A Man She Couldn’t Forget (7 page)

“To my mother’s.”

“Oh.” She arched her brows. “Oh! Brady, I know her. She’s tall, sturdily built, pretty hair the color of yours, but with some gray in it.” A big smile. “She likes me.”

He chuckled, recalling his mother and Clare cooking. How his mom had come over and tended to her when she got the flu. Clare taking her shopping.

“She does like you. I stayed out at her place because it was late and she likes it when I’m there.” Which was true but not the truth.

Now her eyes darkened. “Oh, your dad. He’s dead.”

“A fire.” He told her about the untimely death of the man he’d adored.

She got up from the tub, came toward him, and sat on the bench. Taking his hand in hers, she smiled sadly. “I wish I could remember him.”

“That’s not the amnesia, sweetheart. He was dead before I met you. It’s why I came back to Rockford. I stayed with my mother for a while, then when this place came open in Max’s building—we were friends in high school—I jumped at the chance to buy it.”

“Still, I’m sorry for your loss.”

God, could this get any harder? “You helped me, Clare, more than the others. I missed him so much, and telling you about him, commiserating with you about your parents and your grandmother, made us bond quickly.”

“I’m so glad, Brady.” She thought a moment. “Obviously, I know nothing about your life before you came back. If I never remember, will you tell me sometime?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Clare stood. “Well, I’ll let you get back to working out. I’m going downstairs.”

“I don’t have much longer.” She started away but he snagged her hand. It felt soft and feminine in his, but he knew there was strength in it, too. “You okay?”

“Sure.”

“You’re not. You’re sad.”

“I guess I am. It’s so hard not remembering things like your family or how close I was to you or Jonathan. And I’m having terrible dreams.” She frowned. “I get scared a lot. It’s hell being an adult and being frightened by what’s out there in the world.”

“I’m sorry. I have an idea for today, though, to cheer you up. And give you some bearings. Remember I told you we were working on a book?” She nodded. “Want to go look at it?”

“Oh, Brady, I’d love to. It’ll make me feel better, won’t it?”

“Uh-huh. Cooking, the books, always did.” He pointed to the bathroom. “I’ll clean up after I finish and come down.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’ll make us some lunch.”

“That’ll be great.”

After she left, he did some stretches, then headed for the shower. His mood had changed, too. Working on their books also made him feel better. For now, he’d content himself with that.

I
N HER KITCHEN
, C
LARE WENT
to her cookbooks and plucked out one that had breakfast and lunch recipes. Scanning the table of contents, her gaze stopped at frittata.

Sausage, peppers, onions, potatoes.
She remembered the recipe without looking at it. Flipping to the designated page, she saw she was right. There was an anecdote with this one.

Suddenly, she saw the older man, big, balding and boisterous, grab her grandma around the waist while she cooked at the stove.

Tears welled in Clare’s eyes. She’d loved them both so much and felt their loss as if it had just happened. The same thing occurred when she had the flashback of Don Kramer. She remembered them moving to America to take care of her and Cathy, Grandpa’s funeral then Grandma’s death as if it was yesterday. When the blur cleared, she looked at the other page. Good Lord! There were her grandparents, walking hand in hand, little girls in front of them. This was Brady’s drawing. He’d done it from pictures, she now remembered. Lovingly she traced her grandma’s face. Her grandpa’s big shoulders. Cathy’s dainty dress. The drawing was so beautiful she didn’t want to look away and stared at it for a long time.

Finally forcing herself to go to the freezer, she found sausage stored there along with separate packages of peppers and onions. She got eggs out of the fridge, spices from the cupboard and potatoes from the pantry. After she defrosted everything, she put the meat into a frying pan and the phone rang.

Clare didn’t like talking on the phone these days. She answered Jonathan’s calls on her cell, but mostly she let the machine pick up here. It was like the e-mails on her computer, which she didn’t know how to answer. All the unfamiliar voices and the e-mails from people she obviously knew but didn’t remember made her panic. She listened to the phone messages later, and Brady helped her wade through her e-mail so her in-box wouldn’t get overloaded.

When the machine clicked on, she heard, “Clare, hi.”

I miss Mommy and Daddy.

I do, too. But you have me, Cath, you always will. And Grandma and Grandpa.

Because she recognized this voice, she snatched up the receiver. “Cathy, is that you?”

“Clare! Does this mean you got your memory back?”

“No, I recognized your voice.”

Sniffles on the other end. Her sister was crying.

“Oh, Cath. I’m starting to remember things. Your voice brought back a flashback of when we were little. And I’ve had others of you, too.”

“When you were in the hospital, you said you didn’t remember me at all.”

