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“Sam? I was hoping you’d phone this weekend. You’ve been busy?”
“You could say that.”
As usual, she was understanding. “There’s still most of Sunday left.”
He cursed himself. He’d never felt more like a heel, but there was no way around it.
“Look, this is probably not a conversation we should have over the phone. But …” His gaze wandered over the bush, the gazebo, the setting that used to be so much a part of his life and seemed to be again for however long. “I’m afraid this can’t wait.”
“Something’s wrong?”
“I told you I’d been married.”
“Yes … you said it ended badly.”
“Thing is, Laura, my ex, had an accident Friday.”
He imagined Annabelle’s long dark lashes batting as she took that in and then her eyes widening as she made a likely assumption. “You’re with her now?”
“I took her home from the hospital.”
“You’re … patching things up?”
“It’s complicated.” He rubbed his brow. Really, really complicated.
“But you’re together?” Her tone was less fragile now.
He answered as honestly as he could. In a sense… “Yes.”
He waited as Annabelle no doubt composed herself. But she sounded calm when she spoke. Understanding, even. She’d make someone a great wife someday.
“Then I guess there’s nothing more to say.”
“Except, I’m sorry.”
“Can I ask you not to lose my number, you know, in case things don’t work out?”
“Sure. I’ll do that.”
But as he hung up, Bishop knew he wouldn’t contact Annabelle again. Not because things would work out between him and Laura; he was damn close to certain it wouldn’t. But because if they saw each other again, Annabelle would always wonder whether he was thinking about his ex. If he were in her position he might do the same.
Besides, Annabelle deserved someone who could offer her a future and Bishop hadn’t been after commitment even before Friday’s incident.
And so another short chapter in his life was closed, while the case of the amnesiac ex was still wide-open.
As he slotted the phone away, his nose picked up on an aroma that came from the kitchen. Butter melting in a pan.
It was Sunday. Tradition decreed they have brunch on this porch. Hash browns and bacon, pancakes and maple syrup, or their old favorite, eggs Benedict? No matter which, from experience he knew the meal would be mouth-watering.
Bishop moved inside, thinking how easy it’d be to slip back into this lifestyle … if Laura remained this Laura and they could work their issues out. But it was dangerous to think that way. Yes, he’d had the best sex ever last night with his ex. He knew no complaints would be coming from her quarter. But relationships were about a whole lot more than physical attraction and sexual gratification. If he’d understood that over two years ago, he’d have held off asking Laura to marry him.
He hated to admit it, but snooty Grace was right. He’d fallen in love so hard and so fast he hadn’t spared the time to think things through. Amazing, given his stellar track record regarding decision making.
He moved down the hall and as that delicious hot butter smell grew, so did his concern.
In sleeping with Laura last night he’d set a precedent. This afternoon they were off to Sydney, and she would expect them to make love again tonight. And he couldn’t deny that he wanted to do just that. More to the point, if she didn’t get her memory back between now and then, he knew that he would.
Seven
“Sam Bishop? Is that you?”
In response to the male voice at their backs, Laura pulled up at the same time Bishop swung around. A smile breaking on his face, Bishop offered his hand to the jovial-looking man striding up.
“Robert Harrington.” Bishop shook the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Mr. Harrington, a rotund man in an extralarge dinner suit, arched a wry brow. “Enjoying the ballet, son?”
Bishop tugged an ear. “It’s … lively.”
The man chuckled as if to say he understood. Obviously, Robert Harrington wasn’t a Swan Lake fan, either.
Earlier, on the heels of their Sunday morning eggs Benedict tradition, she and Bishop had journeyed to Sydney and, after strolling around the Rocks, one of Sydney’s most historic harbor-side suburbs, had checked into their Darling Harbor residence, a five-star-hotel three-bedroom penthouse Bishop used if business kept him in the city during the week. Soaking up the sunshine on the balcony and watching the boat activity on the sparkling blue waters below had absorbed the rest of their lazy afternoon. They’d arrived at the Opera House with barely enough time to be seated. Five minutes ago they’d joined the rest of the Opera Theater’s glittering crowd to partake of refreshments during intermission.
