A Man She Couldn’t Forget (4 page)

“No, not yet. No, he wouldn’t do something like that. He’s been selfless in this whole thing.”

“Then bide your time and see how you feel about it all. You’ve only been home a few days.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Now let’s talk about your dreams. Though I’m not into symbol hunting, they’re a crucial part of amnesia and should be discussed.”

A chill ran through Clare, and she rubbed her arms as she recalled Monday night’s dream. “I’m still having nightmares.”

“Most amnesiacs do.”

“I can’t remember them all, but Monday’s stays with me. Brady and Jonathan were snakes. One bit me, and one curled around my wrists.”

“Hmm. Who did what?”

Clare told her. “Do you think it’s significant?”

“As I explained right after you woke up, dreams are a person’s unconscious asserting itself, even if that person doesn’t have amnesia. I’d like you to write down the dreams you do remember. In as much detail as possible.”

Clare nodded.

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?”

“Yes. I’m going stir-crazy.”

“You’ve only been home two days.”

“I was in the hospital two weeks. I need to do more than I’m doing.”

Anna smiled. “Then do it.”

“I’ve been walking, but I found tennis stuff in the closet. Am I ready to play?”

“If you think you are.”

“And I’d like to drive again.”

The therapist looked thoughtful. “Can you do that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.”

“How did you get here?”

“Brady. He’s been a doll about all this. He’s waiting outside.”

Anna watched her. “Your whole face lights up when you talk about him.”

“Does it? How odd, when I’m…involved with Jonathan.”

“Something to think about. Be careful with the driving. You don’t have procedural amnesia. You seem to know how to do things. But test-drive with someone in the car for a while. Don’t go alone for a week or so. Especially with the headaches.”

“All right.” Clare shook her head. “It’s all so frustrating.”

“I’ll bet. But your memory is starting to come back. You’re making terrific progress.”

It didn’t feel that way. And Clare worried about things. “Anna, do you think some traumatic event caused my amnesia?”

“You had severe head trauma. But your last tests indicated there’s no brain swelling now, and no apparent damage. However, why you were out at 2:00 a.m. on that road and what led up to it is missing from your mind, and that is significant. So, to answer your question, I believe it very well could be psychological.”

“I almost don’t want to remember.”

“Clare, if your amnesia is psychological, you
don’t
want to remember. But you most likely will. And you should prepare yourself for that.”

They made an appointment for the following week, Anna wished her well and Clare went to find Brady. She was unnerved by her talk with the counselor and needed to see him to calm down. That he could do that for her was another mystery.

He was waiting outside the office, though she’d told him to go get coffee or something to eat. He stood when he saw her. The worry on his face made her give him a smile.

“Hey, how’d it go?”

“Fine.”

“You’re lying. I can see it in your expression.”

“It’s hard, articulating all my fears.”

“Man, I bet it is.” He slid an arm around her and leaned in close. “You know, you can talk to me about those fears. We used to stay up late and share everything we were afraid of in life. Takes the sting out of them.”

“It sounds like we spent a lot of time together.”

“We did. After I moved in, Don was still alive and Max was working for a commercial airline, so he wasn’t home much. In some ways it was just you and me, babe.”

And that had changed. Poor Brady. She wondered if she could ever make it up to him.

S
EATED ACROSS THE TABLE
from his longtime friend, Mitch Anderson, Jonathan felt better than he had earlier when he couldn’t reach Clarissa. He and Mitch had gone to boarding school together and seen each other through a lot of scrapes. Sometimes Jonathan missed the boy he used to be—more carefree, more spontaneous. He definitely missed Mitch, who’d met him here at the restaurant in the Hyatt hotel where Jonathan was staying in Chicago.

“So, how’d the Chef’s Delight thing go? Their stocks are sky-high.” Mitch was an investment broker and followed the market daily. Jonathan used to take more of an interest in stocks than he did now. Of course, lately, he’d had a lot on his mind.

He told Mitch, “Clarissa’s going to be getting some of those options.”

“Really? Wow.” Mitch lazed back in the chair and sipped the merlot they’d ordered. “You struck quite a deal, then.”

“Well, I had to fly out our lawyers.” That had kept him here an extra day. “But they hammered out a lucrative contract for both the station and Clarissa herself.”

“No offense, but…for a local show?”

“They recognize, as do I, that she’ll syndicate soon.” He told his friend of his plans for the Cooking Channel.

Mitch raised his glass. “Congratulations. You’ve brought her into the limelight and now, so to speak, her star is shining.”

“I hope she doesn’t leave me in the dust.”

Mitch burst out laughing. He had a big belly laugh that contrasted with his polished good looks. “You can’t mean that. Rockford’s Most Eligible Bachelor?”

The designation a local magazine had given Jonathan had embarrassed him, though originally it had brought him plenty of dates. But once he met Clarissa, that part of his life was over. “I’m in love, Mitch. I don’t want anyone else.”

Immediately Mitch sobered. “I didn’t realize things between you and Clarissa were that serious. Since your divorce, I haven’t heard you talk like this.”

Jonathan had been married for six years to a nice woman he’d met at his country club. His parents hadn’t been happy when they’d divorced, but Marilyn and he both knew there was no spark there. Thankfully, they’d parted friends.

