A Man She Couldn’t Forget (10 page)

So he took the coward’s way out, as he had in the hospital when he realized she didn’t remember most of that night. “Of course I won’t leave you.” He smoothed down her hair and held her against his chest, wishing he could meld her to him. “Not unless you ask me to.”

Which, when her memory returned, she very well might do.

F
OR
C
LARE
,
IT HAD BEEN
an exhausting and disconcerting week. First, movie night had been a debacle. Torn between Brady and Jonathan, Clare felt as if she hadn’t done anything right. Then, Brady had confessed that he and Clare had had an argument the evening of her accident and he believed that had sent her out into the night. She accepted that they’d fought—she had vague recollections of his anger over her moving out—but she didn’t accept that the argument had caused her psychological amnesia. Tired of trying to figure it out, which brought on more severe headaches, she and Brady had decided to table the whole thing for now and let her memory return gradually, as the doctors had instructed. It still angered her that no one had told her about her plans to move out, but she had to let that go, too.

She’d also been trying to placate Jonathan all week. In the end, she’d agreed to tape a show. Though it was the last thing she wanted to be doing—she didn’t feel ready for such a big step—Jonathan had insisted she try it. After their disagreement on movie night, she felt compelled to make the gesture.

So they entered the studio together at 9:00 a.m.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said gently, leading her by the elbow. “You look lovely.”

She smoothed down the green silk she wore and smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’m terrified. I hope I can keep it from the audience that I don’t remember a thing about the set or the show.”

“You’ll do fine,” he reiterated. “And it’s a tape, so we can stop any time and edit later. Ready?”

“I guess so.”

After greeting the staff, who seemed very supportive, she went to the kitchen set and took her place behind the counter. When the music she remembered from watching the show with Brady began, her spirits lightened. She smiled out at the camera pretending she knew where she was and what she was doing.

“Welcome to
Clarissa’s Kitchen.
Today we’re going to make minestrone soup, one of my favorite dishes.” She’d chosen the meal from volume one because she felt safer with older memories. “Accompanying it, we’ll have Caesar salad, homemade bread and custard cannoli.” She pointed to the several bowls at her left that the prep cooks had done ahead of time. “Start by cleaning and cutting the vegetables.” The camera panned on the carrots, celery, escarole and green beans. “Escarole is my favorite choice for this soup, but people use cabbage, too.” She smiled engagingly at the camera. “But then it wouldn’t be Aunt Joan’s recipe.”

As she cooked, she talked about the soup and real memories flooded back to her. Clare simply knew many details: her cousins, Stacey, Eric and Katie, all near her age, sneaking raw carrots or a bean. Cathy was with them, too. Watching by the stove as Aunt Joan combined the garlic, onions and potatoes creating the mixture’s tart, tangy smell. When the five kids got bored, they went outside to play in the snow, but the pièce de résistance was tromping back in to have a bowl of the steaming soup set in front of them. Then Aunt Joan would grate Romano cheese from a block and finish off their lunch with warm Italian bread.

“Cut.” The director had come forward, startling Clare. “Clarissa, are you all right?”

“Huh?”

“You stopped after a few minutes and just stared at the frying pan.”

She raised her hands to her cheeks. “Oh dear, I’m sorry.”

Jonathan, who’d been hovering in the wings like a mother hen, approached. His expression was concerned, tinged with something else. Fear, maybe? “A memory?”

“Yeah, a good one. When I was little. It was about my aunt making the soup.”

“I’m glad,” he said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.

And for the first time, as she watched him, Clare suspected Jonathan didn’t want her memory to return.

She could only wonder why.

C
LARE LOOKED IN THE MIRROR
of her vanity and, even four weeks after the accident, still found a stranger, but one she was getting used to, one she was comfortable with. That person preferred wearing the cotton peach capris and matching sleeveless top with sandals she’d put on today more than the clothes she’d had to wear when they’d taped another episode of
Clarissa’s Kitchen.
This morning, she was dressed casually because she was going out with Brady.

“Hey, Clare, you ready?” As if her thoughts had conjured him, Brady’s voice sounded from the foyer. He’d been coming in without knocking again.

