Her phone. There has to be something. A call out or in. Certainly, she would have at least called him to confirm their interview time and location. Her log downloaded from her cloud account when Damien set up her phone.
Ella scans her calls and contacts, but she can’t find a match with the number Rebecca gave her. The phone’s location services are on but the history comes up empty, too, so she can’t tell where she might have traveled.
It’s almost as though the interview never happened.
Ella finishes her search and realizes she’s shaking. Nauseous, she drops her head in her hands and takes several deep breaths to calm her queasy stomach. She’s losing her mind.
Ella can’t ask Rebecca about it. She might slip about her memory loss and then her editor would question whether she can pull off the Donovan interview. Nathan would retract the exclusive. Then Paul will fire her. Or worse, assign her to writing fluff pieces on Hollywood divorces and fashion faux pas.
Ella has to be the one to tell Nathan, she reasons. He’s going to find out anyhow when he realizes she has to redo the interview because she doesn’t have any notes or recordings from the original. Best to tell him face-to-face. Less of a chance of him kicking her off his mountain once she’s already made the trek. Either way, she fully intends to convince him to do it over. She can be very persuasive when she needs to be.
In the meantime, she needs to dig up as much information as possible about him and their original time together. Who would know?
Damien.
She calls him but is sent directly to voice mail. She hangs up without leaving a message and calls Davie.
“Ella Bella. Calling about lunch tomorrow?” she answers.
“Hey, yeah, about that. We need to reschedule. I received a new assignment and need to drive to Truckee tomorrow. What do you know about Nathan Donovan?”
“Other than the man is a god and I’m disappointed your article never ran?”
So there was an article.
“Do you know when I met with him?” she asks.
“You don’t remember?”
“Uh-uh. I don’t remember anything about him.”
“At all? Wow.” The word comes out long, spoken with incredulity. “And you’re interviewing him again?”
“Yes, he called my editor this morning.”
“Geez, Ella. What are you going to do? It’ll be like you’re meeting him all over again.”
“Tell him the truth, I guess. I don’t have another choice. It’s an exclusive and he’ll only talk to me.”
“Well, for the sake of preserving your job and serving up the juicy bits us females have been dying to hear about him, I hope he doesn’t mind rehashing his life story with you. You spent a lot of time with him.”
“How much time?” Ella asks unsteadily.
“Ten days, I think.”
“Ten?” Rebecca said five.
“You left right after you and Damien got back from the Maldives.”
She remembers that trip. The mornings sunbathing on their private deck, afternoons snorkeling in turquoise waters, and evenings dining on succulent yellowtail kingfish. The hours spent nestled in Damien’s arms or pressed underneath him. The long conversations about love and life and careers and their future, spoken in soft whispers and loud laughter under a blanket of stars or the glow of the sun. They’d been celebrating their third anniversary.
“Last June then, right?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Do you know why the article didn’t run?”
“Uh-uh. You didn’t tell me. But you never tell me anything. Code of ethics, dear. I can’t get anything out of you beyond what you print in your articles.”
Biting into her lower lip, Ella logs into her cellular account. What if, for some reason, she deleted the calls and his contact info from her phone? Seems logical since everything else about the interview is missing. Sure enough, several lines down on her June billing statement, she finds it. One outgoing call to Nathan Donovan’s number.
“How long do you think you’ll be gone?” Davie asks.
“Not sure, but I’ve got to go.” She closes the statement and logs out. “I have a full day of research ahead.”
“Anything I can do to help?” she asks.
“No, but I’ll let you know if something comes up.”
“Okay. Oh, hey,” Davie says before Ella disconnects. “My client has an art show next week. I think you’d like his work. Interested in coming?”
“Sure,” Ella agrees, a little distracted as she opens various browser windows.
“Great. I’ll put your name on the list.”
Ella thanks Davie and ends the call. She dives into research, immersing herself in Nathan’s life. She reads every article she can dredge up and binge-watches Off the Grid! He’s masterfully skilled, athletic, agile, and borderline psychotic when it comes to the feats he designed to challenge his celebrity guests. And he’s hot, with a smile to die for and an infectious laugh that Ella is far from immune to. No wonder Rebecca thinks the Nathan Donovan exclusive is a coup for Luxe Avenue. With Off the Grid!’s 65 percent female viewership, Nathan’s face on the cover could be their bestselling issue in years.
But who is he for real?
What little material there is on him since the series was canceled is speculation. According to his publicist, Nathan was devastated at the loss of his son, Carson. He then, unexpectedly, canceled his series. Since then, he’s been somewhat of a recluse.
How did Carson die and why did Nathan cancel Off the Grid! without notice?
Curious. Ella can’t find a single bit of info on either topic.
It’s after 9:00 p.m. when Damien gets home. Ella meets him at the door. She hangs up his suit coat and helps loosen his tie, eager to ask him what he knows about Nathan Donovan.
“I made a plate for you. I’ll warm it up,” she says after they kiss.
“Thanks. I’m starving.” Damien removes his tie and follows Ella into the kitchen. “How was Sacramento?”
Ella puts Damien’s dinner into the microwave and sets the cook time. “I didn’t go. Rebecca called with a new assignment. I spent the day researching.”
