Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series)

by Samantha Christy

  Donovan puts a gentle hand on Sara’s arm. “Please don’t get upset if going home doesn’t help the memories return. You know what all your doctors have said. I don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”

  “I know. I know,” Sara says. “My memory is most likely gone for good. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try, right?” She looks at me. “You’ll help, won’t you, Denver? Oliver says he’ll take me to some of my favorite places. The doctors don’t want me to leave town just yet, not until I’ve had the feeding tube removed and I’m done with all my therapy, but there are lots of things we can do around town to try and spark my memory. You’ll go with me, too. Won’t you?”

  Oliver steps back into the room. “I’m quite sure Denver has better things to do than follow us around the city chasing your memories.”

  Sara looks sadly at the floor.

  “Besides,” he says. “The doctors say the best thing you can do is try to get back to your normal daily routine.”

  “How can I get back to my normal daily routine if I have to come back here for outpatient therapy every day?” Sara asks.

  “Even so,” Oliver says, “I’m sure Denver is eager to get back to his.”

  Sara’s eyes find mine. I can see her struggling. But who am I to say Oliver is wrong? She should get back to her life. She should get back to her fiancé. I’d just be in the way of all that.

  “That’s not what we agreed upon, Ollie,” Sara says.

  Sara is upset.

  Oliver looks frustrated.

  “You know I’m trying,” she says. “I’m trying to be the person you want me to be. And I appreciate the patience you’ve shown me. But we agreed that Denver would be in my life. In our lives. He’s my friend. Maybe even my best friend. I’ll go home with you, but he’s free to come over whenever he likes.” She looks over at me. “That is if he wants to.”

  “Of course I want to,” I say. “I’ll help in any way I can. We all just want what’s best for you, Sara.”

  She nods, relieved. “Good. Then I guess I’m ready to go home.”

  Oliver picks up the box of her art supplies and grabs her small suitcase, rolling it towards the door.

  Sara makes her way around the room, hugging Donovan, Joelle, and me.

  Donovan wipes a tear that escapes his eye. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’ll still get to see you every day.”

  Sara’s eyes are wet, too. It must be hard for her to leave the one place she feels safe. “Thank you all,” she says. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

  She’s speaking to everyone, but she’s only looking at me.

  “We’ll see you soon,” I say.

  Sara stops in the doorway, looking around the empty room before her eyes catch mine again. She looks at me the way she did the night we met. Her eyes hold mine just like they did in the mirror. She’s scared. She has no idea what’s coming next.

  “Come on, hun,” I hear Oliver say from the hallway.

  Sara gives me a sad smile. And then she turns and walks away. Of course she does. She might be afraid of going home. She may be worried about her future. But she’s also the strongest woman I’ve ever met.

  Joelle picks up a book off the table. “She forgot this. I’ll just run it out to her.”

  I back up until my calves hit the chair behind me. I sit down and take a deep breath.

  Donovan sits on the end of the bed and studies me for a minute. “You keep saying you want what’s best for her,” he says. “But did you ever stop to think that what’s best for her is you?”

  Part Two

  Sara

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “When you’re ready.” I hear Oliver’s voice swim around in my head as I put away the negligees he gave me as my coming home gift last night.

  He was the perfect gentleman. As promised, he slept on the couch. He didn’t ask me to model his purchases. He didn’t do anything more than give me a soft kiss goodnight.

  In my closet, I look through my clothes. I know they’re mine, but it feels like they’re someone else’s. In the corner, however, there is a collection of paint-splattered shirts and yoga pants. I must wear these when I work. I sift through them and pick out something to wear, feeling comfortable for the first time since arriving home last night.

  Home.

  I shake my head because when I think of that word, all I can see is the house I grew up in or the rehab center I lived in for three weeks. Three weeks—that’s all it took for me to consider it a safe place. Maybe that’s all it will take here as well.

  I run my hand along Oliver’s dress shirts, hung neatly along one side of the closet, and I wonder if that’s how long it will take for me to consider him a safe place.

  I wander through the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets to get the feel of my new surroundings. I look at the photos displayed on our bookshelves, hoping I might discover something about myself. Praying something will spark my memory against all odds.

  Then I spy the bag containing Denver’s gifts. I pull out the journal and turn it over in my hands. Suddenly, I find myself searching the apartment for a diary. I remember keeping one as a child. Maybe I kept one as an adult, too.

  I go back into the bedroom and rifle through my dresser drawers, sneezing at the dust I unsettle. I get down on my knees, something that isn’t as easy as it used to be, and feel under the mattress, hoping my hand will come out with the answers I’m searching for—the missing links to the past three years of my life. But nothing.

  Then I search my studio, but somehow, during my search, my desire to find a diary is overtaken by my need to paint. I stand in the center of the room, inhaling the intoxicating scent I’ve loved since I was a little girl. And just like the old, spattered clothes I’m wearing, this is where I’m comfortable.