There had been other proof of their closeness, like this one, since his confession—a touch on her shoulder, a natural grasp of her hand. Obviously he was more at ease with her. Was it because he’d been carrying around so much guilt?

“In here,” she called out. It was intimate inviting him into her bedroom, but again the request seemed natural.

He strolled to the doorway. “Hi, there.” He kissed her cheek.

She liked it. A lot. Which was an issue, because the day she’d made him frittata hadn’t been the only time she’d been aroused by his nearness. Her physical reaction had increased with their easy affection. She’d begun to notice little things—how certain jeans gloved his butt, how a shirt she bought him brought out the blue of his eyes, how virile he seemed when he was sweaty and flushed from working out. This attraction to him had to be inappropriate, given her relationship with Jonathan, but how did a person control such an innate thing?

Leaning against the wall, Brady crossed his arms over a chest covered with a navy T-shirt with Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
on it. He wore it with khaki cargo shorts and sandals. “You look pretty in that outfit.”

“Thanks. I like the casual style better.”

“But you don’t need the makeup.”

She caught his gaze in the mirror as she held on to the mascara wand. Ludicrously she remembered Lucinda’s perfectly done up face. “I don’t?”

“Nah. You’re a natural beauty.” He ruffled her hair. “It’s longer.”

“I like it. Jonathan wanted to trim it for the show, but I said no.” Despite his comment, she swiped on some mascara and lipstick and stood. “I’m excited about today.”

“Thanks for thinking of this, Clare.” His voice was filled with husky gratitude. Briefly she wondered if that’s how it got after sex. “Mom is so excited. She gets lonely since Dad died, even though three of her kids are still in Rockford and visit all the time.”

“You miss him, don’t you?”

“Yeah. He was your typical firefighter—dry humor, kept to himself—but he took us boys to baseball games and never refused to chauffeur the girls to the mall.”

“He sounds like a terrific guy.”

“Anyway, Mom’s going to love working on this part of the book with us.”

She frowned. “I feel bad for not suggesting it before. How could I have never thought to do this?”

When they were in need of ten more recipes, and Clare had balked at using ones from her previous books, she’d had a brainstorm.

“L
ET’S HAVE A SECTION
for you.”

“For me? I don’t cook.”

“But your family does. Your mom in particular.”

“And?”

“We could call the last ten recipes The Langstons’ Kitchen. We can get recipes from your mom, along with any anecdotes you or she or your sisters remember about the food. And just think, you can sketch your own family.”

W
HEN
B
RADY HAD GOTTEN
moisture in his eyes at her suggestion, she’d felt even worse that she hadn’t thought of this before.

With his arm casually slung over her shoulders, they left the house. When they reached the garage, he asked, “Your car or mine?”

This week, she’d also begun driving her little Miata—which Brady had seen to getting fixed after the accident—and found she knew the mechanics. But being behind the wheel made her nervous because she was swamped by associations with the accident, and because she couldn’t remember the layout of all the streets. “No. You live out in the suburbs and it means expressway driving. I’m not sure I want to tackle that.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Clare, you remembered where I grew up. I haven’t told you anything about my house in the past month.”

“I did the same thing at the show taping. It seems like the memories are coming back fast.” She squeezed his arm. “Maybe I’ll remember more when I get to your house.”

She did. She recognized the big gray structure and had a quick flashback of going up to Brady’s old room and catching a glimpse of his life as a teenager—rock posters, sketches by Dalí and other artists, awards he won in school for his art. She also recalled the backyard, where she had pushed Samantha’s child in a swing and where a hammock that Brady favored was strung. And she remembered Lillian Langston as soon as she saw the still-young sixty-year-old waiting on the porch. Though Brady’s mother looked tired when they reached her, wonderful, positive emotions welled inside Clare at the sight of this woman.

“There she is.” Lillian stepped forward and took Clare in a warm embrace. “It’s been a long time, dear.”

Clare inhaled the scent of Brady’s mom…some kind of bath splash or lotion. “Oh!”

Lillian pulled back. “What, Clare?”

“Your lotion—you gave me some for Christmas one year.” She took in an excited breath. “I remember spending Christmas here when Cathy couldn’t come for the holidays.”

