by Lucy Gordon
Justin felt as if he was lying at the bottom of the sea. The room in which he awoke was decorated in greenish blue. The curtains had been pulled across the window, but they were thin and only dulled the light. The headache that had come upon him so suddenly was gone, and he felt pleasantly peaceful.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but it had done him good. He felt relaxed and rested, as he hadn’t done in the past few weeks. He’d been on edge ever since he awoke from the accident to find that two whole years had vanished from his memory.
At first he’d coped fairly well. The doctor had reassured him that such blank spots were common. His memory would return gradually. But it hadn’t. Justin had insisted on going back to work, only to find that he was useless because his own deals were strange to him. And not only strange, but displeasing. The documents revealed a ruthlessness that filled him with dismay, and he’d immediately reversed some of his own decisions. Greg had been delighted to see Foster’s reprieved but had torn his hair at the chaos Justin’s change of mind caused.
Marguerite was another problem. When she’d appeared by his bed, mourning the postponement of their wedding plans, he’d felt a sense of horror. How had he ever suggested marriage to this chilly, glittery creature? And how was he to get out of it?
Greg had come to his rescue. “You’re not engaged to her, no matter what she says,” he told his relieved brother. “We all thought you were going to propose at her birthday party. So did she, but you gave her that car instead. She wasn’t pleased.”
He’d been relieved to know the truth but disturbed that he’d apparently been on the verge of committing himself to such a woman. He’d begun to worry about the man he’d been during the past two years.
He tried to force his mind to remember. He had brain scans and psychiatric tests, and the doctors reassured him that he was completely normal—except that he’d lost two years.
His last recollection was the day before the Carter Vernon reception to celebrate his victory over a smaller firm that had had the temerity to stand up to him. He’d studied the guest list and discovered that Marguerite had come with Jack Vernon. But when he’d asked her about him she’d been dismissive.
“Oh, darling, forget him. He was nothing. It was wonderful how you just crushed him and took what you wanted. I do so admire that in a man.”
And I? he wondered. Was that what I thought of as admirable behavior?
He had more tests, experimenting with verbal association in the hope that some word or phrase would trigger his memory. But he’d only become tense and exhausted with strain.
“That’s enough,” his doctor said at last. “You can’t force it, and you’ll only make things worse by trying. You want my prescription? Get out of here. Leave London, and put the firm behind you. Have a good time.”
“A good time?” he echoed, as if the words were in a foreign language. As far as he could recall his vacations had always been business opportunities—a week spent on a customer’s yacht, a skiing trip in one of those snowy playgrounds where money congregated. Pleasure had never been part of it.
“How can I have a good time with this weighing on my mind?” he growled.
The elderly doctor had looked at him shrewdly. “That’s the medicine,” he said. “Forget yourself. Then maybe you’ll find yourself.”
Justin had handed the reins of the firm to his brother and driven away with no clear idea where he was going. He’d found himself traveling through green countryside on his way to the next town. But he’d never reached the town. He’d stopped at a small pub that took paying guests and rented a room. He spent the next day wandering through meadows and woods, enjoying the peace that had never meant anything to him before. He had bought a large-scale map of the locality.
The landlord told him that most of the places were so small only the bigger maps mentioned them. He ran over the names until he came to Haven. It was about a hundred miles away, near the sea. It would make a handy focus for his journey.
“It’s not much of a place,” the landlord said. “Nothing special to go there for.”
“There’s the sea,” Justin objected.
“If you want the sea you’ll do better a few miles further along.”
“No,” Justin said stubbornly. “Haven.”
He garaged the car and bought a pair of sturdy boots. On the first day he walked too far, but he had a sense of being driven to reach his destination without delay. He stayed overnight in a tiny village, and in the local craft shop he discovered a man carving things from wood. Impulsively Justin demanded to be taught. He had the hands of an engineer, half artist, half workman, with long, powerful fingers. He’d always loved working with his hands, but he’d given it up long ago, in favor of making money. Now the old pleasure returned, and with it the sensation of recovering a part of himself. After a few hours’ work he had a tall staff that was just the thing to support his aching frame on the journey.
He lingered, talking to Martin, the shop’s owner, who invited him to supper. He had a sturdy wife and a grave, studious little girl of nine, called Katie, who was fascinated by the sight of Justin with the staff. “You look like the hero of the Pilgrim’s Progress,” she said. “I’ve been reading it.”
She showed him the book with its illustration of a traveler plodding on his way, staff in hand. “Are you going to the Celestial City?” she asked.
“No, just to Haven.”
“Is Haven a very nice place?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”
“Are you going to visit someone who lives there?”
“No, I…” The words trailed away as he had a strange dizzy feeling. He’d walked too strenuously that day. “No.”
“Then why are you going?” she demanded reasonably.
He felt suddenly disoriented. He didn’t know why he was going to Haven, only that he had to. He tried to answer, but no words would come.
Martin came to his rescue. “Leave the poor fellow in peace, Katie, and sit at the table.”
She obeyed her father, saying, “I thought you might be going on a pilgrimage. Haven means refuge or sanctuary, doesn’t it? So it would be a good place for a pilgrimage.”
