He lifts the bottle, uncorks it and sniffs. And he sniffs again with a frown. He looks at me like he doesn’t know what to think. “Do you mind?” he asks, holding the bottle like he means to take a chug himself. Before I can say anything, he takes a tentative sip and makes a face. Ardal stares me down, sad, as he sets the bottle back in its place. “Why don’t you come next door?”
“Why?” I know he despises me and my alcohol.
Ardal frowns again and, staring at the miniature circus, says, “There are too many ghosts in this place.”
My gaze rests on the two elephants. They dance and they twirl—or so my buzzed mind tells me. The sober part of me, which knows Ardal will run for the hills sooner or later, also knows elephants don’t dance and dreams don’t come true, but nightmares do. Scowling, I tear my gaze from the figurines, because that’s what they are: inanimate objects that should not have the power to control my life.
Because when I heard the shop had been broken into yesterday, I wasn’t afraid for my boss. I hadn’t worried if he’d been injured and wasn’t upset all the money had been taken. No, it was the prospect of the circus leaving town in someone else’s bag. The thought had nearly broken me. But I’m not fragile. I am unbreakable like one of those crappy cheap vases that pretend to be from somewhere important.
“You still with me?” Ardal asks.
I shake the cobwebs from my brain, but I catch a whiff of Ardal’s cologne, musk blown on a current from the air conditioner, and I have to force a smile. He is familiar, so familiar. What am I missing?
“What’s up, buttercup?” he asks, lisping the word “Buttercup.” BOOM.
Tears. Blood. Memories. Too many impressions that cannot see the light of day. Yes, there was crying, there was lots of crying.
“Are you all right?”
I nod, though I don’t mean it. “Yeah. I get headaches. A lot—well, I’ve been getting them a lot lately anyway. Kind of a pain.” I make a face. The memory is beating a quick retreat.
Ardal grabs the counter, his knuckles going white he’s gripping the ledge so hard. “Should you have it checked out? By a doctor, I mean. You look pale.”
“It’s nothing.”
He doesn’t seem convinced, and I think—or at least hope—he’s going to drop the subject. But he says, “Is it a side effect of—” Ardal bites down on his lower lip, his eyes wide with panic like he’s said too much.
“A side effect of what?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. He’s keeping something from me, and I can’t help but wonder… “You don’t think I have cancer or something?” Smart, Scotch, he’s not a doctor. How would he know if you have cancer?
There is a rough line between his brows. “I certainly hope not, but I have no idea. Maybe it’s a tension headache. Are you tense?”
I’d like to be able to say I’m not, but that would be a lie. I say it anyway: “No.”
It’s obvious that Ardal’s not buying it. “If you’re worried it’s from the alcohol, I—What?”
“You think I drink too much.”
He winces. “How could I know? We’ve just met, haven’t we?” His voice is deep and brooding, and for a moment I wonder: Are we having a fight?
I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to scare him off.
Ardal lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I shouldn’t be bitter; I promised myself . . .” He opens his eyes and smiles a tired smile. “I’m complicating this, aren’t I?”
I, too, take a deep breath and release it. “To be honest—” I can’t look at him as I say this, “Drinking makes things . . . easier.” I hesitate again before saying, “You’ve been reminding me of someone, and I can’t remember.” My voice is a whimper, which I bring under control. “But that’s impossible. You said we just met.” His gaze holds mine.
“Yes.” And that is all he says about it, so I feel we are sorted . . . for now. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and tilts his head to the side. “Why don’t we get out of here?”
Earlier, that had been what I was going to do. Now . . . Now I pause and worry. Will I be in tons of trouble if I leave? Ringmaster said I shouldn’t. But what’s the worst that could happen? We were robbed blind the last time I left. “I should stay here and run the shop.”
Ardal checks his watch. “What a shame. I’d been hoping to show you around town.”
My heart thumps hard against my ribcage as he gives me a coy smile. “I’ve been here for three years,” I tell him, like he should know. But his implication is right: I’ve never walked around downtown. I am completely unfamiliar with my surroundings.
