Читать книгу Memories of Megan - Rita Herron - Страница 10

“Your husband is dead, Mrs. Wells.” Detective Larson sat down in the armchair across from Megan, his expression grave. “His body washed up on the shore a few hours ago.”

Megan clutched her abdomen, the horror of finally hearing her fears confirmed seeping through her body like a slow-spreading virus. It had been six agonizing weeks since Tom had disappeared. Six weeks of not knowing.

Nausea rose to Megan’s throat at the images that speared her. She dropped her head forward into her hands and tried to breathe.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Megan nodded, too numb to do anything else, while the detective hurried to the kitchen.

Behind her, Megan heard the officer opening cabinet doors, turning on the faucet, but the sounds barely registered. Seconds later, he returned and handed her the glass. Megan sipped slowly, grateful for the wetness soothing her parched throat. “Do you know what happened to him?”

The cop’s muddy complexion paled as if he, too, had seen the grisly images that had come unbidden to Megan’s mind. Had he been there when they’d dragged her husband from the sea and actually seen Tom’s body? The ice clinked in the glass as Megan’s hands shook. She didn’t want to know the details.

“Most likely drowned, but the coroner’s doing an autopsy.” Detective Larson shrugged. “I’m not sure how much he’ll be able to determine…”

He let the sentence trail off and Megan clenched the glass of water as if it were a life jacket and she was being dragged into the undertow herself.

“You said he liked to fish sometimes, to take his mind off his work. My first guess would be that he was out late, and didn’t realize how far he’d drifted off shore, got caught in the tides and fell overboard.”

Megan’s gaze swung to his. “But Tom was an excellent swimmer.”

“You know how difficult it is to fight an undercurrent, even for the best of swimmers. A bad thunderstorm came through that night, too.”

She nodded, silently admitting Tom had been drinking a lot those last few weeks, and had been a daredevil when it came to the weather. He’d been drinking and secretive. And tired. And disturbed about something. Only he wouldn’t talk to her.

She’d known he was unhappy. Had worried he’d stopped loving her, that he’d planned to ask for a divorce, but hadn’t gotten up the nerve. They had finally separated, but she’d hoped they could work out their differences.

Now she would never know.

But she couldn’t bring herself to ask the questions that had haunted her for the past six weeks.

The detective shuffled, his breathing noisy. “We’ll let you know as soon as the body is released so you can make plans for the burial.”

Oh, God, there would be so much to do. Nausea gripped her stomach again. She’d have to make funeral arrangements. Tell his parents. The people at the research foundation.

Tom had been so young. Barely thirty-one. They’d only been married two years. They’d temporarily sublet this flat because they hadn’t decided for sure where they were going to live. They’d had so many plans when they’d married.

They’d picked out new furniture, not burial plots.

The cop gently patted her shoulder. “Well, let me know if I can do anything for you, Mrs. Wells I’ll let myself out.”

“Thank you.”

She hugged her arms around her middle until she heard the click of the door, and the police car drive away. Finally she forced herself to stand on unsteady legs. But her stomach convulsed and she rushed to the bathroom, sank to her knees and let the tears fall.

The pregnancy test she’d taken earlier mocked her from the sink.

It had been negative. Again. Tom had wanted a baby so badly. She’d felt like a failure when their attempts at conceiving had failed.

Now he would never have a child.

And she had nothing left of him but troubled memories.

And questions. Lots of unanswered questions.

“YOU SAID MY NAME WAS WHAT?” The man pivoted to study the doctor as he unwound the last of the bandages from his face. He was too afraid of what he might see when the last one fell away.

Dr. Crane peered over his silver spectacles, worry creasing his brow. “Cole Hunter. You’re a psychiatrist. You’ve just signed on at the Coastal Island Research Park on Catcall Island. You are—”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me. Thirty-five, single, a workaholic.” Frustration clawed at him. “So, why can’t I remember all this?”

“Because you suffered severe head trauma in the car accident. Your memory should return in bits and pieces. Hopefully you haven’t lost that scientific mind.”

