She hadn’t known what a personal trainer was until Brad had explained: He comes to your house with weights and makes you work out. Amazing. She was so rich she could afford to pay someone to make her sweat.
Forget the trainer. She wasn’t wasting money like that. Think of all the institute could do with the money she’d thrown around.
“No, don’t think about Abbie and Nomo
…
and Greg,” she whispered to herself. “You have to make a new life.”
She heard the limo returning and rushed downstairs. “Take me to the hairdresser,” Lucky told Raul as he was getting out of the car.
Raul didn’t question her. He just opened the door with a flourish and she climbed in. They drove through the city, where T-shirt vendors lined the sidewalks and tourists with lobster-red sunburns snapped up the bargains. Everything looked vaguely familiar, although she couldn’t have named a single street.
The limo glided to a stop in front of a salon with a high-tech chrome sign that read CACHE. Raul opened the door and she stepped out.
As deferential as Raul had been, the receptionist hadn’t noticed the limousine. The woman glared at Lucky as if she were something she wouldn’t want to step on in the dark. Lucky asked for Sebastian and was coldly informed that he had no appointments open for weeks. She began to leave but stopped suddenly, reminding herself of all she’d been through. And survived. This uppity receptionist wasn’t going to get the best of her.
“Tell him Mrs. Wagner is here.”
The woman’s mouth quirked and she squinted at Lucky. “Oh, my God. I didn’t recognize you!” She jumped up and dashed around a glass-block partition into the salon.
Seconds later, a young man with a ponytail the size of a pencil eraser rushed out. He wore two matching diamonds of about two carats each. One pierced his ear; the other gleamed from his left nostril. Instantly, Lucky realized she knew him. Like Brad, this man’s face was very familiar. He halted the moment he saw her, his deep brown eyes widening.
“My stars!
What
did you do to your hair?”
Before she could answer, he sashayed up to her and kissed the air beside each cheek, smacking loudly. “Never mind. Sebastian will make it all better.”
He guided her into the salon, where there were enough ferns to stock a hothouse. Lucky sat in the chair, realizing the place seemed familiar. Sebastian, too, was someone she knew, even though she hadn’t recognized his name. Thumping the end of a rattail comb against the diamond in his nose, he studied her from every angle.
“
I read in the paper about what happened,
”
he said. “Someone tried to kill you and now you don’t remember a thing about the past.”
“That’s true,” Lucky replied, thinking that this man was gay. She didn’t care; she instinctively liked and trusted him.
He inspected her hair, running it through his fingers. “It looks like you used a cheap home perm. Why? You had such dynamite hair.”
“I bleached it blonde. If you saw
Missing!
there was a picture—”
“I did see that episode and I thought the woman’s eyes looked familiar, but I didn’t recognize you. Honey, your own mother wouldn’t have known you from that picture. You were always so proud of your hair. It was thick and dark and sexy. I never dreamed you would do anything so drastic as bleaching and perming it. My stars, what were you thinking?”
“
I have no idea. Can you do something with my hair? There’s a party tomorrow night—”
“Now don’t go ballistic on me. I’m going to suggest cutting off this overpermed hair and going short—” he put his hand on his hip and jiggled “—but sophisticated.”
“Do I go ballistic often?” Oh, Lord, what did she do? Yell at everyone?
“We get along fine, but you have been known to pitch a hissy fit now and then.”
“I see,” she said quietly. It was the same story over and over. She had been a self-centered bitch. “Do whatever you need to. Make me presentable, but see if you can keep that little scar on the back of my head hidden.”
He turned her over to a slim Hawaiian girl who washed her hair, then led her back to Sebastian’s chair. He started snipping away.
"Hakuna matata.
Not to worry. You’ll knock ’em dead at the party.”
“
Are we close? I mean, Brad says I don’t have many friends. No women friends at all.”
“You don’t like to be around women. You told me you’d had enough of them.” His gaze met hers in the mirror. “I was your best friend. You accepted me even though I’m gay.”
“
Tell me about myself. Brad doesn’t know much about my past. He said I came here a little over five years ago. He hired me to do some word processing for him. Do you know where I lived before
or anything about my family?”
“No. You said you’d worked as a temp in Denver—or was
it Chicago? Your parents are dead. I think you have distant relatives in the Midwest. That’s about all you ever told me.”