“I—it’s coming back.” Not quite a lie. “A lot about when we were kids.” She’d also gone through some of the photo albums and seen pictures of her slim, blond sister throughout their lives. But there weren’t many from the past few years. “I remember what you look like.”

“I’m so sorry I’m not there.”

“You’re in France, honey.” Clare fell into the affectionate term easily. “Enjoy yourself.”

“Hah! I took my students here to study the culture, but they’re finding a million ways to get into trouble.”

“I want to hear all about the trip. And everything else you do.”

“I’ll come to Rockford as soon as I get back.”

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“Truly?”

No, not again. Clare had alienated so many people in her life. “Yes, truly. We can get in our pajamas at four o’clock and watch romantic comedies on Lifetime TV. Oh! I remember that, too.”

“I’m so glad. Now tell me how you’re feeling. About your progress.”

She talked to her sister as she prepared the frittata. She used to do that a lot, cook and talk. By the time she hung up she was more optimistic about her recovery. She finished with the toast just as Brady came into the room, looking big and beautiful in denim shorts and a white T-shirt tucked in at the waist. It showed off all those muscles he’d been using upstairs.

He sniffed. “Frittata?”

“Yes. I had the ingredients frozen.”

“Did you remember it was a favorite of mine?”

Why wasn’t she surprised? “I think I might have, Brady. And Grandpa’s, too.” She held up the cookbook. “The drawing is beautiful. It spurred real, concrete memories of them.”

“Super.”

“Go sit, and we’ll eat. I want to tell you about Cathy’s phone call.”

Brady took a seat at the table, and when Clare brought the plates, she set hers down first, then his. As she leaned over him, she was hit with the scent of him after a shower. It was so potent, so
familiar,
that it took her breath away. Shakily she put the plate in front of him.

“Something wrong?” he asked. “You’re flushed.”

Her hands went to her cheeks. “Must be the heat from the stove.”

But she’d lied. It wasn’t that. It was heat…but from Brady himself.

Because, when Clare got close to him and caught his scent, she felt her body tighten, her pulse speed up and a low coil of reaction in her belly.

All signs that were familiar.

All signs she remembered.

How could this be? She didn’t understand. Why in hell was she
aroused
by Brady’s nearness, the male smell of him, the physical presence of him?
Brady,
her best friend?

“T
HESE ARE THE RECIPES
and the illustrations we’ve done for the seventh book.”

They were in Brady’s office, where they always worked, Clare in her favorite chair, and Brady across from her, perched on the edge of his desk. He watched her on the leather lounger as she flipped through the twenty or so pages he’d printed out. She looked rested and comfortable in jeans and a T-shirt that said Feed the Stomach, Feed the Soul. She wasn’t flushed anymore, and he was still wondering what had caused the reaction when she’d served him the meal. She said she hadn’t gotten a memory flash.

She glanced up from the work. “How many recipes do we need per cookbook?”

“We’re halfway there.”

Her brows arched. “People buy a cookbook for only forty recipes?”

“They buy your cookbook for the anecdotes and my illustrations, too, I like to think.”

She cocked her head. “Brady, how am I supposed to come up with anecdotes if I don’t remember anything from my past?”

“We’ve got ten more recipes and stories in draft form on your computer. We can start with those.” He smiled. “Maybe by the time we’re finished polishing them, you’ll have your memory back, babe.”

“I’m worried about the anecdotes. I’ve tried reading some in the newer cookbooks, and contrary to the memory I just had about the frittata, they bring on headaches.”

“You could always use some recipes from your other books.” He shifted in his seat. “We did that in the last few because you were too busy to come up with more.” And they had had a huge fight about what had been Harris’s suggestion.

Frowning, she shook her head. “That sounds like cheating the reader. No, we’ll think of something else.”

“Ready?”

“I hope so.”

“We’ll take it slow. If it starts to make you uncomfortable or brings on a headache, we’ll stop.”

“Should I get my laptop?”

“No, we have shared files. I can call up your work here.” Because he’d done a lot of the work without her, but he didn’t tell her that.

“Clever.”

He sat down at the computer and was booting up her recipes when the office phone rang. “I’ll let it ring. It’s probably one of my sisters. When I don’t answer my cell, they call here, even though they know I’m working.” He smiled affectionately at the phone. “Some things never change. When we were growing up, they’d barge into my room whenever they pleased.” He shook his head. “They’d flop on my bed to talk, or borrow my shirts or snoop in my drawers.”

“It sounds like you love them very much.” She swallowed hard. “I wish Samantha didn’t dislike me.”

“She’ll come around.”

The answering machine clicked on, and it wasn’t one of the girls. Leo’s voice sounded from the machine. “Brady, if you’re there, pick up.”

“Who’s that?” Clare asked.

“My agent.”

