“What is my last name?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“Lacoste,” said Max.
Sabrina Lacoste. And he is . . . he is . . . Max. He said Max. Max Lacoste. Her shivering would not stop. That name meant nothing to her, either. She felt she was falling soundlessly through that terrible fog of nothingness, absolutely alone, unconnected to anything or anyone. She saw herself reaching out her hand, searching for someone to clasp it, but there was no one. Oh, help me, she cried silently, tears stinging behind her eyelids. Help me find a place to belong.
“Sabrina.” Max’s voice was the only sound in the room, and she opened her eyes. He towered above her, tall and broad-shouldered, with shaggy red eyebrows and frizzled red hair. He had slightly bulging gray eyes, a heavy, sensual mouth, and large, well-shaped hands. He carried himself with purpose and moved with a restless energy that seemed to create eddies in the air around him, unsettling the room. My husband. The thought sank into the muffling fog, and Stephanie repeated it, trying to make it seem right.
“We’ll go home soon.” His voice was relaxed; he seemed to control everything around him, and Stephanie stared at him, conscious of his strength. “I’m going to buy a house in Cavaillon.” The idea had come to him just a few minutes before; he knew the area, a perfect one for privacy, and Robert ran a Catholic school there; he would find them a house. “You’ll love it; it’s very beautiful and quiet.”
“Cavaillon?”
“Where we’re going to live.”
“Did you tell me that, too?”
“No, why should I, in front of the doctor? No one needs to know where we’re going. You’ll like the town and our house; you’ll be very happy.”
“I don’t want to go there.”
“Indeed. Where would you like to go?”
There was a long silence. The tears came again, running soundlessly along her cheeks, wetting the pillow and disappearing into the emptiness where she was suspended, alone. “I don’t know.”
“Of course not. And in fact, where else would you go but home, with your husband, where you belong? Listen to me, Sabrina. I love you. And you love me. You belong with me, and you’ll stay with me, and do as I say; that’s the only way I can guarantee your safety and your happiness. Do you understand that?”
His voice pierced the thick fog that swirled around her. Safety. Max will keep me safe.
From what? she wondered. But then it was gone, and all she knew was that she was not alone after all. Someone would be there when she reached out her hand. Max would be there. Max loved her. And Max would keep her safe.
CHAPTER 5
For two months the hospital was Stephanie’s whole world. The people she talked to were doctors and nurses and other patients in the solarium, but much of the time she was in her own room on the top floor, where Max had had her moved after the first week. At one end of the room stood a brightly patterned armchair and chaise and a low table with books and magazines, and after each of the three operations on her face, Stephanie spent the days curled up in the armchair, reading, or lying on the chaise. She would gaze for hours at the blue of the Mediterranean blurring into the blue of the sky, and at the boats moving in and out of the harbor while great gulls swooped around them in widening circles and then, with a flapping that could be heard above the creaking of the ships’ masts and the boisterous calls of fishermen, flew out to sea and disappeared in the mist.
Twice a week a psychologist came to her room after Max finally allowed it. Max did not join her for any of their talks, though Stephanie often asked him to; his excuse was that he had a great deal of work to do. And it seemed that he had: he had begun leaving the hospital as soon as she moved to her new room, at first for an hour or two, then for a whole day and, once, for almost a week.
He had put off going because he thought she would die without him there to watch over her. He had come to believe that it was only his presence that kept her alive: he had saved her when the ship exploded, and now he was saving her again, hour by hour, day by day, by willing her to live. The first time he left to go to the warehouse on the dock with the sign Lacoste et fils over the door, he had fought with himself the whole time not to rush back. But he told himself it was a weak, childish fantasy, and because he abhorred anything that was weak or recalled childish fears, he pushed the thought from him and stayed away all that day, and next morning left again and did not look back after saying goodbye.
In fact, he had to go; he had no choice. He had to know what had happened to the people on the yacht, and what the police had found. He had told the doctors that the accident had occurred in a motorboat when it struck a dock, but he maintained that fiction only within the hospital; he needed Robert, and so Robert had to know the truth.
The day after Stephanie awakened, when for the first time he had let himself think of something else, he had asked Robert to go to Monaco for him; now Robert had returned, and they were to meet in a café in a corner of town where no one would know them. The newspapers had reported almost nothing beyond the bare story of an explosion on the French-registered Lafitte with apparently no survivors. The doctor in the hospital had said the same thing. No survivors. How could they know that? No one in Monte Carlo knew how many were on the ship, or who they were. The Lafitte was registered under the name of Max’s French company, Lacoste et fils, and his crew chief signed either Max’s name or his own when registering with the dockmaster. If he had signed Max’s name and the police had found bodies in the water but not Max’s, why wasn’t that in the newspaper stories? None of it made sense, and Max chewed on the ambiguities while Robert made arrangements to go to Monte Carlo and then was there for three days.
“Max.” Robert took his hand and held it, searching his face. “You look much better than the last time I saw you. How is the lady we took to the hospital?”