The doctor chuckled at his own joke, but Cole remained stoic. Nothing about the past few weeks had been funny.

He strained for the memories again, for any snippet of his past life. Cole Hunter. A psychiatrist. Somehow during all those painful hours of lying in the hospital he hadn’t imagined himself being a doctor of any kind.

Of course, until a few days ago he’d been in too much pain to care about the past. He’d been struggling through every minute. The long hospital stay, the surgeries, the bandages. The fear of not waking up. The fear of being paralyzed. The fear of looking like a monster.

“Now, see what modern medicine can do.” Dr. Crane spun the stool around so Cole faced the mirror, placed his hands on Cole’s shoulders and directed him to look. “It may not be quite the same as your old face, but it’s not bad. There’s a little swelling and bruising, but it’ll fade.”

Cole stared at the stranger in the mirror, cold terror sweeping over him. Not only did he not remember his name, but he didn’t recognize the face staring back at him, either.

THREE DAYS AFTER MEGAN had received the news of her husband’s death, she stood huddled in her raincoat while they lowered his body into the cold damp ground. Nearly a hundred flower arrangements decorated the dried grass surrounding the grave, their vibrant colors at odds with the dismal day. The church had been packed with Tom’s family and their friends, with various scientists and other employees from the Coastal Island Research Park (CIRP). The preacher offered a few words of comfort, read some scripture, then ended the grave side service with a prayer. Tom’s mother dropped a rose onto the grave and broke into sobs, her husband pulling her into his arms. Megan’s heart clenched as the visitors began to disperse.

A breeze stirred the trees surrounding the cemetery, dead fall leaves scattering across the grass and flapping against tombstones, crunching beneath the soles of people’s shoes as they milled about, speaking in hushed tones. Connie, Tom’s secretary, cried into her hands.

Exhaustion pulled at Megan as the visitors offered condolences, but she forced herself to shake hands, occasionally sparing her best friend April a glance, silently thanking her for staying by her side, offering support.

Tom’s parents had been anything but supportive, their anger over their loss directed at her, as if by marrying Tom she had caused his death. Of course they never had been logical where she was concerned. She was a measly nurse at the research facility, had grown up on the wrong side of the social tracks and had never been good enough, beautiful enough or classy enough for their precious son.

But at least they’d handled most of the details of the funeral. They’d wanted to choose the casket, the flowers that would serve as the blanket cover and to oversee the myriad details, while all she’d wanted to do was curl up in a ball and grieve.

Connie suddenly stood in front of her, looking lost. “Meg—” Her voice broke.

Megan pulled her into her arms and tried to soothe her. “It’ll be okay, Connie.”

“But you and Tom have been so good to me. I don’t know what I would have done…what I’ll do.”

Tom had helped Connie get up the courage to leave her abusive husband. She was still fragile.

“Just know Tom would be proud of you for taking care of your son,” Megan said softly. “And he’d want you to be strong, to keep doing that.”

Connie pulled away, trying to compose herself, and nodded. “If you need me, Megan, I’m here.”

Megan thanked her, weariness settling in her bones as Connie turned and walked away. The long line of people wanting to speak to her stretched in front of her and she felt herself sway.

April grabbed her elbow. “Here, you’d better sit down.”

Megan nodded dumbly and sank into a metal folding chair, the sea of people blurring in front of her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the rain. She didn’t want to be here amidst this crowd of strangers. She wanted to be alone to mourn. Oh, God, there were so many things to mourn for.

The marriage that should have lasted forever.

The man who had died before she could make him happy.

The chance to make things right that was lost forever.

COLE HUNTER WATCHED the casket being lowered into the ground, a bitter chill engulfing him. Oddly, Tom Wells had turned up missing the same day Cole had had his own accident. It could have been his body being lowered into that hole just as easily as Wells.

And for a brief second when he’d seen the casket and the hole in the ground, he’d had a flash that it was him being lowered. That he was Tom Wells and he had died.

Warner Parnell, the doctor at the research center who’d been helping Cole with his recovery after the accident, frowned solemnly. “He was a good man. We’ll miss him at the center.”

