Intimate Strangers (11 page)

Sara listened to him intently. She didn't like what she was hearing. She got up and went over to the window. She felt she needed some space between them if she were going to objectively absorb what he was telling her. "Good grief, what kind of a person was I? Obviously I was really a witch or you'd never have jumped to that conclusion. A spider spinning webs! Is that what you think of me?" Sara put her hand up to rub her temple and turned to face Roarke. "Won't you change your mind and start at the beginning and tell me everything? Tell me every last detail," she said with an edge of sorrow to her voice.

"What good would it do to go through every detail?" he asked. "You'll remember it quickly enough. I want to trust you again, so let's start trusting each other from now on." He walked over to her and stood facing her but made no attempt to touch her. "If you have a question when you remember something, we'll talk about it, honestly and openly."

"But what about us? What about the past and your feelings about it?" she questioned him.

"This is our beginning, Sara. Let's begin as friends. Friends who believe in and trust each other." He took her hands into his. "We won't rush or push it. I think you're a new person and maybe I can become a new person through you." At her questioning expression he explained. "You used to question my every move; you didn't trust me at all. Now you seem to want to trust me and believe in me. That's the foundation we'll build on." He took her face between his hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. "I think it's time you went to sleep now, you've got dark circles under your eyes." He smiled tenderly down at her while he traced the dark smudges with his finger.

Roarke steered Sara toward the bed and made sure she was under the covers before he turned out the bedside light. "I'm going to leave your door open and mine also. If you need me for anything, just call."

"Roarke," Sara called out to his retreating back.

He turned in the doorway. "Yes?" He looked at Sara huddling under the covers. The light from the hall shone on her hair that spread over the pillow, making her look young and vulnerable.

"Someday I'll have to know about our past. I can't go through life with blinders on."

"You'll remember it all soon enough, and maybe by then we'll have found out what we're both really like and the past won't matter so much. We'll make our present so strong, the past will seem like a dream," he stated positively.

"More like a nightmare, don't you mean?" she asked pensively.

"No more talk about nightmares. I'll see you in the morning," he ordered. "Good night."

Sitting up, she implored, "Roarke, just one more thing. What about the marriage? After all, you said we've been separated for two years. A lot of things must be changed in your life. Maybe a wife doesn't fit in anymore, even a wife who's just a friend. I don't want you to feel obligated to resume a marriage you no longer want."

Roarke turned to face her again. The light was behind him and all that Sara could see of Roarke was a black silhouette in the doorway. "Sara, a lot has changed in my life. I found out I don't like being alone. That kind of life doesn't appeal to me at all. And after this evening, I realize that I need you in my life. I don't have any answers about our future. For now, let's live in the present. Good night, Sara," he said once again and went into the hall, leaving the door open several inches.

Sara tried to settle down, but sleep eluded her. Roarke had said he was willing to begin again. And even if she couldn't remember the past, she knew that right now, this minute, she loved Roarke. She was never more sure of anything in her topsy-turvy world. If he wanted to build a foundation of trust and friendship, she would cement the foundation with love.

She couldn't remember, but she was absolutely sure she had loved Roarke all along. Not knowing why they separated or anything about the marriage didn't make any difference. Her love felt right, it felt good, it was familiar to her.

Roarke hadn't spoken of love tonight and maybe he never would. She knew she couldn't let him know that she loved him; it might make him regret his decision to try again. Sara didn't want that to happen, not only because she needed him, but because she wanted him near her. She wanted to talk and get to know this man her heart and body already loved.

He hadn't said if there was another woman in his life. Maybe he was trying to imply there might be another woman when he said he didn't like being alone. He was a handsome man and very virile. Surely he hadn't spent the last two years celibate. But was there anyone special in his life—a woman who had become important to him, a woman who had eased his lonely hours, a woman who didn't play the games he accused her of playing?

Sara turned over and pounded her pillow. All these negative thoughts were getting her nowhere. He had said he needed her in his life even if it were just as a friend. Well, maybe she could become more to him. They had been in love once, and it could happen again. Could she hope to rekindle a flame that might be dead, or should she? She didn't have an answer, but at least the door wasn't closed anymore.

Slowly Sara descended the stairs, her slippers quiet on the heavy carpet. She gazed around in amazement. When Roarke had brought her here weeks ago, she hadn't had time to really see anything. "It's lovely," she whispered, awed by the serene beauty of the foyer. The wide, open arch on the left revealed the living room, and she regarded the elegant furnishings for a few minutes. She could partially see the dining room through another arch at the end of the living room, its massive crystal chandelier sparkling in the sunlight, tossing prisms of color on the cool white walls.

