by Tamara Lush
He took a sip and groaned. I swear I got a little wet by hearing him emit a noise of pleasure, and I sucked in a breath. In the old days, such a groan would’ve earned him a kiss. Or more.
“Oh, God, thank you, Emma. Not gross. This is heavenly.” Once again, his eyes lingered on mine.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me. I’m your…” It seemed like all our sentences were difficult to complete this morning.
Caleb focused on me, and his mouth suddenly twisted, sending my stomach to the floor. “Speaking of that, I think we’re going to need to have a long discussion. I’m going to the office with Colin for an hour or two this morning, and then I have a doctor’s appointment. I’ll probably want to rest afterward. Would you have dinner with me this evening? Maybe we can hash some things out together then. I’m sure Laura will take care of Charlotte for the evening. We can go somewhere nice.”
I scowled at his matter-of-fact tone. “Do you want to be seen in public so soon after getting back? Don’t you think reporters will stalk you? Are you ready for that?”
He fixed a thoughtful gaze on me. “Good point. We should stay in. I’ll have Tom make something for us. Where is he, anyway? He’s usually here by now.”
Colin cleared his throat and rose from the sofa. “Caleb, Tom isn’t your chef anymore.”
Caleb glanced at his brother. “Where did he go?”
“You gave him seed money to open his own restaurant in Tampa,” I piped up.
Caleb’s eyes flicked to me. “Why didn’t I hire someone else?”
“Because we were either going out or doing most of the cooking. Together.”
Caleb nodded slowly and looked me up and down, his eyes igniting my body. For a beat, the air between us sizzled, and I felt my nipples tighten against the silk of my kimono.
“Very well, Emma. Then I guess that’s what we’ll do this evening.”
* * *
I was not dressed for a dinner at home.
My red-and-white gingham cotton dress was a 1950s silhouette, tight in the bodice, with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a full skirt. I hadn’t worn it in years and was honestly surprised it still fit. I clasped a demure choker of pearls around my neck and swept my hair up in a messy updo, with curly tendrils framing my face.
I was aiming for a touch of seduction. Maybe not a full, end-up-horizontal-in-bed seduction, because I didn’t think either one of us was quite ready for that yet.
Although I wouldn’t push him away, if that’s what he wanted.
I did want to look alluring enough to pique my husband’s interest—or, if possible, his memory. I tried on a pair of nude heels, but that was a little much for making stuffed pasta shells in my own kitchen, even for me. I slipped on pale pink ballet flats instead. I looked in the mirror and turned, sucking in my stomach. Not bad, considering everything. It was the first time I’d worn one of my vintage dresses in ages. Somehow, the retro-style didn’t seem to fit who I was anymore.
A wife. A mom. A woman with a complicated life. I shrugged at myself in the mirror. I’d deal with my wardrobe later. Or not. Because fashion no longer mattered.
My step was light as I left the master bedroom and walked into the living room.
Caleb was there—his family had collected Charlotte an hour earlier, saying they wanted us to have some “alone time”—sitting on the sofa. He looked simple and perfect, in a pair of dark-washed jeans and a black T-shirt.
He stood quickly and his mouth dropped open. “Oh! Wow.”
“You’re saying that a lot today,” I responded playfully. I didn’t want to let on that I was scared enough to throw up. It was as if we were on a first date, only during our first date, I’d been confident we’d end up in bed that evening. Tonight, I wasn’t sure what would unfold.
He stroked his chin. “Yeah. I am saying that a lot. Everything’s a surprise around here.”
I smiled, my first hurdle cleared. “Thanks.”
We stood and stared at each other, the silence between us filled with sexual static. Or so I thought. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore, truthfully. I didn’t know what to say, and he probably didn’t either. To him, I was a stranger in his house.
“I went to the store today and got everything we need for dinner. Why don’t you relax and I’ll cook?”
Caleb shook his head. “Shouldn’t I at least help?”
“If you’d like.” I shrugged. “I’ll put you to work.”