Clare had been told she had her own agent, too, though she was currently on maternity leave and out of touch. Clare had gotten flowers from her publisher and spoken to her editor briefly on the phone.

“Okay, you’re not there. Listen, Random House called. They’re interested in the new series we discussed. They want to see a proposal. My guess is they’re willing to offer big bucks. I know you’re worried about Clare, but you can’t do what you did before, buddy. You’ve got to keep
your
career on track. Call me with a date for the contract ASAP. Hope you’re all right.”

When he clicked off, the room was completely silent. Clare stared over at Brady from the chair, where she looked small and fragile again. “Well,” she said, “this isn’t good.”

“It isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

“What exactly did you do last time? And don’t lie to me.”

“I’d never lie to you.”
Keep things from you, yes, but never lie.
Though even not telling her everything was battering at his conscience.

“So what was your agent talking about?”

“When the cookbook thing took off, I put my own work aside.” Which was a huge understatement, as well as a huge mistake.

“Why?”

“Because the cookbooks were important to you and to me. I needed a change of pace, anyway. I often do, which is why the idea of the new series my agent mentioned came up.”

“How many books do you have out?”

“Ten, besides the cookbooks. I published three before I came back to Rockford.”

She looked around the office. “Where are they?”

“On the shelves behind you.”

Standing, Clare crossed to the bookcase and stared at the children’s books he’d done. She took out five, set them on the floor, then took out the other five. Then she dropped down next to them, leaned against the bottom shelves and picked up one Brady recognized as his first book.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to read these.”

“We have work to do.”

She glanced at the phone. “Apparently, so do you. Alone. Go ahead and do something for your own stuff. I’ll read.”

“All of them?”

“Yes, every single one. Now hush.”

For a minute, Brady could barely contain what he was feeling. He remembered the Clare of the past, reading his work, encouraging him, celebrating his successes. For a while she had been more excited than he was about each new book. Then things had changed. He wasn’t sure she’d even read the last one, which had cut him to the core.

As he watched her open the first book, he swallowed hard. She read the dedication—to his dad—and the bio information. Then she started the story of Millie and Raoul. At one point, she traced the illustrations of the shy mouse and the grumpy rat with her finger. She chuckled at the antics of the rodents. Grinned hugely. After she finished the first book, she looked up. He’d been staring at her the whole time, observing the play of emotions over her face. “I’m in awe. These had to be a big hit.”

“They were.”

Still smiling, she went on to the second. Feeling foolish because he was staring at her, he tried to work, but he kept being distracted by her laughter, her exclamations, her sniffles. “Oh, no, Millie lost her mama.”

“Yeah, kids across America learned about death.”

She shook her head, sending wisps of hair into her eyes. “Incredible.”

He needed to stop staring at her, so he got up and crossed to his drafting table, thinking he could start some sketches for the new book. Then she startled him. “Oh, Brady.”

Right away he knew why she held up book five. Nostalgia drifted through him like a warm Caribbean breeze. “I’d moved in here by then,” he said, his voice husky. “And we got close.”

In that particular book, it was the dedication that had made her eyes go misty. “That’s quite an honor. Thank you so much.”

Brady remembered it word for word.

“Was I excited?”

“Thrilled.” She’d hugged him as if she’d never let him go.

He missed those spontaneous, uncensored hugs.

By the time she finished reading all ten of his stories, it was late afternoon and he’d gotten little work done. She smoothed the cover of the last one lovingly and set it on the stack. Her expression was sad. “I’m so sorry you put this aside for me.”

“For us.”

“Whatever. I’ll bet kids are clamoring for more.”

“So the publisher says. I’ve got one to finish now. The last of Millie and Raoul.”

Standing, she replaced the books and faced him. “I’m going to go back to my condo so you can work on their story.”

“No, don’t go. My creative energy is drained. Besides, Max and Delia and I are having movie night at Max’s on his big-screen TV, and I’m responsible for the food.”

She glanced at the clock.

“I’d ask you to come, but I heard you talking to Harris about going out with him tonight.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I’m supposed to. Maybe if I took a nap, I’d have more energy for that.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Glancing away, she noticed a photo on the shelf and picked it up. It was of Max, Delia, Brady, Clare and Don Kramer, all a lot younger, barbecuing out back. Brady’s hair was longer, Clare’s was curly and Max hadn’t shaved his head yet. The most striking thing about it, Brady knew, was how happy Dee and Don were.

Clare stared at the photo for a long time, then shook her head. “Could I use your phone a second?”

“Sure.” From the drafting table, he watched her curiously as she crossed to his desk.

“Do you have Jonathan’s cell number?”

What was she up to? “Um, yeah. He gave it to me after you got hurt.”