The feelings he’d had for his ex were nothing close to what he felt for Clarissa. He sighed, thinking of the forced celibacy her illness had brought about. He missed her body as much as her mind.

“Jonathan, you’re scowling. Do you have reason to think Clarissa is going to leave you?”

Filling Mitch in on the whole sad story of Clarissa’s amnesia made Jonathan feel even worse.

“Why didn’t you say something before this? You only see those things on TV. I don’t know that I’ve ever been privy to a real-life case. It’s a remarkable story.”

“It’s a nightmare. She loved me, I know she did, and now she doesn’t even remember me. Nothing.”

Mitch set his wine down and leaned forward. “Does she have any memories of anybody?”

“She didn’t in the hospital, but who knows now? She lives in a condo in this old Victorian house. The other three people who own there were her close friends until I came along.”

“And?”

“She grew apart from them. Was on the verge of moving out and in with me. Then she had the accident.”

“What caused it?”

He shrugged. He’d never lied outright to Mitch, but now he’d skirt the truth somewhat. “Nobody really knows. She left her condo and went out into the rainy night, cracked up her car.”

The waitress came and took their orders. After she left, Jonathan said, “Let’s table this conversation. It’s depressing to think about her accident.”

“Whatever you want.”

“So tell me about those two kids of yours.” It seemed impossible, but at only forty Mitch had two teenagers.

“They’re making me crazy. Wait until you have your own. I’m teaching Nicky to drive. Talk about nightmares.”

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!

W
ITH 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.

When they got back to her place, Brady found the show’s CDs packed away in a cabinet and stuck the one she wanted, labeled by the meal, in the player. Sitting next to her on the couch, he watched as she came on and smiled out at the camera.

Now memories flooded
him
—her nervousness the night before, him calming her down. That day, they’d all been over the moon about it. He, Delia and Max were almost as excited as she was and had come to the studio for the first taping. She’d looked great, too; he’d given her that apron with the name of the show stitched on the front.

“Oh!” she said, seated next to him. “The music is familiar. It’s
familiar.
”

Lord, was this going to bring everything back? Was he ready for that? “Maybe it’s too soon.”

“No, it feels right.” Her eyes widened as she stared at the screen. “My hair…” She touched her own short curls. “I look good with it long.”

“You look good with it short, too. And if you don’t like the style now, your hair grows fast.”

Mesmerized, she stared at the TV. So did he.

“W
ELCOME TO
C
LARISSA’S
K
ITCHEN
. Today we’re going to make Chicken Rosie, a recipe my great-aunt taught me.” She laughed and the camera panned in on her, capturing the amused twinkle in her beautiful green eyes. “Aunt Rosie didn’t work in amounts. This recipe came to me orally, in directions that read a package of chicken, some tomatoes, artichokes if you can find them…”

A
S SHE SPOKE
, she chatted about her grandmother’s sister, whom Brady had never met. But he knew that she was big and round, with white hair and a huge smile.

“I’
M GOING TO BROWN
the chicken, but not too much.” Grease sizzled in the pan. “Don’t make the mistake of letting it get too done, because it’ll cook more when everything’s combined. Meanwhile chop up the onions, tomatoes, olives and broccoli.”

She picked up a jar of tomato sauce. “This is my homemade sauce, canned early this year, but you can use grocery store sauce if you want.”

“Y
UCK
,” C
LARE SAID ALOUD
in the living room. She had a very familiar look on her face.

Brady laughed. “You remember you were a purist, huh?”

“I guess. I’d never eat sauce from a jar.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

She glanced at him as a commercial came on. “Was I a snob?”

“About food you were.”

“Just that?”

He hesitated.

She put the CD on Pause. “Brady, I’ve pieced together that I worked too much. And I wasn’t close to people anymore, like Delia and Max. And obviously you.” She nodded to the screen. “Was I that way when the show started?”

“Not when it started. The four of us were best friends and did a lot together.”

“Like what?”

“We played cards in a euchre group and we socialized with the other players. We had a bowling team. A dinner group.”

“Hmm. How sad that we stopped that.”

He nodded to the CD, wanting to get out of this discussion. “Let’s get you back on.”

The rest of the half hour distracted her. She had no memories until the closing music. Then she said, “Oh!”

“What?”

She turned to him. “You and Max and Delia were there backstage. With flowers and champagne.” She closed her eyes. “Damn, there’s nothing more.”

He was glad she had no recollection of the aftermath because Jonathan Harris had horned in, and Brady had gotten angry about how the guy usurped their celebration.

“What happened? You’re scowling.”

“I guess I’m worried this is too much. Did you enjoy the show?”

“Very much. I’m tired, though.”

“You don’t have to cook, Clare.”

She stood. “I want to. I’ll sleep, then I’m making the meal. You’ll call the others?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope they can come.”

“Me, too.”

“It’ll be like old times.”

Hardly,
Brady thought, wondering if he’d made a mistake by getting her hopes up about Delia’s and Max’s presence. At one time, they’d refused to let Clare cook for them ever again.

A
WAKE AND RESTED
, C
LARE HEADED
to her kitchen with a smile on her face. She’d showered and put on a loose-fitting cotton dress that seemed appropriate to cook in. At the bookshelf, she picked up the first cookbook and crossed to the counter. She’d watched the tape but hadn’t memorized the recipe, so she propped it open on a beautiful teak book holder, and began to assemble the dinner.