Читать книгу Father Found - Muriel Jensen - Страница 11

All right, maybe they did have a good thing going.

Gusty examined that likelihood as she added chocolate chips and pecans to the smooth cookie batter. She and Bram had gone into town for plumbing supplies, and she’d picked up a few additional groceries before they headed home. She had game hens and a casserole dish of dressing baking in the oven, potatoes boiling on top of the stove, cauliflower steaming and ice cream in the freezer.

She wasn’t sure why she was making the cookies. She couldn’t recall having made them for him in the past, but she did have very recent memories of his consideration and his determination to keep her safe, of his taking her to old Dr. Grayson the first day they arrived in Paintbrush, and establishing her last-trimester care. At this point in time there was little she could do to pay him back but provide him with a favorite treat.

Her hands slowed in their work as she remembered the sexual sizzle that had taken place earlier when Bram had touched her abdomen. She’d felt something ignite inside her and had seen a small explosion in his eyes.

He’d walked around her into the kitchen easily enough, but he had to have felt as affected as she—and she didn’t even remember anything they’d shared.

He’d suggested they’d been eager lovers. With what she’d come to know of him—his kindness, despite his insistence on her compliance in matters of her safety—she found that notion both exciting and daunting. She must have had to fight constantly to protect her individuality. And yet she’d married him, so she must have accepted that and found a way to deal with it.

She shifted a little uncomfortably and put a hand to the small of her back as a twinge there reminded her that she’d stood too long.

Sounds of metal clanking on metal came from the bathroom as Bram worked on the plumbing. The iffy nature of the shower had been the cabin’s only inconvenience. The water trickled weakly rather than sprayed, and she’d grumbled about it that morning, telling him she longed for a good solid spray against her aching back.

She was touched that he seemed anxious to grant her the wish.

She put more chocolate chips in the batter and, with one hand rubbing her back, folded them in with the other.

Gusty was placing the first pan in the oven when a male voice behind her said in pleased wonderment, “I thought I smelled cookies!”

She turned to find Bram behind her, a wrench in one grubby hand and a rag in the other.

“I’d give you a bite,” she said apologetically, “but they’re too hot.”

“How about a bite of batter?” he asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “Raw eggs can carry salmonella.” She took a few chocolate chips in the tips of her fingers. “Will this do?”

He shrugged. “Better than nothing.” He held his dirty hands away from her as she popped the chips into his mouth.

“How’s the shower coming?” she asked, offering him a sip of her coffee.

“Mmm. Thanks. I’m just about finished. It was mostly lime buildup. I soaked the head in cleaner and I’m about to reconnect it. If it works, you can have a shower after dinner.”

“That sounds wonderful. And the cookies will be cooled by the time you’re finished. If it won’t spoil your dinner.”

“Cookies never spoil anything,” he said over his shoulder as he returned to his task.

He had second helpings of everything at dinner, and while she enjoyed her meal also, she knew she’d probably pay for the pleasure with heartburn during the night.

“It seems you married me for my cooking,” she observed, sipping at a glass of milk while he carried their plates to the sink.

“That,” he said, “and because you were on my mind constantly.”

She wondered about that. “Is that the same as love?”

He scraped the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. Coming back to the table for bowls of leftover dressing and potatoes, he gave her a quizzical look. “I thought so. I’m usually very focused and on track. Until I met you and you consumed my life.”

She had to ask. “Has that been good or bad for you?”

He grinned and headed for the counter with his burden. “Mostly good,” he said.

She laughed lightly. “Mostly?”

She reached for the cauliflower and the rolls, intending to help clear, but his hand came down on her shoulder to hold her in her chair.

“I said I’d clean up.” He took the vegetable and rolls from her, then started to cover everything and put it in the refrigerator.

“Mostly,” he went on as he worked, “because I used to be focused and on track,” he repeated wryly, “and since you came along, I’ve had to adjust to having my attention split between my work and my life.”