“It…it seems strange that I survived, but he died on the same day.”

Parnell gave him a sympathetic look. “Don’t succumb to survivor guilt,” he said in a low voice. “As a doctor, you know that’s dangerous.”

Cole folded his hands. The harsh reality of the timing obviously hadn’t escaped him and had played with his head. He had felt guilty that luck had been on his side that day and he had survived. Granted he had a new face, his memory was shaky and his stride hindered by a slight limp, but hell, at least he was still able to walk.

He shuddered, wondering if he should have come. He hadn’t wanted to. In fact, he had the oddest feeling that he normally didn’t attend funerals, but he couldn’t remember why. He’d hoped seeing so many of the research center’s staff in one place might jog some memory cells.

“I didn’t know him very well, did I?”

Parnell shrugged. “No. You met only once. At the center when you came for the interview. I believe you corresponded through e-mail about your research, but I’m not certain.”

Shaking off the uneasy feeling, Cole stared across the smattering of faces, a few of them familiar from the three days he’d spent getting acquainted with the research center.

His gaze settled on Tom Wells’s wife. Megan.

A nurse in the psychiatric ward.

Another eerie sensation skittered across his nerve endings, a flash of some kind of memory tugging at him. He must have met her before, probably at the facility or at one of the dinners for the center when he was being interviewed. She wouldn’t be an easy woman to forget.

She had the face of an angel, the figure of a temptress and the lips of a lover.

But he had no right to even think such lurid thoughts, especially at a funeral.

From her grief-stricken face, she’d obviously cared for her husband deeply.

During those long, lonely days in the hospital, he had thought about his life, the fact that he had no one. No family who’d come looking for him. No woman who searched him out, sat by his bedside, vowed that she loved him.

Apparently he hadn’t made any friends in Oakland, either.

In a strange way, he envied Tom Wells.

He knew that was sick. The poor man was dead, for God’s sake, and here he stood, alive and breathing, feeling sorry for himself.

One by one, the visitors stopped to speak to Megan.

“I’m going to give her my condolences,” Parnell said.

Cole hesitated. Finally he took a deep breath and shuffled across the damp ground through the throng of people. Her gaze rose and met his across the crowd. Raindrops dotted her face, mingling with tears, the raincoat shielding her honey-colored hair and shapely body. But it was the shadows beneath her haunted blue eyes that made his gut clench.

An older man and woman Parnell had pointed out as Wells’s parents stopped beside her. Megan stiffened, clasping her hands tightly together. Cole moved into the shadows of the funeral home tent, close enough to hear.

“You will send us Tom’s things, won’t you?” the woman asked in a clipped voice.

“Yes, if you want them.”

“Of course we do.” Mrs. Wells flashed Megan a cold look. “He never should have come here, you know.”

Megan jutted her chin in the air. “I’m not going to argue with you at Tom’s funeral. I don’t think he’d want that, Kathleen.”

Mr. Wells pulled at his designer tie. “Let’s go, honey.” He threw a sorrowful glance over his shoulder at the grave. “There’s nothing more we can do.”

The couple strode off, huddled together. Hurt strained Megan’s features. A fleeting feeling that he’d lived that moment before struck Cole, then disappeared as quickly as it had hit him.

Without remembering how he reached her, Cole found himself standing in front of her, not knowing what to say, but extending his hand, wanting to take away the sting of the Wells’s attitude.

She slowly lifted her small hand and placed it inside his, the whisper of her soft skin brushing his callused fingertips. A small surge of awareness skated through him. Her lips parted slightly as if she, too, felt the odd connection between them.

A wave of images suddenly flashed through his head like a movie trailer. Images of Megan Wells looking at him with those haunted blue eyes. Images of her crying on his shoulder. Images of her raising on tiptoe to smother his mouth with kisses. Images of her lying naked in his arms and calling his name in the darkness of the night.

He snapped his hand back and felt himself grow weak. What in the hell had just happened? Those flashes seemed so real. But they couldn’t have been memories.

Could they?