by Melissa Hill
Was he angry, furious even? It was impossible to tell.
Aidan Harris stroked his chin and looked sideways at Darcy. ‘So I guess that explains the dog-sitting then; I was just about to ask how you’d come across him.’
She winced and held her breath, desperately hoping he wouldn’t chew her out for running him over and being the root cause of all of his current woes.
But miraculously he shrugged. ‘Well, seeing as I can’t remember a thing about it, I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.’
Darcy looked sheepishly at him.
‘But if it’s any consolation, I believe you,’ he continued, his tone lightening a little, much to her relief. ‘When you say that there was nothing you could have done, I mean.’
‘I was so worried when I realised you were out cold,’ she confessed. ‘And was terrified I’d caused untold damage – serious brain damage or something. I mean, I know that not being able to remember things is surely no picnic for you now, but—’
‘But how were you, Miss Archer?’ he asked. ‘After the accident, I mean. I hope you came out of it all OK?’
Touched that in spite of everything, he was chivalrous enough to be concerned about her welfare, she smiled and said, ‘Please, call me Darcy. And I’m fine. Just a couple of bruises, and a few broken spokes on the bike.’
‘Well then, Darcy, I’ll take care of that – whenever I get out of this bloody hell-hole,’ he snapped, his tone darkening once more.
‘There’s no need, really,’ she protested. ‘It’s fine.’
‘No, it’s the least I can do, especially when it seems that not only have you gone out of your way to take care of my dog, but also taken time out of your day to come and see me. I appreciate that, since as you can see, I’m kind of on my own here.’
‘It must be very frightening.’ She smiled reassuringly, and tried not to betray the anxiety she felt about the logistics of having Bailey longer than she’d thought. It was a small problem compared to the enormity of what his owner was facing just now. ‘But even though you can’t remember anything at the moment, I’m sure your family will find you very soon. They’re probably phoning around the Emergency Rooms as we speak.’
He frowned. ‘Unfortunately, even if they are, thanks to some stupid bloody privacy rules, the hospital is not allowed to give out information to anyone unless I specifically tell them who to give it to. But of course I can’t give permission for them to speak to specific people because I don’t know who the hell is supposed to be looking for me.’ He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated yet again, and Darcy couldn’t help but sympathise.
‘Oh dear.’ Talk about a bureaucratic nightmare, she thought, wondering what administrative healthcare genius had come up with that one. While it was obviously in place to safeguard patient information and privacy, it created real difficulties for people like Aidan Harris, effectively leaving them in the dark.
‘So I really need to figure out who in God’s name I am,’ he went on, his voice gruff. ‘And at the moment the only clue I have is that I own a Husky dog – and live somewhere off Central Park, you said?’
‘Yes. A beautiful brownstone on the Upper West Side. With a lovely little potted maple tree outside the door,’ she added somewhat pointlessly, but she was trying to think of things that might just trigger his memory for him. Then again, a simple tree was hardly going to yield the strong emotional connotations the doctor mentioned before, was it?
Feeling stupid, Darcy was silent again, not sure what to say. ‘I’m really sorry about this, Mr Harris,’ she said helplessly. ‘Truly, if there’s anything at all I can do . . .’
Looking thoughtful, Aidan Harris was fidgeting again with his keys. ‘Call me Aidan, and if you don’t mind, I think there might just be something you can do actually.’ He paused and fixed those probing dark eyes on Darcy’s own. ‘As you know, I’m kind of desperate here, and seeing as you were asking about dog food earlier and you already know where my house is, I wonder if you could do me a small favour . . .’
Chapter 9
A man’s house is his castle. James Otis
Once again, Darcy stood outside Aidan Harris’s brownstone off Central Park West, but this time she didn’t need to use the doorbell.
In the hope of helping him overcome his amnesia, Aidan had entrusted her with his keys and asked if she could go to his home and find something (or even someone) he’d recognise that would help trigger his memory.