He joined her at the desk and fished the number out of his Rolodex. She punched it in. And waited, without looking at him.

“Hello, Jonathan?” She paused. “Yes, I’m feeling well. But I’m going to cancel our dinner plans. No, no. I’d like to stay in tonight. Regroup a bit.” A longer pause. “Please, I don’t want you to do that. Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She set the receiver in its cradle and peered up at Brady with an expression he couldn’t read. “I didn’t lie,” she said.

“I heard. Fudged the truth a bit.”

She cocked her head. “I…I’d rather be with you guys tonight.”

“Music to my ears, babe.”

“Will it be all right with Max and Delia?”

“I’m sure it will.”

“Okay. I think I’ll go nap now.” Her face brightened. “And I’ll make some dessert. What do you guys like?”

“Your brownies are Max’s favorite. The ones with the butterscotch bits in them.”

She nodded to the computer. “You work on those wonderful stories.” Leaning over, she kissed his cheek, something she used to do routinely but hadn’t for a while.

Her scent—the lotion and shampoo—made Brady’s gut clench. He wanted to hold her so badly, he ached. He had to stifle the images that played through his mind.

She drew back and walked out of the office. Suddenly he was energized. And happy. And hopeful.

For the first time in over a year, Clare had chosen Brady over Jonathan.

I
T WAS SO PLEASANT
,
BEING IN
the warm water, letting the jets swirl around her. Clare felt safe, secure, loved. Opening her eyes, she looked out the attic window and saw snow had begun to fall—little flakes clung to the glass—making the heat rising from the tub even more delicious.

The door to the attic opened, and Brady stepped inside. He was naked and beautifully formed—a chest covered with dark hair, toned abs, muscular thighs. An impressive erection. She smiled.

“Don’t gawk,” he said teasingly. “You’ve seen it all before.”

“Ah, but it’s such a pleasant sight.”

He held up the bottle he carried. “Champagne.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“You’re back.” Easily, he popped the cork. “Finally, you’re back.”

“I am.” She sat up, revealing bare breasts. She knew she should be embarrassed in front of her best friend, but she wasn’t.

As he came closer with two filled flutes, his gaze caressed her. Handing her a glass, he leaned over and kissed the swell of one breast, then climbed into the tub.

The water sloshed with his weight, and Brady held up his drink. “To new beginnings,” he said easily.

“To new beginnings.”

Lazing back in the tub, she closed her eyes again. Nothing was better than this, she thought, absolutely nothing.

Then the water turned freezing cold and she began to shiver. Oh, God, what was happening?

This time when she opened her eyes and looked over, the other man in the tub wasn’t Brady. He was Jonathan. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

“Where’s Brady?”

“Darling, Brady’s gone. He’s been gone a long time. I’m here now.”

“I…”

“Shh,” he said, taking the flute from her hand. “Relax. Lie back and enjoy the water.”

“But it’s cold.”

“No, no, it isn’t.”

“I want Brady.” She started to cry.

Suddenly Jonathan’s face flushed with anger. “Don’t you dare cry over another man in front of me.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

“Then get out…”

C
LARE AWOKE
. S
HE WAS
in her own bed, and she was warm. Outside, she could see the forsythia tree blooming by her window—no snow—and the sun was still shining. She glanced at the clock. 5:00 p.m. She had just enough time to make the brownies. Throwing off the light cover, she realized she was naked. And then she remembered the dream. Her head began to pound.

She made her way to the bathroom, took some Tylenol and dressed quickly. In the kitchen, she found the brownie recipe Max liked in volume two and began making the chocolate confection. She kept her mind busy because she didn’t want to think about the dream. But after the pan was in the oven, she pulled out the notebook and, according to Anna’s instructions, began recording the events.

She blushed writing about Brady’s nakedness. Felt fear resurrect at Jonathan’s anger. She tried to console herself with Anna’s assurances.

Clare, dreams don’t mean you necessarily want what you dream. They often combine reality in shocking ways.

She started to giggle. Well, being naked with her best friend was shocking, all right.

But she stopped giggling when she admitted that the dream wasn’t the only time she felt turned on by Brady. The sensations she’d experienced when serving him lunch today—becoming aroused, wanting more from him—confused her. And when she’d read his books, she’d been filled with warm feelings, which had gotten even warmer when she’d caught him watching her. What did all this mean?

It was nearing six when she took the brownies out of the oven and put the pan in a wicker nest she found in the cupboard. She stuck her keys in her pocket, crossed to the foyer and maneuvered open the door. It slammed behind her. At the sound, the woman in the hall startled. Lucinda Gray had her hand on the doorbell of Brady’s condo.

She didn’t have a key.

Clare remembered Brady’s words.
She wants more, but she understands the terms.