  I run my hand along the old door from my parents’ house, closing my eyes as I remember them. Thank God I didn’t lose all my memories. I look at one of the pictures on my studio wall, one I remember painting shortly after they died. It’s the one of them holding me as a baby, right after they adopted me. They looked so happy.

  Inspiration strikes and I put a blank canvas up on the easel. I get my paints and brushes ready and get lost in my creation.

  “That’s lovely,” I hear Oliver say as he startles me from behind. “What is it?”

  I shake my head, not really knowing the answer to his question. “Just something I wanted to paint,” I say. My stomach grumbles and I look at the clock, realizing I lost track of time and have been in here for the better part of the day.

  I watch his face as he stares at the painting.

  “I know you don’t think my paintings are good, Ollie.”

  He pulls me to his side. “You’re recovering, Sara. It’s understandable that it will take time to gain all your abilities back.” He kisses my head. “And I do think it’s good.”

  “Just not great,” I say.

  “Does it still make you happy to paint?” he asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Then that’s all that matters, isn’t it? You don’t need the money. You never did. Whether or not you ever sell another painting, you’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

  “Do you really think so?” I ask, turning to look up at him. “I mean, truly, in your heart, do you think everything will be okay?”

  “I know it will be,” he says confidently.

  He grabs my hand and leads me back into the living room. I sit on the couch, realizing just how exhausted I am from painting all afternoon.

  “How do you know, Ollie?” I study him as he loosens his tie and takes a seat next to me. Then I add, “Why do you love me?”

  He looks surprised by my question. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I really want to know,” I say. “Apparently, I’m a raging bitch, so what is it about me that made you love me? Do you just love raging bitches?”

  He laughs, stretching his legs out and putting his feet up on the coffee table. �
��No, I don’t love raging bitches,” he says. “You weren’t that way with me. In public, you might have been a pretentious artist, but when we were together, you were lovely. I’m not saying you were perfect. Lord knows I’m not either. But we were perfect together.”

  “We were?”

  “We will be again,” he says. “You just need to give it time.”

  I pull a pillow onto my lap. “But how can you be sure? I don’t really know you, Ollie. It’s hard to explain, but you’re this person who’s in love with someone I don’t even think I am anymore. How do you know you can love the person I am now?”

  “Because we’re soulmates, luv. And when two people are meant to be together, nothing can stand in their way.”

  He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and it makes me think of Denver, who did that very same thing just a few days ago. I close my eyes, my heart wanting the man next to me to be the man who rescued me, but my head knowing he can’t be.

  Give it time, I tell myself.

  “So, do you feel up to cooking, or shall we ring for some takeout?”

  My eyes fly open and I ask hesitantly, “I … cook?”

  “You adore cooking.” He waves his hand around the apartment as if showcasing it. “The kitchen is one of the reasons you love this place. And the doctors said you should try to get back to your normal daily routine.”

  “You’re going to have to tell me just what that is,” I say.

  “Yes, I suppose I will. Do you want a run-through?”

  “Please. What was a typical day like for me?”

  “Well, let’s see. I suppose it would start off with a bit of a good shag,” he says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “You always did prefer a morning shag to an evening one.”

  I feel myself blush. “Then what?” I ask.

  “Then you’d make breakfast, which was usually cappuccino and a bagel, or something to that effect. Then you’d throw on something like you’re wearing now, and I wouldn’t see you until dinner when you’d emerge fresh from a shower, usually wearing something stunning. You’d cook us dinner. Something brilliant. Sometimes we’d go out. Sometimes we’d go clubbing. Sometimes you’d go off with your mates and I’d go off with mine.”

  “I thought I didn’t have any friends,” I say.

  “You have friends. Lots of them.”

  “But why didn’t anyone show up for me? Why hasn’t anyone called?”

  “Because your friends are just as pretentious as you were, hun. And I suspect none of them want to believe that what happened to you could happen to them.”

  “Joelle said we traveled a lot.”

  He nods. “We did. We do. I’m just sorry the doctor has restricted you from flying.”

  I shake my head in confusion. “Where would I even go?” I ask. “I’m not doing those kinds of paintings anymore.”

  “To England, I suppose. You loved it there.”

  “I did?”

  “You said it was your favorite place on earth.”

  I close my eyes. “I wish I could remember.”

  “I know you do. And maybe you will. Maybe you’ll prove those doctors wrong. But for now, you need to eat and keep up your strength for therapy. One day off to get acclimated to being home is all they allowed. What time do you get started tomorrow?”

  “I have to be there from ten until three.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t take you. Duty calls.”

  “I know. Denver said he’d take me.”

  “He did, did he?” Oliver looks irritated. “He does know that your legs do work now, right? That you’re not poorly and you’re perfectly capable of getting yourself a cab?”

  I narrow my eyes at him.

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, fine. I know we agreed he could help. But you need to understand that I don’t take rightly to another man spending so much time with my fiancée.”

  “Duly noted,” I say.

  He takes my hand. “You know I’d be there for you if I could. I have a job to keep. I know you pay most of our bills, but I like to contribute where I can.”