Her words had stayed with him. Of course his journey wasn’t a pilgrimage, yet it was strange how the idea of this one place had taken hold of him so that he was impatient to get there.
On the last lap he’d walked too far in one go, trying to make it before dark. He’d failed and been forced to sleep in a town three miles away. His body ached, but he’d been up early next day, skipping breakfast, eager to get started. And he’d paid the penalty, collapsing almost as soon as he arrived.
The face of Sarah Conroy floated into his consciousness, and he experienced again the half-painful delight he’d felt when he first saw her. Every line of her was still clear—the worn jeans, the blue shirt roped in at her waist with a man’s tie, the white column of her throat and above it the gentle, smiling face. Her brown hair had been inexpertly pinned up, and as she talked she seized stray tendrils and put them back, but they soon escaped again. She was natural and unsophisticated, in contrast to what he had appreciated in women—up to two years ago.
But it was her eyes that moved him. They were dark and glowed softly against her warm skin. They’d held an odd, arrested look at the sight of him and he’d wondered if he looked more like a tramp than he knew.
Then her smile had come, breathtaking” and beautiful, making him want to stay and go on looking at her. The sight of her son, with the suggestion of a man in her life, had given him a twinge of dismay. His glance had flashed to her left hand. No ring—that was good. When she’d said that Nicky’s father wasn’t around he’d felt irrational relief.
He’d felt compelled to admit his memory loss, although he feared the effect it might have on her. The gap in his mind made him feel like a freak. The relief when she shrugged it aside had been overwhelming.
He glanced at his watch and was astonished to fin
d it was nearly six in the evening. He’d slept for six hours. He went downstairs to find her just ready to close the shop. “Do you have a map of Haven?” he asked.
She produced one from a high shelf, and he bought it.
“The last sale of the day,” Sarah said as she put the money in the till.
She locked the front door, but as she reached up to the top to slide home a bolt a young man with a girlishly good-looking face appeared outside and began asking, through the glass, for her to reopen. “Not a chance,” Sarah called to him. “It’s five past six.”
The boy put his hands together in a pleading gesture.
“No,” she called firmly. “Learn to get here on time.”
He went into a theatrical pantomime of despair, then pointed a finger at his own heart as if about to shoot himself.
“Oh, all right,” Sarah said, laughing. She unlocked the door. “This is positively the last time I do this, Alex.”
“You always say that,” he said winningly. “But you can’t resist me, can you?”
“Very easily,” she declared, but she was smiling indulgently. “Hurry up, I want to close.”
The young man lingered for a few minutes, flirting with Sarah, before buying a box of chocolates. “For my mother,” he said. “To cheer her up.”
“To get back in her good books, you mean,” Sarah said. “There are no secrets in this place.”
“Darling, whatever you’ve heard, don’t believe it.” He blew her a kiss and departed with an appraising glance at Justin.
“Let me lock up,” Justin said quickly. “I can reach that high bolt more easily than you.” He turned the key and slammed the bolt home. When he saw the young man looking back at the shop he pulled down the blind firmly.
“Can I help you with anything?” he asked.
Sarah had lifted her son. “You could carry his playpen, thank you,” she said.
Upstairs she indicated the living room and asked him to set the pen there. “Right in the line of the door,” she said. “Then I can keep an eye on him while I start supper.”
“Leave him to me,” Justin said, taking Nicky from her arms.
He followed her into the small, immaculate kitchen, sat on a chair by the wall and settled Nicky between his feet with a toy. “Who’s the young man who thinks the world must bow to his convenience?” he asked casually.
“Alex Drew,” Sarah said, lighting the gas stove. “He lives in Haven Manor, the big house on the other side of the crossroads. His parents are well off, and I suppose he is a bit spoiled. He doesn’t seem able to hold down a job, but he’s so charming that people forgive him.”
“And he trades on it,” Justin said wryly.
“Oh, he’s all right. He’s young.”
Justin was about to say something else when he became aware that Nicky was tugging on his wrist. Looking down, he realized that the child was hauling himself to his feet. Justin grinned and helped him up. “How old is your son?”
“Fifteen months. He’s already taken his first step,” Sarah said proudly. “The doctor says he’s advanced.”
Nicky slid to the floor but immediately began to haul himself up again. Justin tensed his arm to give the child a lever. Nicky was scowling with concentration, but the scowl turned into a grin when he’d achieved his goal.
“Now, young man, time for bath and bed,” Sarah said. “Could you watch the pots for me while I’m away?” She scooped Nicky up and carried him to the bathroom.
Justin studied the map he had bought. It showed that Haven was built around a set of crossroads. One corner was taken up by Mottson’s General Store, standing next to the local tavern, the Haystack. On the next corner was Haven Manor. Justin could see it through the kitchen window. It was obviously the largest and wealthiest house in the village. The church stood on the corner across the way. It was a small, pretty building, surrounded by trees..
The crossroads were uneven, and the fourth corner was much larger than the others. On this corner was an area of grass that stretched out of sight. Nearest to Justin was a pond, with several contented-looking ducks.