She noticed two doors on the other side of the entry. One was closed, but the other was slightly ajar. Peering into the slight opening, she pushed the door open and recognized the room from Martha's description. This had to be her den, she thought. Paintings, paints, and easels were stacked against the one wall, and an easel was standing in the corner just as Martha had told her.

She went over to the easel and examined the canvas that was propped on its crossbar. The firm material was covered with a pale wash of colors. She reached out and touched it.
How did I know it's called a wash
? she wondered as she ran her hand over the resilient canvas. Turning around, she scanned the entire room. It wasn't large, but was bright with the light coming through the wall of windows. The only furniture was a love seat, a small table, and one chair. There were books on a row of shelves against the wall by the door—books about painters, museums, galleries. Paintings hung on the third wall—a profusion of paintings with no rhyme or reason, a riot of color and subjects. When she moved closer, she realized they all had a single name on them, just Alexander, no first name. But she knew they were hers.

Moving over to the stack of canvases that leaned against the first wall, she bent over and sorted through them, glancing at each one quickly. Then she stopped abruptly and pulled one out and placed it in front of the stack. She backed up to the love seat and sat down and studied it in rapt concentration. It was the finished painting she had seen herself sketching in her flashback. It was Roarke sitting on the beach, his hair ruffled by the ocean breeze, the sand, tall grass, ocean, and sky surrounding him, making him an integral part of the scene. It was bold and exciting, just like Roarke.

Leaning back, she looked around her in wonder. Even though so much of herself was missing, she somehow knew she was good: She had talent. It was a part of her, a part that hadn't disappeared with the accident or her memory loss. It was as instinctive as breathing, writing, talking, and loving Roarke. She was impatient to pick up a brush and paint. Maybe through her painting and her loving she could find all the missing pieces and put herself back together.

She picked up a sketch pad that lay on top of the table, opened it, and saw a drawing of a garden and an old woman in a floppy straw hat stooped over, digging in the earth around some bushes. She tore it out of the pad and, as she stared at the bent-over figure, she picked up a pencil and began sketching a face on the tablet.

The lines of the face began to take form and shape. The eyes were lively but held a hint of pain, or was it sadness? The mouth was small, but its smile filled the face. Wrinkles were a cross-stitch over the skin, but they added character to the features. The hair was brushed back severely away from the broad forehead and caught in a large chignon at the nape.

Sara laid the pencil down; it was the face of the old woman she had dreamed about, and the face was still a vivid imprint on her mind.

"I wondered where you had gone!"

Sara's head shot up, startled by the voice that had intruded on her brooding.

"I went up to see if you wanted some lunch, and I couldn't find you." Martha sat down beside Sara. "I'm glad you finally decided to leave that room."

"Well, I've had a couple days to practice walking around my room without the cast. I've walked with and without the cane and my ankle feels almost as good as new. I decided to venture out today and see what the rest of the house looks like."

"Mr. Roarke will be so glad to hear this when he comes home today. Before he left for California the other day, he asked me to try and coax you out of your room."

"Yes, I guess he will be pleased," Sara murmured, wondering if this three-day separation had given Roarke time to think over and regret his decision for them to try again. She had had second and third thoughts about their evening and everything they had said to each other, but she hadn't changed her mind. She loved him and something inside her was obsessed with trying to win him back. When he had come to her room the morning after her nightmare and told her that he had to leave immediately for California, he had seemed pensive and frustrated at having to go. He had even told her he'd miss her and she hoped he would because she missed him.

"Miss Sara, what's wrong?"

Flustered, not wanting to tell Martha what she was thinking, she glanced down at the sketch pad on her lap. She handed the sketch to Martha. "Martha, who is she?"

Martha looked at the sketch, then at Sara, a sad expression passing quickly across her face. "It's your grandmother. Did you just draw this?"

Sara nodded absently, trying to fit this new piece into her puzzle.

"What brought this face to your mind? Did you remember something?"

"No, I didn't really remember. I had a dream last night, or rather early this morning."

"Do you want to tell me about it?" the older woman asked quietly.

"Well, in my dream, I was somewhere that was foggy and the air was damp. The ground felt spongy and tried to clutch at my shoes when I walked on it. There were huge marble stones, and they seemed to surround me on all sides." Sara shuddered. "It wasn't until I saw two coffins that I realized I was in a cemetery. The coffins were sitting on the misty ground, covered with flowers and lots of people were standing around, some of them crying. I—I didn't recognize any of the faces except an old lady who was holding my hand tightly. I felt as though I knew her. We were dressed in black and crying. When I jolted awake, I imagined I could still feel the woman's hand holding mine."