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The last time they’d gone they’d had an argument. One of his more notable clients and his wife had witnessed the scene. Bishop wasn’t a fan of tutus and tights at the best of times. After that night he’d sworn never to sit through another Fouetté en tournant as long as he lived.
Sensing his reluctance, Laura let her toes drift down. “I know ballet’s not your thing …”
“No, it’s not. But it is yours,” he added.
Going to Sydney tomorrow evening would leave them with another twenty-four hours in this environment. If a few lightbulbs went off … if he were lucky … Hell, they might not get to the ballet at all.
Five
Before Bishop drove off to the nearest shops to get a few provisions, Laura had sussed out whether he needed condoms. She’d already checked the bedside drawer where he always kept them, and he didn’t need to stock up. There was plenty of contraception on hand.
That was okay. She’d only broached the subject of them falling pregnant yesterday. Getting her husband to come around to her way of thinking—the way that put faith ahead of doom and gloom—might take a little doing. She could wait. She and Bishop had too much going for them to let this difference get in the way.
She baked some pastries and had sat down at her laptop in her office when Bishop returned. She swung around in her high-backed chair as he moved up and lifted her face to him, waiting for a kiss hello. He searched her eyes for a long, heartfelt moment, then lowered his head and dropped a chaste kiss on her cheek.
A band around her chest pulled tight. He’d avoided kissing yesterday, last night. But for that peck, he hadn’t kissed her at all today, and she wasn’t happy about it. Rather than sounding testy or upset, however, she thought she’d go for teasing.
“Hey, I didn’t hurt my lips when I fell.”
Before he could see it coming, she caught him around the neck and brought him back down. Her mouth zeroed in on his with the precision of a ballistic missile. His lips were slightly parted, and she made certain to take advantage of that, too.
She aimed to kiss him swiftly but thoroughly, and as her mouth moved over his, her fingers kneaded the back of his strong, hot neck. There was a second of resistance on his part when she thought he might jerk away. But then a growl rumbled from his chest up his throat. The vibration tingled over his lips, ran over her tongue, then he was kissing her back.
The connection didn’t last long enough. Just when she was thinking a trip to the bedroom might be in order, his hands found her shoulders and he pushed himself away. Before he could prattle on about doctor’s orders again, she spoke up.
“I had it wrong,” she told him.
An emotion she couldn’t name darkened his eyes as he slowly straightened and those broad shoulders rotated back. “What have you got wrong?”
“The Nutcracker’s not playing. It’s Swan Lake.”
That emotion flickered again and then his brow furrowed and his voice deepened more. “Swan Lake.”
Understanding his tone, she tilted her head. “We don’t have to go.” Frankly, after that kiss she’d be more than content to stay in. But he surprised her.
“No, we’ll go,” he said, his gaze shifting from hers to the computer screen. “I’ll never forget the last time we went.”
Laura cast her mind back. “We’ve only been together once. Just before we were married.”
“I could’ve sworn we’d gone again after that.”
He looked so earnest, she coughed out a laugh. “Was it that bad? Sounds like you had nightmares about men coming after you in tights.”
His gaze dipped to her lips and he smiled softly. “Yeah. Maybe that’s it.” He thrust his chin at her chair. “Shift and I’ll book.”
“What? My Amex card isn’t as good as yours?”
“Just trying to do the gentlemanly thing and pick up the tab.”
As if he ever let her pay for a thing.
Lifting out of the chair, she thought about kissing him again. But she’d let him book and then they could get back to … business.
“In that case, guess I’ll go occupy myself in the kitchen.”
Deciding on which outfit to wear to the ballet—her Lisa Ho cream wraparound or that new season black sequined jacket with a classic little black dress—Laura hummed as she made her way down the wide central hall and into the well-equipped kitchen.
She liked to cook—roasts, Thai, experimental appetizers, mouth-watering desserts. Her mother had always said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Laura could vouch that her husband certainly enjoyed his home-cooked meals—almost as much as he enjoyed making love.
And after dinner she would remove the bandage from her head and persuade her husband that tonight the doctor didn’t know best. She’d rested long enough.
