Kristin Hannah's Family Matters 4-Book Bundle: Angel Falls, Between Sisters, The Things We Do for Love, Magic Hour (27 page)

Mikaela grabbed her mother’s thin wrist. “Tell me about Juliana, Mama.”

Rosa carefully set down the brush. Her bony fingers curled around the bed rail. “We call her Jacey now, and she is everything you would wish for in a daughter.” She gazed down at Mikaela, her eyes glistening. “She is beautiful and gifted and loving and
muy intelligente
. And popular—I have never heard the phone ring so much. Look around this room, Mikita, and tell me what you see.”

For the first time, Mikaela looked around the room. There were flowers and balloons everywhere; cards lined the tables and the windowsill. “Are they all from Julian?”

Rosa made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Not from that one. They are from your friends. This is your home now, Mikaela. It is a wonderful place, not like Sunville at all. Every shop I go in, someone asks about you. The women, they bring food to the house every day. Here,
mi hija
, you are much loved.”

Mikaela couldn’t imagine that she’d found a real
home, a place to belong, and not to remember that, it wasn’t fair …

She looked up at her mother. “He never came for me, Mama.”

“I know. This was hard on you before. Maybe it is even harder now. Then, you remembered why you left him. Now, I think maybe you forget.”

“I want to see my daughter.”

Rosa didn’t answer for a moment. Then, softly, she said, “It will … wound her heart … this forgetfulness. Dr. Liam wishes for you to have another day to remember,
sí
? You do not want to hurt her.”

Mikaela didn’t know how she could survive the heartache seeping through her. “I remember how it feels when a parent doesn’t know you. I remember this from … my father.”

“You have never called him this before.”

“I know.” She sighed tiredly. “But calling him something else doesn’t make him someone else, does it?”

“No.” Rosa reached into her pocket, pulling out a photograph. “Here.”

Mikaela’s fingers didn’t work right. It took her several tries to grasp the picture, and even then, Rosa had to gently guide her daughter’s fingers. She stared down at the picture—it was of Mikaela and Rosa and a beautiful young girl. They were standing in an unfamiliar room, beside a gorgeous, wonderfully decorated Christmas tree.

Mikaela’s hungry gaze took in every detail about the girl—the brown eyes, the easy smile, the waist-length black hair. “This is my Juliana … No, my
Jacey
.”

“
Sí
. The memories, they are in you, Mikaela. Place this
fotografía
next to your heart and sleep well. Your heart will remember what your mind forgets.”

Mikaela stared down into the eyes so like her own. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember holding this little girl, or stroking her hair, or kissing her cheek. “Oh, Mama,” she whispered, and at last she cried.

Not long after lunch, Mikaela fell asleep.

She knew she was dreaming now. It was the first dream she’d had since waking up, and there was a comforting familiarity in the sensation. In her dream, the world was a hazy smear of blues and greens. A gentle summer breeze fluttered through the towering evergreen trees.

She was walking along a deserted road. Her body was working perfectly, no right leg dragging along behind her, no fingers that wouldn’t close. She came around a bend in the gravel road and saw an imposing wooden barn set on the crest of a hill. In the fields around it, there were horses standing in a group, munching contentedly on sweet green grass that came up to their hocks.

She kept moving, floating almost, past the barn, toward a beautiful log house.

A bank of gray clouds moved in suddenly, obliterating the lemon sunshine, casting the log house in
shadow. It began to rain, spits of cold water that landed on her upturned cheeks like God’s own teardrops.

The front door opened for her.

She stumbled on the porch steps. Crying out, she grasped the railing and a splinter drove deep into the tender flesh of her palm. When she lifted her hand, she saw the bright, ruby-red trail of blood snaking down her wrist.

“No,” she tried to say, but the wind snatched her words away, and she was still walking, across the porch, into the house.

The door slammed shut behind her. She felt her way down the smooth wooden wall toward a staircase she somehow knew was there.

At the bottom, she paused, listening. Somewhere in this cold, dark house, a child was crying.

I’m coming
. The words played across Mikaela’s mind but didn’t quite reach her mouth. She was moving again, running this time.

The cries became louder, more insistent. Mikaela had a fleeting, heartbreaking image of a little boy, red-haired, sucking his thumb. He was tucked back in a corner, waiting for his mommy to come for him.

But there were a hundred doors in front of her, and the hallway stretched for miles, fading out of focus at its end. She ran down the corridor, yanking open doors. Behind those doors lay nothing, yawning black rectangles spangled with starlight, breathing a cold winter wind.

All at once, the crying stopped. The silence terrified her. She was too late … too late …

She woke with a start. The ceiling above her was made of white acoustical tiles, their pattern sharp and bright after the hazy quality of her dream.

The hospital.

There was a man standing by her window. Her first thought was
Julian—
but then she noticed that he was wearing a white coat.

He turned toward her, and she saw that it wasn’t Dr. Penn. It was the other one—what was his name? He was a tall man, with longish blond hair and a nice face. He reminded her of an aged version of that actor from
Thunderbolt and Lightfoot
. Jeff Bridges, that was his name. It disgusted her that she could remember an actor’s name, and practically none of her own life.

“You need a haircut.” The words just popped out of her mouth, and she winced. What on earth had made her say that to this man?

He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and smiled, but it was a sad smile, and she wondered why he looked so … forlorn. “Yeah, I suppose I do. My … wife cuts my hair.”

When he spoke, it sent a shiver through her. “You’re the voice,” she said softly.

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her bed. He stared at her boldly, without apology, and there was something in his eyes—a yearning, maybe—that made her want to touch him. But that was crazy; she didn’t even know him.

“What voice?” he said at last.

