Memory Lapse

by Kathleen O’Brien

  “Why?” she finally said aloud, her voice pinched and tight from the effort to hold back her misery. She met Drew’s hooded gaze, and finally her thwarted, childish frustration seemed to find a target. “Damn it, Drew, why are you so determined to dissuade me? Don’t you want me to remember what really happened? Don’t you want me to be able to get on with my life?”

  “Of course I do!” Drew jerked away from her, and again the vehemence in his voice surprised her. He paced toward the open steamer trunk, and glaring at it, slammed it shut with his foot. The lid fell in place with a thump, sending the dust motes scattering in terror. “Of course I want you to remember, if you want to—if you can bear to.” He dragged in a deep breath and pitched his voice lower. “But I just don’t think you're ever going to get at the truth this way. I think you've written the whole scenario out ahead of time, according to some pop psychology theory that you find plausible. And I think you're trying to force the pieces of memory to fit into that theory whether they really do or not.”

  He spread his hands, then made frustrated fists in the air, grabbing and crushing some invisible adversary. “Don’t you see the folly of it, Laura? You're going to be so busy trying to prove that prefab idea that you wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you!”

  Somewhere downstairs a door slammed shut, and the vibration jostled the music box just enough to coax one last, pitiful note from it. The high, strange sound hung in the thickened air for several seconds and then was supplanted by Ginger’s throaty tones.

  “Drew,” she called. She made it a two-syllable word.

  He didn’t answer. He and Laura locked gazes, each standing military stiff, two soldiers in a silent war that had been going on far too long. Neither of them blinked.

  Then Laura heard the distant whine of the elevator, descending in answer to Ginger’s impatient finger on the button, no doubt. She’d be up here soon, Laura would bet on that. Ginger’s female instincts were too good to leave Drew alone with his ex-fiancée for long.

  “I know what you're trying to tell me,” Laura said finally, forcing herself to maintain the unsettling eye contact. “I think you're wrong, but I can only promise I'll try to keep an open mind.”

  He didn’t answer her, either. After a couple of seconds, she turned and headed for the door, but paused there, unable to resist one last shot.

  “If it turns out I'm right, though, you'll regret some of the things you've said, Drew. You know you will.”

  His face looked strange in the muted light, and he shook his head slowly. “If it turns out you're right, Laura, if Damian—or anyone—took your virginity away from you thirteen years ago, I swear to God I'll be looking for a good psychiatrist myself.”

  * * *

  ACTUALLY, Drew thought later as he and Ginger were working, or trying to work, on the stock tables, that psychiatrist thing might not be such a bad idea anyway. He could damn sure use some levelheaded, professional advice on what to do now. When he accepted this crazy guard dog assignment, his intentions had been so honorable, and look how thoroughly he’d botched things already.

  He sighed heavily, the numbers in front of him drifting in and out of focus. It was as if he couldn’t think straight anymore. He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to take Laura into his arms and tell her the truth. He wanted to hold her and pet her and lead her back to the tower, to that narrow, waiting cot.

  He had almost done it this morning, when they’d danced to that foolish music box in the attic. For just a minute, she had felt so warm, so...receptive. But then the music had ended, and she had pulled away, the warmth dying, her face closing like a locked door, presenting the blank, unreachable expression he remembered so well from the past. Seeing it, he’d known she was lost to him, so determined not to feel anything that she had almost mystically removed her emotions to some other plane, though her body still stood in front of him.

  It was for the best, he had decided bitterly, looking at her empty face. To be brutally honest, he just didn’t have the heart to start the whole pointless, eviscerating battle over again. He was through with Laura Nolan, thank God, through with all her hang-ups.

  It was just that the emotional back-and-forth was making him crazy. It was turning him into this bossy, bullheaded jerk who couldn’t even have a normal conversation with her without losing his temper. He’d gone up there to tell her lunch was ready, and he’d ended up in her face, barking that all her theories were worthless gibberish, all her efforts in vain. He’d practically had her in tears, for God’s sake.

