Simply Blair: A Jet City Novel

by Gina Robinson

The ground floor consisted of a sitting room with gas fireplace, kitchen, dining room, toilet, and a small conservatory. The ceilings were open beam and, though the majority of the windows were small, most of the rooms had a sea view. The sitting room was painted a soft, yellowy white, and had the largest window in the house, a regular picture window. The furniture was casual. The sofa and chairs were overstuffed and filled with ample pillows.

  The pantry had been stocked and the table set for cake and tea, in anticipation that we would arrive earlier. Nigel's uncle may not have liked to be around people, but he spoiled his guests even if he didn't grace them with his presence.

  Nigel looked around. "The place never changes, really."

  "It's lovely."

  "Come on, then." He headed toward the stairs. "Let's deposit these bags.

  I followed him to the second story. I remembered the setup of the rooms upstairs—three twin rooms, which to us Americans meant rooms only large enough for a twin bed, and one double with an en suite bathroom, which was clearly the master suite. The three twin rooms had to share a family bathroom. It was a very typical British cottage setup.

  He headed directly to the master, where we had stayed together many times before. It had the best view of any of the rooms upstairs, and the breeze blew in the window off the water. Memories of making love with him there with the window open and the breeze fresh on our flushed, naked skin flashed through my mind.

  The images were sensual and pleasant. And maybe they should have aroused my passion. But though I was no prude, they made me feel almost guilty, certainly uncomfortable.

  As an amnesiac—I hated the word—my sense of self was perfectly intact, even if my memories weren't. I was having little trouble processing and remembering new information and events, which was a good sign. Amnesia from concussions and head injuries was rarely permanent. I knew that. But I was ready to remember everything and get on with my life.

  These feelings that came out of nowhere and seemed out of character for the me I remembered were vague memories of sorts, with no grounding in actual images or tied to events I could remember. As they popped up more frequently, I should have found them more encouraging. Instead, they haunted me, giving me the uneasy feeling I wasn't doing what I should be doing or be where I needed to be.

  Although it was just past eight thirty, the day had been long. I was still recovering, and tired easily. Not surprising, given what I'd been through, but frustrating all the same.

  To make matters worse, I was uncomfortable in my skin. Bruised and on painkillers. Likely to wince or cry out or murmur in my sleep—narcotics frequently gave me nightmares. It was the same dilemma every time—excruciating pain that prevented me from resting, or nightmares. Pick your torture.

  I had to toss and turn to find a comfortable spot, and no one position was comfortable for long. I was forced to get up and take more meds in the middle of the night.

  I was still bleeding from the miscarriage. And requiring more trips to the bathroom than normal. In short, sleeping with me would only make another person uncomfortable and disturb their night.

  Nigel put my bags near the wardrobe and hesitated, uncertain as he looked at me with his bag still in his hand, waiting for a definite invitation to stay.

  My heart raced. Beth's warning rang in my ears.

  "I'm not fit for sleeping with right now. All I'll do is keep you awake. You stay here," I said, hoping my excuse didn't sound too lame. We had talked about taking things slowly. And he had promised he didn't mind just being like an old friend while I recovered. "I'll take the twin on this side of the house. It has an equally nice view—"

  A look of disappointment quickly crossed his face before he got it under control. "Nonsense. You'll be more comfortable with the en suite. I'll take one of the twins."

  I relaxed, grateful he was taking this well, picturing his long frame in that small twin bed. I touched his arm. "Thank you."

  He nodded.

  Even though I'd only been the passenger in the car, I was tired to my bones. The master was pretty, painted a relaxing, light sea green and decorated with shells and a beach theme, and had a beautiful view of the cove. The entire cottage had been renovated in the last few years and tastefully modernized. The en suite bathroom had a deep claw-foot tub as well as a glass shower, toilet, and sink.

  "You look tired," Nigel said. "Why don't you retire early?"

  I didn't even have the strength to argue with him. "Thank you. I think I will. I'm sorry to be a killjoy."