Their seats could have been better, but Laura wouldn’t complain. It was the thrill of the experience she adored. Her mother had introduced her to the theater, in all its guises, at an early age. She’d dreamed of perfecting pointe work and pirouettes and one day starring in the Australian Ballet. But professional ballerinas were superb athletes; heart conditions, even mild ones, weren’t the norm. So Laura, along with Grace on occasion, had been content to enjoy a number of magical performances as enthusiastic spectators.
Laura wished Bishop shared her love of the art form, but she was only grateful he hadn’t bleated on about coming along; a lot of men might suggest their wives take a friend while they chilled out at a football match or poker game. But Bishop was one of the most supportive people she’d ever known.
That’s why she was certain they could work out this difference regarding how to start their family. When he truly understood how important having her own child was to her—when he evaluated the risks from a less, well, paranoid point of view—he would come around. He’d support her, as he always had. This time next year, they might even be singing lullabies to their firstborn.
Boy or girl, she’d be beyond happy with either. Or both.
Laura put those thoughts aside as she smiled a greeting at this middle-aged couple. Wherever they went, it seemed Bishop bumped into someone he knew. Why should a night at the Opera House be any different?
“You haven’t met my wife.” Robert Harrington turned to a lithe, graceful-looking woman. “Shontelle, this is Samuel Bishop. We had business dealings a year back.”
“Pleased to meet you, Samuel.” Shontelle’s pearl-and-diamond necklace sparkled under the lights as the chattering crowd wove around them. Laura waited. Bishop was usually prompt with introductions but, for once, he missed a beat.
Taking the initiative, she introduced herself. “Pleased to meet you, Robert, Shontelle. I’m Laura.”
While Shontelle returned the greeting, Robert scratched his receding hairline. “Laura … Sam, wasn’t that your wife’s name?”
Her cheeks pinking up, Shontelle delivered her husband’s ribs a silencing nudge.
But Laura only laughed. “Not was. Is.”
Robert’s eyebrows shot up and his smile returned. “Well, that’s great.” He clapped Bishop’s tuxedo-clad shoulder heartily. “Great to see you together.”
The two couples bantered on a few minutes more, then went their separate ways. She and Bishop found a relatively quiet corner in the bustling room, away from the heart of the glitter and constant clink of glasses.
Laura spoke over the rim of her champagne flute before she sipped. “That was strange.”
“Strange?”
She imitated Robert Harrington’s baritone. “Wasn’t that your wife’s name? Didn’t you think that was odd?”
Bishop raised his glass in a salute. “Guess we should get out more often.”
“You know what else is strange? I’ve lost weight. I’ve been the same weight for years but now this dress is big on me.”
“It looks beautiful on you. You probably just haven’t worn it for a while.”
She examined the fall of her red evening dress. The bodice was highlighted by black lace inlays and the back decorated with multiple ribbon crisscross ties, which she’d drawn tightly to compensate for her leaner figure.
“I wore it a month ago to that business dinner in Melbourne, remember?”
His chin lifted the barest amount. She could have sworn his eyes narrowed as his gaze roamed her face.
“What else do you remember?”
He hadn’t finished the sentence before that northern footbridge flashed to mind. Then she remembered the hospital, thinking that she was pregnant. She remembered the doctor, the test, the tears—
Laura sucked back a quick breath then, blinking into her champagne flute, frowned.
There hadn’t been any tears. She’d been disappointed that the pregnancy test was negative, but also grateful she hadn’t risked a baby’s well-being when she’d taken her tumble. She remembered being so happy to see her husband and wondering at his odd behavior … that Bishop hadn’t come and embraced her straight away. It had taken a little while for him to thaw, even when they’d gotten home. But last night, he’d been as loving as ever.
So why this gnawing, niggling feeling at the back of her brain all of a sudden? A wavering sense that something, somewhere, between them was missing? Robert Harrington’s curious comment hadn’t helped.
Wasn’t that your wife’s name?
“Laura, are you okay?”
Bishop’s deep voice hauled her back. He was looking at her intently, his brows drawn. And the bell was ringing, calling them back to their seats. Feeling off balance, she slid her flute onto a nearby ledge.
Was she okay?
Willing the faint dizziness away, she pinned up her smile. “Absolutely fine. I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of the ballet.”