“And your life didn’t come first when you were a CIA agent?”

Everything put away, he took the ice cream from the freezer and brought down two bowls. “No.” He answered matter-of-factly, as though he’d accepted it and didn’t particularly regret that now. “Everything about you is secondary to the work. But I was young then and it didn’t matter. The men I worked with became my family.”

“You told me you’d already quit the CIA when we met.”

“Yes.”

He scooped ice cream into the bowls, put the carton away, then brought them to the table, going back for the plate of cookies she’d prepared.

“Then you didn’t quit on my account and don’t resent me for that?”

He raised an eyebrow as he took his chair again. “No. Why?”

“Because,” she said for the second time, “something isn’t right between us.” When he rolled his eyes impatiently, she raised a silencing hand. “I know, I know. You told me it was because I can’t remember, that we’re usually very physical and this celibacy is unnatural. But I think it’s something else.”

SHE PROPPED HER ELBOW on the table and studied him with the disturbing concentration of the innocent. He tried to look back at her with the same innocence.

But he had a feeling she wasn’t buying it.

“How can you be so sure,” he asked, pushing the cookie plate her way, “when you can’t even remember us?”

“It’s something I feel now,” she said, choosing a cookie and taking a dainty bite out of it. She chewed and swallowed. “I feel as though it’s me. There’s something about me that you’re upset with, or displeased with. Did I do something awful?” She studied the cookie in her hand then looked up at him again, her expression reluctant. “Did I have an affair, or something?”

Even a hesitation before he answered the question would have given him a break, but he couldn’t do that to her. “No, you haven’t had an affair. You’ve been a wonderful wife.”

She looked somewhat relieved, though not entirely convinced that there wasn’t a problem between them. “You’re not just saying that because I can’t remember anything?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m saying it because it’s true. We have a good, strong marriage. We’re in love.”

“Okay,” she said finally, then finished off her cookie. “You told me you have one sister.”

He nodded. “Lisa. She’s in Kansas where her husband’s a doctor.”

“Is she older than you?”

“Younger by a year and a half. I have three little nieces.”

She spooned ice cream into her mouth. He took advantage of her distraction to eat some of his own before her interrogation began again. She seemed to be marshaling every detail from their conversations over the past three weeks in a new attempt to force the data to help her remember what had gone before. He managed two bites before she continued.

“And your parents are gone?”

“My father died in jail,” he replied briefly, trying not to sound bitter or flip. But it was difficult. He was bitter about them, and he always sounded flip when he tried to pretend that it didn’t matter. “My mother was an alcoholic and finally died of liver failure about ten years ago.”

She looked stunned. He hated that. Then her eyes filled and he was torn between being touched by her sympathy, when she didn’t even remember him, and annoyed with himself for upsetting her.

He reached across the table to catch her hand. “It’s all right. Lisa and I adjusted to it long ago. She got married at sixteen, but to a great guy and they managed to make it work. He got a scholarship, she got a job and they both worked day and night until he finally graduated from medical school. He joined a clinic, and then they had their family.”

“And you joined the army after she got married?”

“I was a cop first, then joined the army.”

She smiled at that, then frowned again, squeezing his hand. “I’m sorry about your parents. I can’t remember mine, but I don’t think I went through anything that awful. You said that I told you they’ve been gone for some time.”

He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “That’s right. You liked your father, but didn’t get along well with your mother. She was sort of a prima donna, I gather.”

She frowned over that and drew her hand back. It occurred to him for the first time that since she had no memories of them, knowing they were gone closed a door she’d never have a chance to reopen.

She drew a deep breath, clearly regretful. “I don’t remember anything about them, and it makes me feel a little like an orphan.”

He felt a desperate need to cheer her up. “You still have your sisters.”

She straightened in her chair, suddenly smiling. “Yes. I’m a triplet. That’s different, isn’t it? In the photos on my bedside table in Pansy Junction, they look like two clones of me, yet I don’t remember them. Where are they again?”

