Husband Found

by Martha Shields

  She faced one of the windows looking out over the backyard, her arms crossed so far over her stomach he could see her fingers grasping her slender waist. “It’s the things you left. When you died—or we thought you did went to your apartment and cleaned it out. There wasn’t much. Mostly clothes, which I gave away. You’d rented your furniture.”

  He set the box on the plastic-covered desk, then took out his keys to break the tape. “I never even thought about the things I left in Memphis. My parents apparently didn’t, either.”

  “The landlord called me because he knew me, I was over there so much. I thought about sending everything to your parents, but...” She drifted off as if she’d forgotten what she was going to say. Turning, she studied his face for a long moment. “You said in the closet that when you touched me, you remembered the night I had a cold. What did you mean?”

  Was she finally starting to believe him? He barely restrained a sigh of relief, which told him how important her trust was to him. How could that be? He barely knew this woman.

  He barely knew his own wife.

  Shaking away his confusion, he locked his gaze onto hers. “You give me back my memories.”

  Her eyes widened. “What?”

  “When you fainted at the motel and I picked you up, I remembered something from my life before the accident. You can’t possibly know how remarkable that is. For over six years, I haven’t been able to remember anything except what my family told me to remember. But those weren’t real memories. They didn’t have sights or smells or sounds.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I’ve remembered something almost every time I’ve touched you.”

  “No.” Emma tightened her arms around herself to keep them from trembling. His words made it sound as if there was some primal connection between them that still existed. But it couldn’t be true.

  Rafe pulled out his wallet and withdrew a yellowed, stained piece of notebook paper with burned edges. He unfolded it with meticulous care, as if it were the Shroud of Turin.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She knew what it was before she saw the picture she’d casually tossed off while daydreaming during a boring art history lecture at the university. She’d drawn Rafe as the archangel Raphael, the angel of healing. That very night Gabe had been conceived.

  He stared down at the drawing. “When I caught you after you fainted, I remembered when you gave me this. We were standing by the Mississippi River.” Rafe held the paper out to her. “You drew it, didn’t you?”

  She swallowed to clear the lump from her throat, but it popped right back up. So she nodded.

  “They found this clutched in my hand when they rescued me,” he said. “That’s why it’s so dirty and the edges are burned. It’s a miracle it survived the blast. Probably the only reason is because my flesh took the punishment, protecting it. It’s the only clue I had to my life during the months before my father found me. Some days it was the only thing that kept me sane.”

  Emma reached a trembling finger out to touch the paper. “I can’t believe you still have it.”

  “What does EKG mean?”

  She traced the letters in the heart she’d drawn on the angel’s robe. “They were my initials before we got married. You used to...” Her voice cracked. “You used to make terrible puns comparing loving me to the medical test doctors do on heart patients.”

  He hesitated, then said, “So I loved you.”

  The past tense shot darts of pain into her heart, which startled her. Pain meant his words hurt, which meant she still cared. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. “Yes, of course.”

  “And you loved me?”

  Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

  “Then, beautiful Emma, for the sake of the love we once shared, won’t you believe I’m telling the truth?”

  Emma felt as if she were drowning. She’d trusted just three men in her life, and they’d all betrayed her in one way or another. One of them was standing here now, asking her to trust him again.

  Even though it seemed as if he hadn’t knowingly betrayed her, she couldn’t erase the last six years. She didn’t know why she had to.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  He frowned, obviously disappointed that she’d avoided answering his question. “Several things. First and foremost, for you to believe I didn’t leave you alone on purpose. You must’ve known me well, to have married me. Did I seem to be the kind of person who would desert his wife?”

  “No,” she had to admit. “You were the most honest, direct person I’d ever met. It was one of the main reasons I loved you.”

  His face softened, and he smiled for the first time. “Thank you.”

  Emma caught her breath. It was like looking into the face of an angel. A scarred angel with broken wings. She used to live for his smiles. “Thank you for what?”

  “For believing me,” he answered. “You do, don’t you?”

  Suddenly she realized she did, and it terrified her. Believing him was dangerous. It meant he would expect a place in her life, a place she didn’t have to give him. “Just because I believe you have amnesia doesn’t mean I trust you.”

  His smile faded, and sadness crept into his eyes. “At least it’s a start. Maybe now you’ll be willing to answer my questions.”

  She lifted her chin. “First you need to answer a few of mine.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I know, which I assure you isn’t much.”

  She ignored his feeble attempt at a joke. “Why wasn’t I told when you were found?”

  He blinked. “My parents knew we were married?”

  “No, but—”

  “Why not?”

  She sighed and relaxed her iron grip on her stomach. “It was my fault. My father objected to me dating you—strenuously. I wouldn’t let you tell your parents or anyone else we were dating, much less married. I was afraid my father would somehow find out.”

  “Were you ashamed of me?”

  “No, of course not. My father...” She looked away, even now unable to denigrate the man who’d made her life so miserable. “Your mother was from Mexico, which made you a half-breed in his eyes. If he’d known I was dating you, he would’ve...not have been happy.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How...not happy?”

