Lost Identity (9 page)

“You serve,” Dee told Andrew who still had the ball in his hands.

“I’ll do it,” Trish spoke up. Andrew stared at her, not sure that the words had come from her mouth. “I’ll serve,” she repeated.

“All right.”

He handed her the ball, and she turned it over in her hand as if getting acquainted with an old friend. Her eyes held a sudden eager glint that startled him. Then she walked to the correct position and lifting her head, she tossed up the ball and sent it over the net with devastating force and precision.

“Way to go,” Dee squealed when the other team failed to return the fast serve.

Andrew couldn’t hide his astonishment. She was good. Really good. Where had she learned to play like that? He loved the way her agile body moved with polished grace, light and sure. Her quickness and aptitude in returning balls soon made her the most accomplished player in the group. When the other team lost by a huge margin they put up a howl.

“Not fair. Not fair.”

“You brought in a professional ringer!”

“Where’d you learn to serve like that?”

“I honestly don’t know,” she said, laughing, surprised at herself. For the first time she was able to make light of her lost memory. “I don’t remember.”

Her face was flushed and her eyes bright, and An
drew glimpsed the young girl who had played volleyball with such vigor and joy. He wondered if her youth had been cut short by the responsibilities and expectations that, obviously, had fallen on her shoulders at a young age.

“Time to eat,” Dee announced as she hooked one of her plump arms through Trish’s and offered the other one to Andrew. “And the winning team gets to line up first.”

Andrew shot a questioning look at Trish. Her hair was moist with sweat beaded on her forehead, and a healthy glow had replaced her former pallor. She didn’t look as if she needed rescuing, but he wasn’t sure. He was a little uneasy about her sudden metamorphosis from a frightened recluse to the center of attention.

“What do you think?” he asked, cautiously.

She smiled at him. “Would you mind? I mean, you could save the Chinese food….” Her voice trailed off.

“No problem. We’ll have it another night,” he promised, returning her smile, but even as he spoke, there was an inner warning that there might not be another night like this. Once her true identity claimed her, there seemed little likelihood they would be crashing any more beach parties.

Nobody seemed interested in asking Trish and Andrew who they were or why they had joined the party. They sat with the others around a fire, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows and loading their plates with salad and slices of berry pie. The flow of laughter, good humor and open acceptance circled them like welcoming arms.

As twilight thickened, someone brought out a guitar
and Trish whispered to Andrew, “You play better than that.”

He put his arm around her and she settled back against him. Both of them were content to hold on to this moment in time, a blessed eternity if only for a few hours.

When the party broke up they walked in silence back to the cottage. It was still a lovely warm night, and the ocean reflected a blanket of shimmering stars. Their steps were slow and reluctant as they neared the cottage.

“Would you like a cup of coffee before I take you back?” Andrew asked, knowing that he was guilty of trying to hold on to the evening as long as possible.

“Do I have to go back?” she asked, knowing the answer before he nodded. Sighing, she sat down at the patio table. “Maybe if I stay out too late, they’ll kick me out.”

“Not a chance. But they might not let me on the grounds again.”

When he returned with two steaming mugs, he found her leaning forward with her head in her hands. The look she gave him when she raised her head told him the brief reprieve she’d had from the ordeal facing her was over.

He sat down on a bench facing her. He didn’t trust himself to get too close. At the slightest invitation, he would have taken her in his arms, and given into the desire to forget about everything but making love to her. He knew that under the circumstances, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let that happen. Living with regret was something he chose not to put on either of them.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asked quietly.
At first, he thought she hadn’t even heard him, but then she gave a small jerk and moistened her dry lips.

“Yes, I would. I don’t like to burden you with all of this.” Then she gave him a feeble smile. “But I guess it’s a little late for that.”

“You haven’t been a burden. Whatever happens, I want you to know that. I’ll support any decision that you make,” he promised.
Even if it ends up tearing me apart.

“I don’t see any way to escape what must be done—now or later. If I try to postpone the inevitable, it is only going to keep me in constant dread. Tonight made me realize how important it is for me to be me. Hiding myself away isn’t going solve anything, is it?”