  "Nonsense. You've done remarkably well for your first day out of hospital." He kissed me on the forehead. "Get some rest. That's why we're here."

  I nodded.

  "I think I'll wander down to the beach for a bit. See if I can see the moon. Don't mind me if you hear me up late. I'll be working on my research. I'll try not to knock about too much and disturb you. I'll be nearby in case you need me." He squeezed my crossed arms and turned to leave.

  "What? You're not leaving me a silver bell to ring for you?" I made a bell-ringing motion.

  He smiled and left to settle in his room.

  I felt vaguely disappointed by his tepid response, as if I expected a fast comeback, a quick tease, a bit of banter. As if that was the way lovers should react. But that wasn't the way Nigel and I had been together for years. Maybe in the beginning, back in college…

  I tried to remember. Yes, it seemed like we'd been more playful then. I'd attributed our more serious, solemn interactions of late to becoming grownups. To the evolution of a relationship. The initial fun and romantic silliness had to end sometime, right? The brimming new passion to fade? It was only natural. And yet…

  It was only something niggling in the back of my mind—even adults should have fun. Have a sense of humor and playfulness. There was too much seriousness in life as it was. It was as if my playful nature, which had been suppressed for years around Nigel, wanted to come out and have fun. To recapture that youthful joy.

  I frowned. Where had this attitude come from? Was it Beth?

  I remembered the pranks and laughter in med school and with the other residents. The sometimes-inappropriate jokes and timing. Everyone understood it was a way of blowing off steam and dealing with the trauma, illness, and death we saw on a daily basis. Our way of celebrating our triumphs. Yeah, we did it! We kept someone alive, fought off the Grim Reaper for another day. Tomorrow we'd be back to do battle again.

  But as I thought back, Nigel and I had lost that playfulness long ago.

  I kicked off my shoes and sat on the bed, looking out the window. The view should have been calming, but my heart raced, as if I'd been hit with a shot of adrenaline. I suddenly realized how isolated I was. That had never bothered me when I'd been here before. But now I felt, irrationally, almost as if Nigel had kidnapped me.

  It was crazy. I knew it was. He was just protecting me from the media circus that seemed to surround us. I tried to push the thought aside. But then I remembered Jamie. And how Reggie had deceived Elinor into thinking Jamie was dead while he took her away to England.

  Just my vivid imagination running wild. Nothing like our situation. Austin wasn't dead. I just couldn't remember him. A shiver ran over me—why was I blocking Austin out?

  I gave myself a shake. I wasn't blocking anything. I had a head injury. The physician in me gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself again that the type of concussion and head injury I'd suffered rarely led to permanent memory loss.

  You'll remember soon enough. The real question is—are you prepared for what you'll discover when it comes back?

  Chapter 9

  Sunday

  Blair

  That night I dreamed of a lover with lush auburn curls. I saw him braced over me, his powerful arms taut and muscled, gently keeping his weight off me, while pounding passionately into me. My heels dug into his bare back as I urged him in, gasping with each deep thrust.

  He was smiling, his green eyes tender with emotion and filled with awe, as if he co
uldn't believe his good luck. It was an expression that always amazed me and filled me with wonder.

  I was laughing as I taunted him and urged him to give it to me harder. He was happy to oblige, teasing back. Beams of sunlight streamed through his hair, haloing him and highlighting the red.

  I dreamed of a forest, tall firs and sunshine overhead streaming through their branches. The scent of ferns, wild grass, and woodland floor so real I was sure I was actually smelling them. That I was really there in that forest with that man.

  Heat. Grass. Birds singing.

  Strong shoulders. Physical strength held in check. Breathtaking passion. Laughter.

  Dreams morph and confuse and are hard to untangle when you try to remember them after you wake. They evaporate too easily.

  Jamie? Scotland?

  Bagpipes and fiddles in the distance. The sounds of a brook.

  Clutching the man to me, I wrapped my legs around him. Never wanting to let him go. Looking into his face, confused. Not Jamie.