  She shrugged. “He would’ve locked me in my room and probably... probably...”

  “Hit you?”

  She nodded.

  Rafe released a soft Spanish curse.

  Emma held her hand up to stop any more questions along that line. “It’s in the past now. He’s dead. But you knew what he was like. We dated in secret, and married in secret. You were about to go off on an assignment, your first for the Denver Post. We were planning to break the news to my parents as soon as you got back from Nicaragua, then we were going to drive to Houston for Christmas and tell yours, then move to Denver. We were so young. We didn’t think a few days could matter.”

  He absorbed what she said, then asked, “If my parents didn’t know about you, how can you have expected them to call when they found me?”

  “I talked to your mother after the accident, several times. I told her I was a friend, and asked her to call me if they found anything. She said she would.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “A friend?”

  She halfheartedly lifted her hands. “I didn’t know how to tell them I was their daughter-in-law, married to the son they’d just lost. They had enough to deal with, and I thought they’d think I was some sick psycho, wanting money or something. It didn’t seem to matter, since you were gone.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it, I do remember Mama saying something about not being able to reach a friend of mine in Memphis. She may have even said your name, but it wouldn’t have meant anything to me. At that point, my own name didn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Speaking of names, why are you calling yourself David?”

  He searched her eyes, his face bleak. Finally, he said, “Because Rafe was dead. It
seemed only fitting that this new person should be called something new.”

  Emma felt as if a giant hand was squeezing every last drop of blood from her heart. “Oh, Rafe.”

  He regarded her with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. “I don’t know why I told you that. I’ve never told anyone. I told my parents that David sounded more American than Raphael. I was starting to write for several history magazines and needed an all-American name.” He paused, then said, “I think I believed it myself, for a while.”

  “History,” she murmured. “You were never interested in history.”

  “Wasn’t I? Well, when you have no history of your own, you tend to grab hold of any you can find.” He smiled sadly. “My father has always been a Civil War buff, and he encouraged my interest. Plus, it was something I could research and write without dealing with people.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “You always liked people. You never met anybody you couldn’t talk to.”

  He nodded. “My family told me the same thing. I knew they worried about me when I wouldn’t go out. But you see, people ask questions. They expect you to know them, to know about things that have been washed from your mind. It was—” he looked away “—awkward.”

  Tears burned her eyes. He’d suffered so much. So had she. She wanted to run to him and kiss away his hurt, her pain.

  But she didn’t. It wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t erase their pain. Like he said, Rafe was dead. His mind, at least, if not his body. This was an entirely different man from the one she’d married—David Johnson, not Rafe.

  She’d changed, too. They’d both lived several lifetimes during the past six years. They could never go back. The young, innocent couple who believed they could set the world on fire was gone. In their place were two damaged adults who were worlds apart.

  Still, she was glad he came. She’d needed closure, even though closure brought more pain. “Thank you.”

  His brow lifted. “For what?”

  She shrugged. “For coming. For explaining. It’s helped a lot. I’m glad you’re not dead, Rafe. And I’m glad to know you didn’t desert me. I’m sorry I acted so badly before.”

  “I understand now. It’s no wonder you thought what you did.”

  She stuck out her hand. “I wish you well. I really do.”

  He glanced at her hand, frowning. “You sound as if you’re saying goodbye.”

  “There isn’t any point in dragging this out, is there? You have your answers, and I have mine.”

  “No point in...” He lifted his hands in exasperation. “You’ve forgotten one tiny detail, haven’t you? We’re married.”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten.” She retracted her hand. She should’ve known he wouldn’t let her off so easily. “But if you think that means we’re going to pick up where we left off, you—”

  “I have no idea where we left off!” He shoved a hand back through his hair. “But I’m not going to let you dismiss me with a handshake.”

  Again, her hands crossed over her stomach. “What do you mean?”

  Rafe studied her. Talk about body language. She’d drawn herself in like a turtle into its protective shell, and she stared out of it as if she expected to be attacked any minute. What had she gone through, this beautiful woman with haunted green eyes?

  Suddenly and with keen desperation, he wanted to know. He wanted to become the shell that protected her, the one she ran to and hid inside when she was scared. He wanted to find out who she was—inside and out—then start all over again.

  The depth of the feeling amazed him. He’d been so wrapped up in his own troubles for so long that he hadn’t had the time or energy to deal with anyone else’s.

  Why now? Why this woman? Was their connection from the past so strong it had called him back to Memphis?

  Whatever they shared, it was strong enough to open the doors to his past that had been sealed for years. She was his angel of healing. Fate had brought them together again. He’d be damned if he’d let her go with, “Have a nice life.”

  “What do I mean?” he repeated softly. “I mean that I need you. You give me back my memories. You have to help me. You’re the only one who can.”

  She slowly shook her head. “No.”

  “When I touch you, I remember. That hasn’t happened since I woke up in that hellhole in Nicaragua.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why not? It’s true.”