  But damn it, he knew she was wrong. He knew. No man had ever had sex with Laura Nolan before last night, and he had the memories to prove it. Of course there were other violations, atrocities that wouldn’t necessarily involve taking her virginity....

  “Excuse me, dear Mr. Townsend, sir.” Breaking into his thoughts, Ginger’s tap on his arm was insistent, her drawl playfully incredulous. “Did you really just say you want to invest in the Queen Serena Psychic Institute?”

  Drew looked at her guiltily. His dark thoughts had taken him so far down such twisted mental corridors that he hadn’t even realized she’d asked him anything. “Of course not.”

  “You did, too,” she said, smiling to take the sting out of her contradiction. “I just mentioned that the Queen Serena Psychic Institute seems to have made a bundle last year and maybe we should put some money in it.” She shoved a stack of files out of the way and wriggled her bottom more comfortably on the edge of the desk. “And you distinctly nodded. Vigorously, in fact.”

  “Sorry.” He rubbed his eyes and tried to smile at her. “I guess my mind was somewhere else.”

  “Mars, maybe?” She shook her head, despairing of him. “This is getting to be a habit, you know.”

  “Sorry,” he said again, shutting his eyes and dropping his head against the back of his chair. He was just too tired to keep up with her incessantly playful repartee. He hadn’t had much sleep last night, although of course he couldn’t tell Ginger that.

  Suddenly he felt her long, cool fingers take hold of his hand. She pressed his palm against the silky curve of her upper thigh. The hem of her skirt draped over his knuckles, hiding his fingers, and under his hand he felt the heat of her leg through the fine, tight mesh of her expensive stockings. She wriggled an inch or two closer to him, murmuring something soft and unintelligible.

  The invitation, however, was crystal clear, and Drew was shocked to discover it held absolutely no allure for him. He kept his hand still, working through the implications of that discovery before he did anything precipitate. What the hell was going on here? Why should he suddenly feel squeamish about his relationship with Ginger? Last night with Laura had meant nothing. Nothing. Hadn’t he accepted this morning that the whole insane thing would have to be forgotten, buried like yesterday’s footprints in the snow? Hell, it might as well be a dream.

  And even if this homegrown trauma therapy somehow miraculously worked, if Laura did manage to unkink her sexual knots, there was no reason to believe she would want to come back to Drew. When she was awake and aware, she didn’t even seem to like him very much. For all he knew, there was some doctor-lawyer-Indian-chief back in Boston waiting for her. Perhaps that waiting man was the real reason for her pilgrimage to Winterwalk.

  But even as he listed all the reasons he’d be crazy to break up with Ginger now, Drew felt himself pulling his hand free. Gently, so that it didn’t feel quite like a rejection. But firmly, so that there was no doubt. Because suddenly there was no doubt, not in Drew’s mind. It might be insane—it might be self-destructive. But it was inescapable. He might never have Laura again but, having had her once, he could never settle for what he felt for Ginger.

  Ginger knew instantly what his decision meant. Drew could see it in the brief narrowing of her eyes. But she was slick, he had to give her that. She carved another smile onto her lips and began to talk, her voice as full of syrup and sensuality as ever.

  “You know,” she said, easing off the
desk with a kittenish stretch of her long, lovely legs, “I'm so tired of all this snow I could just about scream, aren’t you? I could really use about a month in the tropics.” She moved to the window, presenting her undeniably attractive backside to Drew for inspection. “You don’t know of anyone in our Bali office who could use a top-notch administrative assistant, do you?”

  He had to smile. “We don’t have a Bali office.”

  She tossed a grin over her shoulder, half-hidden by her long blond hair. “We should get one.”

  “We have one in Miami, though,” he said. “And I hear the administrative assistant down there is going on maternity leave soon.” For a minute Drew marveled at the fortuitous coincidence, and then, when Ginger’s smile broadened, he wondered whether she’d known this already. Was it possible she always kept Plan B in the back of her mind, ready just in case?