  I woke in the heat of the action, arching up to meet him. With a climax and a sigh, shaken, elated, and on the edge of fear. As if in the next moment something terrible had been about to happen and I neither wanted to face it nor ruin the perfect moment. As if something had alerted my senses to danger lurking on the periphery.

  It could have been the narcotics I was on. Just another drug-induced nightmare. I was breathing too rapidly and too shallowly. Not wanting to leave my dream lover's embrace, yet eager to escape the dream before it turned monstrous on me.

  His name was on my lips. Austin.

  I sat up in bed, glad I was alone. Glad Nigel wasn't with me to hear my moans of passion and another man's name on my lips. Just one more reason to sleep alone. But not one I could give Nigel. Not the whole truth of it, anyway.

  A cool breeze blew in through my window, tinged with the sea as it rustled the curtains. I heard water lapping against the shore and let it calm me and bring me back to reality.

  Dreams are ethereal creatures. Sometimes it's not even the scene playing out that moves you, but the powerful sense of emotion they stir.

  Austin.

  My heart yearned for him. I shook my head. That couldn't be.

  Just the drugs talking. The sense of danger, remember? The dream about to turn nightmare. The drugs.

  And yet I couldn't make myself really believe that. It felt more like…a memory. Was this a memory? Or a trick of the head injury, a false memory in the form of a dream?

  "Austin," I whispered, feeling the weight of his name on my lips. If this is a memory, what am I doing here with Nigel? I never felt this way with him.

  I looked at the clock. It was only the early hours of the morning, well before dawn. This was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  In the morning, I found Nigel banging around in the kitchen. "You're cute when you're trying to cook."

  He spun around and smiled. That smile used to warm my heart, curl my toes, and send me flying into his arms. But I was more reserved now. We both were.

  If he had been another man, I would have walked over to him, looped my arms around his waist, and rested my head against his back. Teased him. Helped him cook. Had I done that before with someone else? I was almost sure I had.

  "I'm not cooking, exactly," Nigel said. "I'm warming sausages and tomatoes. And making toast. I was trying to surprise you." He pointed to the terrace. "I heard your shower going and thought I had time. It's a beautiful morning. I thought we'd dine outside."

  I held the door for him while he carried our breakfast to the terrace. He was right. It was a perfect morning for eating outside.

  He settled breakfast on the table and insisted on serving me. "I told you I had a surprise for you here."

  I nodded. "Yes, I remember. Which is quite a success. Remembering isn't a guarantee these days."

  He smiled. "You're doing fine with remembering new events. Dr. Cage says that's a good sign."

  "It is," I said. "So, surprises? You mean more than cooking me breakfast?"

  "Breakfast is just the first of several." He looked pleased with himself. "One of them won't arrive until tomorrow. Slight bit of an unavoidable delay there. But I think it will play to our advantage in the long haul."

  "Very mysterious," I teased, hoping he would banter back. Imagining him saying something like, Cornwall is the land of mystery, or This is the home of Daphne du Maurier, after all. Some mystery is to be expected.

  He slathered marmalade on a piece of toast. "I thought, if you're up to it, we'll get to the first one today."

  "Up to it?" I said. "What do you have in mind? I'd like a cliff walk, but I don't think I'll be able to go too far yet. Walking and sea air are good for healing. Fresh air always is."

  "A trip to the mining country," he said as he served himself a sausage. "It's no more than twenty miles across the county to the tin-mining district. You remember I told you I'd researched your family?"

  "I don't remember," I said, disappointed that he was so serious. "But I found the genealogy you gave me in my suitcase. Miners. My family were poor miners. No dukes or dashing earls in my lineage. Unlike yours. What do you want with a commoner like me?"

  He smiled. "There's nothing wrong with mining. It's honorable work. Or was, until the tin mines closed. There are some wonderful museums and historical sites we could visit."

  "Are you trying to make an Englishwoman out of me?"