And so, for the next hour, we cooked. Was it my imagination or was he trying to get closer to me while reaching for a cutting board? He grinned and glanced at me as I moved aside, and I smiled back. I felt the old sizzle between us flare.
I had him chop garlic and an onion while I sautéed spinach and mixed cheese for stuffed shells. He reached for a garlic press to mince it finely. I’d always loved bigger chunks of garlic and lots of it. I scowled.
“What?” he said. “Do you not like garlic?”
“I do.” I smiled tightly, trying to ignore the little things he’d forgotten about me. There would be more of these, many more, I knew. I spooned the ricotta-spinach mixture into the shells.
“How did you know I loved these?” he asked, then paused. “Oh. Right. We were—are married.”
I smiled and slid the tray of shells into the oven. Each exchange between us made my heart race and cracked it a little more. His amnesia, at least when it came to me, was deep. And yet, he was gentlemanly, as if we were really on a date.
“So you’re a writer. That’s what Colin told me, and I saw some of your books on the shelf in the guest room. I love to read. And I used to write in school.”
I know, I wanted to say. I hesitated, wondering if he’d scanned any of my erotic stories. “I was a writer.”
He tilted his head. “Why did you stop?”
“Because you went missing and I had our baby.”
He nodded slowly. “I see. Wine?” He held up a bottle.
“Thank you.”
He poured mine and then splashed a bit in his glass. “I’m a little afraid to drink too much.”
I frowned. “How come?”
“I guess I’m worried that I’ll lose my memory again. It’s been a really unsettling nine months. I’ll have to tell you about it sometime, I guess. It obviously feels good to have most of it back, but I’ll admit that finding out I’m…well, married and a father has come as quite a shock. More than a shock.”
“I’m sure. And I apologize that this is so awkward. I’m beyond happy that you’re home and safe.” Why was I apologizing? Jesus. I stepped closer to him.
His eyes flickered to my chest.
“Caleb, do you want to talk about Brazil? Tell me about what happened to you there?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Not now. I’m sorry. I’d rather listen to you talk about us.”
I inhaled. This was a start. “Okay. What would you like to know?”
He laughed self-consciously. “Everything.”
“Well, I guess I’ll start at the beginning.”
While the shells baked, he sat on a stool at the island counter and I talked. I paced. I gestured wildly with my hands and spoke too fast because I was nervous. It was as if I was retelling our history on a stage.
I told him how we met, at Story Brothel. How he’d come to my bookstore the day after to ask me to dinner. All about how his company had bought my bookstore building and how he didn’t know.
Caleb switched to sparkling water with lemon and listened with wide eyes as I told him how we’d become inseparable, how we went to Paris and London together. I was getting going, laughing, and telling him how, once, we’d gone kayaking on a river. I made him laugh, too, which made my heart leap. Maybe refreshing his memory was easier than expected. I’d be myself and boom! He’d fall back in love with me.
“I’m a Florida girl, but alligators have always scared me. You made me face my fear and told me to keep paddling, even though they were only a few feet away on the riverbank. I kept paddli
ng and I was so scared, but you told me I was doing great. You encouraged me.”
I paused and he grinned.
“I’m not afraid of them anymore. I mean, I don’t go near them, but we went kayaking a lot after that.”
“It sounds like fun,” he murmured.
“It was.”
I told him about other milestones: when Sarah and Laura declared their love to each other while we were all at the lake house, when I first met his parents, the time he gave me the expensive necklace for my birthday.
“And then one day, you told me you loved me when we were at the Ringling Museum in Sarasota—”
“That’s a great place,” he interjected. “You love it, as well? That’s amazing we had that in common.”
I beamed. “It’s where we got—”
The oven buzzer went off and I jumped.
“We can take a break to eat.” He laughed softly and touched my arm, which flared and tingled. “You don’t have to tell me everything tonight.”