“Still there; she’ll be there for a while.” They sat in a booth and the waiter brought them two beers. “I want to talk to you about her, Robert, but first tell me what you’ve found.”
“Yes. Well, you’ve read the newspapers; you know that the police reported that everyone on the ship was killed.” His gaze was fixed on Max’s face. “They’re not absolutely sure about you; they say you are missing and presumed dead.”
Max spread his hands. “You think I should call the police in Monte Carlo and tell them I’m alive.”
“Of course I do. Why would you not? You must have family who will worry about you—”
Max shook his head. “No one.”
“Well, then, friends. And the authorities must keep open the investigation into the explosion until they know for sure that you are alive or dead. Why would you not tell them?”
“Because it suits me right now to have people think I am dead.”
Robert contemplated him. “What caused the explosion?”
“I don’t know. I suspect a malfunctioning boiler; we’d had trouble with it before.”
“A malfunctioning boiler is no reason to keep secret the fact that you are alive.” He waited. “Max, listen to me. You know very well that I cannot continue to be your friend if you are hiding a crime.”
“I am not hiding a crime. I was in a business in London that others were trying to take over. I’ve shut that business down, but I don’t want them to know where I am.”
Once more Robert waited. “You could provide more details.”
“I’d rather not. Robert, we’ve been friends ever since I started my company here, over a year ago. Do you have reason to think I’m not worthy of your friendship?”
“Ah, what a cleverly phrased question. No, my friend, I have had no reason to doubt it, in our relationship. But now what you are doing goes far beyond our relationship. Pretending to be dead . . . that means you are in hiding, yes? And the lady in the hospital? She hides with you?”
“Of course.”
There was another silence. “I’ve overlooked much secretiveness in you, Max,” Robert said at last. “Your wariness, your cautio
n, what I thought was your occasional prevarication . . . But the world is full of secretiveness and lying, and it does not have many men who are as good and kind and generous as you. And I like you. I suppose nothing has really changed, except that I have one more piece of information about you. You understand, however, if someone should ask me, I could not lie to keep your secret.”
“I understand that. I don’t think anyone will ask you.”
“And one more thing. I will not be used by you.”
“I wouldn’t do that. I think the reverse may be true, however.”
“You think I am using you?” Robert grinned. “I am using your money, which you give willingly. Men who do good works always turn to those who have money; where else would they turn?”
“Perhaps to prayer.”
“Well, yes, of course, and I do. And one of my prayers is that you remain wealthy and generous.”
Max chuckled. “You’re a practical man, Robert. It’s one of the traits I find most admirable in you.” He nodded to the waiter who brought two more beers. “Now tell me what else you learned.”
“Well, the bodies of the crew were found and identified, and seven others, presumably the guests, were found and also identified. I don’t understand—”
“Seven? There were nine of us.”
“The police said the ship had four staterooms.”
“One couple brought a friend; they made up a bed for her in the sitting room off their stateroom.”
“Well, they are assuming there were four couples in four staterooms, and they have accounted for three of the couples and one single woman, a Lady Longworth, who—”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“—who would have been your companion, is that right? But then, Max, I don’t understand. Who is the lady we took to the hospital?”
Max was staring past Robert, his mind racing. “Who identified her?”
“Denton Longworth. Her former husband. He happened to be in Monte—”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Max.”
“Sorry.” He sat stiffly in his chair, locked in a fury of frustration. What the hell was Denton up to? He knew damn well the woman he identified was not Sabrina; why would he . . . ? Or did he know? One of the women on the ship had looked vaguely like Sabrina—in fact, they all had teased her for mimicking Sabrina, wearing her hair the same way, copying her makeup, buying her clothes and jewelry at Sabrina’s favorite shops—but a former husband would not have been misled.
Unless . . . He recalled the scene in the water, and Sabrina’s face when he held her in the motorboat: colorless, swollen, blood running from her forehead and oozing from dozens of small cuts. A man might be misled if a woman who looked vaguely like his former wife was so badly bruised or burned or cut by debris that he could not be absolutely sure. And he most definitely would assume—
“Max?”
—definitely would assume it was his ex-wife if he wanted to believe she was dead. And Denton wanted very much to believe Sabrina Longworth was dead, she and Max both, because they knew too much.
“Max? The woman who was with you . . . ?”
Max Stuyvesant missing and presumed dead. The body of Sabrina Longworth identified by her former husband.
No one would be looking for them. Max and Sabrina Lacoste, living quietly in a small town in Provence, were home free.
He turned back to the priest. “She’s my wife, Robert. We were married in Cap-Ferrat the morning of the explosion. Her name is also Sabrina; it was Sabrina Robion. The other people on the ship were from London and Paris, not close friends, simply companions for a few days.”
“Your wife.” Robert smiled and covered Max’s hand with his. “You once told me you would never . . . Ah, but we should not remind ourselves or our friends of rash statements in our past. I am very happy for you, my friend. But she was gravely injured, Max; will she recover?”
“She will, I think, physically. But she has no memory.”
“You mean, of the accident?”
“Of anything except the names of objects. But she’s a remarkable woman, very strong; she’ll make a new life here, I’m sure of it. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.”