He stares at me like he knows. “Something tells me you’ve yet to take in the sights. Am I right?”
I make a face. “What did you have in mind?”
We roam the streets of this quaint town, an out-of-the-way village in New York State no one ever mentions. Perhaps it is some long-cherished secret everyone guards close to their heart. I don’t think I’d heard of it until Ringmaster . . . But now is not the time to remember. Memory is a fancy word for “buzzkill.” In my vocabulary, anyway.
There are white-washed picket fences, plagued with strands of climbing ivy, beautiful but domineering. There are few houses, and the three we stroll past are cottage-like, made of old gray stone, the kind you’d expect to see in a Jane Austen adaptation. One in particular looks like it’s from the turn of the nineteenth century.
“A breath of the old country,” Ardal says as we pause in front of an old tea shop. People move with less care around here. Their steps are slower, driven with purpose to be sure, but not driven by deadlines. They are roamers, and I think it’s wonderful. “Care for a cuppa?” he asks me. “Tea, that is.”
“I like tea. think I'le. “Ile. “I’m sorry. suspicions a line to Annie. Ohio town.nd amnesia, fresh start, clean startlected romance.Tea doesn’t make me sad.”
For a moment, Ardal just looks at me like I’m not real, and opens the wood door and follows me inside. The room is dim, lit with the light of several miniature chandeliers, which dangle over tiny round tables swathed in ocean-blue cloths. There is a candle on each table, and seaweed-green gossamer swags across the narrow, black-trimmed windows. It is dark, somewhat gloomy, and empty. I smell pine cleaner and lavender.
The seating host goes over his chart, which I know is empty, and leads us to a table by the window. After first handing us dragon-green menus, which clash with the gossamer, he winks at me and scuttles away.
Ardal smirks at me.
I clear my throat, embarrassed by the waiter’s inept flirting, and cast around for a subject. “So, do most Brits like tea, or is that an Americanism?”
Ardal laughs. “Only us ex-pats can admit this, but regular black tea is—” His eyes are a-twinkle as he says, “Tea is disgusting.”
I am taken aback. Who doesn’t like tea—especially an Englishman? Wasn’t tea built into their DNA or something? “You seriously don’t like it?”
“Shh!” But again he’s laughing, drawing stares from our seating host/waiter, who is in the middle of re-plating some scrumptious-looking scones.
I nod my head toward the orange pastries. “What about scones?”
“Baking powdery, biscuit-y—it depends on who makes them.”
“Are you into baking, too, then?”
He opens his menu and glances through the list of “Tea Delights!” “Mm. Good on you for noticing the difference. Cooking is an art, baking is a science.”
I lean forward into the table, my hands under my chin. “So you’re an artistic scientist.”
His eyes crinkle. “Something like that. So, have you been here before?”
“No. You?”
“Yes. It reminds me of—old times and places, I suppose.”
“Do you miss England?” I don’t mean to be rapid-fire with my questions, but Ardal doesn’t seem to mind.
Just as he opens his mouth to answer, the waiter comes over to us and takes our orders. Ardal asks for an herbal infusio
n of mint leaves and a plate of scones with Devon cream for the both of us.
“And for you, miss?”
“Blackberry tea, please. With sugar, milk, and—”
“Lemon?” Ardal finishes for me.
I stare at him. It’s creepy how he guessed right. But I get to thinking: Lemon isn’t that odd an accoutrement to put in your tea. The tension that had seized my shoulders eases, and I hand my menu to the waiter. “Do you miss England?”
For a moment he stares at me like he’s sizing me up. “I visit it every summer.” Ardal looks past me out the window.
“And you just moved to this area,” I say, remembering snatches of a conversation we had last week. “Where from?”
His teeth skim the edge of his bottom lip, and he takes his time answering. “Haven’t I told you?”
