Читать книгу A Man She Couldn't Forget - Kathryn Shay - Страница 10

“THIS IS SILLY. I CAN’T EVEN go into my own kitchen?” Clare stood at the threshold of her bedroom, staring out at the hallway that led to the rest of the condo. After leaving Delia’s, she and Brady had taken a walk, come back to the house, sat in the backyard and had lunch delivered. Then she’d come up to rest. Clare had fallen asleep just before Brady went to work in his home office. And now, at 4:00 p.m., she was restless. She sensed she wasn’t used to inactivity. Hadn’t she found sneakers and tennis shoes, along with a racket, in her closet? It was time she broached her own kitchen. She wanted to see her cookbooks. Get a glimpse of her old life.

Should she wait for Brady? He’d asked her to. Again she glanced at the hallway. Hell, she was thirty-six years old. She could go anywhere in her house if she wanted to. Besides, she had to start making her own decisions again. She knew in her heart it wasn’t her style to let someone else do it for her.

Still, it was with tentative steps that she walked down the hall, through the living and dining rooms. When she reached the archway of the kitchen, she stopped and surveyed the area. Immediately a sense of well-being flooded her. This was Clare’s space. She could feel it in her bones, her hands, even her breath. No longer afraid, she walked to the center island and smiled as she ran her hand over the granite countertop.

It was new, she realized. She’d remodeled in here, though she couldn’t recall what the old kitchen was like. She took in the triple-bowled sink in the island, the built-in soap dispenser, Sub Zero refrigerator and two ovens.

There was a second smaller fridge under the counter. Pulling it open revealed a cold wine storage filled with several bottles.

We’ll have the Romanée-Conti tonight, Clare. Brady had drawn out the several-hundred-dollar bottle. Publishing your first cookbook is a big deal.

Emboldened, she looked around for the books themselves. She caught sight of a display on a set of oak shelves on the far wall. When she got up close, she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, good Lord, I don’t believe it.”

Face out were six cookbooks. All entitled In Clarissa’s Kitchen, Meals and Memories from Italy. Her picture, with long hair, was on the cover of each. The first showed her in a casual dress, her hair down around her shoulders. Volumes two and three sported a similar pose. In four, though, her outfit was more sophisticated, and her hair was pulled back in a knot. Gracing the covers of the last two volumes were photos in different expensive outfits and more conservative hairdos.

What was that? Next to each of the cookbooks was a glossy version. Picking one up, she was hit with a flash of memory.

We got a coffee-table book contract, Clare. The publisher wants to do versions for display.

Whose voice was that? Jonathan’s? No, she was sure it wasn’t. Who then? Was someone she worked with totally missing in her life now?

Feeling as if she were about to step off a cliff, she opened the cover. On the inside flap was A Note from Clarissa.

Welcome to my world of cooking. On the pages that follow, though, you’ll find much more. Accompanying the recipes are anecdotes from my childhood right through to today, letters to people who inspired me, and much more, all associated with my life and food. Mostly, they’re a tribute to my grandma, Clarissa Boneli, who raised me. I hope you enjoy these great recipes and uplifting stories. Mangia!

Suddenly she realized she held a journal of sorts of her life. She swallowed hard and her hand tightened on the book. Should she read it? Would it be too much? She began to tremble—in anticipation or dread?

The decision was taken from her by a knock on the door Brady had asked her to leave ajar. He appeared in the archway. Still wearing the shorts and T-shirt he’d walked in, he looked concerned. “You’re awake.” He raised dark brows. “And came out here by yourself? I thought we agreed at lunch that you’d wait for me.”

“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?”

“Sometimes. Especially in cases of permanent amnesia. There’s a movie called Regarding Henry where Harrison Ford gets shot and turns into a totally different person than he was before the incident. He never regains his memory, though, and he retains the new personality.”

“So I could just stay the person I am now?”

“Maybe. But keep in mind, you won’t do anything with amnesia that you wouldn’t normally do. That often comforts people who are afraid they’ll do negative things. But in your case, who you are now is the real Clare, too.”

She frowned. “But I could turn back into who I was right before the accident?”

“Perhaps. We’ve discussed how nebulous this malady is. But here’s another way to look at it. You can make any changes in your life that you want. You’re in control of that with or without your memory.”

Clare stared at Anna. “I wonder if I’ll still want to be close to them when my memory returns.” The thought made her incredibly sad.

“Take one day at a time.” Anna held her gaze. “What about Brady? He was at the hospital every day, too. And you seemed to gravitate toward him. Is there any tension between you two?”

“No. Just warmth. A lot of it. And security. I feel safe with him.” She crooked a shoulder. “Safer than with Jonathan.”