“I’m afraid not.” He didn’t add that there was little chance of keeping her anonymity for very long once the word was out that she was still alive. Someone with Patricia Radcliffe’s reputation and past visibility would invite public attention. Sooner or later, whatever lay out there, waiting for her, would have to be faced.

Her hands tightened around the mug as she set it down on the patio table. “I’m still scared.”

“I know. And you have every right to be. But it’s going to be all right. You’re a strong person, Trish. And you’re very capable. You can lick this thing. I know you can.”

“But what if I can’t? What if I find out I don’t like Patricia Louise Radcliffe?”

He forgot about keeping his distance, and moved quickly beside her on the bench. “Then you don’t have to be her. You can change.”

“But what if I can’t?” She looked up into his eyes and added in a frightened whisper, “What if someone won’t let me?”

Chapter Six

Patricia Radcliffe lived in a fashionable high-rise building on Central Park West. Her home was on the twelfth floor overlooking the street and park, and all the staff in the building had been advised of her arrival.

As Andrew and Trish emerged from the cab that had brought them from Havengate into the city, a middle-aged doorman in a gold-braided uniform stepped forward and tipped his hat.

“Welcome back, Ms. Radcliffe,” he greeted her with an expression that was both warm and speculative.

“Thank you,” Trish responded but her voice was thin and unsure.
Should I know him?

“I’m Harold Wills, ma’am,” he added when her return smile was hesitant and unsure. “I’ve been your doorman for nigh on fifteen years.”

Fifteen years, and she felt as if she’d never seen him before in her life.

“I’m sorry. I—”

“That’s all right. I understand,” he said quickly, and the look he gave her was one of kindly pity.

She wanted to turn and run before a battery of un
familiar people lined up in front of her, and demanded impatiently, “Of course, you remember me.”

Her instinct for flight communicated itself to Andrew. He firmly took her arm, guiding her past the doorman and into a spacious foyer that was nearly as large as his whole cottage. Modern style furniture, mirrored walls and art-deco furnishings appeared to be more for looks than offering any invitation to linger, thought Andrew. He wondered if anyone except the doorman ever dared to spend any time there.

Keeping close to Trish, they walked across the marble floor to two elevators that faced the front door. A light was on in one, advising them that it was descending from the tenth floor. Andrew quickly punched a different button and was thankful when the second elevator flew open immediately. He could tell Trish was about to bolt.

“Here we go,” he said in an encouraging tone, keeping a guiding hand on her arm as he ushered her into the spacious carpeted elevator. Trish gave a small shudder as the doors closed quietly and the cage began to lift.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said softly. “Remember what Dr. Duboise said. Don’t put yourself under any pressure to remember anyone or anything. Just take it as it comes. If something seems familiar, admit it. If it doesn’t, don’t feel that you have to lie. These people are your friends.”

Are they?
Why did she feel that she was about to line up in front of a firing squad? Trish silently asked herself.

They stepped out on the twelfth floor into a spacious corridor. A small decorative table holding an elaborate artificial floral arrangement was flanked by two small
brocaded chairs which Andrew guessed were provided for anyone who wanted to sit while waiting for the elevator to arrive.

Trish looked up and down the hall, stared at decorative double doors facing them, and read a small brass holder displaying the name, Patricia Radcliffe. None of it seemed the least bit familiar to her.

“I’m not ready for this.” A spurt of panic sent her heart racing, and she tried to stop Andrew from ringing the doorbell. “Let’s go. Please, I can’t do it.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth when the door swung open.

“I thought I heard the elevator.” A middle-aged, plump, brown-skinned woman in a housekeeper’s navy blue dress smiled broadly at Trish. “We’ve been waiting for you, honey.” Her anxious eyes traveled over Trish. “Are you all right? Goodness’ sakes, you gave us a terrible fright.”