Thud, thud, thud. Did he tell me, and I forgot? Am I starting to lose even more of my memory? “I d-don’t know. Did you?” This is ridiculous. I’m about 99.9% certain he never told me. Even if I forgot, it’s not like I have to retain every little detail of a stranger’s life . . . right?
Alcoholic.
I jump.
Did he say that? No, I must be imagining things.
Ardal’s saying something, but I’ve missed most of it. He must realize this, because he says, “You still with me?”
I shake my head like a dog trying to get water out of its ear. “Sorry, got distracted for a moment. You were saying . . . ?”
“I’m from California. Have you ever been?” His brow furrows and he rests his hands on the table. When I don’t answer, he brings his gaze up to meet mine, rests his chin in his hands and says, “You said before that you have memory troubles.”
I neither confirm nor deny this. If I don’t answer maybe the question will go away. But it doesn’t.
Ardal wants an answer, and he’s not going to be put off by my stony stare. “Please, you can confide in me. I’m an excellent secret-keeper.”
I break eye contact and stare at my own hands. “Are you?”
“Mm. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’m not telling you.”
That causes me to look up, to see if he’s serious. “What kinds of secrets?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “If I told you now, you wouldn’t believe me.” He continues to stare deep into my eyes as if he’s willing my secrets from their depths.
It feels intimate and terrifying. My mouth moves of its own accord, and a confession slips out. “My memory’s shot.” I clear my throat and force the rest of the truth out. “My memory ends three years back, and I can’t—I don’t know why.”
Ardal doesn’t seem surprised by this. For some reason, it’s aggravating.
“You think it’s the alcohol, don’t you?” My words, which I’d meant to stab at him, come out a thick monotone.
Of course our waiter chooses this moment to bring the scones and cream to our table. “Your teas will be out shortly,” he says, like he wasn’t eavesdropping, so it’s obvious he was.
Ardal doesn’t answer, doesn’t drop my gaze. It’s like he’s afraid if he loses eye contact, I’ll stop talking. And I need to stop talking; there’s no way he can help. He’ll just wind up pitying me, and I don’t need pity. Pity is for the weak, and I am unbreakable. “You don’t remember anything from before three years ago.” It’s a prompt.
I break eye contact for a moment, and this odd sense of déjá vu comes over me. And as the waiter sets down my tea cup in front of me, I inhale the fruity bouquet and am transported to another place…
“Thank you,” I murmured to the waiter.
The charming man showed off his pearly whites and before I could sip my pinot noir, he leaned in and said, “You here alone?”
I blanched and looked at my watch. “Yes. I mean, no. It’s—complicated.”
He frowned and motioned to the seat across from me. “Should I be watching out for a gentleman?”
I was shaking. “He’s—I don’t know if he’ll make it or not.”
Encouraged, the waiter pointed to an item on the menu. “The foie gras is to die for.”
“Yes, I know.” How many times had I tried to stomach that terrible fluffy concoction of liver?
“Would you like to go ahead and order, then?”
I lifted the wine glass to my lips and sipped. “Mm. I’ve never had wine before.”
“Elliot, please, a customer is needing dessert,” said a soft French voice.
“Sorry, I’ll be there in a wink.” Elliot turned to me. “Say, you’re familiar. Are you related to—”
“Miss? You’re dripping tea on yourself. Miss?”
Ardal takes the teacup from my shaking hands and sets it back on its saucer. “Still with me?” He is on his feet. “Would you mind bringing us some paper towels?” he says to the waiter.
“Of course. Right away.”
“Scotch? Are you all right? You’re whiter than my aunt Fanny on her wedding day.” He is trying to sound calm, but his voice is a piano wire.
I blink a few times, trying to clear the fuzz from my vision. When I’m able to see Ardal clearly again, the waiter is back with a fistful of paper towels and something that could be smelling salts. “Sorry,” I say. My voice sounds normal enough, but my hands are shaking.
“No, don’t be sorry. Here.” He takes the towels from Pablo—our server—and presses them into my hands. “You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
Ardal glances at the waiter and says, “Thanks. That’ll be all for now.” He pulls his chair closer to mine and holds out a glass of water.