“Well, I do,” I protested. “I feel like I’m on a job interview. Like I have to impress you otherwise you’ll turn me away. Or not believe me and ask for a paternity test.”
He reared back, his eyes wide. The cold, shocked expression returned and the earlier, playful, sensual mood between us evaporated. “Did you overhear me saying that to Colin this morning?”
I nodded.
“Emma, it’s pretty damned clear that you’re my wife. Colin showed me a copy of our marriage certificate today when I was at the office. And I have eyes. Charlotte looks almost exactly like I did in my baby photos.”
I nodded.
He pressed his palm over his heart, and his face looked so earnest that I wanted to hug him.
“But I need to find out the truth about my life. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. You must forgive me if I ask questions. Require proof. If I repeat myself. If I don’t remember things. I’m hoping that all of these details will jog my memory. It’s not that I don’t believe you, but when you tell me about these things, it’s like you’re talking about someone else. Not me.” He eased away from me, and my chest actually ached from his words.
“And what if my stories don’t jog your memory?” I whispered, on the verge of tears. “What will happen to us?”
He moved to the oven and slid on a mitt, taking out the pan. “I don’t think we’re ready to answer that yet, Emma. I want to get to know you, because at some point, I obviously loved you enough to marry you. And I never thought I’d get married again after Tara, so you must be really amazing.”
He slipped off the mitt and turned to me, resting his hand on the counter. We stared at each other for a few uncomfortable minutes. I couldn’t tell if it was sexual tension or awkwardness, and the ambiguity scared me.
My gut churned and tears welled in my throat. “We were amazing together.”
He nodded. “So everyone tells me.”
* * *
Over dinner, I paused our story and babbled about Charlotte instead. I told him about her birth, getting an epidural, how she’d been colicky and when she’d gotten her first tooth. He listened, sometimes laughing, sometimes frowning. Occasionally, he’d ask questions.
“Has my family given you a lot of support?”
“Have you gone back to work?”
“Who was there during the birth?”
I hesitated on the last question, but didn’t want to keep anything from him. “Everyone was there. And your brother was the first to hold Charlotte. Other than me, of course.”
He nodded. “I’ll be honest with you. That’s one of the reasons why my mind went immediately to the paternity test. My brother had actually, uh—”
I held up my hand, as if also trying to block the night I’d shared with Colin out of my mind. Telling Caleb about Colin wasn’t something I was eager to reveal and might never disclose.
“I know. Colin slept with Tara before you, in college.”
Caleb looked alarmed. “You know about all that? How much do you know? You know that Tara and I almost divorced? That she died from cancer?” I nodded, and he blew out a breath. “Well, I guess you know the big family secrets, then.”
I cleared my throat, thinking of my own secret. How I’d kissed Colin while drunk. How we’d gotten naked together. I reached for Caleb’s hand and covered it with mine.
“Maybe now’s not the time to dredge all that up.”
He nodded.
“Dessert?” I whispered.
He looked grateful and murmured a yes.
After dinner, we sat on the sofa, chatting about Charlotte. She seemed to be neutral, safe territory.
“I miss her right now,” I said. “I’ve only ever spent two nights without her, when I went to Miami for the book fair a few weeks ago.”
It was hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago, I mused silently. It felt like years. Again the specter of Colin flitted through my mind, as did waves of guilt.
“Do you like being a mother?” he asked.
“I do. I love it. Wait. I have an idea.” I held up my index finger and jumped up. Anything to tamp down the guilty, weird feelings. “Don’t move.”
Caleb looked at me and smiled. “I won’t.”
I practically skipped into the bedroom and went to the floor-to ceiling bookshelves that covered one wall, pulling out all of the scrapbooks and photo albums I’d made while I was pregnant. I looked to the nightstand, where my journal sat, and hesitated. I opened it and read a few things I’d written over the past few months. Shook my head.
No, now wasn’t the time for Caleb to read my letters to him. Especially not the passages about Colin. Not yet, and maybe not ever. I took my journal off the nightstand and hid it in the top drawer of my vanity, under a box of retro foam hair curlers that I hadn’t used in years.
