Kathryn Shay - A Man She Couldn't Forget

“No, that was your suggestion. I feel foolish, needing a babysitter, being afraid to go into my own kitchen.” She sank back on a stool at the counter, clutching the cookbook to her chest. “When I came in here, and took out one of these, I felt good.”

He smiled, said, “I’m glad to hear that,” and joined her at the bar, dropping down on the stool next to her. Since waking up from the coma, she didn’t like people crowding her, but when Brady stretched his legs out facing her, she braced her feet on the bottom rung of his stool. He nodded to the book, and his blue eyes sparkled like sapphires. “You should be proud of those. You’re a big success.”

She smiled back at him, wanting to know more about him. “What about you? Are you a success? I don’t even know what you do.”

For a minute, he looked puzzled. “I’m an artist. Actually, an illustrator.”

It was like getting hit with a blast of cold water. “Oh, the sketches in the hallway? They’re yours. I had a visceral response when I saw them. Brady, they’re terrific.”

“You were the one who insisted they be mounted and hung out there. You had them framed even before I said yes.”

“Where’d I get them?”

“Um, mostly from the books I’ve published.”

“You publish books, too? Which ones? How many? Can I see something else you’ve done?”

His gaze dropped to her chest. “You’re holding one.”

“Huh?”

“Turn the book over, Clare.”

She tensed, afraid for the first time since she’d come into this room. She stared at him warily.

“Go ahead. It won’t hurt you. It’s a good memory.”

She turned the book around.

On the back was his picture. Dressed less formally than she, he wore pressed jeans, a silk T-shirt and a taupe blazer. His hair was a bit shorter, but his eyes were the same, long-lashed, crystalline-blue. She read the note with his picture, then peered over at him. “You illustrated my cookbooks?”

“Uh-huh. The anecdotes you wrote and my illustrations are what set them apart from all the other gazillion cook-books on the market.” He hesitated. “We have a new one in the works, too.”

She found herself pleased at what he told her and wanted to know more. “I have a cooking show, too. Are you part of that?”

His expression darkened. “I’ve been a guest. Your viewers wrote in that they liked it when I was there.”

Though she couldn’t recall any of what he was telling her, she could imagine someone with his good looks and apparent charm would be a hit with women watching the show.

But he didn’t seem too happy about this. “Are you still on the show?”

He shook his head. “Clare, you don’t remember anything about this?”

“No.”

A deep frown creased his forehead.

“Why aren’t you on the show anymore?”

Not answering, he stood and went to the fridge. Pulling out a beer, he uncapped it and took a long swig. She watched his throat work and felt something…warm inside her. He set the beer down on the counter and stood across from her, his hands braced on the granite.

“Your boss, Jonathan, wanted the show…scaled up, you might say. A scruffy artist hanging around in a state-of-the-art kitchen didn’t hit the target audience he wanted.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, did I call you a scruffy artist?”

“No! He did.”

She struggled to remember. Instead, images of snakes clouded her mind, just like in the dream. Her temples hurt again. “I don’t remember any of it.”

He didn’t say more, just watched her. Hurt clouded his eyes.

“Why didn’t I stand up to him?”

“Ah, the sixty-four thousand-dollar question.” Before she could respond, he asked, “Do you remember anything about…our relationship?”

She nodded. “Yes, good things. I had flashes as soon as I came home yesterday—cooking for you, you carrying up grocery bags, helping with the garden.”

“Those are early memories.”

“From how long ago?”

“About eight or nine years.”

“My therapist told me that research says those memories often return first. The ones closest to the event that caused the amnesia—if it is psychological—come back last.”

“Yes.” He appeared embarrassed. “I read that on the Internet.”

“The memories that aren’t coming back? Those are the times when I hurt you, aren’t they?”

“I didn’t say that, Clare.”

“You didn’t have to. And it isn’t only you. Delia, too. My own sister doesn’t even call much.”

“Cathy’s sensitive where you’re concerned, ever since you were little and your parents died. But she loves you, Clare, and she’s coming as soon as she gets back from Europe. You’ll have a great reunion.”

“Still. It’s so odd feeling good things for all of you and…them not being returned.”

“They are returned. We’ve just had a rough time of it lately.”

Standing, she circled around the bar and approached him. This close, she could see the nick from shaving he must have gotten this morning. His chest rose and fell, and his features were taut. “Brady, I’m sorry that I’ve hurt you in the past. I sense we were really close.”

“We were.” His voice was husky, calling forth a memory that fled before it fully formed.

Suddenly she wanted this man to hold her again, like he had when he’d carried her last night. So she moved into him and slid her arms around his waist. As natural as spring rain, his arms encompassed her. His sigh matched hers. Closing her eyes, she placed her head on his heart.

Though she didn’t remember what she’d done, it was obvious she’d hurt this heart of his. The thought shamed her.

“HOW IS IT GOING AT HOME?” Anna Summers, Clare’s psychotherapist, smiled over at her from where she sat on a stuffed chair in her hospital office. Clare had taken a similar chair opposite her in the cheery space—sand-colored walls, nice Berber carpet, wooden accents. She felt good in here, too, and had been more than willing to come back on this Wednesday morning.

“It’s better than being in the hospital. Some of my memory’s come back.” She told Anna about the flashes she’d had about Brady, Delia and Don, Max and cooking.

“Interesting. They’re all about the people from the house.” She cocked her head. “None about Jonathan?”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. Maybe because he had to go away and the others are around all the time. I’ve talked to him every day on the phone but, truthfully, the conversations are strained. It’s hard enough facing people you don’t know in person.”

“Maybe it’s his absence. But you’ve known him the shortest time. Remember, with retrograde amnesia, the earlier memories come back first.”

“I was just talking to Brady about that.”

Anna crossed her legs and adjusted the skirt of her beige suit. “How does it feel to be in your house?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is it like sleeping in a stranger’s bed? Like you’re wearing someone else’s clothes?”

“Not at all. I sense everything’s mine. I chose something to wear this morning without fretting about it and felt immediately at home in the kitchen.”

“It’s good that everything isn’t foreign.”

“I guess. But other things aren’t so good.”

“Like?”

Clare fidgeted with the bracelet she’d put on with khaki pants and a yellow blouse. “I’ve found some other things out about my life. About me. Some bad things.”

“From these flashes of memories?”

“No, those were all good. But the tension among Max, Delia and me became obvious right away. So I asked about it.” She told Anna that she’d grown away from her group of friends. “The problem is I don’t feel that way about them now. I’m sad that they’re so wary and I want to be closer to them.” She thought for a minute. “Anna, do personalities change when someone has amnesia?”