“Athena lives in D.C.,” he replied. “She’s a lawyer. And Alexis, the artist, lives in Rome.”

She turned the names over on her tongue, saying them over and over, closing her eyes as though that could form an image in her mind. When she opened them again, her eyes were troubled, her bottom lip shaky. “I don’t remember them. Neither of them. And they’re probably wondering where I am.”

He hated to tell her the truth here, but he knew he had to. “I’m sure they are,” he answered. “You were all over the news when you were pulled out of the water and didn’t know who you were or where you’d come from.”

“That’s cruel, isn’t it?” she said urgently. “They don’t know that I’m safe.”

He nodded. “That was the choice we had to make to keep you safe. Any attempt to call either one could result in our being tracked.”

She settled down, apparently accepting that that made sense.

“I like knowing I have somebody.” The statement was plaintively made, as though she desperately needed someone—besides him.

It was interesting, he thought clinically, that no one had been able to hurt him since his mother’s ugly drunkenness when he’d come home from school, anxious to tell her about a success only to find her passed out on the sofa. No one, that was, until now.

He’d die without question or hesitation for Gusty and their baby, but she couldn’t remember their relationship, was certain there was something wrong with it, and that she needed something more than he could give her.

On some intelligent level, he knew it was foolish to be jealous of her sisters. He loved his own sister very much. They’d sustained each other through the worst times in their lives.

Gusty had turned him inside out over the past eight months, but her safety and the safe arrival of their baby into the world was all he dreamed of, was the reason he’d abandoned everything to hide away with her and keep her from harm.

It was selfish and egotistical, he knew, to want to be her everything, but knowing that and changing how he felt were two very different things.

“You ready for that shower?” he asked, pointing to her abandoned bowl of ice cream. “You can even turn the head now to adjust the spray.”

She ignored his question and nibbled on another cookie, looking more composed.

“Am I a good teacher?” she asked.

“There’s a Teacher of the Year plaque in your office at home. I pointed it out to you, remember?”

She frowned and gave one nod. “I do, sort of. But home was kind of overwhelming. All those things I’d hoped I’d remember when I saw them, and didn’t.”

“I think you’re good at everything you do,” he assured her. “You seem to know all about gardens and cooking.” He held up his cookie. “And you’re thoughtful. Always trying to help someone, or comfort someone.”

She frowned over that. “Am I wimpy?”

He laughed. “As the man who’s had to argue with you over just about everything, I can say no to that with authority.”

She pushed away from the table. “I guess I’ll clean up and have that shower.”

He went around the table to help her up. “I’ll clean up, you go ahead.”

SHE SHOULD HAVE ARGUED, but the prospect of a stream of hot water beating on her sore back was too delicious to delay. She went to her bedroom for the flannel nightgown Bram had bought her in town, then doffed her clothes in the bathroom.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she stepped into the shower stall and was a little startled by her size. It was one thing to see herself clothed, and quite another to see her naked, pregnant self.

She stepped into the shower stall, closed the door on the mirror, modulated the water temperature carefully to hot but not too hot, then turned the water on full force. She groaned at the instant relief provided when she turned her back to the spray.

She let it beat for long moments, then got serious about washing. With that accomplished she took the shampoo from the shower caddy and set about the major production of washing her hair. She scrubbed at her scalp, then brought her hair over her shoulder and, starting with the bottom few inches, slowly scrubbed her way up.

She rinsed slowly and carefully, combing her fingers through it to make sure she was rid of all the shampoo. After giving her body one more rinse, she turned off the water.

She put both hands to the sides of the shower as sudden dizziness overtook her. It was almost as though the thrumming of the water had kept her upright, and now that it had stopped, her own rhythms seemed at odds with the universe. She felt as though she might fall at any moment.

She waited for the moment to pass. When it didn’t, she forgot all reluctance to be seen naked and shouted for Bram at the top of her lungs.