‘Perhaps a photograph or a notebook maybe, anything you think that might be important or significant in some way. Please Darcy, I really need to get out of this place. I need to get my life back.’
He sounded so desperate that it was extremely difficult to say no, and while Darcy wasn’t convinced that she would be able to walk into a complete stranger’s home and identify something that might be significant to them, she knew she owed it to him to at least try. And if nothing else, she mused somewhat selfishly, it would give her the opportunity to nab some decent food for a dog of Bailey’s size without having to max out her own credit card.
She was still kicking herself for agreeing so readily to look after the dog and wasn’t sure how Luigi would react to finding out that Bailey wasn’t just an overnighter. To say nothing of how she was going to keep a dog his size in her tiny apartment, when it was barely big enough for herself and her things as it was. Still, she’d made Aidan Harris a promise and she was going to keep it. Bailey would just have to get used to more cramped living quarters and she would have to get used to giving up her space on the sofa as well as fluffy grey dog hairs on every surface, she thought wryly.
Though judging by the size of Bailey’s real home, ‘cramped’ was an understatement.
Reaching into her messenger bag, Darcy fished out the set of keys Aidan had given her, trying to decide which one of them opened the front door.
Spotting the Mets keyring, she idly wondered if perhaps Aidan had at one point lived in Brooklyn, Long Island or Queens, where the majority of such fans were from. Being a Brooklyn girl, she herself was very much a Mets fan, or at least she had been, she thought sadly, recalling how passionate her father used to be about baseball when she was growing up. She used to watch the games with him on TV and he often promised to take her to the team’s then home Shea Stadium. But they’d never got the chance.
Over the years, she’d lost touch with what was going on with the team and baseball in general – Katherine wasn’t exactly a sports fan. Thinking about it, the only real thing she could identify her aunt being passionate about was work, which was why Darcy had spent so much of her teens with only her books for company while Katherine was in Manhattan tending to what seemed like a neverending succession of important commitments. Still, she couldn’t complain; her aunt had always done her best for her in what must have been very difficult circumstances, and Darcy couldn’t help but contrast her own anxiety about having a mere dog as an unexpected house-guest to the utter shock her aunt must have felt back then on learning she was suddenly sole guardian of a twelve-year-old girl.
Moving on to the gold Cartier keyring, Darcy inspected it more closely, noticing that the brand’s recognisable double ‘C’ pivoted within a ring of what looked like very expensive high-carat gold. She let out a low whistle, marvelling at how anyone would spend so much on a simple keyring. But she supposed that if you had money to burn, dropping cash on some kind of status accessory signalling your wealth was par for the course.
Trying the first key attached to the Cartier ring in the lock, she found herself quickly denied, and peered nervously over her shoulder just to make sure no one was watching her. Permitted or not, she didn’t fancy explaining herself to any nosy neighbours just then.
Flipping to the next key, she was once again denied access.
Finally, feeling beyond anxious, Darcy selected the third key on the Cartier keyring, put it into the keyhole and turned. To her relief, the lock clicked and gave way.
She went inside and shut
the door behind her quickly, again worrying about one of the neighbours calling the cops. Only when the door closed and the house was filled with silence did she stop to think that she might not be alone.
Even though the hospital had been unable to contact anyone at the house, she decided she should have tried the doorbell first, just in case. What if Aidan Harris lived here with a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend, a roommate – or even still with his parents?
If so, she could only guess their reaction to Darcy bursting into their home on a dark winter’s evening.
Standing in the hallway, the first thing that caught her eye was the large bouquet of fresh lilies sitting in a vase on a nearby side table, which immediately suggested that a woman lived here. Darcy couldn’t imagine any man – even Joshua – going to the trouble of putting fresh flowers in his house. The question was, was that same woman – perhaps Aidan’s wife – here at the moment?