  “Because it makes it seem like...like I’m important to you. Like there’s some kind of connection between us. And there isn’t. There can’t be.”

  “How can you say that? What else drew me back to Memphis? What made you answer that ad?”

  She threw her hands in the air. “Coincidence.”

  He shook his head. “It was fate, Emma. I didn’t know why the need to return to Memphis was so strong. But now I do. Fate called me back so I could find you. Fate made you answer my ad.”

  Emma closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. She drew in a deep, ragged breath, then said, “It wasn’t fate, Rafe. It was desperation.” She opened her eyes. “I needed another job. I’m sorry, but I have too much to deal with in my own life to be any help to someone else. I don’t have the time or the energy.”

  He lifted a brow. “You have time and energy for a second job.”

  “No, I don’t. I hardly ever see my son now, only a few hours a day. If I get another job, I’ll never see him. But I need money to fix the roof.”

  She’d given him the perfect opening. He parted his lips to offer her the job, then abruptly closed them. What she said made an idea pop into his mind, and he turned to face the window as he considered it.

  She needed a job, yet also needed to stay home. He needed a graphic artist and also an apartment/office. Why not rent a couple of these rooms for a few months? They weren’t using them, and it would make his offer that much more attractive to her, if she could earn money at home. If he was around every day and every night, sooner or later she’d have to deal with him.

  Now if he could only convince her to agree—or bribe her, or bully her. Whatever worked.

  He glanced around thoughtfully. “How long have you been sleeping downstairs?”

  She looked confused at the change of subject, but answered, “Two and a half months. I’ve been trying to find a job, but parttime graphics jobs at night are few and far between in this town.”

  “Funny you should mention needing a job. The main reason I came here today was to offer you the graphics job on Southern Yesteryears. After you left the other night, I looked over your portfolio. I liked what I saw. A lot. Right now, Southern Yesteryears isn’t much more than a quarterly newsletter called Southern History. I’ve been writing freelance articles for it the past several years. When it came up for sale a month ago, I bought it and I moved here a couple of weeks ago. My goal is to make it into a real commercial magazine—as essential on Southern coffee tables as Southern Living. And as good.”

  Despite her determination to be rid of him, Emma was intrigued—and relieved their discussion about the past was over. “I don’t know of any kind of publication like that. Odd that no one’s thought of it, since most Southerners can recite their lineage back beyond the Civil War. But if you want to make it a success, you’ll have to—”

  She pressed her lips together. She shouldn’t be this interested in a job she couldn’t have. It would get her hopes up, and his.

  “I’ll have to what? Please, I want your input. I need all the help I can get if I’m going to make it a success.” When she didn’t reply, he continued, “That’s why I need you. You’re the best artist who answered my ad. You have a real flair for color and for making pages easy to read. I especially liked the ad you did for that old-fashioned doll. The one dressed in the green dress.”

  Emma liked the doll ad, too. It was some of her best work.

  “That’s the look I want for Southern Yesteryears,” he said. “You’re the artist I want. Please take
the job.”

  She wanted to say yes. She didn’t often have work as creative as that doll ad. Working for a printing company, the day-in, dayout work was mostly routine—stationery, brochures, business cards. To be the creative force behind a magazine comparable to Southern Living was something she’d only dreamed of doing. But because she didn’t have the chance to finish her degree, she’d thought it was something forever beyond her grasp.

  “How much does it pay?” she asked tentatively.

  He named a monthly sum that would give her half again what she made at Harrison Printing. “But the best part about it is you can work right here at home.”

  That caught her attention. “What? How? I don’t have a computer system of any kind, much less one that can handle something like this.”

  He hesitated, then dug a hand back through his hair again. It was a gesture she didn’t remember him using before, one which spoke of constant frustration. “That brings me to the second part of my proposal.” He took a deep breath. “I want to rent a couple of rooms.”

  She gasped and took a step back. “Here?”

  He hurried on. “In exchange for six months’ rent, I’ll put a new roof on the house as soon as it can be arranged. I’ve been looking for a place to live and work. This would be perfect for me.”

  “No!”

  “Think of the advantages for you. The house would be fixed right away, so you’ll avoid any more damage. You’ll have a steady second income to make other repairs needed around here. You’ll work at home, so you can spend time with your son. Get a second job somewhere else, and you’ll never see him.”

  Emma crossed her arms across her stomach. He certainly knew how to push her buttons. But then, he’d always been good at that. She supposed it was a skill he’d been born with, one he couldn’t forget. “Why would you want to rent these stuffy old rooms?”

  “I can think of several advantages for me. Six months would give me time to learn the city again, to find out exactly where I want to locate the magazine’s offices when it outgrows a oneroom operation. Plus your mother is here almost all the time. I’m going to have to invest in some expensive computer equipment for you to use, and I’ll be out of town now and then doing research and trying to secure advertisers. It’d be nice to have someone around to keep an eye on it.” He ran a hand almost lovingly along the window frame. “And what better place to start a magazine about history than in a house that has seen so much of it?”