“Didn’t you find that strange?”
“No. You were always aloof—above it all. Very private.”
“I was selfish and mean to my daughter.”
He whirled the chair around so they were facing each other. “You love your daughter. I met you before you became pregnant. You wanted Julie in the worst way. But you haven’t the patience to be a good mother.”
“Now I do. I’m different.”
She explained to this man, who appeared to be her only friend, how Hoyt-Mellenberger worked. He listened attentively, seeming to be very sympathetic. In a way he reminded her of Sarah, someone who naturally related to others.
“When I left, did I tell you where I was going or anything?”
“
I thought you were in L
.
A
.
buying clothes. You went several times a year. You gave me a small shopping bag the last day I saw you. I would have brought it today, but you didn’t call ahead.”
A chill of apprehension skipped across the back of her neck. Greg believed she’d known something or had seen something that made the killers target her. This could be the key. “What was in the shopping bag?”
Sebastian shrugged. “Not much. It’s a small bag with two envelopes in it. I didn’t look closely. I think it’s clippings of dresses you liked. You always asked my opinion about clothes and gave me pictures to look at.”
Great! This man was responsible for the provocative wardrobe that was almost exclusively white or black.
“Do you want me to bring the bag to your house?”
“No. I’ll come by here tomorrow and get it.”
“Remember—” He whacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I keep forgetting you don’t remember these things. I leave at noon for the Big Island. I’m in the salon in the new Four Seasons there until Thursday each week. Come by
Thursday. I’ll bring the bag with me and decide if this is a dress you
must
have.”
Knowing what a selfish bitch she’d been in her previous life, there was probably nothing worrisome in the envelopes. They probably contained nothing more interesting than a picture of yet another black or white dress. Still, Lucky couldn’t help reaching into the pocket of her sundress to touch the tooth that wasn’t there.
31
M
ommy, Harry's a studmujfin.
Lucky swam the length of the cove, giggling as she recalled what her daughter had said during breakfast. Lucky had met Harry—the studmuffin—yesterday afternoon. He'd heard she was back in town and had dropped by to “tone” her thighs. Sheesh! Was there no end to the self-indulgence? Who needed a personal trainer? She’d tone her own thighs, thank you very much, by swimming.
She backstroked across the cove, then flipped over to butterfly. In the distance she saw the Waikiki skyline, sunlight glittering off the high-rise hotels. Walking onto the beach from the public access path between the estates was a man. He was too far away to see who he was, but something about him reminded her of Greg.
“Stop it!” she said out loud. Everywhere she went, she kept expecting to see Greg. She loved him so much that she was driving herself crazy.
Then she saw the dog following the man. Dodger. She swam toward shore, pure joy bubbling through her. For a moment
she indulged herself, pretending they were back on Maui. Greg was coming down to the water the way he often did when she went swimming. Tail wagging, Dodger plunged into the surf to greet her—the way he always did.
“Good boy.”
She stood up, water sluicing off her, and patted his head, lovingly stroking his silky fur. He bounded onto the sand where Greg was waiting. Greg smiled at her, but his riveting eyes scoured her body. His expression told her that he didn’t approve of her skimpy bikini. She had exactly thirty-three swimsuits, many of them with the price tags still on. All of them bikinis. This was the most conservative of the lot.
“Hi,” she said, picking up the towel she’d left on the beach. She longed to throw her arms around him, but if she did she would never let him go.
“
Are you here with Dodger for S and R training or something?”
“No, I had to use Dodger to get on the plane, though. My bank account’s so screwed up that I couldn’t get money for an airline ticket. Aloha Air flies S and R teams for free, so I took Dodger to the airport with me. They thought we were on official business and flew us here for free.”
“Do you need money? I can run up to the house and—”
“Nah. Cody gave me some cash. I’m going to spend the night with Claude Winston from the U of H. He’s the doctor who developed the testosterone depressant we’re using on the monk seals.”
“Oh.” Lucky couldn’t help feeling disappointed that he hadn’t come just to see her. “Business brought you here.”
“No. I came to talk to you.” He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. Uh-oh. She knew that serious look.
“Abbie? Something’s happened to her,” she said, but he shook his head. “Rudy?” Again he shook his head, putting his hand on her arm. “Sarah or the kids?”