  “Miami. Hmm.” She sighed softly, “I was thinking maybe I’d be more useful in the L.A. office. I hear the director down there has just gone through a nasty divorce, and he probably needs someone with lots of experience.”

  The L.A. office. George Bradshaw. Drew dredged his mind for a picture of George. Thirtyish, good-looking, rich. Newly single. Ah... Drew felt himself being neatly maneuvered into place, slid across the chessboard of Ginger’s life with one smooth, masterful nudge. But he didn’t resist. The businessman in him couldn’t help admiring her craft, and the jilting lover in him knew he owed her at least this much.

  “Any idea,” he asked, a quizzical smile on his face, “what I should do with the assistant who’s already working in the L.A. office?”

  Ginger turned around, meeting his grin. “Linda Denton. Well, let’s see. Linda’s got family in Miami,” she said with a hint of a flourish in her voice. “She’d be glad to take over for the departing mommy-to-be in the Miami office.”

  Drew laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something, Ms. Svengali,” he said, still chuckling. “Exactly how long have you been plotting this one? It’s a little humbling to think you've been mapping out your escape route while you were pretending to enjoy my dictation.”

  He’d meant it to be a compliment, but to his surprise, Ginger’s eyes suddenly glistened, though her smile remained intact. “Never fear,” she said, and her voice seemed huskier, more vulnerable than he’d ever heard it. “Your dictation has always had my undivided attention.” Drew stood up, preparing to cross over to her, but she held up her pink-tipped fingers, stopping him.

  “It’s just been on my mind since yesterday,” she said, blinking the dewy glisten away and deepening her smile. “Ever since I saw that cab in the driveway. A little alarm went off in my mind, you know? It sounded kind of like 'ding-dong, true love calling.'”

  What could he say? He’d always known Ginger was much more canny, much more street smart and savvy, than her spun-sugar manner let on. But he hadn’t realized how supremely intuitive she really was until this very moment.

  He thought of denying her implications, but then he just shook his head. “I don’t know, Ginger,” he said, deciding to give her the ultimate respect of real, unadulterated honesty. “It could be more like 'bad news calling.' It didn’t work out for Laura and me before, you know, and nothing has really changed.”

  “Hmm.” She frowned, obviously surprised to hear that Drew hadn’t secured the new bird before letting the old one fly free. “What if it doesn’t work out? Have you thought of that, Drew? If you've decided that nothing less than true love will do—well, that can be pretty lonely sometimes. What if old sad eyes stays just long enough to get whatever it is she wants, and then she takes her act back to Boston?”

  Drew laughed, but the sound was mirthless. “Believe me, that’s the most likely scenario. In fact, she’s announced up front that she intends to do just that.” Sighing, he ran his hand over his cheek, feeling the scratchy stubble that reminded him he hadn’t shaved this morning.

  “To tell you the truth, Ginger, I don’t really know what happens then. Do you think I’d make a good priest? Or a monk, maybe? That sounds nice and Gothic. Kind of fits the house, don’t you think?”

  She came to him then and put her hand on his cheek, though the gesture was oddly devoid of flirtation. “The Mad Monk of Winterwalk,” she said with a half smile. “I think I like it.”

  5

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT. Outside, the full moon trained a harsh white spotlight on the mounded drifts of snow. The still trees might have been painted onto the landscape.

  Inside the tower, an equally hollow silence had reigned for the past hour, and it was driving Drew crazy. Laura’s breathing was so slow and soft that, even when he stood in the doorway to her bedroom, he practically had to hold his own breath in order to hear her. The sound both mystified and frustrated him. How could she, who claimed to be grappling with demons in the night, be sleeping so quietly, like a dreamless baby, while he... Well, right now he felt as if he might never sleep again.

  He was so tired even his bones hurt, but somehow his body felt like a machine permanently set on alert. For no good reason, his heart pumped firmly and rapidly, his shoulders were slightly tensed, and his legs were restless. He’d probably paced off ten miles back and forth across the room in the past hour.