I accept the glass and wind up spilling some of its contents onto my dress as well. Great work, Scotch. Get ahold of yourself. I make as little show as possible of just breathing. In and out. My hand steadies a little and I bring the cup to my lips.
“Is something wrong?” Ardal is pale, and his eyes are wide. Great, now I’ve probably scared him off entirely.
I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but he is shaking his head.
“No, don’t tell me you’re fine. It’s obvious you’re not.” Is that guilt in his voice? What could he have to feel bad about? No, I must’ve imagined it. “Maybe coming here was a bad idea.”
I gulp. So, is this goodbye? It was fun while this—whatever it was we had—lasted? I want to cry but can’t. Not that I would if I could, but I’m made of steel and am unable. Every part of me is shutting down, shutting everything out.
But Ardal grabs my hand and says, “Do you want to leave?” His eyes say, “Please say no.”
I let out a long breath and shake my head. After taking another shaky sip of tea, this time not spilling any, I say, “Why can’t I remember?”
Ardal bites one corner of his mouth, not like he’s trying to suppress a smile; there’s nothing amusing about this to him. He looks heavenward and says in a slow, steady voice, “Did something trigger a memory?”
I give him a mute nod and try to concentrate on setting my teacup down without sloshing its contents everywhere. Once successful, I fold my hands in my lap and stare out the window.
He’s not done with me. Gentle, he presses on with the questions. “Was it a bad memory?”
I have to think for a moment. “No,” I say at last, “it was a nervous memory.”
The waiter chooses this moment to set the bill in front of Ardal. “No rush.” And then he retreats.
“A nervous memory,” Ardal says. “Hmm. Do you remember anything else?”
His stare is so intense, it’s hard not to blush and ask him to stop grilling me. But I think he means well, so I say,
“Something to do with a restaurant and a secret.” The butterflies that had felt ready to burst out of my stomach disintegrate, and I am left feeling empty. “It was probably nothing important. I get flashes of things every once in a while.”
He leans forward. “Are they always the same flashback or something new each time?”
“They’re usual
ly something different—I’ve only been getting them lately.” I rub the back of my head, which is being niggled to death. “Elephants,” I say.
Ardal gives me the strangest of looks and says, “Like the ones in your shop?” He must think I’m insane. When I don’t answer, he says, “Would you rather not talk about this right now?”
I’m finally able to meet his eyes. I force a smile and nod. “That would be nice.”
As we return to sipping our tea and making polite, empty conversation, my sense of ease returns. But he’s behaving—weird. Something is not to his liking. “What’re you doing?” I ask.
Ardal has been making all sorts of faces while nibbling on the scones, until it seems he can’t take it any longer. With a fury uncharacteristic of what I know about him, he begins picking out dried apricots from the moist pastry, all the while saying things like, “What possessed them to—” and “What made them think this was—” and “God save the queen!”
It’s too funny: I start laughing, which puts us both more at ease, and he gives me a sheepish grin before pushing the dessert away from himself. “Sorry.”
“Not a fan of apricots?”
“No, I’m not a fan of apricots.”
Ape-ri-cots. I laugh at how he pronounces the fruit, and it’s like something hit me over the head as I mimic his abuse of the word.
“I’m terrified.”
A strange woman sat down beside me, putting an arm around my shoulder. “There’s no reason to be.”
“What will happen to us if—”
Ardal’s laugh brings me out of this memory. It pounced on me so fast I didn’t see a glimpse of it coming. Fortunately, Ardal has turned away, and when he looks back, my mask is in place. There’s no reason for him to know how unstable I am . . . or, so I hope.
Chapter Eleven
Scotch
2014
“Where were you today?” The way Ringmaster says it is casual enough, but I know him too well. Inside, he’s seething, ticked I closed shop for the entire day. When I don’t answer but continue combing through my damp hair, he says, “You were with him again, weren’t you?”
Circus in a Shot Glass Page 14