She heard the bathroom door open in an instant, then the shower door was yanked open and he stood there, a dish towel over his shoulder, his face grim with worry.

“What?” he asked urgently, reaching in for her.

She leaned heavily against him, her head still spinning. “Dizzy,” she said.

He pushed the bathroom door all the way open, yanked a bath towel off the rack and wrapped it around her. “Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“You didn’t fall?”

“No. But I was…afraid I would. That’s why I called you.” Leaning against him was a little like lying on a firm mattress. There was solid support against her weary body, and a sense of security that made her want to close her eyes and go to sleep.

“It’s like a sauna in here,” he said, rubbing her back through the towel to dry it. “You might have just gotten a little carried away now that the shower-head works. The heat built up in this little room and made you feel faint.”

“The shower,” she said slowly, enjoying the massage, “felt sooo good. My back was hurting.”

“Let’s get you dried off, and I’ll call the doctor.” Holding her with one arm, he reached for her robe with the other and put it on her shoulders. Perfunctorily he dried her breasts and belly with the wadded towel.

She didn’t know whether to admire or be offended by his clinical detachment when she was suddenly very much aware that she was large and grossly unattractive.

She drew a deep breath of the cool air coming in from outside the room and felt suddenly better. “I don’t think that’s necessary. You were probably right about…” She hesitated, the breath stuck in her throat as he swiped the towel down her thighs.

“About…the heat in here,” she finished haltingly as he tossed the towel aside and drew her robe together.

As he did so, the baby delivered a strong kick to her abdomen that Bram must have felt against the inside of his arm. He reached inside her robe to flatten his hand against the beach ball of her belly.

She drew in a small breath, aware of every fingertip in touch with her skin, of his intensity as he leaned slightly over her in concentration.

As though recognizing the touch, the baby delivered several more staccato kicks right against the palm of his hand.

“Wow,” he said simply, quietly.

His excitement surprised her. “Haven’t you felt the baby before?” she asked.

He ignored her a moment, apparently distracted as the baby kicked again. He straightened and helped her out into the living room and onto the sofa.

“It never fails to amaze me,” he said, putting a pillow under her head and lifting her feet onto the cushions. “I’ve watched you grow with the pregnancy, but to actually feel life in there boggles my mind. Still dizzy?”

He covered her with a blanket from his bed, then sat on the edge of the sofa and put a hand to her face.

“No,” she said with a sigh. “I’m much better. A little drowsy, maybe. I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

“I noticed.” He disappeared for a moment, then returned with two towels. He placed one under her hair on the pillow, and the other he used to begin to dry it. “I can hear the springs in your bed at night, your trips to the bathroom or the kitchen. You’re very restless.”

She smiled wryly. “It’s tough to carry around all this weight and not know who you are.”

“You’re my wife,” he said, rubbing at her hair, “and the baby’s mother. Try to hold on to that until your memory comes back.”

“You told me we don’t know if the baby’s a boy or girl.”

“Right. We didn’t want to know.”

“What are we hoping for?”

He cast her a smiling glance as he continued to rub. “One or the other. We’re not particular.”

“Did we want a baby this soon?”

“It was a surprise,” he replied, “but we’re very happy about it.”

“I feel happy about it.” She patted her stomach. A little kick patted her in return. “I just feel sorry that I can’t remember learning that I was pregnant, that I can’t remember telling you, that I can’t remember being excited and shopping for things and…”

“You told me,” he said with a laugh, “by putting booties in my shoes.” When she looked puzzled, he explained. “I came out of the shower one morning, got dressed and sat on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes and found an obstruction in one of them. It was a yellow bootie trimmed with yellow ribbon. I’m a little thick,” he said with a self-deprecating roll of his eyes. “It wasn’t until I discovered another bootie in my second shoe that I realized what you were telling me.”

“What did we do then?” she whispered, desperately wishing she had that memory.

