’m sad that they’re so wary and I want to be closer to them.” She thought for a minute. “Anna, do personalities change when someone has amnesia?”

“Sometimes. Especially in cases of permanent amnesia. There’s a movie called
Regarding Henry
where Harrison Ford gets shot and turns into a totally different person than he was before the incident. He never regains his memory, though, and he retains the new personality.”

“So I could just stay the person I am now?”

“Maybe. But keep in mind, you won’t do anything with amnesia that you wouldn’t normally do. That often comforts people who are afraid they’ll do negative things. But in your case, who you are now is the real Clare, too.”

She frowned. “But I could turn back into who I was right before the accident?”

“Perhaps. We’ve discussed how nebulous this malady is. But here’s another way to look at it. You can make any changes in your life that you want. You’re in control of that with or without your memory.”

Clare stared at Anna. “I wonder if I’ll still want to be close to them when my memory returns.” The thought made her incredibly sad.

“Take one day at a time.” Anna held her gaze. “What about Brady? He was at the hospital every day, too. And you seemed to gravitate toward him. Is there any tension between you two?”

“No. Just warmth. A lot of it. And security. I feel safe with him.” She crooked a shoulder. “Safer than with Jonathan.”

“You and Brady were close for a longer period of time.”

“Maybe. It feels like more than that, though.”

Anna leaned forward. “Go with your gut, Clare. Act on the instinct that remembers things for you. A good deal of research into what’s known as cellular memory shows our cells store memories. I support that theory. Have you seen those movies about body-part transplants, where the recipient acquires the memories and experiences of the donor and often gets flashes of that person’s life? You could and probably do have residual memories of everything that’s happened to you built right into your cell structure.”

“That’s something to consider.”

“Anything else about Jonathan or Brady?”

“One thing. Obviously, Jonathan and I were close—physically. How could I forget being intimate with a man, Anna?”

“There have been documented cases of people forgetting a spouse and even a child, Clare.” Anna frowned. “He’s not asking for intimacy, is he?”