“You spent a few with us.” She peered at Clare with Brady’s eyes, a deep blue. “Good memories, I hope.”

“The best. Thank you for opening your home to me.”

“You enjoyed the fuss,” Lillian said, leading Clare inside. “All my children and their kids came home. I was afraid it would be too much for you.”

“I always wanted a big family.” She halted. “Oh, Lord. I did.” She turned to Brady, who’d followed them in. “Things are coming back so fast.”

His frown came quickly. “Is it too much?”

“No, just a bit startling.”

They went directly to the kitchen, where Lillian had her recipe box out and several cards spread across the table. “Can I get you something, dear?”

“No, thanks. I ate breakfast.”

“Honey?” Her gaze rested on her son with such love, such deep emotion, Clare’s heart did a little lurch. She had only vague recollections of her parents, and that made her feel bad.

“I’ll get some coffee. You sit with Clare.”

Lillian touched the box. “I hope it’s all right—I picked out some recipes. More than ten, so you can choose from them.”

Clare sat down and scanned the cards. “Brady, come over here. I want to know your favorites. Maybe ones with stories attached—though, Lillian, you might have anecdotes he doesn’t.”

Carrying his coffee mug, Brady crossed to stand behind Clare. This time,
his
scent surrounded her. She was hit by a powerful urge to lean back, take his arms and encircle her chest with them, kiss the bare skin on his arm, his knuckles.

Obviously unaware of her reaction, Brady chuckled as he looked at each card, nicely printed as if his mother had rewritten them. “Elephant ears? I was what, Mom, five when we made them?”

“Yes, and you cried when I first suggested them. You were scared we’d use real elephants.”

“Elephant-ear cookies it is,” Clare said, plucking out the card.

He also picked a homemade pudding and related the story of how his mother used to let him pudding paint—a sort of finger paint that you could eat and play with.

“I think I have a picture of Brady at three covered with chocolate.”

“Brady, you could draw that.”

“If I recall, I was in a diaper,” he said dryly.

“The readers will love it.”

They picked one more dessert, chocolate ice cream roll, and went on to main dishes. Brady had liked Spanish rice, fried chicken, baked ziti with cheese only and a specially spiced cider that he once poured over his head.

“I have a photo of that, too,” Lillian said, laughing.

“Why don’t you go get some of the pictures, Lillian? Brady can decide which might be easiest to base a drawing on.”

As she stood, Brady’s mother’s face was alight. “This is so much fun. Thanks for including me.”

She squeezed Lillian’s arm. “I’m glad. Let me say I’m sorry I didn’t think of using your recipes sooner.”

“It’s never too late, dear.” She started to move away but grabbed on to the edge of the table. “Oh.”

“Mom?”

“I’m a little short of breath.” Lillian waited. “It’s gone now.”

Brady’s face darkened with concern and he grasped her arm. “Has this happened before?”

“Only in the past couple of weeks. I talked to one of the doctors at the hospital. He said it could be anything and ran a few tests, but nothing showed up.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Brady’s tone was stern.

“Because you’d worry. Like you are now. But hush, because I’m having so much fun.”

When Lillian went to the living room, Brady dropped down into a chair next to Clare. Anxiety practically radiated from him. “I hate that. Any time she doesn’t feel well.”

“The love between you two is so palpable, Brady.”

His eyes were worried.

“If the symptom continues, you should follow up with her and her doctors.”

“Yeah.” He put his hand over hers. “She’s loving every minute of this.”

“So am I.”

“Embarrassing me is fun, woman?”

“I know you. You’ll get a kick out of drawing yourself when you were young. Put in some others—your mom, Samantha, Juliana, Sloan and Peter.”

“You remember my siblings’ names.”

“Oh, Lord. I do. Brady, how come? Why do I remember your family so well?”

Lifting his hand, he brushed his knuckles down her cheek. She leaned into the caress.

“Clare, love—”

A crash sounded from the living room, drawing them both out of the moment. Brady bolted up and Clare hurried behind him.

T
HE AMBULANCE SIREN SCREAMED
around them, making Brady’s teeth hurt. He’d grasped his mother’s hand in his and held on tightly. They were cramped in the small space, but Brady didn’t care. “You’re okay, Mom. We’re almost there.”