“When I was asleep, I heard you.”

He smiled again. “I didn’t know if you’d be able to. It seemed like I talked forever.”

Forever
. That word again. It teased her, tickled some forgotten chord. “Who are you?” she asked.

He studied her for a minute. “Dr. Liam Campbell.”

Somehow she knew that wasn’t right. She looked around the room, at the photographs along the window that she hadn’t bothered to look at, and the bottles of fragrant spices, at the lovely pond filled with slick black rocks. She knew without knowing that this was the man who’d played the endless stream of her favorite songs. He was the one who’d given her something to hang on to through all that darkness.

And it was this man—this stranger with the sad, familiar eyes—who’d been here at her bedside for all those days, talking, touching, waiting. She could
remember
the feel of his hand stroking her hair while she slept, and the sound of his laugh. Somehow she knew that, too. She knew that he had a booming, throaty laugh that filled a room and begged you to join in.

“I remember how you laugh,” she said, amazed.

That seemed to please him. He smiled. “The memories will come like that, in bits and pieces.”

“Who are you?”

“Dr. Li—”

“No. Who are you to me?”

His whole body seemed to deflate, to sink into that ugly chair. Slowly he stood up and reached for her left
hand. He caressed her fingers, so tenderly that her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t remember ever being touched in just such a way, and then something came to her, some half-formed memory that couldn’t quite be reached. “This ring,” he said quietly. “I put it on your finger ten years ago.”

She stared down at the ring. A wedding ring. “You’re …” She couldn’t seem to form the word.

“I’m your husband.”

It was incomprehensible. “But … Julian …”

“Julian was your first husband.”

She panicked. First a child, now a husband. How much had she forgotten? How much more was out there?

She stared at him, shaking her head in denial. She wanted to say
It can’t be
, but in the last few days, she knew that anything could be. “How could I forget such a thing? How could I have … no feeling for you at all?”

He flinched, and in that tiny expression of pain, she knew it was true. “Don’t worry about it, babe,” he said. “It’s okay not to remember.”

“I—I don’t know what to say to you … Liam.” She tried out the name on her tongue, but nothing came with it. It was just a collection of vowels and consonants that had no meaning.

He touched her face. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. It was a long, long way from okay. This man was her husband, her
husband
, and she had no feelings for him whatsoever. He was her family now, what she’d done for the past ten years.
At some point she must have stopped loving Julian and started loving this gentle, quiet man. But what would happen now that she only remembered the love for Julian?

She tried to smile at him, but it was a trembling failure. “Tell me about our life together.” These were the words that slipped from her lips, but what she meant was
Make me love you again …

He smiled, and she knew he was recalling a memory that was now his alone. “You were a nurse then. I first met you when you cared for my father …” He looked at her. “Do you mind if I hold your hand?”

It surprised her, that request. There was something so … gentle and old-fashioned about it. She couldn’t help thinking how different he was from Julian. Jules would never ask; it would never occur to him that his touch might not be welcomed. “Okay, sure,” she said.

Their gazes met and held. She felt awkward suddenly, confused by this man who was both a stranger and her husband.

Husband
.

“Kinda weird, huh?” he said with a crooked, nervous grin.

She smiled in return and leaned toward him, studying his face, searching for
something
, some vagrant memory. But there was nothing. Still, he had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. “This must be hard on you,” she said softly.

“The coma was harder.”

Somehow she didn’t think so. “Are you the one … did you call Julian?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. If you and I are married now, why would you do that?”

“I couldn’t … wake you up. I sat here every day, holding your hand, talking to you, playing your favorite music. I did everything I could think of to reach you, but … day after day, you just lay there.” His voice fell to a throaty whisper. “I knew I was losing you.”

“Why Julian?”

He let out a long, sighing breath. “Because, Mikaela, I knew.”

She felt her heart skip a beat. “Knew what?”

“That you never completely stopped … loving him.”

For a heartbeat, she forgot to breathe. “You loved me very much.” She couldn’t keep the wonder from her voice. She could never remember feeling this way before, this awesome mixture of joy and sadness, this feeling of being … loved deeply and completely. Julian’s love wasn’t like that. It was a blast of red-hot fireworks that exploded in Technicolor around you, but when it died, it left a cold, black sky behind.

“I still do,” he said, smiling down at her with a sadness that wrenched her heart.

“I must have loved you, too.”

He paused a moment too long before answering. “Yes.”

And she knew. “I stayed in love with Julian, didn’t I?” Somehow it hurt, that realization. “I hurt you,” she said softly, sadly. “Did I know it?”

“I hope not.”

She gazed up at him. “I’m sorry.”

There was more to say, and no way she could think of to say it all. How could you apologize for what you couldn’t remember?

Or worse, for what you were afraid you were going to do all over again?

It began simply enough, with the whooshing sound of the electronic doors opening. Julian sat in the lobby, staring at the wall clock. The slim black hands seemed to be stuck at 2:45. Liam was in with Kayla now, and he’d asked Julian to wait for him.

“Hey, Juli.”

Julian looked up and saw Val sauntering toward him. Instead of his usual faded jeans and movie T-shirt, his agent was wearing a black Hilfiger suit with a dyed-to-match silk shirt and tie. His blond hair had been recently styled and cut; only a fringe of curls lay against his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to remove the Ray-Bans that shielded his eyes.

Julian would have smiled if he hadn’t felt so damned bad. “This is Last Bend, you idiot, not Cannes. The only designer they know around here is L.L. Bean.” He got to his feet and turned.

That’s when he saw them. Outside, beyond the wall of windows that flanked the front doors, the vans and rental cars were already lining up. People in rumpled black clothes streamed out of those cars like locusts, gathering in a semicircle.