“That’s a shame. I was looking forward to hearing about your lunch with the governor.” Tossing his flash drive–laden key chain onto the counter, he sets down his briefcase, pressing his thumbs on the biometric reader. The case pops open.
“Me too. But Rebecca assigned an exclusive. It’s with Nathan Donovan.”
“Really?” he says, his tone mild.
If Ella hadn’t been looking at Damien’s hands when she said Nathan’s name, she would have missed the slight hesitation as he removed his laptop.
Ella frowns. What’s with the pause? Is it because of Nathan?
“I thought you killed the article,” Damien says.
“It’s back on. Nathan called Rebecca this morning.”
“He did?” Damien removes files from his case and stacks them on the laptop. Ella catches a glimpse of one file label. ReAlign Software Inc. One of PDN’s UK clients.
“Damien.” She pauses until he looks at her. “I don’t remember him.”
His eyes darken. “Like you don’t remember Simon?”
Ella nods. “Exactly like that.”
The microwave dings. She removes the plate, grabs up the utensils, and sets them on the table. Steam rises from the reheated fettuccine with pesto sauce. A toasted pine nut aroma fills the kitchen. Damien doesn’t join her at the table.
“Do you want wine?” she asks.
“When do you meet Donovan?”
“He wants to start the interview tomorrow.” She pours herself a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and holds up an empty glass for Damien.
He shakes his head, then his brow wrinkles.
“What is it?”
“There’s been a development. I leave for London tomorrow to meet with our UK legal team. Why don’t you ditch the interview and come with me? We’ll catch a show.”
&nb
sp; “A show? Damien, I don’t remember anything about Nathan Donovan. He didn’t exist to me until Rebecca called about him this morning. I spent a week or so with this guy and I don’t remember any of it. Thanks for the invite, but no, I can’t go to London, not now. I need to meet with Nathan and find out what’s going on with me.”
“What if I asked you not to take the assignment?”
She balks. “Why would you do that?”
“Answer the question, Ella.”
“No! This is my job we’re talking about. I don’t tell you what companies to pitch.” She flings her arm at the client files. Damien just stands there. “What is it about this guy that bothers you?”
Damien puts his files and laptop back in the case. Tosses his keys on top. A flash of red catches her attention. The drives on the ring. Two of them. Those are new. Postmiscarriage new, that is. She doesn’t have the chance to think of asking about them, let alone ask. Damien slams the case closed.
Keys.
“What if Nathan’s the key to fix my head?”
“Why him?”
Ella sets down the wine bottle a little too hard. “Nothing I’ve done has triggered my memories, no thanks to you. Why not give this Nathan guy a try? What’ve I got to lose?” The assignment probably. Ella inwardly cringes. Hopefully Nathan will be understanding. She also hopes he’ll be more forthcoming than her husband. God, what’s with him? She really doesn’t understand why he’s being so difficult.
Damien rubs some of the tension out of his face, then sighs. “You’re right. Go. It’s your job,” he says.
Damn right it is, she wants to snap. But she grinds her teeth, willing herself to calm down.
“What do you know about my interview with him last summer?”
“Not much.”
Ella sighs, frustrated. “I want to remember Simon,” she says, wishing Damien would finally talk to her, really talk to her about all they’ve been through.
He slides his hands into his pant pockets. He looks at his shoes, nodding, thinking to himself. “Do me a favor,” he says after a moment. “Think before you go. Ask yourself if you really want to remember.”
She frowns. “Of course I want to. Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs. His expression looks pained, uncertain. There’s a reason he’s been holding back. But for the first time in months, his reluctance gives her pause. What if whatever it is he’s hiding from her—and she’s sure there’s something—is powerful enough to destroy their marriage?
Is she willing to lose him just to remember a baby they never planned to have?
She considers what might have happened before the accident and her gut feeling only grows stronger. They’d been arguing moments before. About what?
Or more to the point, considering his reaction to Nathan, about whom?
CHAPTER 10
Three and a Half Years Ago
Four months after they married, Ella spent one Sunday afternoon with Damien on the couch watching the Bills decimate the 49ers. On the third play into the second quarter, Kaepernick got sacked, again, and Damien kicked the coffee table, shouting at the flat screen. His beer toppled, spoiling the nachos Ella had just prepared.
“Damien!” Ella blotted the table with the few napkins before beer spilled on the area rug.
“He holds the ball too long in the pocket,” Damien fumed, oblivious of the mess he made.
“You ruined the nachos.” Ella got a towel from the kitchen and wiped the table dry.
“Sorry, hon.” He patted her thigh, watching the replay.
Ella tossed the wadded, wet napkins on the food and took the platter into the kitchen. She dumped the nachos into the trash and dropped the platter in the sink. The earthenware cracked in two.
“Shit.” That had been Aunt Kathy’s.
“Everything all right?” Damien called from the great room.
“Fine,” she snapped.
She picked up the pieces from the sink and blinked back tears. It had been the only dishware she’d kept of her aunt’s. Maybe she could superglue the pieces together.
Later, she thought. She wasn’t in the mood now. She wasn’t in the mood for football either.
