Читать книгу Where There's Smoke... - Barbara McCauley - Страница 11

A glass of mint iced tea in her hand and a paperback book in her lap, Emily lay on the chaise longue beside her parents’ swimming pool. The May day was warm, the air scented with roses and a vine of blooming jasmine that spilled over a wrought-iron trellis leading to her mother’s newly planted vegetable garden. Pots filled with white phlox and purple petunias surrounded the brick patio, while water bubbled from the mouth of a leaping bronze dolphin, then trickled down into a three-tiered fountain.

Emily had been told that the fountain had been last year’s birthday gift from her to her mother, that two weeks ago she’d helped plant bulbs in the garden, that only three days before her accident she’d stopped by after leaving work to drop off some pictures she’d taken at Easter.

They’d shown her photo album after photo album, videotapes of parties and family barbecues, pictures of her own apartment in Brookline. They’d made her favorite foods and played the music from Carmen, the last opera she’d attended with her parents.

She remembered none of it.

She’d been released from the hospital five days ago. After two days of tests and monitoring, Dr. Tuscano had concluded there was nothing physically wrong with her patient. The cut on her temple was healing well, her headaches were gone and all vital signs were normal. This morning she’d noticed that even the bruises scattered on her body were beginning to fade to pale yellow and soft blue.

How odd it had been to look in the mirror that first time and see a stranger staring back. Even though she’d prepared herself, she’d still been startled and a little frightened. She’d touched her chin-length dark brown hair, her cheeks, her lips, needed to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, that all of this wasn’t a dream.

Or a nightmare.

But Shane had been real. That much she knew. He hadn’t returned to the hospital after that last visit, or called her, either. She’d wanted so badly to see him again. Just one more time. Her family had meant well by fussing over her, but she was still confused by what had happened, still unsure of herself and what she was going to do. When Shane had been there, she’d felt calmer, more in control.

Let your mind go somewhere else, he’d told her.

She went there now. Back to her Caribbean island. The birdsong from her mother’s maple tree and the trickling water from the fountain made it easier to visualize her tropical paradise. She could feel the warm sand on her back. Hear the waves lap at the shore, see the yellow hibiscus sway in the breeze. The sun had begun to dip low on the horizon, turning the ocean into a sea of dancing stars. Shane rose up from the silvery water, his muscled shoulders and arms rippling as he dragged his hands back through his hair. He had the body of an athlete, a swimmer, lean and solid, defined.

Very well defined, she thought as he walked toward her. The tan cutoffs he wore were plastered to his hips and thighs, leaving little to her imagination. She smiled. Or should she say a lot to the imagination.

He stood over her, held out his arm to her. She placed her hand in his and rose up to meet him, then lifted her face as he lowered his. His mouth was gentle and tasted of salt and fresh air. When his tongue slipped between her lips, she opened to him, leaned into the warmth of his body and the heat of his kiss. His arms, wet and strong and so powerful, enclosed her, pulled her firmly against him—

“Emily.” Sandra Barone’s cheerful voice rang out. “I’ve brought you some soup and a sandwich.”

Jolted out of her fantasy, Emily spilled the iced tea she held in her hand. Her heart pounded as much from being startled as from her daydreaming about Shane.

“Oh, dear.” Sandra set down the tray on a small glass patio table and quickly handed her daughter a linen napkin. “I’m sorry I frightened you. I thought you heard me coming.”

“It’s all right.” Emily set her glass on the brick decking, then dabbed at the spilled tea on the chaise cushion. “I, ah, must have fallen asleep.”

“Well, I certainly hope so.” Her mother slid the table closer to the chaise. “I hear you walking the hallways and downstairs at night, plus you’ve barely eaten enough to keep a kitten alive. I made you egg salad today and minestrone. You used to love my minestrone.”

Despite the fact she wasn’t hungry, Emily tasted a spoonful of the soup and forced a smile. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“Emily.” Sandra sat down on the chaise beside her daughter. “You were never one to hide your feelings very well. You may not remember me right now, but I’m still your mother. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“It’s been a week.” Emily stared at the spoon in her hand, then looked into her mother’s soft blue eyes. “I haven’t remembered one thing. Not you, not Dad. Not this house. Nothing.”

“It’s going to get better, sweetheart,” Sandra said. “Easier. Some things just take time.”

“And what if it doesn’t get better?” Emily asked quietly. “What if I don’t ever remember?”

Sandra reached up to smooth her daughter’s hair, then tucked a loose strand behind her ear. A mother’s gesture, Emily thought. Caring and tender. And still, Emily thought miserably, she felt nothing for this woman beyond appreciation.

“Why don’t we just take one day at a time right now?” her mother suggested. “I know we’ve all been smothering you these past few days. Maybe it’s time we all give you some breathing room, let you work this out yourself. If your head isn’t speaking to you, why don’t you just listen to your heart?”

“Thank you.” Emily smiled at her mother, not a forced one this time. “I would appreciate that.”

Sandra kissed Emily’s cheek, sighed, then stood. “Don’t think this means I’m not worried about you, or that I won’t fuss over you at least a little. You might as well tell the sun not to rise or Mrs. Carmichael not to walk her Pekinese through my front flower beds. It will simply fall on deaf ears. Now, I’ll leave you to eat your soup. At least be polite and make an attempt at the sandwich. If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve raised my children with manners.”

Her back straight, Sandra walked back through the patio French doors. Because she wanted to please her, Emily picked up the sandwich, then nibbled at it while she watched a sparrow splash in the fountain, then shake its feathers and fly away.

Why don’t you just listen to your heart?

And what did her heart tell her?

To take action. Not to sit around. To do something.

What?

The answer came to her easily, and quite loudly.

Cookies.

Smiling, she quickly gathered up her things, then headed for the kitchen.

“For God’s sake, Shane, when the hell are you gonna learn how to cook?”

Shane turned the large firehouse oven to 425©, then tossed a box of frozen pepperoni pizza to Matt. “I am cooking,” he said, and grabbed another box. “And at least it’s recognizable. We’ve still got bets going whether that meat you served last week was beef or chicken.”

“Very funny.” Offended, Matt ripped open the box of pizza. “You know damn well it was fish.”

“Fish? Damn, I just lost five bucks.”

“That recipe dates back to my great-grandmother,” Matt said with a scowl. “She prepared that dish every spring to ensure a bountiful harvest.”

“Well, see, that’s where I think you’ve got it wrong,” Shane said cheerfully. “You weren’t supposed to eat it, you were supposed to bury it.”