White Apples (14 page)

What was her name? How had they met? How long had they known each other? What was she like in bed? His list of questions was a mile long. She was in his bed, but what had brought them here? It was impossible not to remember a thing about her but, hey, there had to be an explanation for that. And he did not mind one single bit the mystery at the moment.

Leaning forward a few inches, he tried to catch a whiff of her. Ettrich was nuts for the way women smelled. In the morning, in the evening, during sex or sweaty or bathed or perfumed or not—he loved all their smells. Right now he wanted to smell
her
and then he wanted to smell her breath. He crept up a little closer and then still more until he was within good sniffing distance.

She opened her eyes and registered him. She blinked a few times and said, "Hey there." She had a killer sleepy-sexy voice. Beautiful teeth too—they all showed when she threw him a great warm smile.

He wanted to touch her but didn't. Not yet. He had to get some info on her first. "Hiya."

She rolled onto her back. Sliding her arms above her head, she stretched and groaned luxuriously. The sheet slipped down her body until her breasts were fully exposed. "What time is it?"

He stared. He told himself to stop but he couldn't help it. "I dunno. Wait." He reached over to the night table for his watch. "Nine."

"That's not bad. I thought we'd sleep till afternoon. After last night." She looked at him and her eyes said sex-sex-sex. She spoke English beautifully but with an accent he could not place.

With no thought or effort he slid on a counterfeit look that said, "I know—wasn't it great?" Over the years Vincent Ettrich had perfected more fake looks than on all the pages of a movie magazine. The worst part was he was so good at it. These expressions were so ingrained in his character that sometimes he literally could not tell which were false and which were real. What is my face saying now? Is that the truth? Sometimes it disturbed him but overall Et•trich was pretty comfortable with himself and was generally willing to trade a little self-awareness for some pussy.

He might have spent some time thinking about this, as he lay there warm and cozy next to this naked enigma. But then she said something that changed everything.

"Don't forget today's your mother's birthday."

Silence as heavy as a hippo sat down on his chest and squeezed all the air out of him. Eventually he managed to say, "How do you know that?"

"Well, last year you forgot about it and she was angry at you. Don't you remember?"

Last year?
He did not know this woman. Maybe last night he had known her in the biblical sense, but last year? No way.

"What's my mom's name?"

Mystery Woman smiled but kept her eyes closed. Her face was relaxed, the skin beautiful. She had a small

flesh-colored mole way back on her jaw near the right ear. "Is this a pop quiz? Your mom's name is Brigitta. Wife of Peter, mother of Vincent and Judith."

Panic flew up in Ettrich like a flock of startled pigeons. They went in all directions. "How do you know that?" Eyes still closed; she stuck out her tongue at him. "How do I know? Uh, because you told me?"

He moved to touch her shoulder, stopped, then did it. "Tell me your name." "Ha-ha—very funny."

"Really. Please, tell me."

"Vincent don't. It's too early to be playful. Wait until we have some coffee." "Where did I go to college?"

She made a face. "Rhodes College. Memphis, Tayne-uh-say. First job with the Ortpond Agency in San Francisco." She opened her eyes finally, ready to tell him to stop this nonsense now because it was annoying. But when she saw the expression on his face she hesitated. "What's the matter?"

"How do you know those things? How could you?" "Stop it! This isn't funny." She shoved him.

He shook his head. "Who
are
you?" "Vincent, stop it!"

His face showed only confusion.

She realized he
was not
fooling around. "Jesus!" She slid away from him to the far edge of the bed. Unconsciously she pulled the sheet up around her because in that second he became a stranger seeing her naked and he scared her. "What's the matter with you? Isabelle, I'm
Isabelle."

He only shook his head slowly. Her name meant nothing to him.

"Oh, my God." She started to rise but he lunged and caught her arm. Without thinking she shouted.

He let go immediately. "No, please don't go. I won't hurt you. I won't do anything. Just please tell me."

She pulled the sheet tighter around her but remained sitting. "Tell you what? What is going on? You honestly don't know me?"