  “I pay most of our bills?”

  He laughs. “Have you seen your bank account, luv?”

  I shake my head. “Actually, no.”

  “Well, do take a peek. It’s quite brilliant. So, what do you say, do you want to buy us dinner?”

  I look back at the kitchen. “No. I’d like to make it. The doctor said I need to get back to my regular routine. Do we have food?”

  “We do,” he says proudly. “I even picked up some meat at the market.”

  “You did?”

  He nods. “Why don’t you start off with something easy like pasta?”

  “I think I can do that.”

  I start to get up off the couch, careful not to put too much weight on my left foot, but Oliver pulls me back down and I fall onto his lap.

  “Now that’s more like it,” he says, wiggling beneath me. “I rather like having you in my arms.” He cups his hands around my face. “I’m going to kiss you now, Sara. And you’re going to let me, because it’s part of the routine.”

  I close my eyes and nod. And I let him kiss me. I let him kiss me because everyone has told me that’s what I need to do. I let him kiss me because I’m hoping it will evoke a memory, a spark, a tiny twinge—anything that will be a reminder of why I fell in love with Oliver Compton.

  So then why, when I feel his lips against mine, do I only crave one thing? The lips that taste of pepperoni.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The doorbell rings and I smile. I knew he was coming. The doorman called me to let me know he was on his way up. But still, my heart leaps when I hear the bell. And he’s early—somehow that makes it even better.

  I’ve barely seen Denver over the past week. There was the baseball game and the farewell party, but neither of those places were times we could really talk. I found myself getting excited about the cab ride to physical therapy today. For at least twenty whole minutes, we can have uninterrupted conversation. No Oliver lurking over my shoulder. No Nora possessively holding Denver’s hand. No cousins or therapists to eavesdrop. Just the two of us.

  I check myself in the mirror once again. My clothes aren’t anything special. I’m going to PT, after all. But I did find myself taking extra time to apply makeup this morning.

  I open the door to see Denver holding a box full of candy. “I wasn’t sure which kind you’d like, so I got a little of everything. We have to fatten you up.”

  I laugh, taking the box from him. “Being a woman, I never thought I’d appreciate hearing those words.”

  He steps over the threshold and kisses me on the cheek. The spark I get from his lips momentarily touching my skin is more than what I felt during the make-out session I had with Oliver last night. I will myself to ignore the lingering feeling.

  “Thanks for coming over to take me,” I say.

  “It’s my pleasure. I know I’m early,” he says. “I hope I didn’t catch you in the middle of anything.”

  “In the middle of being lonely,” I say.

  I see his face fall.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to sound so depressing. I guess I just got used to having people around me all day. Even if it was only the staff a lot of the time. I didn’t realize being alone was going to feel so lonely.”

  “I guess there are a lot of things you’ll have to get used to again,” he says.

  I look over at the couch where Oliver kissed me. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “What did you do on your first day home?”

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “I think you painted.”

  “I think you’d be right.”

  “Can I see?”

  “You want to see what I painted yesterday?”

  “I do.”

  I shrug. “Okay, but it’s nothing special.”

  “Everything you paint is something special, Sara.”

  I blush as he follows me back to my studio
. I open the door and gesture to the easel that still holds yesterday’s painting.

  Denver doesn’t say a word, so I look over at him. He looks astonished. His jaw has gone slack and his head tilts to the side as he studies the painting. “My God,” he finally says. “Do you know what this is, Sara?”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “It’s me. My family.”

  “It’s what?” I say, completely taken off guard.

  He can’t seem to peel his eyes away from the painting. He points to the two children rolling down a hill of snow. “This is Aspen and me.” Then he points to the two adults cheering them on through a snowy blizzard. “These are our parents.”

  He finally turns to me. “Sara, this is exactly what I described to you when you were lying in the hospital bed before you woke up.”

  I furrow my brow as I look back at the painting. “It is?”

  “Yes. Right down to the last detail. You heard me while you were sleeping.”

  I shake my head. “But I don’t remember it. I’m not even sure why I painted this. I was thinking about my own parents yesterday and this was the result.”

  “It’s incredible,” he says. “I’m simply in awe of your talent.”

  I smile sadly. “You may be the only one.”

  “Sara, Oliver’s an art dealer. He’s going to be more critical than most. I’m sure you’ll be back up to par in no time at all. And if you aren’t, who cares—because if this isn’t up to par, I’m not sure what the hell is.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” I unclamp the painting from the easel and hand it to him.

  He studies it again. “I’d love to have it. How much do you want for it? I can’t afford your normal price.”

  “It’s yours,” I say. “I’m giving it to you.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. And no arguing. I’m not taking a penny from you, Denver.”

  “Thank you,” he says, tucking the painting under an arm before pulling me into a hug.

  “You’re welcome,” I say, looking up at him.

  I have an awkward moment where I want to stay in his arms but know I shouldn’t. He pulls away before I do. “There’s someplace I want to take you today after physical therapy.”