As they moved back through the crowd, the bell ringing low and persistent, Bishop threaded his jacketed arm through hers. She always felt so proud walking beside him. People noticed her husband—not only his movie star looks, but that unconscious quality that radiated off him like crackling heat off a fire … a vibrant warmth that was inviting and yet also potentially dangerous. Instinct told people you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Samuel Bishop. Not that they would ever be on opposing sides. Their difference of opinion on how to start a family didn’t count. As she’d told Grace, they’d work that out.
“You didn’t have much for dinner,” he said as they climbed the carpeted stairs behind the slow-shifting throng. “We’ll order some supper when we get in.”
One part of her wanted to go straight back to the apartment, make love and then order a cheese platter and a fruity wine to savor throughout the night. Another part wanted to eke out as much of this dazzling evening as she could. Bishop was right. They did need to get out more.
“Let’s walk back to the apartment,” she suggested as they arrived at their gate. “We can stop for a bite on the way.”
He flicked a suspect glance at her red high heels. “In those shoes?”
Teasing, she bumped her hip to his. “These shoes deserve to be shown off.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, the bell stopped ringing and the theater lights dimmed. “Then shown off they shall be.”
Laura didn’t want to tell Bishop she hadn’t remembered buying the shoes … like that handbag … like forgetting she’d slipped off her rings before Grace had driven her to hospital. In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have mentioned she thought she’d lost weight. But they were trivial bits and pieces that would filter back in time. And when they did, no doubt this annoying niggling—that there’s something missing feeling—would up and fly away.
After the curtain had dropped and thunderous applause faded, he and Laura left the theater to stroll down the many Opera House steps, then along the boardwalk.
The night was mild and still bubbling with life—buskers strumming, tourists milling, night owls taking advantage of the round-the-clock restaurants. Laura was praising the prima ballerina’s performance in the last act when Bishop’s step slowed out front of an open-air café. Cozy tables dotted a timber deck that overlooked dark harbor waters awash with milky ribbons of moonlight. The coffee smelled out-of-this-world good.
“How are the heels holding up?” he asked. “Your feet need a rest?”
“I vote chocolate cheesecake.”
His gaze flicked from the dessert display window to her knowing eyes, and he laughed softly. She was well aware of his sweet tooth and he was aware of hers.
“With two scoops of ice cream?” he suggested.
Her hand in his, she tugged him toward the tables. “Done.”
He pulled out a chair for her by a roped railing, and a waitress took their orders.
“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?” Laura asked casually as she skimmed the ballet’s keepsake program for the tenth time. But despite the casual tone, Bishop knew she was already wishing the morning away. He’d worked long hours when they’d been married. Still did. She’d always dreaded Monday mornings when he left her to travel to his office in the city.
“Actually, I’m having a couple of days off.”
Her eyes popped. “You never have time off.”
“I’m sure I had time off for our honeymoon.” A glorious week cruising the Greek islands. Santorini, Mykonos. The days had been brilliant. The nights were even better.
“Honeymoons are compulsory as far as vacations are concerned.” Her finger, trailing his left jacket sleeve, ended its journey by circling that shiny gold band. Her voice took on a note of doubt. “Are you sure the company’s not in any trouble?”
“If it were, I’d be chained to my desk.” He poured two glasses from the water carafe. “Trust me, Bishop Scaffolds is stronger than ever.”
The worry, pinching her brows, eased and she raised her water glass. “Well, then, here’s to a good long sleep in.”
While she sighed over how romantic the twinkling bridge looked with a full yellow moon crowning its arch, Bishop made a mental note to text Willis; the boss wouldn’t be in until at least Tuesday. From there he’d take each day as it came. Willis was more than competent to handle the day-to-day grind. As for the parties who were inquiring about purchasing the company …
Bishop flicked out his napkin as the cake arrived.
If the potential buyers were keen, they’d wait a few days.
They’d each enjoyed a first succulent taste of slow baked heaven when an elderly gentleman sporting an olive green beret presented himself with a flourishing bow at their table. He carried a battered easel. Two pencils sat balanced behind one ear.
“Would your wife care for a portrait?” the gentleman asked with a heavy French accent.
Bishop smiled dismissively. He liked his privacy.
“I don’t think—”
“She’d love one,” Laura piped up, before sucking chocolate sauce off her thumb and sitting straighter. “She’d love one of the both of us.”