“I’m going to write,” she announced.
“Don’t you want to watch the game with me?”
The Niners were losing. They sucked this season. And her mood, for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, was foul.
“No. I have a deadline tomorrow. Watch without me. Let me know if they score.” Doubtful they would.
Ella set aside the broken platter and retreated to her office. But she didn’t wake up her laptop. She just sat at her desk and stared blankly at the black screen, feeling irritable and edgy. Everything Damien did today set her off. He’d sneeze and she mothered him to cover his mouth. He blew his nose and she snapped at him to wash his hands before he touched her. He’d wanted to give her a kiss. Then he had to go and ruin their nachos. If he hadn’t, she wouldn’t have broken Aunt Kathy’s platter, the one Aunt Kathy used to serve dinner when they had company. The same one her aunt had served homemade mac and cheese on the last time Ella had had her best friend Grace spend the night.
Grace.
Ella jiggled her mouse, waking up her laptop, and looked at the date. October fourteenth. The day Grace had died.
No wonder she was in a funk.
Tears welled and Ella let them fall. She dropped her head in her arms and cried.
A short time later, Damien knocked on the door trim. “Ella?”
She lifted her head off the desk and wiped her face with her sweater sleeves.
Damien’s expression transitioned from curiosity to concern. “What’s wrong?” He came into the room and knelt beside her, spinning her chair so that she faced him.
Ella plucked a tissue from the box on her desk. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s Grace.”
He frowned. “Who’s Grace?”
“My friend. She died.” She sniffled.
“God, Ella. I’m so sorry. When? How?” He grasped one of her hands. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head, waving her free hand. “Oh, no, she died a long time ago. I’m just sad.” Ella tossed the tissue in the trash and exhaled a long sigh. “She died on the fourteenth. I didn’t realize the date until I just saw it.”
“She sounds like someone who was very important to you.” Damien’s thumb absently stroked Ella’s hand. “Who was she?” Damien knew so much about Ella, but she’d never told him about Grace. She never told anyone about Grace. The memories hurt too much.
“My best friend. We met when Andrew and I moved in with Aunt Kathy in Los Altos after our parents died. She was our next-door neighbor. We were both six and instant besties. She died our sophomore year. She was only fifteen.”
Damien inhaled sharply. “So young. I’m sorry you lost her, Ella.”
“Me too.” Ella sniffed and Damien waited a beat before he asked, “Do you want to tell me about her?”
Ella shrugged.
“What’s something the two of you did together?”
“Oh, I don’t know. All sorts of things. Typical girl stuff, like makeup and dress up. We played house a lot when we were younger. She also liked to write. We joined the newspaper club together in high school. Umm, what else? Her dad always took us to Ghirardelli Square for ice cream sundaes. Sundaes on Sunday, he liked to say. That always made us laugh. We had fun.”
Damien squeezed her hand. “How did she die?” he asked softly.
Ella felt her mood shift, growing more sullen. Guilt crept in, casting shadows over her memories.
“Grace had problems,” she began. “I mean, we all had problems, but hers got worse after her parents divorced.”
Ella explained to Damien that after Grace’s parents divorced, Grace, who’d been close with her father, had fallen into a depression when he moved across the country. Her parents thought Grace should stay in Los Altos with her mom. Her school was there, Ella was there, and everything else that wa
s familiar. The less upheaval Grace endured, the better. Or so her parents had thought.
Grace had difficulty coping with the changes in her family dynamics. First there were the dark shadows under Grace’s eyes that never faded. She blamed late nights up studying. Ella suspected Grace suffered from insomnia and her classes had nothing to do with those late nights. Grace wasn’t studying either. Her grades were sliding.
Next came the cuts on her best friend’s arm. Ella called her out about it when she noticed one day during class transition. Grace’s sleeve had bunched at the elbow while she juggled a load of textbooks. On the soft, white flesh inside her left forearm, Ella spied four angry, red welts, each an inch long.
She gasped at the sight of them and grasped her friend’s wrist. “What did you do?”
Grace’s eyes dodged left then right as she pushed down her sleeve. She shushed Ella.
Ella wasn’t having any of that nonsense. She pulled her friend into the handicapped stall in the girls’ bathroom. “Show me,” she ordered.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go. We’re going to be late for class.”
Ella blocked her way. “Not until you show me your arm.”
“Shush, keep your voice down. Others will hear.”
Bella Fields and her princess posse had walked into the bathroom, squawking like chickens with their gossip. Through the crack in the bathroom stall, Ella peeked at them lined up before the mirror, applying thick coats of foundation and voluminous mascara to their already made-up faces.
Ella turned back to her friend. At her prodding, Grace reluctantly revealed her arms. Ella hissed, getting a closer look. The cuts weren’t deep, and they’d already scabbed over. But the surrounding skin was pink and raised.
“The other one.” Ella gestured for Grace’s right arm.
“It’s just the left,” Grace murmured, embarrassed.
“Why?” Ella was scared for her friend.
“My therapist says I blame myself for my shitty life.”
“Your life isn’t shitty. It’s just . . . different than it used to be. Before you know it, it’ll be your new normal and just as awesome.”
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