  But always, just beyond the flimsy barrier of his self-control, the memories were waiting. Memories of last night, of Laura in his arms, in his bed. It was getting harder and harder to keep them from taking over. Determined, he had for the first few minutes silently recited everything he could remember from the Gallic Wars, the most difficult passages he had been forced to memorize in high-school Latin. But the meager bits he could dredge up after all these years didn’t take him far.

  Veni, vedi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. But even that reminded him of his tragic, false sense of triumph last night, when he had, for one blood-stirring moment, thought he had conquered Laura’s fears.

  No.

  Think of something else. Something productive. Surely he wasn’t so spineless that he could only sit here in the eerie moonlight and wait for something to happen. Surely he could think of something to do.

  Damian. Perhaps, he thought, pacing again, he should make another stab at tracking down Damian, at forcing the man to come back and face Laura’s questions. Yes, that was a good idea.

  But was it possible? Though Laura didn’t know it, Drew had tried to find her father once before, about four years ago. Drew had been desperate, some sixth sense telling him that time was running out. He had hoped against hope that Damian might know of a childhood trauma that could account for Laura’s fears. Drew hadn’t suspected that Damian himself might be responsible, but he had wondered whether maybe there’d been an uncle, a gardener, a visiting artist—anyone who might have brought sexual sickness into the Nolan household, into little Laura’s life.

  Elizabeth Nolan had been no help at all. Drew had always been uneasy around the older woman, and he’d been cravenly reluctant to discuss Laura’s problem with her. When he finally approached her about it, she had put him in his place with one withering sentence. “Laura is a lady, Drew, and if you've tried to treat her like a harlot, you've only yourself to blame.”

  It was then that he had initiated the search for Damian, hiring a private detective to comb the world for a sculptor who might have taken on a new identity in mid-life. Pitiful as it was, it was Drew’s only lead, for Damian had had no family left, no one to whom he might have returned when he left Winterwalk.

  At any rate, the detective had found nothing. Drew, who had already come into his inheritance, had shelled out thousands, even extending the search to other countries, but always the report had been the same. No one meeting Damian Nolan’s description could be found.

  Still, he could try one more time.

  Suddenly the silence around him was alive with soft rustlings, and he held his breath in earnest, listening. His heart thudded, confusing the sounds even as he strained to distinguish them. Sliding whispers that might have been either shee
ts or sibilant voices. Was she awake? Was she talking in her sleep? Tossing fitfully? Weeping? Was she frightened? His muscles tensed reflexively, ready to rush to the rescue.

  But then, without warning, he saw her, a milky statue in the doorway, touching the cool stone wall beside her with long, pale fingers. Something tortured brushed past Drew’s lips at the sight of her. Laura... Her hair was streaming down her back, unbound. By lamplight, he remembered from their strained, overformal good-nights, her floor-length nightgown had been blue. But the moonlight drained the flowing fabric of any color, so that it appeared as ghostly white as her skin.

  Her eyes were open, catching the moonlight in winking flashes, and though he was prepared this time, he was still shocked by how natural her gaze seemed. Had he not known better, he would have sworn she was awake, that she would in a moment smile apologetically and ask him the time, or request a glass of water.

  But she didn’t. In silence, with movements as smooth and slow as a mechanical doll, she looked around the room. She looked at the barred window. She looked at his cot. And then she looked at him.

  Laura... He stood stock-still, his heart pumping so violently he could feel it in his fingertips. But her gaze rested only briefly on his face and then, unrecognizing, moved on. Drew swallowed his disappointment like a pill.

  After another minute, she advanced slowly into the room, her gait graceful, free of any self-consciousness or tension. To Drew it seemed she almost floated. The sight was so unnerving that he felt an overwhelming urge to wake her, to make this distant, ethereal creature disappear and to bring back his own real Laura, complete with her human flaws. Tears and anger, even trembling rejection, would have been a welcome relief from this unnatural poise. But he stopped himself, remembering his promise. He mustn’t interfere—just follow and stand guard.