Sandra Marton - The Second Mrs Adams

It made him furious, which was stupid, because he’d gotten over giving a damn about how she acted a long time ago. Still, after he’d parked the car and walked back to where she was sitting, he had to force himself to smile.

“Hi.”

She looked up, her dark eyes wide with surprise. “David!”

“Why so shocked?” He sat down beside her. “I told you I’d be here today.”

“Well, I know what you said, but...”

But he hadn’t cared enough to come up all week. Not that it mattered to her if she saw him or not...

“But?”

Joanna shut the book and put it on the bench beside her. “Nothing,” she said. “I guess you just caught me by surprise.”

He waited for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat.

“So, how are things going? Have you settled in?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone’s very nice.”

“Good. And are they helping you?”

“Have I remembered, do you mean?” Joanna got to her feet and he rose, too. They began walking slowly along a path that wound behind the main building. “No, not a thing. Everyone tells me to be patient.”

“But it’s hard.”

“Yes.” She looked up at him. “For you, too.”

He knew he was supposed to deny it, but he couldn’t.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “for me, too.”

Joanna nodded. “I just can’t help wondering...”

“What?”

She shook her head. She’d promised herself not to say anything; the words had just slipped out.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Joanna, you were going to ask me something. What is it?”

“Well, I know I’m not a doctor or anything, but—” She hesitated. “Wouldn’t my memory come back faster if I were in familiar surroundings?” He looked at her, saying nothing, and she spoke more quickly. “You don’t know what it’s like, David, not to be able to picture your own house. The furniture, or the colors of the walls...”

“You want to come home,” he said.

Joanna looked up at him. There was no mistaking the sudden flatness in his voice.

“I just want to get my memory back,” she said softly. “It’s what you want, too, isn’t it?”

A muscle flickered in his jaw. “It wouldn’t work,” he said carefully. “You need peace and quiet, someone to look after you. I’m hardly ever home before ten at night and even when I am, the phone’s forever ringing, and the fax is going...”

A cold hand seemed to clamp around her heart.

“I understand,” she said.

“Who would take care of you? I could hire a nurse, yes, but—”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Her voice took on an edge. “I’m an amnesiac, not an invalid.”

“Well, I know, but what about therapy?”

“What about it?” she said with sudden heat. “I don’t see how learning to paint by numbers or weave baskets is going to help my memory.”

David stopped and clasped her shoulders. He turned her toward him.

“You don’t really weave baskets, do you?”

She sighed. “No, not really.”

“Good.” A grin twitched across his mouth. “For a minute there, I thought Nurse Diesel might be breathing down our necks.”

Joanna’s mouth curved. “Don’t even mention that movie when you’re here,” she said in an exaggerated whisper. “They’ve got no sense of humor when it comes to things like that.”

He laughed. “You said something?”

“Sure. The first day, an aide came to call for me. She said she was taking me to physical therapy and we got into this old, creaky elevator and headed for the basement. ‘So,’ I said, when the doors finally wheezed open, ‘is this where you guys keep the chains and cattle prods?’” Joanna’s eyes lit with laughter. “I thought she was going to go bonkers. I got a five minute lecture on the strides that have been made in mental health, blah, blah, blah...”

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