“Sasha, let them in,” a masculine voice ordered. A tall man dressed in an expensive Italian suit, chambray white shirt and silk tie appeared behind the housekeeper. He was in his thirties, his dark hair precisely styled around rather thin, chiseled features. His hazel eyes searched Trish’s face as if wanting to reassure himself that her reappearance wasn’t some hoax being played on them.

After a moment, his mouth quivered with suppressed emotion. “It’s really you.”

He started to reach out to her but Trish drew back, staring at him with an expression of someone meeting a forward stranger.

“And who are you?” she asked point-blank.

The expression on his face would have been laughable, thought Andrew, if it hadn’t been so pathetic.

At that moment, a slender woman, thirtyish, with short frosted brown hair framing a pleasant face, appeared in the doorway of the living room.

“For heaven’s sake, Curtis,” she said briskly. “Don’t leave them standing in the foyer.” Her steady gaze traveled over Trish but she didn’t rush forward or try to make conversation. “I’m Janelle,” she said simply, and then led the way into a spacious room decorated as beautifully as any magazine spread.

Trish stood frozen in the middle of the floor, letting her gaze travel over the white carpet, brocade drapes and French Provincial style furniture. Large oil paintings were hung by gold chords in artistic arrangements on the walls.

If I really am Patricia Radcliffe, did I select the furnishings or hire an interior decorator?
she asked herself. There was little evidence of any personal belongings in the ultra fashionable decor. As she stood there, nothing triggered any memory of the room, nor any of the many things that must have happened there.

She looked at Andrew with an expression of total bewilderment. “Does this seem like me?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. How could he know what her tastes were before they were wiped out with her memory?

“Welcome home, Patricia,” Janelle said, obviously responding to Trish’s utter bewilderment. “Please tell us what you’d like to have us do.”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. She didn’t know whether Janelle was another employee, a personal friend, or someone from the office.

“I’m Curtis Mandel,” said the tall man as he stood stiffly in front of the fireplace, frowning at her.

“Curtis and I are both business associates of yours,” Janelle explained.

“And close personal friends,” Curtis added with a pointed look at Andrew. “Sir, we are a little confused about what part you played in this…unfortunate situation. You are…?”

“Andrew Davis,” he answered without bothering to hold out his hand for a shake. The man’s tone made it clear that this wasn’t going to be a friendly introduction.

Aware of the hostility in the questions leveled at Andrew, Trish said quickly, “Andrew found me half-drowned on the beach.”

“So we heard,” Curtis said dryly. “And you didn’t see anything that would help us understand what happened to Patricia or Perry to bring about this unfortunate condition, Mr. Davis?”

“No, I didn’t,” Andrew answered shortly, irritated at the man’s skeptical tone. Did Curtis Mandel actually believed that he could be orchestrating this whole thing?

Andrew felt a healthy instant dislike for Curtis Mandel for more than one reason. The man had, undoubtedly, sized up Andrew’s inexpensive sports jacket and trousers in one word—cheap. As Curtis moved to Trish’s side, anyone could tell from the way he looked at Trish that his feelings for her were not all business. Andrew couldn’t help but wonder if Patricia Radcliffe had returned those feelings.

“Patricia, darling, is it really true that you don’t remember anything?” Curtis gently probed as he searched her pale face. “You must remember me. You do, don’t you?”

Trish’s anguished expression was answer enough,
and Janelle broke in impatiently. “For pity’s sake, Curtis, don’t give the poor girl the third degree two minutes after she’s walked through the door. I’m sorry, Patricia. You’ll have to be patient with us. No one can imagine what you’re going through. What would make this whole thing easier for you?”

Trish caught her lower lip.
I’d like to go back to Andrew’s place.
She sent him a pleading look, but he answered Janelle’s question for her. “I think she’d probably like to have some time to herself to sort things out.”

“Of course,” Janelle agreed readily. “We want to do whatever’s best for her. I’ll try to head off the crowd of people who are likely to descend upon her the minute word gets out that she’s home.”

“I’m sure we can handle things from here,” Curtis told Andrew in a dismissing tone. “Patricia has loyal friends who will protect her and see to her welfare.”