Entering the kitchen, she was a little taken aback at how many grocery bags lay on the counters. Seemed Bishop had stocked up. He usually left the major shopping to her. She stacked the fridge and the pantry then flicked on the oven to warm half a dozen bakery scones. Tomorrow she’d whip up a fresh batch herself.
She slid open the cake tin drawer, dug in to select a tray but, as she reached down, her mind went strangely blank. After a moment, she remembered what she was after and shuffled again through the pans. But where was her favorite heating tray? Straightening, she stuck her hands on her hips and glanced around the timber cupboard doors. Where on earth had she put it?
Of course it was no big deal. Definitely no need to worry Bishop with the fact that her memory was foggier than she’d first realized. Just little things, like wondering at the unfamiliar brand of toothpaste in the attached bath, or pondering over leftovers in the fridge that she had no recollection of cooking.
A rational explanation existed for it all, Laura surmised, wiggling out a different tray for the scones from under the hot plates. Things were a little jumbled, but they’d sort themselves out soon enough.
When she arrived back at her office, brandishing two cups of steaming coffee—one black, one white—Bishop had a different webpage open. She caught a glimpse of the images—bundles of fur with cute black noses and gorgeous take-me-home eyes. She gave a little excited jump and coffee splashed onto the tray.
“Puppies!” Eyes glued to the screen, she set down the tray on a corner of the desk and dragged in a chair. “I was thinking maybe a cocker spaniel.”
Elbow on the desk, he held his jaw while scanning a page displaying a selection of breeds. He grunted. “Aren’t they dopey?”
“They’re soft and gentle and a thousand times cuddly.”
“Maybe something bigger.”
“You mean tougher.”
He collected his mug and blew off the steam. “You haven’t got too many neighbors around here,” he said and then sipped.
“We haven’t got too many neighbors,” she corrected. What was with this you business?
He set down the mug, turned back to the screen and clicked a few more searches. “Maybe a Doberman.”
“I’m sure they’re lovely, but I can’t imagine snuggling up into a powerhouse of muscle and aggression.” She ran a hand down his arm. “Present company excluded.”
“They’re supposed to be very loyal,” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed her compliment, and pictures of dogs with gleaming black coats, pointed ears and superkeen eyes blinked onto the screen. Laura’s mouth pulled to one side. Sorry. Just not her.
“Did you have a dog growing up?”
He clicked on a link and a list of breeders flashed up. “A golden retriever.”
“Guide dogs.”
“One of the breeds used, yes.”
“Can you tap that in?”
A few seconds later, images of the cutest, most playful puppies on the planet graced the screen and childlike delight rippled over her. Her hand landed over his on the mouse and she scrolled down for more information. Nothing she read or saw turned her off.
“They’re so adorable,” she said as Bishop slipped his hand from beneath hers and covered his mouth as he cleared his throat. “They look like they’re smiling, don’t you think? I can definitely see us with one of those.”
“Good family dog,” he read from the blurb. “Gentle temperament. Prone to overeating, shedding and joint problems.” Obviously uneasy, he shifted in his seat. “One of my foremen spent over two grand getting his cat’s broken leg fixed. Bad joints mean huge vet bills.” He clicked the previous page back. “Let’s look at Rottweilers.”
She grinned. It wasn’t about money. “I don’t want a guard dog. I want a companion. A personality that will become part of our family.” And would eagerly welcome new members in. “Just tell me … do you still like retrievers?”
“Of course.”
“Then if we both want a retriever and somewhere down the track he needs some medical attention, wouldn’t you rather have what we really want than settle on something which may or may not have other problems? There are risks everywhere, Bishop. Risks in everything.”
His jaw jutted, but the dark slashes of his eyebrow quirked. While he considered, Laura folded her hands in her lap. She’d made her point. She was talking about far more than which dog to buy.
“But we don’t have to make a decision today,” she ended in a placating tone. “There’s no hurry.”
“You’re right.” He clicked on the top right-hand X and the puppies disappeared. “No hurry at all.”
The phone rang. Not his cell phone this time. Which meant there was a good chance the call wasn’t about business. Maybe Kathy from the library. They’d been talking about starting a literacy program for over-fifties.
Trying to recall what their last discussion had outlined, Laura pushed back her chair but Bishop was already up.
The bbbbrrr-ring of the phone ripped through to his bones, as unsettling as a bank alarm. Moving quick, his hand landed on the extension.