The photos and scrapbooks, though, might be helpful. Especially those of our wedding. Hoisting the five big books in my arms, I padded back to the living room—only to find him stretched out on the sofa.
“Caleb?”
As I approached, I heard him breathing deeply, then he let out a little snore. Of course he was exhausted. How could he not be, after everything he’d been through?
I gently set the books on the coffee table and knelt next to the sofa, feasting on his face. He looked relaxed in slumber, and I studied his sharper-than-usual cheekbones. How I wanted to stroke his skin, kiss his curved lips.
I sighed. There would be no kissing, no touching tonight. Maybe not for a long while, I realized. I tiptoed to the linen closet and got out a white, velvety blanket. We used to wrap ourselves in it on the few cold winter Florida nights while watching movies. Tonight, I unfolded it and placed it atop him, making sure he was covered, tucking the blanket gently around his bare feet.
It was impossible to resist kissing him goodnight, so I bent to his forehead and shut my eyes when my lips met his skin. I allowed myself to inhale before I pulled away. He smelled exactly the same as he used to, and this brought alternative waves of relief and joy and desire.
He made a little noise when I kissed him, almost like a sigh-moan. My heart leapt; he sounded so familiar. I paused, watching his stunning face, wishing I could nestle next to him and fold myself around his body. It was too soon for that, I knew.
But my husband was home, and I had hope.
Chapter 4
My daughter had the best laugh. I heard it first thing when I opened my eyes. Wait, why was she laughing, from what seemed to be the kitchen? Then I heard Caleb’s laugh, too.
Our daughter. I grinned.
Dressed in a cute, red silk pajama set, I went into the kitchen. Caleb, who was standing over Charlotte in her high chair, looked up.
“Sarah and Laura brought her over early. I thought I’d let you sleep in after I crashed early last night. I meant to thank you for the dinner. It was delicious.”
I grinned, kissing the top of my baby’s head. I noticed an orange chunk of food in her hair.
“And then you thought you’d feed her sweet potato?”
He chuckled and held up a bowl. I spotted a couple of flecks of sweet potato in his hair and grinned.
“Laura suggested I feed her breakfast, handed me some of this stuff, and then left. I think she’s getting more of it on her than in her.”
“I can take over from here.” I peered up into his hair.
“What?” He ran his palm over his head.
“You’ve got…” I reached up and plucked out a sticky bit of potato. “…some in your hair, too.”
He grinned bashfully. Dear God, he was cute. My husband was cute.
He stopped smiling and straightened, as if to rid himself of his vulnerability. He handed me the spoon and the bowl of puree. “Thanks for taking over. I’ve got some appointments at the office, so I’ve got to get ready, anyway.”
Charlotte reached out to me, and I fed her a little spoonful. “You don’t want to take it easy this week? You’d rather jump back into work?”
“I would. I want to get back to normal as quickly as possible.”
I nodded, my fantasy of us spending uninterrupted days together shattered. As I opened my mouth to ask him if he wanted breakfast, he spoke first. I turned to look at him.
“Oh, and Emma. One thing.” He drummed his fingers on the counter, and his tone was back to being cold and clipped. “I was thinking about it this morning as I was feeding Charlotte. Please don’t take offense, but I would like a paternity test. It’s just that I need empirical evidence that she’s my child. I’m so confused right now that only facts make sense.”
I froze with the spoon in one hand, the bowl in another. Forgot how to breathe. Who was this man standing in front of me? Where had his love for me gone?
“I know we were married. I saw the certificate, I told you that. But I want evidence for everything. Please know this has nothing to do with you or your integrity. You seem like an honest woman, and I’m certain you are. But I’ve had experiences with women who want to date me for my money. So I need to prove everything to myself. It will help. You don’t know what it’s like having memories stolen from you. I thought I’d gained my life back, and then I found out about you and Charlotte.”