"No." The word came out small, afraid. He did not have a clue.

"Do you remember other things?" She twisted the top of the sheet so that it would stay tight around her chest. Grateful that she wasn't fleeing, he rubbed his face hard with both hands. "Other things? Well, of course. Sure." "Tell me."

He tossed a hand in the air, as if what he was about to say was common knowledge. "I'm Vincent Ettrich, work in an ad agency, forty-one, divorced, have two kids."

Isabelle jumped on that. "Why did you divorce?"

"Why?" He made a rueful face. "Because I wasn't the world's best husband. My wife was a good soul. She put up with a lot, but finally it was too much for her and she threw me out."

"But why? Tell me exactly why."

He looked her square on and said, "Other women." "Not one in particular?"

"Too
many
in particular. I should convert to Islam. Then I could have several wives and I'd probably be a lot better off."

It began to dawn on her what had happened to Vincent. But she wanted to be sure before she said anything. So she asked more questions about his life and who he was.

Ettrich answered them all but grew increasingly more disturbed as he realized just how much this lovely stranger knew about him.

When she could think of nothing else to ask, Isabelle's shoulders sagged in defeat. Now she knew she was right. Like precision brain surgery, everything about her and their relationship had been cleanly removed from Vincent's memory. The rest of his life was there and in place; just she had been excised.

Except—The possibility made her sit up straight and the sheet came undone. "Do you remember being sick?"

"Sick? What do you mean?"

She made to speak but stopped. Then she tilted her head and appeared to be listening to something. Her face slowly relaxed. Touching her stomach above the sheet, she slid her hand back and forth across it. "All right. I'll try."

Anjo had spoken to her.

Ettrich was confused. "What? Try what?"

She ignored him. Her face was peaceful. "I'd like to show you a few things today. Can we spend some time together?"

He didn't know what to say. He was worried this woman was bad news north, south, east,
and
west. Pretty as she was, he would have preferred that she had gotten dressed and left. But Ettrich was a gentleman. That was one of the reasons why he had been so successful with women over the years. He was courtly, considerate, and never, ever let a woman feel like he had used her.

"Come on, Vincent— It's Saturday—you're free. Let's go have breakfast. We'll eat scrambled eggs and bacon and drink lots of coffee." It was so strange talking to him like this. Restrained yet flirty, trying to win him over while not being too obvious about it. As if the man sitting on the other side of the bed were not the love of her life and father of her child, but rather a handsome stranger she was coyly trying to woo.

"Will you excuse me a minute?" he asked, pointing to the bath•room as his reason. Without thinking he got out of bed naked and was seven steps under way before realizing it wasn't too politic to parade around naked now in front of this puzzling woman. What else could he do but raise his hands in the classic "Whoops!" pose, shrug, and keep going. Behind him she laughed. Was it at his cool, his ass, or the situation?

She was laughing because the gesture was so
Vincent.
She felt a huge rush of love and vowed to find a way through this.

He closed the bathroom door and went over to the sink. After looking at himself a long time in the mirror he asked, "Now what, bro?" Then took a towel off the shelf and wrapped it around his waist.

What was he going to do with her? Have breakfast, take a little walk, and then a sweet but firm
arrivederci.
Where did she live? Hopefully somewhere in the city, a cab ride away.

The bathroom door swung open behind him and she came in wearing one of his T-shirts. She was holding two pieces of chocolate cake in her hands. Taking a bite out of one, she offered him the other.

"What's that?"

"Sachertorte.
Your favorite breakfast."

Ettrich liked
Sachertorte
and had eaten it often. But he could not remember ever having had it for breakfast. He took the piece she offered and the two of them stood there eating Viennese chocolate cake. He didn't know about her, but it felt kind of nice doing it.

Halfway through her piece, Isabelle gestured for him to look in the mirror. He did. Both of them had cake crumbs on their faces.

"Where's your camera? You should take a picture of us like this." He wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. "What camera?"