“We held each other and laughed and cried and I picked you up at school that night and took you out to dinner. We bought a baby names book on the way.”

“Have we chosen names?” She struggled to sit up, the weariness falling away.

He helped her and propped a few pillows behind her. “Ah, no. I think you jotted down a few names in the book, but we couldn’t come up with anything brilliant and you thought inspiration might strike when you got closer to delivery. But, nothing so far. You’re sure you’re all right?”

She nodded, then yawned. “I should get up and dry my hair.”

“Stay there, and I’ll brush it dry for you.” He stood to leave and she caught his wrist.

She felt his energy surge through her fingers. “It’ll take forever,” she said, both touched and alarmed that he’d offer to do that for her. How could she not remember a man who was so devoted to her, whose touch made her feel as though she swung from high-voltage wires?

Or was she right about this unsettling suspicion that all wasn’t right between them, and this was intended to convince her that everything was fine, either to speed her recovery or for purposes of his own?

Their gazes locked for an instant. She saw only attentive kindness in his—then the sudden awareness there that she was uncertain about him. She caught a glimpse of his disappointment before he went into her bedroom and returned with a brush.

“I’ve watched you do this a hundred times,” he said. “It’s a brush designed to be easy on wet hair. Close your eyes and think about baby names, and I’ll brush.”

HE WAS SURPRISED when she complied. He knew she didn’t entirely believe him, and he didn’t know how to reassure her convincingly. Maybe it was the hormonal riot caused by the pregnancy.

He ran the brush from her scalp, through the fiery length of hair that fell past her shoulder blades when she was standing. It shimmered in the firelight like the darkest part of the flame.

“What about Bailey for a girl?” she asked, her voice quiet.

He made a negative sound. “I hate those last-name first-names.”

“Something more ordinary? Like Margaret or Alice?”

“I like Margaret.” He remembered a caseworker from some point in his childhood whose name had been Margaret. She’d been middle-aged and a little frumpy, and very kind. “You had talked about using your sisters’ names. But you were afraid it might cause too much confusion in the family to have two people with the same name—particularly if a girl turned out looking just like the three of you.”

“Alexis and Athena,” she thought aloud.

“If we combined them, what would that give us?” she speculated while he brushed. “Athexis?” She laughed.

Her amusement made him smile. She’d had so little to be amused about. “Alena?” he asked. “Lexena?”

“Alena,” she repeated thoughtfully. “That’s not bad, is it?”

“No, I kind of like that. What if we have a boy?”

She sighed. “A boy. Well, we’d have to name him after you, wouldn’t we? Bram…” She stopped, then asked, “What’s your middle name?”

“Bramston is my middle name.” He combed his fingers through her hair to test if he was making progress. Her hair was drying but still damp. “First name, John.”

“John Bramston Bishop Jr., if it’s a boy?”

“No, I think that causes confusion, too. I think he should have a name that’s all his own.”

“Okay. Is there anyone you admire that you’d like to name him after?”

“I have a couple of friends who are very important to me. David Hartford and Trevyn McGinty.”

“Your CIA friends?”

“Yes.”

“David Trevyn Bishop,” she said. “Trevyn David Bishop. Sounds pretty good either way. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Then, let’s nail that one down if it’s a boy. Maybe with the Trevyn first.”

“Works for me. And Alena for a girl? What about a middle name?”

“Alena Marie? Alena Elizabeth? Alena Theresa?” She tried several more combinations that failed to inspire her until she said, “Alena Leanne. Alena…Leanne. Leanne.”

“I take it you like that one?” he asked, drawing the brush along the underside of her hair. It was drying now and growing lighter, the copper highlights against the dark red magnificent.

“Bram!” she exclaimed, snapping him out of his sensual study. She reached a hand back to him. “Help me sit up!”

He moved around her to support her to a sitting position. “Dizzy again?” he asked anxiously. “Pain?”