A hiss from the gas stove brought Justin to his surroundings, not quite in time to stop the potatoes boiling over. Cursing roundly, he turned the gas off and hastily checked the other pans. But they were behaving themselves.
“Everything all right?” Sarah called.
“Fine,” he lied, frantically relighting the gas. Her chuckle floated out to him, and he had the feeling she knew just what had happened. After a moment he grinned at himself. “Perhaps you’d better take a look,” he called.
“Can you keep an eye on Nicky?”
He went into the bathroom. The little bath was a quarter filled with water on which floated all manner of animals. Nicky was sitting at one end promoting a race between a duck and an alligator by agitating the water. “Just watch him to make sure he doesn’t slide under,” Sarah said, rushing out in response to more explosive noises from the kitchen.
The duck and alligator had reached the line. Justin put them back to the start. “We could add the whale, too,” he suggested. “What do you think?”
Nicky considered the animals, then looked up and considered Justin. Without warning he raised both hands and brought them down with all his strength. Water flew up and descended, leaving Justin drenched. His indignant cry was drowned by Nicky’s yells of delight.
Justin groped blindly for a towel and managed to clear his eyes and mop his hair just in time for Nicky to do it all again. A choke from the doorway made him turn his head. Through his streaming eyes he managed to see Sarah trying to control her laughter.
“That’s his favorite trick just now,” she said. “He loves water. I’m sorry, I should have warned you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, dabbing at himself with the towel. “I think I’ll go and find a dry shirt.”
When he went into the living room Nicky was sitting in his high chair while his mother spooned puree into his mouth. At least, she aimed for his mouth, but a fair amount ended up on his cheeks and his bib. A delicious smell was coming from the kitchen.
Justin looked around the room, which seemed to have been furnished with antiques.. Sketches of flowers adorned the walls, and the whole atmosphere was of a slightly shabby coziness.
“Is that enough?” Sarah asked Nicky. “Right, then, time for bed. Your eyes are drooping.” She lifted him out of the high chair. “Come on, my little man,” she whispered.
The child was already half-asleep against her shoulder. Justin saw her bury her face against him before carrying him gently away.”
They had supper on a table made of dark mahogany in an elegant eighteenth-century design. Justin commented on the number of antiques in the room. “They’re not antiques, I’m afraid,” Sarah said ruefully. “Poor Uncle Nick lives for the day when he’ll find a real treasure, but so far all he’s brought home are fakes. This table was supposed to be Chippendale, but it’s an imitation.”
“They’re lovely pieces, anyway.”
“That’s what I say. But Uncle Nick will never be content until he finds the real thing. Just once, that’s all he asks. That’s where he’s gone today, to an auction in the hope of striking it lucky.”
He tucked into the meal like a man who hadn’t eaten for days. Sarah watched him, trying to come to terms with the miracle that had brought into the shop the man she’d thought never to see again. Since the day she’d fled his apartment after uttering terrible words, she’d allowed herself to love only her uncle and her son. Her love for Justin was not dead but shut away, hidden where it could no longer hurt her.
But in the first moment of seeing him she’d known that nothing had changed. Her feelings had survived, as intense, anguished and joyful as they had ever been. She loved him still. She would always love him.
But he had altered. In the past he’d seldom relaxed over a meal. There’d been a phone call to make or listen for, a strategy to plan. Now he seemed content to be where he was. Whe
n he held out his plate for more with a rueful grin, her happiness bubbled up like a wellspring.
She refused his offer to help with the washing up and encouraged him to go to bed early. Despite his sleep that afternoon she could sense that he wasn’t yet fully rested.
She had an early night herself and quickly fell into a contented doze. But after a couple of hours she awoke with a fearful conviction that it had all been a dream. She crept out of bed and along the corridor to his room, walking carefully, for the floor was uneven and the boards creaked. To her relief she could hear him breathing. The door was slightly ajar, and she risked nudging it open a little and looking in.
He lay in a shaft of moonlight. Nervous, yet unable to stop herself, she slipped in and knelt beside him, her face only a few inches from his. She was free to look with longing. Sometimes in the past she’d seen him like this, but not often. He didn’t like to be observed when he was asleep. He hadn’t said why, but she guessed it made him feel vulnerable. It had hurt that he didn’t trust her enough to relax.
Now she felt like a thief, stealing her joy from a defenseless man, but she couldn’t help it. After the long, lonely months, nothing could have stopped her from taking this moment. Perhaps it was all she would have.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I never stopped loving you. I never will.”
He stirred, and she rose quickly and fled. In her room Nicky had just awakened. She scooped him up and held him tightly to her.
“He’s come back to us, my darling,” she whispered. “Do you hear that? He’s come back to us.”
Chapter Three
“Tell me about Haven,” Justin said over breakfast next morning. “How big is it?”
“About eight hundred people.”
He was startled. He’d addressed conference halls containing more people than that. “It won’t take me long to explore, then,” he said, consulting his map. “I’ll go down the High Street, Fennicott Lane—”