She started to say
The one I gave you,
but stopped. "Don't you have a digital camera?" "No."

"Oh. Well, then... uh—" As she backpedaled verbally, a thought came that widened her eyes. Maybe it would help. "Since we're on the subject of eating, here's the question of the day. But you have to think about it before you answer. Don't just say any•thing. Okay? Describe the three most memorable meals you ever had. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

It was Vincent's question. Actually there were five of them. What he had deemed with goofy fanfare
the five questions.
Watching him now eat the last bite of
Sachertorte,
she looked for a glimmer of recognition in his eyes but nothing showed. He was only thinking about her question.

One night in bed in Krakow they couldn't sleep because it had been such an enchanted day that neither of them wanted it to end. So as had happened often, they lay together after sex talking for hours, their bodies entwined.

Somewhere in the middle of that con•versation, Vincent came up with his five questions. They discussed them for days afterward, digging deep in their memories, talking about forgotten parts of their lives, savoring, abruptly changing their choices, and describing things in the greatest detail. Isabelle thanked him again and again for thinking up those questions because they were so much fun to play with.

Now standing in the bathroom of his small apartment, he swal•lowed some cake and brushed his hands off on the towel around his waist. "They can't be three dinners?"

"No. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner." She already knew his an•swers. Or what once were his answers. How could he forget Café Redolfi in Krakow that sunny Sunday morning? They had a table by the window facing the great square and were drinking cup after cup of the good cappuccino served there. Both of them were jittery from too much caffeine, too little sleep, too much sex the night before that had left them wired and raw, exhausted and exhilarated. They couldn't stop looking at each other. They wanted to go back to the hotel right now but didn't because this place, these hours, this moment in their lives was perfect too. How was it possible to be this happy?

Vincent announced his first. "All right—my favorite breakfast ever? Remember that hot August in Vienna when we stayed up all night and then the next morning drove out along the Danube to Tulln?"

Of course she remembered but waited for him to tell the story. About how all the stores were closed because it was Sunday in Catholic Austria. The only thing open that early was a gas station where they were able to buy milk. Luckily she had half a
Sachertorte
in the trunk of her car, a typically odd gift from her mother.

Sitting on fat boulders next to the river, they ate a breakfast of slightly stale cake and milk. A coal barge from Romania passed by and tooted its horn at them. Ten minutes later a stately white Rus•sian cruise ship glided by on its way back to the Black Sea. Then two old men in kayaks passed—all of them swept by on the fast-flowing current.

When he had finished eating, Ettrich picked up a small stick nearby and slowly peeled the bark off it while they sat listening to the rush of the river. When he had it bare, he slid the stick into his pocket. She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He said only, "Souvenir."

Standing now in the bathroom of his small bachelor's apartment, this new Vincent looked stumped. "I can't answer that question. By the way, where did you get the cake? It was very good."

Where did she get it? At the Sacher Hotel in Vienna and she carried it all the way in her knapsack in its elegant little wooden box. At U.S. customs they'd almost confiscated it. She fought hard to keep it because it was going to be her peace offering to Vincent. Isabelle had the whole thing planned and had been imagining the scene since she left Austria. She would give him the
Sachertorte
and make a joke about it, but both of them would know the gift was both important and deeply felt.

How it saddened her ten minutes ago to open the box and, with no ceremony at all, slip the protective plastic wrap off and quickly cut two slices from the cake.

Something crossed Vincent's face and, sidling by her, he left the bathroom. She looked in the mirror, said,
"Now
what?" and followed him. When she caught up, he was standing by the front door with hands on his hips, looking at her large knapsack.

He pointed an accusing finger at it. "Yours?" "Yup."

"And that's where the cake came from—you brought it with you? We came back here last night with you carrying that big bag, went to bed, and here we are eating your cake this morning? But I don't remember any of it? Not a thing?"

Before she had a chance to say anything, his phone rang. Both of them were relieved because she didn't know what to answer and he didn't want to hear one more thing from her.