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“You don’t remember who I am.”
“No, I’m sorry. But don’t take offense. I don’t remember anyone.” She swallowed hard and felt emotion clog her throat.
“Not even Brady?”
“Should I?”
“Oh, dear, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you things.”
Clare shrugged. “That’s not exactly true. The doctor said to make sure I don’t get too much information at once. But familiar people and objects are supposed to jog my memory. It’s already happened some.”
After a hesitation, the woman nodded. “I’m Delia Kramer, from the first floor.”
“We’re neighbors.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And friends?”
“Ah…yes.”
“Could a friend fix me some coffee?” She glanced back at the house. “I didn’t go in the kitchen yet. I’m afraid to.”
Delia came out of the garden. “I’m sorry, Clare. That must be hard for you.”
A flash of recognition of this woman listening to her and comforting her. “Did you always know what I was thinking? How I was feeling?”
“At one point in our lives.”
Confused by the comment, Clare was about to ask for an explanation, but Delia started walking toward the house and Clare fell into step alongside her. “I came to the hospital when you were in a coma. But the doctors didn’t want too many visitors after you awakened.” Another pause. “I sent flowers, carnations. Your favorites.”
Clare smiled. “That’s why I liked them so much.”
In truth, Clare had wondered why no one had visited but Brady and Jonathan. There were flowers from others, none of whom she remembered, and a few calls after she woke up. Her sister had phoned a couple of times from France. She’d cried when Clare didn’t remember her, and often had tears in her voice when she called back. Damn it, how could you not remember your own flesh and blood?
When they arrived at Delia’s first floor condo, they went in through a set of French doors leading into a kitchen, which was roomy with warm wood everywhere. Because it seemed right, Clare took a stool at the island instead of the breakfast nook. Delia assembled the coffee and when it began to drip, turned around. This time, her expression was pained.
“What’s wrong, Delia?”
“It’s just that I haven’t seen you at my kitchen island in a long time.”
“No? You said we were friends. And we live in the same building.”
“I—let’s talk about something else. Your hair looks great short.”
“Please, just tell me that one thing. Why haven’t I been here in a while?”
Delia leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “You got really busy with your cookbooks and TV show.”
“But we were close before that?”
“Yes, we were college roommates, then you went to culinary school, and I got my master’s degree. I’m an elementary school teacher, now.”
“My sister’s a teacher, too.”
“I know. Cathy and I have a lot in common. Anyway, you were maid of honor in my wedding. After you finished your training, you moved here when a condo opened up because we owned one.” She glanced over at a picture by the window. “You don’t remember anything? Anyone?” Her voice caught on the last word.
“I have flashes. I knew I used to sit at the island.” She frowned. “So I must have been here a lot.” When Delia just stared at her, Clare nodded to the photo. “Is that your husband?”
“Excuse me for a minute.” Her voice quivered and Delia disappeared into what looked like a powder room off the kitchen.
Standing, Clare crossed to the window and picked up the picture. It was of a man in army fatigues. Closely cropped hair. Dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked so young and handsome and hopeful. Oh my God, he was dead. She knew what had happened.
Delia had been at the computer when Clare had come in through the front door and into this kitchen. She remembered how bereft she’d felt but knew she had to be strong for her friend…
“HEY,” DELIA SAID. “I’m e-mailing Don, but I don’t know how to begin.” Her hand went to her stomach. “How do you tell somebody thousands of miles away he’s going to be a daddy? He’ll be happy, though.” She frowned. “Damn that army reserve. I told him he never should have signed on. He’d be here…”
Finally she looked up. Her face sobered. “Clare, what…” She stood and hurried over to her friend. “What is it, what’s happened?”
“Dee, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The army people, I saw them outside approaching the front door. I told them I was your friend. I insisted they tell me first…so you wouldn’t be alone…”
A knock on the door, as loud as a gunshot.
“What is it?” Delia’s fingers bit into Clare’s arm. “What is it?”
“Honey, I’m sorry. Don’s dead…”
CLARE RECALLED WHAT she wished she hadn’t…crying through the whole official announcement, days of grim reality, nights of holding her friend while she sobbed out her pain. But Delia had gotten through it, with the help of Brady, Clare and someone else. The guy helping Brady carry the couch, the guy from the garden.
Now, however, Clare felt the loss all over again. It was as if someone she knew and loved had just died, making Clare take in a quick breath.
She heard Delia move behind her. “What are you doing?”
Setting down the frame, Clare turned around. “I remember. I’m so sorry.”
“You look so sad. Do you remember Don himself?”
“No, just when we found out he was killed in action and how I felt then.”
Delia shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. I’ll try harder.”
Delia swallowed hard. “I appreciated all you did for me, Clare. I couldn’t have gotten through his death and the aftermath without you.”
Which must have made their estrangement even harder. With that thought came pain behind her eyes. Briefly, she closed them and was able to will it away.
The coffee finished dripping. Delia poured them each a mug and brought both to the counter, where Clare reseated herself. Then Delia removed vanilla-flavored International Delight from the refrigerator and sat down. Clare picked up the bottle and poured some of the sweet liquid into her coffee.
“You knew that was for you?” Delia asked.
