Anne Ha - Her Forgotten Husband

“I was a practicing alcoholic when Beth found me fifteen years ago,” he explained. “She helped me get sober, then offered me a job….”

Jenny popped back into the breakfast room. “Ready?”

Samantha rose, automatically gathering the empty glasses in her hand. She realized she had no idea where to put them.

Hugh appeared by her side. “I’d be happy to take those from you, Samantha.”

She relinquished her burden, but noticed she felt odd being waited on—which only confirmed her suspicion that this wealthy life-style wasn’t what she’d known as a child. She must have taken a giant step up the financial ladder by marrying into the Randall family.

At the door Jenny linked her arm through Samantha’s. “Garrick made me promise to be good,” she said, obviously amused. “I’m allowed to give you a brief tour of the house, just enough so you won’t get lost, and leave you alone to rest. And he says I’m supposed to let you remember things on your own.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He said the doctor agreed, but he didn’t explain the reasons. It doesn’t make sense to me, though. I mean, if you know things, but just don’t remember you know them, then why shouldn’t we tell you what you already know? It couldn’t do any harm, could it?”

“I guess not.”

Jenny gave a theatrical sigh. “But we have to follow the master’s orders—not a word about the past. The kitchen is down that hallway, by the way. Hugh won’t mind if you raid the refrigerator. You and he are good friends.” She clapped a hand to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay, Jenny. I’d figured that out, anyway. I was scared of him at first, but I’m not anymore.”

Jenny blinked at her, then shook her head. “Gosh, that’s so weird.”

“Why?” she asked. What was strange about being scared of a man who looked like Frankenstein’s monster?

“You said those exact same words ten years ago. The first time you met Hugh, you practically ran screaming from the house. But pretty soon you guys were buddies. And now you repeated the same thing you told me then. Amnesia’s pretty wild, isn’t it, Sam?”

She nodded. “Garrick said I wanted to be called Samantha.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Well, if that isn’t just like Garrick, saying whatever he wants about your past while forbidding me to do the same! So what if you did ask to be called Samantha? You like Sam better. Samantha was just an attempt to sound sophisticated because—Well, never mind why. You like to be called Sam, so that’s what I’m going to call you.”

Samantha didn’t see any sense in arguing, since she had no idea which name she normally liked better. Sam sounded fine for the time being.

True to her word, Jenny led her on a brief but thorough tour of the important parts of the house, ignoring the east wing and the third floor entirely. By the time she deposited her at her bedroom door, Samantha felt reasonably confident she could find her way downstairs again, and utterly frustrated that she couldn’t remember a thing about a house she’d apparently known quite well.

Aside from that fleeting memory of her mother and the strange moment of familiarity in the entrance hall when Jenny had run down to greet her, she was still no closer to regaining her past.

Jenny gave her another hug. “You should rest now, just as his lordship ordered. I’ll be reading up for my next exam if you need me. Garrick’s probably closeted in his study, though I’m sure he’ll come check on you before long, and Mom will be home for lunch in a couple hours.” She kissed her on the cheek. “It’s great to have you home, Sam. We really missed you.”

Samantha closed the heavy wood door to the bedroom as Jenny started down the hallway. She looked around herself, taking in the high ceiling with its stucco designs, the ornately carved four-poster bed, the elegant dressing table and the lush Chinese carpet under her feet. It all exuded wealth.

And Samantha hated it.

She swept her gaze through the bedroom again. Admittedly, it was beautiful. Most people would be thrilled to have such a room.

Samantha wasn’t.

Perhaps foolishly, she’d hoped she and Garrick would share a room—but this luxurious haven was clearly hers and hers alone. Samantha couldn’t find a single indication of masculine occupancy. The feminine items were obvious, though: potpourri and scented candles; a flacon of perfume on the dressing table, along with a vase of blue irises; something long and silky hanging from a hook on the door to the private bath.

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