I don’t have health issues like Jennifer does.
A pang of guilty conscience assaulted me.
While I inhabit Jennifer’s body, maybe I should protect her heart.
Our orders taken, Marnie leaned back in her chair and drilled me with a mean stare. A gust of wind rushed past us, framing her perfect face with her perfect hair.
I pushed wayward bangs out of my eyes. The cut—a flippy style I would have never chosen—wasn’t functional. All show and no go.
“So…why did you want to meet?” Nothing in Jennifer’s planner indicated this was Marnie’s idea, save for the slashed red lines beneath her name.
She glistened with saccharine sweetness and smiled back at me with perfect white teeth. “I want you to stay away from Price.”
I traced the grillwork on the tabletop, not daring to meet her eyes. “Price?” I asked as if I didn’t know whom she meant…because I didn’t.
“There are other cardiologists capable of dealing with your unusual situation.”
So Price is Dr. Hollywood.
I touched the fabric over the scar. She smirked at me like a supercilious cat and stretched across the table—her claws tapping the dessert menu in front of me. I couldn’t concentrate on cheesecake while she subtly threatened me. “Is it not bad enough you’re lying to my father? Must you also take my—”
Someone passed near us, so she clamped her mouth shut and glanced at the other diners beneath her long lashes.
I waited until she shifted her gaze toward me again. “I’m finding another doctor. I told him that.”
“That’s not good enough,” she fussed in her deeply southern accent. “You have to stay away from him. What if Daddy had come upon the two of you instead of me?”
“What if he had?” I countered, my curiosity piqued.
She pursed her lips. “I had hoped I could…”
“You had hoped what?”
“Never mind…I won’t make that mistake again.” She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t like you, Jennifer. I never have. I thought Daddy made a mistake marrying you. I told him so. I tried to stop him from ruining his life, but he wouldn’t listen.”
Marnie appeared to be a pot about to boil over, so I presented her with a blank countenance. “But now that you’re married, I would like you to stay that way. For his sake.” She hissed her anger at me in a near whisper. “For some strange reason, he worships the ground you walk on. Until now, he would have never considered leaving you because of your heart condition. Now that your surgery is behind you…well…don’t put him in the position of making terrible choices.”
“And leave Price to you?” I asked, not bothering to lower my volume.
She blushed a bright crimson. “My relationship with Dr. Whitaker is beside the point. I’m more concerned with what your indiscretions will do to Daddy.”
“Of course you are.”
Her blush transformed into a flush of anger. “If you don’t stay away from him, I’ll be forced to—”
“Stop before you say something you can’t take back. I’ll leave Price alone. I don’t want him. You can have him. I have no intention of hurting your father that way.” Marnie opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “I’m taking a trip to California soon.”
She leaned back in her chair and tilted her perfectly coiffed head. “Whatever for?”
“I have personal business to take care of. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but maybe while I’m away you can mend things with Dr. Whitaker.”
Marnie’s face twisted with scorn—not a pretty look for her
.
“How gracious of you.”
“No. Not at all. I’m simply being practical.”
She laughed outright, her cackle devoid of mirth. “Does Daddy know of your plans?”
“No. I haven’t mentioned them. My plans have just now formed.”
“I bet they have. Do you really think you should go out there again?”
“If I were you, Marnie, I’d accept things as they appear and not make too big a fuss. You are, after all, getting your way.”
“If I had my way, we would not be having this conversation.” She rose from the table, peering down at me with undisguised hatred. “I think it’s time you told him the truth. If you don’t, I will.” Within seconds she was gone, leaving me with the unpaid check.
Chapter Four
I waited at the wrought iron table in front of the bistro. Sudha would not return for another fifteen or twenty minutes, so I spent my time studying the cityscape around me.
In the near distance, the taller buildings of what I assumed was downtown Norfolk nudged above the outlying structures surrounding the heart of the city. A few clouds scudded across the sky. A stray sea gull squawked overhead, looking for a handout. The faint blare of horns announced the presence of sea-going vessels somewhere nearby. I struggled with what I remembered of Virginia geography. If this was Norfolk, then Chesapeake Bay and Hampton Roads lay to the east and northeast toward the Atlantic Ocean, adding to the atmosphere the peculiar aromas typical of a coastal town.
I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sunshine, absorbing the warmth of the only constant in my life.
“Jennifer?”
My eyes fluttered open. The man wore the uniform of a deputy sheriff. The nametag on his jacket read Sairs. I smiled against my will. Hazel eyes. Square jaw. Dark brown hair. Not as glamorous as the doctor, but handsome in a rugged, he-man sort of way.
“It’s been a long time.” His voice wasn’t warm, but it held a note of familiarity. He pointed toward the seat Marnie had vacated. “May I?” When I didn’t object, he slid into the chair in one easy, fluid motion, and then examined me a long moment before he spoke. “Marnie’s not a little girl any longer, is she?”
Was he watching us argue?
It took me a few seconds to regain my composure. “No. Apparently not.”
“How is she?” His query was devoid of concern. I grimaced at the memory of my tense confrontation with Marnie. My relationship with Anson’s daughter would not be cordial. He laughed, but his amusement seemed stilted. “That bad?” He cleared his throat, purging the remains of his mirth. “You look pale. Are you all right?”
“No.”
“Are you having trouble—”
“With my heart? No, I think it’s my mind that’s malfunctioning.” The admission tumbled from my mouth against my will.
He continued examining me with bold sweeps of his eyes. “How is Anson?”
“All right, I guess.”
“You guess? You don’t know?” A sneer spread across his features. “You aren’t happy with Anson?” His query reverberated with tacit meaning Jennifer would probably understand but I didn’t get. What was the reason for the man’s derision? “I told you marrying him was a mistake.”