“It’s about you. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Filled with anxiety, Lucky led him to the grove of date palms nearby. Out of the comer of her eye, she watched him as they
walked up to the rocks beneath the trees. He seemed on edge and tense in a way that she’d never seen him.
Under the shady palms, she plopped down on a sea-worn boulder with a flat surface like a small bench. Greg sat beside her and Dodger settled down at the
ir feet, peering up adoringly
at Lucky.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
He reached for her hand, his strong fingers curling around her palm. “Does the number C-311 mean anything to you?”
She considered the question
for a minute, thinking that the
number sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “No, not really.”
“The day before Brad came for you, several shipments arrived at the institute and you s
igned for them with the number
C-311. The number must have just popped into your head and you jotted it down the way someone who regularly signs his name would.”
“That’s just what the doctors said I would do. But why would I write dow
n a number instead of a name?”
He squeezed her hand, his expression compassionate. “You were in prison. They used numbers instead of names.”
Lucky gasped out loud. The woman in the mirror was a bad person, true, but had she done something so horrible that they’d put her in jail? “How do you know?”
“The FBI traced the number. Cody called the warden in a Montana prison. I was on the other line, so I spoke with him, too. We even talked with the prison psychologist about you.”
The truth twisted inside her, forming a cold knot of disgust in the pit of her stomach. It was bad enough to discover she really was the woman in the mirror, a bitch
of a mother, and a totally self-
indulgent person. But to have actually committed a crime seemed inconceivable.
“What had I done?”
He put his arm around her bare shoulders. “You were only eleven days past your seventeenth birthday, which made you an adult in the eyes of the judicial system. You were with your
boyfriend, and he robbed a convenience store. You were out in the getaway car when he shot the store clerk
…
and killed him.”
Lucky stared at him, his words echoing through her muddled brain. Murder. She’d been involved in killing someone. Anger mushroomed inside her, making her want to scream that it wasn’t true. She struggled to control herself, tightening each muscle until she was rigid.
He drew her to him, and in his eyes she saw love and understanding. No matter what she’d done this man loved her. Lucky allowed her body to relax, snuggling against him for comfort.
“How could I have done something like that?”
“You claimed you didn’t know he was going to rob the store, but you were sentenced to twenty-two years as an accessory to murder. You served ten years and a few months.”
She pulled out of his arms and stared in disbelief at the waves tumbling onto the golden shore. She’d spent a third of her life behind bars. Incredible. Shuddering, Lucky recalled the short time she’d spent in the Maui jail. Behind the bars, she had experienced a sense of being subhuman, reduced to nothingness.
A number. Yes, even though she hadn’t been able to remember her time in jail in Montana, she’d felt that nothingness, that sense of being just a number. Not a person. It had been frightening and humiliating. A sensation of intense sickness and desolation swept through her.
Maybe having no memory was a blessing. The few days she’d spent in jail had been hell on earth. Lucky didn’t want to remember the ten long years behind bars. Yet she couldn’t help wondering about the person she’d been—and what had led to a life in prison.
“What else did they tell you?” she asked quietly.
“Dr. Carmichael, the psychologist, knew a lot about you. She took quite an interest in your case.”
“Did she know if I have family somewhere?”
“No, not unless they’re distant relatives. Your father didn’t marry your mother. There’s no record of who he was.”
“My mother’s dead, isn’t she?” Lucky asked, remembering what Brad had told her about her family.
“Yes, your mother died in an automobile accident when you were six.” Greg visibly braced himself. “You were placed in a foster home. You couldn’t say one word.”
“I couldn’t talk?” Unimaginable. At two, Sarah’s daughter was talking. At four, Julie chatted up a storm, saying Harry was a studmuffin. “Why?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure. Apparently, you were so traumatized that you were afraid to talk. Remember, you thought your name was Shut Up. Every time you tried to say something, your mother must have yelled at you to shut your mouth. Judging from the scars on your feet, she burned you with a cigarette.”
Guilt arced through Lucky, making her disgusted with herself.
“
Oh, God. I did the same thing. I screamed at Julie. I told you—”
“You weren’t as bad as your mother. Did Brad say you ever hit Julie?”