“Uh-huh. Do you want to talk more about Don?”
“No, I want to change the subject.”
“Then, yes, I knew this was for me. Sometimes I just know things. It’s all so odd.”
“What does it feel like? Not remembering?”
“Very scary. And unsafe.” She swallowed hard and massaged her temples. “When I try to remember, I get pain in my head. But some of what I recall since I came home yesterday is comforting. And smells trigger mostly good stuff.”
“You have a lot to deal with.”
“Especially alone.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without Donny.”
“Your son.” A flash of red hair and freckles filled her mind. “I remember what he looks like. Is he here?”
“No, every June when he gets out of school, he goes to stay with Don’s parents for a while. I miss him, but it’s good for them.”
“Tell me about him.”
Delia had her laughing out loud at the precocious seven-year-old’s antics when the French doors to the kitchen opened.
“If this isn’t a sight for sore eyes.”
Delia smiled warmly at Brady. More warmly than she’d originally greeted Clare. “Isn’t it? Just like old times.”
Stepping inside, Brady kissed Delia on the cheek, then touched Clare’s shoulder. He smelled even more familiar—she knew that cologne—making her lean toward him. He looked good, too, in jeans and a navy-blue shirt tucked in at the waist. Brady Langston kept in shape.
“Good morning. Are you all right?”
“Yes, I woke about eight. Delia was in the garden, and somehow we ended up here.”
Delia had gone to the counter, poured another cup of coffee and added sugar. She served it to Brady and they exchanged a meaningful look. “Thanks, Dee.”
Clare didn’t have her memory back, but she knew certain things. Entering a house without knocking, a nickname, being served coffee without asking how it was taken and sharing pointed glances all indicated intimacy.
Apparently Delia and Brady had stayed close while Clare had grown apart from them. She wished she could remember why.
BRADY SAT AT THE DRAFTING table in his home office and stared at the walls, bookshelves and computer. On his desk sat the page proofs of one book to go over, and the beginning of another was in front of him. But right now, all he could think about was Clare.
After he found her at Delia’s, they talked over coffee. Mostly she was comfortable, until something came up that she didn’t remember. Then she’d get agitated and, worse, fearful. He couldn’t stand watching her be afraid. After a while, he suggested a walk and she seemed to be itching for exercise. Why not? She’d never sat still for a minute before, even if she didn’t remember that. Two long weeks in a hospital bed had decreased her strength and stamina but not her desire to move.
As they walked, she peppered him with questions about the Kramers, and he tried to fill her in the best he could. Don’s death was still hard for him to talk about, even though he’d known the guy the shortest period of time. Brady had moved into the old house ten years ago when the others were all settled in. He soon came to love Don, like they did. And like Max and Clare, Brady had been devastated for a long time after their friend died.
Such grim thoughts often came these days when he was alone. He dragged himself up from the chair and walked into the living room. He’d insisted he and Clare leave their doors open in case she needed him. When he reached the front of his condo, he smiled at his own whimsy of creating the birds, which were supposed to represent the five of them. He fingered the goldfinch, Clare, who’d flown the coop. Shaking his head, he stepped into the hall. No sounds from her place. He went back to work, sat at the drafting table, and was just getting into Raoul the Rat and Millie the Mouse when the phone rang. Caller ID told him it was his agent, which was the only reason he answered.
“Brady? Hi, it’s Leo.”
“Hey, Leo.”
“How’s Clare doing?”
“Better. She’s home. I’m on watch this afternoon, but she’s sleeping, so guess where I am?”
“Please, tell me you’re in your office.”
“I am. And Millie and Raoul got one more page.”
“Thank God. The publisher’s breathing down my neck. They gave the extension, but begrudgingly.”
“Thanks, Leo.”
But what could they do anyway? Brady worked at his own pace and did things in his own time frame. It used to drive his workaholic ex-wife Gail crazy. He was successful though, and their marriage had struggled along a bumpy road until tragedy struck and Brady’s whole life turned upside down.
“Did you hear me, Brady?”
Not exactly. His mind went where it always did these days. “Something about a delivery date.”
“Funny.”
“I don’t know when it’ll be done, Leo. I’ve promised to help out with Clare. I want to.”
“You’re in a perfect position to do that. You work at home, she’s next door.” A pause. “You sure there’s nothing going on between you two other than friendship?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sure.”
There was a knock on his open door, and then a “Yo…”
“Someone’s here. I gotta go.”
“Scan and e-mail me what you’ve done.”
“You know I don’t like to do that, Leo.”
“It’ll calm my nerves.”
“Take a Valium.” Max appeared at his door, and Brady motioned for him to wait.
“Come on. I need a Millie and Raoul fix.”
“Maybe. Talk to you soon.”
After he clicked off, he stood and faced his longtime friend, Max Mason, whom he’d known since high school, when they’d hung out together and avoided playing football. Max was big enough to compete, though, with the build of a linebacker. Brady had based a character on him once, Mixy, the huge lovable rat. Max feigned outrage, but Brady had seen a few copies of the book on his buddy’s shelf.
They hugged like men do—a bear clasp and pats on the back. Brady had always been grateful for Max’s friendship, especially in the past year.