“You and Brady were close for a longer period of time.”

“Maybe. It feels like more than that, though.”

Anna leaned forward. “Go with your gut, Clare. Act on the instinct that remembers things for you. A good deal of research into what’s known as cellular memory shows our cells store memories. I support that theory. Have you seen those movies about body-part transplants, where the recipient acquires the memories and experiences of the donor and often gets flashes of that person’s life? You could and probably do have residual memories of everything that’s happened to you built right into your cell structure.”

“That’s something to consider.”

“Anything else about Jonathan or Brady?”

“One thing. Obviously, Jonathan and I were close—physically. How could I forget being intimate with a man, Anna?”

“There have been documented cases of people forgetting a spouse and even a child, Clare.” Anna frowned. “He’s not asking for intimacy, is he?”

“No, not yet. No, he wouldn’t do something like that. He’s been selfless in this whole thing.”

“Then bide your time and see how you feel about it all. You’ve only been home a few days.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Now let’s talk about your dreams. Though I’m not into symbol hunting, they’re a crucial part of amnesia and should be discussed.”

A chill ran through Clare, and she rubbed her arms as she recalled Monday night’s dream. “I’m still having nightmares.”

“Most amnesiacs do.”

“I can’t remember them all, but Monday’s stays with me. Brady and Jonathan were snakes. One bit me, and one curled around my wrists.”

“Hmm. Who did what?”

Clare told her. “Do you think it’s significant?”

“As I explained right after you woke up, dreams are a person’s unconscious asserting itself, even if that person doesn’t have amnesia. I’d like you to write down the dreams you do remember. In as much detail as possible.”

Clare nodded.

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?”

“Yes. I’m going stir-crazy.”

“You’ve only been home two days.”

“I was in the hospital two weeks. I need to do more than I’m doing.”

Anna smiled. “Then do it.”

“I’ve been walking, but I found tennis stuff in the closet. Am I ready to play?”

“If you think you are.”

“And I’d like to drive again.”

The therapist looked thoughtful. “Can you do that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried.”

“How did you get here?”

“Brady. He’s been a doll about all this. He’s waiting outside.”

Anna watched her. “Your whole face lights up when you talk about him.”

“Does it? How odd, when I’m…involved with Jonathan.”

“Something to think about. Be careful with the driving. You don’t have procedural amnesia. You seem to know how to do things. But test-drive with someone in the car for a while. Don’t go alone for a week or so. Especially with the headaches.”

“All right.” Clare shook her head. “It’s all so frustrating.”

“I’ll bet. But your memory is starting to come back. You’re making terrific progress.”

It didn’t feel that way. And Clare worried about things. “Anna, do you think some traumatic event caused my amnesia?”

“You had severe head trauma. But your last tests indicated there’s no brain swelling now, and no apparent damage. However, why you were out at 2:00 a.m. on that road and what led up to it is missing from your mind, and that is significant. So, to answer your question, I believe it very well could be psychological.”

“I almost don’t want to remember.”

“Clare, if your amnesia is psychological, you don’t want to remember. But you most likely will. And you should prepare yourself for that.”

They made an appointment for the following week, Anna wished her well and Clare went to find Brady. She was unnerved by her talk with the counselor and needed to see him to calm down. That he could do that for her was another mystery.

He was waiting outside the office, though she’d told him to go get coffee or something to eat. He stood when he saw her. The worry on his face made her give him a smile.

“Hey, how’d it go?”

“Fine.”

“You’re lying. I can see it in your expression.”

“It’s hard, articulating all my fears.”

“Man, I bet it is.” He slid an arm around her and leaned in close. “You know, you can talk to me about those fears. We used to stay up late and share everything we were afraid of in life. Takes the sting out of them.”

“It sounds like we spent a lot of time together.”

“We did. After I moved in, Don was still alive and Max was working for a commercial airline, so he wasn’t home much. In some ways it was just you and me, babe.”

And that had changed. Poor Brady. She wondered if she could ever make it up to him.

SEATED ACROSS THE TABLE from his longtime friend, Mitch Anderson, Jonathan felt better than he had earlier when he couldn’t reach Clarissa. He and Mitch had gone to boarding school together and seen each other through a lot of scrapes. Sometimes Jonathan missed the boy he used to be—more carefree, more spontaneous. He definitely missed Mitch, who’d met him here at the restaurant in the Hyatt hotel where Jonathan was staying in Chicago.

“So, how’d the Chef’s Delight thing go? Their stocks are sky-high.” Mitch was an investment broker and followed the market daily. Jonathan used to take more of an interest in stocks than he did now. Of course, lately, he’d had a lot on his mind.