‘Hello?’ she called out, inching forward on the foyer’s hardwood floor. A mirror up ahead caught her reflection, her dark hair tied up in her usual messy work ponytail, purple v-neck sweater over black trousers, eyes wide and skin pale. ‘Anyone home?’
Her voice, timid yet loud, echoed off the high walls and crown moulding that bordered every inch of the hallway’s white ceiling. Darcy froze, listening. Could hear her breathing.
Otherwise silence.
‘Looks like nobody’s home,’ she whispered to no one in particular, leaning against a nearby doorframe. She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed; if somebody was here, then she could simply be on her way and Aidan (or Bailey) would no longer need her.
But there was no denying that she was curious to see inside this beautiful house, had always wanted to see what a properly restored and lived-in New York brownstone was really like. This could be her only opportunity to do so. The house she’d lived in with Katherine was a small two-up, two-down Brooklyn townhouse, and of course any apartment she’d ever been in here in Manhattan was little bigger than a shoe box, and possessed about as much charm. Inside, the house was warm, and feeling a slight bead of sweat run down her forehead from her exertion in cycling all the way here from the hospital, Darcy brushed the moisture off with her hand and steadied herself, collecting her thoughts.
So, I’m in. Now what?
She put a tentative hand on the door closest to her and was about to venture further into the house before remembering to wipe the slush off her shoes.
She took in the spotless wooden floors and large patterned Turkish rug laid out before her and assumed that there must be a housekeeper or cleaner. No matter, she didn’t want to track in muddy footprints and cause a mess.
After all, she had already messed things up enough for the guy.
Wiping her feet across the doormat, she continued on inside and for the first time began to really take in her surroundings. Right in front of her, hanging in the foyer not four feet away, was a rust and blue coloured abstract painting she immediately identified as a Rothko, having seen the artist’s work in MoMA one time. And she was willing to bet it was real. She whistled under her breath. Just who was she dealing with here?
Darcy peered at the oil painting, trying to imagine the value of this piece alone.
‘And it’s hanging in Aidan Harris’s foyer. Oh my,’ she sighed.
Looking over her shoulder, as if a thief might appear out of nowhere and swipe the painting from in front of her nose, Darcy subconsciously hugged her messenger bag to her chest.
If these people had a Rothko hanging in the entryway of their house, what on earth would they have in the rest of the place?
And then she got to wondering whether the painting might work, if it had some significance or emotional connotations for Aidan. Some people felt that way about art, although admittedly Darcy wasn’t one of them. She enjoyed looking at it but had never felt the urge to have a piece of artwork in her apartment.
No, if she had that kind of money to spend, Darcy would choose a first edition novel over a painting any day. But if Aidan felt the same way about his painting as she did about books, then surely this would mean something to him, and he would immediately recognise it? A piece like this, from one of America’s most revered Impressionist-influenced painters, wouldn’t have been easy to come by, and she guessed the procurement of the painting, or the special occasion or landmark that an expensive purchase would surely represent , would be the kind of significant item that Aidan needed.
But what was Darcy supposed to do – take a painting worth a million dollars or more and just pop it on the back of her bike and pedal off back down to the hospital in the snow with it?
Not an option.
Unsure where to go next, never mind what she was supposed to be looking for, she spied a doorway at the end of the short hallway which was dotted with smaller but no doubt also original modernist prints. Trying the handle, the door opened with ease and going inside, Darcy immediately stepped into the kitchen of her dreams.
Not that she was that much of a cook – in truth, she could just about manage to boil an egg – but she adored cookbooks and in particular the beautifully shot photographs of the food and accompanying pictures of typically gorgeous workspaces.
This room looked exactly like one of those, and Darcy decided that she would do nothing else but cook if she ever lived in a house with a kitchen like this.
Floor-to-ceiling culinary elegance beckoned to her, every stainless-steel and granite surface gleaming pristinely. There was no way she would ever be able to keep this kitchen free of fingerprints, even with a platoon of housekeepers at her command, she thought, instinctively holding her hands out for fear of touching something. She noted the imported Rayburn stove, and the glass-doored wine cooler showcasing rows of bottles which she guessed were of a higher vintage than those she usually picked up at the Essex Street Market.