“But you can tell her her past, and the more you tell her, the more likely that she will remember all of it.”
“I don’t know it. We were acquainted only a few days before we were married. But she doesn’t miss her past, Robert. She has a new life to create, a completely new life; most of us would give everything we have for that chance.”
Robert’s eyebrows rose. “Would we? I think, my friend, you’ll find that she misses it very much.”
Max shrugged. “She’ll do what she has to do. That’s true of all of us. Robert, I have another favor to ask. The last one, I hope.”
Robert smiled. “Another rash statement. What can I do?”
“You know I rented an apartment in Aix. It won’t do for both of us. I need a house. I want to buy one, and I was thinking of the plateau above Cavaillon.”
“A beautiful spot. You want me to look for one.”
“A private one; you know I don’t like being crowded.”
“You mean I must remember that you’re in hiding. Well, I’ll see what I can do. The father of one of our students sells houses in the Lubéron; I’ll ask him. Now I must go; tomorrow morning is our weekly faculty meeting.” He looked closely at Max. “If you need to talk sometime . . .”
“I would not burden our friendship. It’s all right, Robert, I’ve never needed to talk about my problems, or my successes, either. You understand”—he hesitated, a man who had difficulty expressing emotion of any kind—“my friendship with you is the closest I’ve ever had. I appreciate it.” He stood up, as if he had said too much. “When Sabrina and I are in our own home, you’ll dine with us. I want her to meet you.”
“And I want to meet her. May I visit her in the hospital? I would be pleased to.”
“No, I’d rather wait. They’ve got doctors and psychologists running in and out of her room; she’s barely alone and she’s exhausted from all of it. You’ll come to our home.”
“Fine. But if you change your mind . . . priests are good at hospital visits, you know.”
Max nodded, barely hearing; he was suddenly frantic to get back. He sped through the streets, repeating his words to Robert. She will, I think, physically. She will, I think, physically. But he had been away from her for two hours, and in that time . . .
He raced to her room and found her sitting in her chair, talking comfortably to a doctor he did not know. There were always new doctors in her room, sometimes chatting about the weather or sailing in the Mediterranean or dining at fine restaurants, but most often asking questions, giving Stephanie tests, noting with approval the steady healing of the gash on her head. Much of those conversations she did not remember from day to day, or even hour to hour, but the doctors were patient: they always began again.
“Your amnesia, madame,” said one doctor, “is of two kinds. The anterograde, which causes you to forget what I said this morning, will pass, I can positively assure you. But the other, the retrograde, that is more serious. I cannot make any predictions about how long it will last.”
“No one told me that,” Stephanie said.
“Your first doctor did. You forgot. It happens.”
“We find it puzzling,” said another doctor to Stephanie on a day when Max was there, “that your type of memory loss does not fit the usual pattern of posttraumatic amnesia. We think it possible that you are primarily suffering from psychogenic amnesia—that is, an amnesia that results when a patient attempts to hide from an overwhelming psychic trauma by totally dissociating the self from the environment. In which case your amnesia would have little to do with the accident on the boat.”
Stephanie stared at him. “Are you saying I want to forget everything? I’m keeping myself from remembering?”
“You are not consciously preventing yourself from remembering, ma
dame, but it is possible that your unconscious is doing just that. You may have been involved in circumstances that caused you much conflict, that you had not resolved, that, in fact, caused so much pain when you tried to resolve them that it took only a blow on the head to make you cut yourself off from them entirely.”
She shook her head, then stopped because it made her headache worse. “What kind of circumstances?”
“I have no way of knowing, madame.”
“Something . . . criminal?”
“It is possible.”
“It is not possible,” Max cut in. “She’s not a criminal; she’s not capable of criminal acts. I think we’ve had enough of this; we won’t have any more of these sessions.”
“Why do you think that?” Stephanie asked the doctor. “That I’m repressing the personal parts of my whole life.
He looked at her with interest, noting the level of intelligence that allowed her to reformulate his theory in that way. “Your memory, madame. It is intact regarding language—in fact, we now know that you speak Italian, English and French with equal fluency—and it is intact regarding the names of objects and how to perform many functions. You buttoned your blouse this morning.”
Stephanie looked down at the white buttons on the blue and white striped silk blouse Max had brought her the day before in a large box that also contained a dark blue skirt, underclothes, silk stockings, high-heeled blue shoes. “I didn’t realize I was doing it.”
“Precisely; it was automatic. Something you knew from before. But what of the rest of your life, madame? Can you think back to buttoning your blouse at other times, perhaps when you were a child and your mother was helping you? Think about your mother, madame, holding you on her lap—yes?—and showing you how to button your blouse. Or taking you to the store to choose a blouse, or perhaps not a blouse, perhaps a doll or a coloring book. Or anything else. You and your mother shopping together, think about that, madame, you and your mother in a shop, choosing something to buy and take home, can you think about that, can you concentrate on that? Think about your mother, madame, and doing things together, shopping together, going in and out of shops, or it does not have to be shopping, it could be—”
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