During his drive to the shops earlier, he’d considered the phone and the problems surprise calls could cause. If one of Laura’s friends contacted her, it wouldn’t take long for inconsistencies to rise and questions to flare in both parties’ minds. Laura didn’t need to be backed into a corner, faced with a reality that seemed Hitchcock-esque given what she could and could not remember. Prodding was far different to someone knocking you for a complete loop during a phone call.
Driving back, he’d decided to intercept calls, not to keep Laura from her friends and others who cared, but to forewarn of the situation and ask that they tread lightly for now. Eventually, Laura would check emails. Oddities like Swan Lake playing rather than The Nutcracker would become more obvious. Dates wouldn’t mesh, like the dates he worried she might see on the web when trying to book those tickets. Soon there’d be questions. Ultimately, as she needed to know and was ready to hear, there’d be answers.
But for now …
His hand still on the receiver, he said, “I’m expecting a call.” Then to divert her, “Is that scones I smell warming?”
Leaping up, she cursed and sprinted out. “I forgot.”
Waiting until her padding down the hall quieted, he answered the call. He should’ve known who it would be.
“How are things going?”
He exhaled and a measure of his tension dissolved. Grace.
He ran a finger over a tiny crystal clock. “Not as bad as I thought.”
“She hasn’t remembered?”
“Not a thing that I can tell.”
“I should probably come up and see her.”
Or not.
“That’s up to you.”
“But you’d rather I stay away.”
Smirking, he pushed the clock back. “You can read me like a book.” He liked as much distance between himself and Grace as possible.
“But she’s happy?”
He imagined Laura in the kitchen she loved, drawing the scones from the oven then finding those special little spoons she saved for serving jam. She made the best jam.
He surrendered to a smile. “Very happy.”
There was a long pause. Bishop could imagine Grace smoothing her French roll. “I hope she’ll understand when this is all over.”
“Depends on who ends up sticking around. This Laura or the one who couldn’t wait to see the back of me.”
“Did I hear my name mentioned?”
Bishop’s heart squeezed to his throat and he spun around. Laura held a tray with scones, whipped butter, jam and those tiny silver spoons. From the open look on her face, she hadn’t heard too much.
He hoped his smile didn’t look manufactured. “Your sister.”
Her eyes rounded playfully and she stage whispered, “You’re having a conversation with Grace?”
“About your condition.”
“My fall?” He nodded. “If it gets you two talking at last, it was worth it.” Setting the tray down, she accepted the phone. “Hey, Grace. How’re you doing? Oh, I’m fine.” She gave Bishop a wink and angled toward the window view. “Better than fine.”
Unable to pass, he dabbed some homemade jam on a scone and bit into the doughy sweetness. Grace would keep Laura on the phone for a while. He didn’t need to listen in.
He wandered out from her office, his gaze skimming the same surrealist paintings that had frequented the hallway walls when he’d left. Further on, he took stock of the kitchen, its polished granite benches and gleaming utensils that Laura had taken such pride in when making those superb dinners she whipped up seemingly out of thin air.
He stopped beneath the ornate arch that led to the main living room. Same chintz couches, crafted timber furniture and grand fireplace, which they’d spent so many evenings cuddled up in front of, she reading a bestseller, he browsing over papers from work. In the beginning they’d felt so relaxed together and yet the steady thrum of excitement had always been there, too. A buzz that not only connected them, but drew them irreversibly, magnetically near.
Those were the best days of his life.
His gaze inched along the knickknacks on the marble mantelpiece … silver candlesticks, some ballerina figurines, a cup she must have accidentally left there. His eye line drifted higher. Then his heart stopped beating.
Their wedding photo was gone.
And why wouldn’t it be? This was her house. They’d lived separate lives for over a year. His bet was she’d used the photograph as fuel for the fire. But then she’d kept his clothes and wedding ring. Maybe the photo was stored away, too.
More immediately, what would this Laura say when she realized the picture she adored was missing?
He swung an urgent glance around. Should he hunt in some cupboards, try to find and hang it back up before she noticed? Or would seeing the photo missing press a necessary button to jump-start her memory?
Although what had just happened between them should have sent up some flags.