Darcy sighed dreamily as she took in the artfully displayed Cuisinart mixer, funky Alessi fruit bowl and the bevy of other high-end appliances that looked as if they had been plucked from a display at Williams-Sonoma. Yes, this truly was the kitchen of her dreams – of anyone’s dreams. She shook her head dazedly. Even though her own gastronomic speciality basically required Kraft American cheese, two slices of bread and a frying pan, she knew without a doubt that this kitchen would elevate the simple grilled cheese sandwich to something ambrosial.
She tried to picture Aidan moving around in this space, trying to imagine if he wandered in here at the end of the day once he was finished with whatever he obviously did so successfully at work. The lack of scribbled drawings on the refrigerator and the absence of any toys in the room suggested it was unlikely any children lived here.
She pictured him pulling open the wine cooler and selecting a Pinot Grigio before choosing fresh ingredients from the fridge and going on to prepare some luxuriously gourmet meal.
She looked to the Rayburn stove, which incidentally had a Williams-Sonoma branded dishtowel (good eye, Darcy), seemingly unused, hanging over its handle. She wondered if Aidan grabbed that dishtowel and threw it over his shoulder as he cooked, the way her own dad used to do when he pretended to ‘help’ her mother at dinnertime.
Did Aidan cook – and if so, what? she mused. The kitchen gave away no hints, at least not concerning what the occupants might have eaten for breakfast yesterday morning. There wasn’t a single utensil or piece of crockery in the sink, not even a coffee cup someone might have used that morning. The granite countertops sparkled, and actually the entire space looked as if it had never been used.
Well, maybe they just eat out all the time, she pondered.
But whatever the occupants did or didn’t cook in this room, and whether or not they shared it with children, Darcy knew that at the very least there had to be food in those cupboards for Bailey. And seeing as one of the reasons she was here was to get the Husky’s chow . . .
Darcy needed to locate the food. Which was why she needed to look through some of his master’s cupboards, and
possibly the refrigerator too, no? Because it wasn’t as if there was a bag of dog food just sitting on the countertop, or any signs pointing out where it might be kept.
Wiping her hands on her trousers, she turned to what had to be a walk-in pantry. To her right was the refrigerator, and while commonsense dictated that dog food would be in the walk-in, she thought she’d still better look in the fridge first.
Just in case.
She smiled, acknowledging to herself that she was just snooping, but she had to admit that she was enjoying the experience of being in another person’s domain and trying to figure out how they occupied it. It was a similar sensation to being lost in a story, aware that you weren’t getting the full picture, and feeling compelled to try and work out where it might be headed.
Having justified her curiosity, Darcy opened the refrigerator door and quickly surveyed the contents: several jars of gourmet pasta sauce were lined up on the top shelf, as well as a cellophane-clad chunk of Parmesan cheese and a small plastic carton containing fresh basil leaves.
Glancing around at the other contents, she spied mostly typical refrigerator fare like milk, mineral water, eggs, butter, sliced meats and some vegetables, as well as a few fancier items like blue cheese and stuffed olives. They also had a taste for champagne, judging by the half-empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot. She wondered if Aidan had been celebrating and if so, what?
Still puzzled, she closed the fridge and turned to the walk-in pantry. Flipping on the inside light, Darcy spied shelf upon shelf of expertly organised goods and canned foods: a cornucopia of exotic jars, bottles, baskets and boxes – things like mango chutney, wasabi almonds, sesame flatbreads, hemp oil and maple leaf candy. Clearly these people were among the few New Yorkers who did not eat take-out every night.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a basket that indicated the residents took regular grocery delivery from Dean & DeLuca. She let out another low whistle. When you were rich, even the little things like boring old grocery shopping really were so much better, weren’t they?