He told Mitch, “Clarissa’s going to be getting some of those options.”

“Really? Wow.” Mitch lazed back in the chair and sipped the merlot they’d ordered. “You struck quite a deal, then.”

“Well, I had to fly out our lawyers.” That had kept him here an extra day. “But they hammered out a lucrative contract for both the station and Clarissa herself.”

“No offense, but…for a local show?”

“They recognize, as do I, that she’ll syndicate soon.” He told his friend of his plans for the Cooking Channel.

Mitch raised his glass. “Congratulations. You’ve brought her into the limelight and now, so to speak, her star is shining.”

“I hope she doesn’t leave me in the dust.”

Mitch burst out laughing. He had a big belly laugh that contrasted with his polished good looks. “You can’t mean that. Rockford’s Most Eligible Bachelor?”

The designation a local magazine had given Jonathan had embarrassed him, though originally it had brought him plenty of dates. But once he met Clarissa, that part of his life was over. “I’m in love, Mitch. I don’t want anyone else.”

Immediately Mitch sobered. “I didn’t realize things between you and Clarissa were that serious. Since your divorce, I haven’t heard you talk like this.”

Jonathan had been married for six years to a nice woman he’d met at his country club. His parents hadn’t been happy when they’d divorced, but Marilyn and he both knew there was no spark there. Thankfully, they’d parted friends.

The feelings he’d had for his ex were nothing close to what he felt for Clarissa. He sighed, thinking of the forced celibacy her illness had brought about. He missed her body as much as her mind.

“Jonathan, you’re scowling. Do you have reason to think Clarissa is going to leave you?”

Filling Mitch in on the whole sad story of Clarissa’s amnesia made Jonathan feel even worse.

“Why didn’t you say something before this? You only see those things on TV. I don’t know that I’ve ever been privy to a real-life case. It’s a remarkable story.”

“It’s a nightmare. She loved me, I know she did, and now she doesn’t even remember me. Nothing.”

Mitch set his wine down and leaned forward. “Does she have any memories of anybody?”

“She didn’t in the hospital, but who knows now? She lives in a condo in this old Victorian house. The other three people who own there were her close friends until I came along.”

“And?”

“She grew apart from them. Was on the verge of moving out and in with me. Then she had the accident.”

“What caused it?”

He shrugged. He’d never lied outright to Mitch, but now he’d skirt the truth somewhat. “Nobody really knows. She left her condo and went out into the rainy night, cracked up her car.”

The waitress came and took their orders. After she left, Jonathan said, “Let’s table this conversation. It’s depressing to think about her accident.”

“Whatever you want.”

“So tell me about those two kids of yours.” It seemed impossible, but at only forty Mitch had two teenagers.

“They’re making me crazy. Wait until you have your own. I’m teaching Nicky to drive. Talk about nightmares.”

The rest of the evening was pleasant, and when he went back to his room, Jonathan was thinking about having his own kids, teaching them to drive, proudly showing pictures as Mitch had. He sat on the divan, took out his cell and punched in Clarissa’s number.

She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello.”

His mood lightened at the sound of her voice. “Hi, honey. It’s me.”

No response.

Damn it, didn’t she even recognize his voice? “Jonathan.”

“Yes, hi. How’s Chicago?”

“I’ve had a successful trip. But I miss you.”

Please say you miss me, too.

“Successful?”

“We got the contract.”

“Is that good?”

“Very. I’ll explain the details when I get back.”

“When will that be?”

“Friday night. I’ve made reservations at your favorite restaurant.”

A long hesitation. “Oh, good.” He heard another sound.

“Was that a yawn? Are you getting enough sleep?”

“Uh-huh. I’m in bed right now. I was watching TV.”

“Do you remember any shows?” He hadn’t thought of this side of amnesia—would she recognize songs, shows, films?

“A couple brought flashbacks.”

“Any of me? We used to watch Law and Order together.”

“Um, no, but I’ll make sure I catch an episode and see what happens.”

He tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. This wasn’t her fault, but he could curse fate for what had happened. “Honey, it’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

“I know.”

“Go to sleep.” He waited. “And dream of me.”

When she hung up, he stretched out on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. He’d meant it when he’d told Mitch that he had never loved anyone like he loved Clarissa. And it had been going so well. Still, he hadn’t lost yet.

As he lay there, he convinced himself that as soon as he got back to Rockford, she’d start remembering him. When that possibility began to worry him—there were definitely some things he didn’t want her to remember yet—he pushed them out of his mind.

All would be well as soon as they could spend some quality time together.

It would. It would!