“No, but—”
“Our earliest years are the most impressionable ones. You had a horrible experience, yet like many abused children you duplicated the pattern of behavior you’d seen. You were trying to fight it. You lost your temper but you never hit Julie.”
“You’re right. After I’d yell, I’d tell her that I loved her.” Lucky ran her fingers through her short hair, furious with herself. “Talk about confusing a child
…
”
“You’re not losing your temper anymore, that’s what’s important.”
She shuddered, the undeniable and dreadful truth making her hate herself. Still, she wanted to know everything about this terrible person. “What else did you find out?”
“Your first foster mother was a very kind, religious person. She took you in, believing you were mentally retarded because
you couldn’t talk. She tried to work with you. She had some success, but you still didn’t speak. One day in church, you began to sing.”
“That must be why I knew ‘Amazing Grace,’ ” she said softly, her heart aching because she couldn’t remember this wonderful woman who’d lovingly helped an abused child. Lucky imagined someone like Sarah, a person who cherished her family and loved them with all her heart.
“Your singing gave her hope, and she continued to work with you. Finally, you did speak. She put you in school and worked hard to help you catch up. Never having been in school, you were two grades behind. Your life might have been very different had this woman lived.”
“She died? How sad. I wish I could talk to her. I’d love to thank her.”
“The reports Dr. Carmichael had said she was older, widowed. She died of a stroke, and after that you went into a series of foster homes. Dr. Carmichael didn’t have the details beyond the social services reports, but your grades went down. You found your tongue—and your temper. You got into fights. You hung out with a bad crowd.”
“I must have done something good. I was on the swim team, wasn’t I? Did I win any races?”
Greg paused, as if weighing his next words carefully. “You were on the swim team—the prison swim team.”
How would she ever be able to explain this to Julie? she wondered. True, she wouldn’t have to tell her until she was old enough to understand, but still, she’d been so bad. Who would want a mother like this?
“Dr. Carmichael worked with you on your temper, but you still fought with the other prisoners and the guards. They put you in solitary confinement several times. You were a lone wolf who didn’t make friends. For the first five years you worked in the kitchen.”
“
That must be the reason we have a chef. Brad said I hated
cooking. I remember how to cook because I’d done so much of it. But I don’t remember hating it.”
Greg smiled at her, more than a trace of sadness in his eyes.
“
You studied hard and did so well that you were chosen for a special computer training class. You were exceptionally talented. The warden personally selected you to be one of the workers to convert the prison records to the new computer system.”
“Finally, I did something right.”
He gave her a quick hug, chuckling. “Not exactly. You were so clever that you deleted any mention of yourself from the prison records. Nothing—not even a fingerprint—exists in their data bank. They ID
-
ed you from the picture. Your eyes gave you away, because you’d had long brown hair when you’d been in prison.”
“All the pictures Brad has show me with long hair. I went to Sebastian—he’s my hairdresser. He couldn’t believe that I had permed and bleached my hair. I guess I was really vain about my hair. Why would I bleach it?”
“I don’t know,” Greg replied, brushing her damp hair. “It’s really short now. All the curl is gone. You look like a pixie with huge green eyes.”
“Sebastian said to let it grow out and become healthy again. I don’t know. I may just keep it short. I don’t want to be
anything
like I was.”
“
I
can understand how you feel.” He kissed the tip of her
nose, and she wished she was worthy of the love she saw in
his tender gaze. “I’ll always love you—long hair or short.”
Lucky looked away; she couldn’t go through this again. Saying goodbye once had been hard enough. “I still can’t understand why I couldn’t remember my name. Even if I’d used a number for ten years, I used Kelly since leaving prison.”
“There’s a good reason.” His voice was calm, his gaze unwavering.
“
The name on your birth certificate was Abigail Sue Reston.”
“Abigail? That name just popped into my head when you asked me to give Abbie a name.”
“I know. It was in your head because it was your legal name. Your foster mother gave you another name. She called you Rudy-Anne.”
“Really?” Lucky took in a quick breath of utter astonishment. “When I was underwater with the shark, I thought his name was Rudy. But it was my brain telling me my own name, wasn’t it?”
“Apparently, that’s what happened. You’ve had a lot of names—starting with Shut Up. One of the reports that Dr. Carmichael had from school says you used the nickname Dusty when you were in high school. No wonder you didn’t know your name.”