  "I don't have to try," he said. "You are an Englishwoman, whether you think of yourself as one or not." He grinned. "I wasn't going to say, but I found a brother of your grandmother. Your one remaining great-uncle. He remembers your father. I thought you might like to talk to him and see what stories he has to tell. Maybe he'll be able to convince you you're also Cornish."

  An uncle? Even a great-uncle felt like a foreign concept after living my whole life as if Beth as my only relative. This was a great gift Nigel was giving me.

  "You mean see what skeletons fall out of my family closet?" I grinned at the thought. "That could be fun."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  I wanted to tell him not to be so stuffy. Instead, I made myself take Nigel seriously. "This uncle must be really, really old."

  Nigel nodded. "Ninety-five. But his memory is sharp."

  "Glad someone in the family has a good memory," I said.

  Nigel didn't respond.

  I cleared my throat. "So you're saying we shouldn't linger over breakfast? Who can tell how much time he has left?" I said dramatically. There was a tiny glint of a memory. Someone else feeling the need to meet an older gentleman before it was too late.

  Nigel didn't take the bait.

  "All righty, then," I said in my most American accent. "Time is of the essence. You leave me no choice but to work up the energy for a day trip."

  "There are plenty of cliffs in mining country if you still fancy a cliff walk when we get there," he said.

  * * *

  On the drive, Nigel filled me in, speaking in his calm voice with an undercurrent of excitement that gave away how pleased he actually was. We were on our way to visit my father's maternal side of the family. Obviously, Edwards isn't a Cornish name, so the Cornish had to be from his mother's side. Cornwall is a Celtic country, Nigel explained. But the language is Brythonic, like Welsh, not Goidelic, like Irish and Scottish.

  The terms and subtleties he talked about flew over my head, but it was like Nigel to throw them around. He'd given me versions of this speech before about his own heritage and name. Nigel's last name, Helyer, was the Cornish version of Hunter. It suited him very well. And sometimes, when I was mad at him, I would tell him there was no way I'd ever let him make my life Helyer. Bad pun. He never really appreciated it.

  My grandmother's maiden name had been Marrak, which meant horseman, apparently. Eseld Marrak, daughter of a fisherman, descendant of tin miners.

  Nigel's family, the Helyers, were moneyed and had been mine owners in the eighteenth century until the ti
n-mining industry dried up, a victim to cheaper tin from other parts of the world. They'd wisely turned their holdings to other ventures and managed to hang on to, and even grow, their fortunes during the industrial revolution and beyond. While my poor Marrak family had mostly left Cornwall and headed to the big cities to find work and feed their families. As in my grandmother moving to London to catch a man.

  A man, my grandfather, who gave her the ring I wore on my right hand. The one my dad had passed on to me.

  Nigel seemed to think there was a possibility that some of my ancestors had worked for some of his. And that that fact somehow bound us.

  What a lovely coincidence? Like his relatives on his father's side going all the way back to the American Revolution. He didn't seem to see any of it as one-upmanship on his part, not at all. And if I really thought about it, he seemed to think I should be impressed by his lineage. He was still very British that way. And maybe that was where some of our differences came from.

  Differences. The word sat heavy in my mind. There were more and more differences popping up between us all the time.

  His interests were mostly in the past. I felt the gap between us. My interests were in the present—technological advances, new biotechnology, and new drugs for treating cancer. I liked the present. And, speaking of technology, I'd forgotten my phone at the cottage. Not that it mattered much. Nigel had his.

  Without Nigel's passion for the past to talk about, it seemed like we had less and less in common. I was relieved when Nigel pulled up in front of an old croft.

  The drive, of course, had been lovely. The Cornish coast is scenic in a beautiful, rugged, mysterious way. The croft was set on a hillside overlooking the water.

  "He's not in a nursing home?" I said, surprised.

  "He's a feisty old man and still fiercely independent." Nigel jumped out of the car.

  The door to the croft opened before we got there, as if they'd been expecting us. It wasn't an old man who answered, but a middle-aged woman. "You must be Nigel and Blair!" She was plump and weathered, but warm and friendly.