“No.” She held on to his arm and pulled him down beside her, her eyes focused on something he couldn’t see. “Leanne.”

“What about Leanne?” She was making him nervous. He rubbed her back gently.

“I think…I know one. In my classroom.” She turned to him suddenly, her eyes brightening, a wide smile forming. “I have one in my classroom!”

Oh God. She was remembering. He tried not to panic. “Leanne who?”

She closed her eyes tightly, the smile becoming a frown. “I don’t know. I can’t get that part. I can just see…ooh!”

“What do you see?”

“Just…” She fluttered her fingers around herself. “Lots of blond hair. But no face. She always has her hand up. Leanne. Bram! I remembered something!”

She threw her arms around him, laughing and crying simultaneously. “I remembered something!”

“That’s wonderful.” From somewhere he found the enthusiasm to force into his voice. “It’ll all come back in no time.”

She drew away from him, a frown replacing the smile. “But that’s so little. No face, no last name, just hair and a hand raised in the air.”

He rubbed her shoulder gently. “It is just a little, but if you don’t try to force it, it’ll come when you’re ready.”

She made a face at him. “I’m ready now.”

That was so her. “Your heart is, but your mind apparently isn’t. Let it take the time it needs.”

She slumped unhappily, absently patting the baby as though certain it must share her disappointment. If he hadn’t loved her before, that gesture would have done it for him.

“Am I usually patient?” she asked

“Yes,” he replied. “You teach little children. You have boundless patience.”

“Am I patient with you?”

“You don’t have to be. I’m the perfect husband.” He said it with a straight face.

He thought it might bring a smile to her troubled expression, but it brought a deeper seriousness instead. She studied him closely and he could almost hear her trying to remember something…anything.

“Are you patient with me?” she asked finally.

“Yes. I’m the perfect husband.” He couldn’t deliver that line twice without cracking a smile.

He was relieved when it finally made her smile.

“Okay, you are very patient with me, though we’re basically very different. And I try—”

“How are we different?” she interrupted.

He had to be grateful for at least one question that was easy to answer. “I had a childhood that forced me to grow up with few illusions,” he said. “And then I was a cop, then a soldier and then a spy. I saw the underside and the back of a lot of things that don’t even look good from the front. I’m cynical and hard-nosed with a real preference for things done my way.”

She looked genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t gotten that impression at all. Except for the things-done-your-way part.” She added the last with a grin.

“I’ve been on my best behavior.” That was true. If she caught a glimpse of the real Bram Bishop, it might trigger the return of her memory sooner rather than later and he’d be dead in the water. “You, however, are gentle and kind, trusting, optimistic, a Pollyanna for the new millennium.”

She winced. “It’s generous of you to exaggerate my good qualities. I’m sure I have some bad habits.”

He shrugged. “You love to argue with me.”

That seemed to deepen her amusement. “Maybe that’s a good quality, too. Maybe it’s a way to defend myself against your need to control. Even if I love you, maybe I don’t want to be taken over by you.”

“I don’t want to take you over,” he insisted. “I just want to keep you safe and happy.”

“Maybe what you want for me isn’t the same thing I want for myself.”

She knew that was it. She saw it in his face, though he averted it instantly to retrieve the afghan that had fallen to the floor when she’d sat up. They were at odds somehow, in some way he didn’t seem to want to explain at this point in time.

She wished she knew what it was.

“All I want for you,” he said gently, pushing her back to the pillow and covering her again, “is for you to stay safe and deliver a healthy baby while remaining healthy yourself.”

“And what do you want for you?” she asked.

He patted her cheek and then her tummy. “I’ve got it right here. Rest while I finish the dishes.”

With his touch lingering on her, she closed her eyes, trying to remember what the obstacle was between them.

Whatever it was, she’d be willing to bet that it was a problem he had with her and not the other way around. She couldn’t remember their past together, but she was falling in love all over again.