“That does seem to be the general consensus.”
He snorted at my light-hearted quip. “Money never fixes anything. The only legal recourse you have to undo what you’ve done is divorce. And to tell him the truth.” His face clouded with sadness coupled with intense expectation. In his bold statements, I found the sincerity that was missing in my earlier confrontation with the doctor.
Has this man voiced this
opinion before? Does Jennifer’s failure to take his advice cause his sour attitude? And what truth has she failed to tell Anson?
“How long have I been married to Anson?”
Confusion creased his brow. My question puzzled him, but he answered anyhow. “Almost five years.”
“And when did I have surgery for my heart?”
He frowned. “Nearly three years ago. The fall of 2008, I think.”
This new bit of information astonished me as I tried to shift all the pieces of the puzzle into place.
My last memory is five years old, but Jennifer’s surgery was three years ago.
Then…Jennifer had her surgery the same year I died.
The timing of the two events was no coincidence. Those two missing years suddenly seemed even more significant.
After three years, why is Jennifer suddenly having problems with her memory? What happened to shift her reality from her life to mine? What happened in Jennifer’s three missing years?
“And how long have I been…seeing…Dr. Whitaker?”
“I don’t know,” he answered through tight lips.
“But you know about that?”
He nodded.
“You know about the affair?”
“Of course,” he bit out his answer. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out.” He brushed his bitterness aside with a sweep of his hand.
Intuition spurred my next question. “How long ago were we involved?”
“Why must we go through this recital of personal history? Is there a point here?” He rose and shoved his chair under the table. When I wrapped my fingers around his forearm, he flinched.
The anger in his eyes pushed me back in my seat. I released him. “I’m sorry. I…I’m not myself. Something’s wrong with me.”
“What do you mean?” Concern edged between the layers of his annoyance. He lowered himself into his chair once again.
“Something’s wrong with my memory.”
“Your memory? Have you talked to your…well, I guess that might be a bit difficult to discuss with him…considering.”
Which him? Does he mean Anson or Price?
The memory of my confrontation with Dr. Whitaker produced spasms of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I rewound our conversation, realizing the extent of my ignorance, and tried to decipher the barbs in the context of what I’d learned. “I don’t
want
to talk to Price. I told him I didn’t want to see him again, but I need to tell him about my memory problem. I think it might have something to do with my heart.”
He drew a heavy breath. “Is there something I can do to help?”
Such a generous offer considering his obvious misgivings about my integrity.
“You can answer my questions.” He nodded his agreement. “Did Price perform the surgery?”
“You should know the answer to that. Look…I’m…I haven’t been involved in your life since…not in a very long time. How much have you forgotten?” His tone was filled to the brim with skepticism.
I debated how much to tell this man—a stranger who obviously still cared about Jennifer whether he wanted to or not. “When I woke up this morning, I didn’t remember anything.” I gazed into his hazel eyes, hoping for any spark of sympathy. “I remember putting sheets on my bed five years ago. That’s the last thing I remember.”
“So you’re telling me your last memory is from before your surgery?”
“I’m saying I don’t remember marrying Anson. I don’t even remember…”
“You don’t remember what?” he asked, prodding without gentleness. The question seared me like a hot poker searching for Jennifer’s soul.
“I don’t remember you.”
His mouth opened and closed and opened again, as if he had plenty to say but didn’t quite know how to address my startling revelation. I plunged forward, hoping he’d listen to me, read between the lines, tell me what was wrong with me. “I don’t know who I am. I mean, who I’m supposed to be. It’s as if I’m living someone else’s life. I’m so confused. What if I never find myself?”
Anger reddened his cheeks and neck. “I saw you talking to Marnie. You didn’t look confused to me. You looked as if you knew exactly how you were slicing and dicing her. Don’t pretend you don’t remember what you’ve done. You can’t get out of it that easy. You did what you did. Now live with the consequences.” He pointed one long, masculine finger in my face. “Face up to your life, Jennifer.”
He shoved back his chair and rushed away, leaving his resentment behind. I clutched his anger and disappointment to my heart, bearing the man’s pain without knowing the details.
Chapter Five
The aroma of warm bread fresh from the oven filled the kitchen. Sudha’s dark head was bent over her work as she chopped a variety of brightly-colored peppers. A plate of meat cut into cubes, raw and seeping blood, sat at her elbow. A steamer of rice stood ready on the counter.
“What are you cooking?” I asked.
The blade drew across wood and then empty air. Her chest rose and fell before she set the knife on the cutting board, turning toward me. “Do not startle me with a knife in my hands. That is very dangerous.” She smiled, but there was no light in her eyes—only a mysterious smoldering fire, dark and foreboding. “Is there something I can get you?”
“No.”
She waited, but when I added nothing further, she returned to her task.
“Can I ask you something?”
She turned to me again. The knife poised over a red bell pepper.
“What happened last night?” She blinked at me. I dropped onto a barstool across the island from her. “I mean…when I woke up this morning…” I shook my head and started over. “Marnie…and Price…” The use of the doctor’s given name bugged me. “I don’t remember last night. Both of them implied something happened. You said I fainted.” Her lips pressed together in a rigid line of disapproval. “Was I talking to the doctor when it happened?” I picked at the stitching in the fabric of the seat, glancing up at her, reluctant to meet her eyes.
The tension in her shoulders relaxed as she dropped the knife on the counter and wiped her hands on a nearby dishtowel. “No.” She crossed the room and dove into the refrigerator, emerging with her hands full of ripe, red tomatoes.
“Then…Marnie?”
“No.” She went back to the cutting board.