Amnesiac Ex, Unforgettable Vows

by Robyn Grady

  She slid open the cake tin drawer, dug in to select a tray but, as she reached down, her mind went strangely blank. After a moment, she remembered what she was after and shuffled again through the pans. But where was her favorite heating tray? Straightening, she stuck her hands on her hips and glanced around the timber cupboard doors. Where on earth had she put it?

  Of course it was no big deal. Definitely no need to worry Bishop with the fact that her memory was foggier than she’d first realized. Just little things, like wondering at the unfamiliar brand of toothpaste in the attached bath, or pondering over leftovers in the fridge that she had no recollection of cooking.

  A rational explanation existed for it all, Laura surmised, wiggling out a different tray for the scones from under the hot plates. Things were a little jumbled, but they’d sort themselves out soon enough.

  When she arrived back at her office, brandishing two cups of steaming coffee—one black, one white—Bishop had a different webpage open. She caught a glimpse of the images—bundles of fur with cute black noses and gorgeous take-me-home eyes. She gave a little excited jump and coffee splashed onto the tray.

  “Puppies!” Eyes glued to the screen, she set down the tray on a corner of the desk and dragged in a chair. “I was thinking maybe a cocker spaniel.”

  Elbow on the desk, he held his jaw while scanning a page displaying a selection of breeds. He grunted. “Aren’t they dopey?”

  “They’re soft and gentle and a thousand times cuddly.”

  “Maybe something bigger.”

  “You mean tougher.”

  He collected his mug and blew off the steam. “You haven’t got too many neighbors around here,” he said and then sipped. “We haven’t got too many neighbors,” she corrected. What was with this you business?

  He set down the mug, turned back to the screen and clicked a few more searches. “Maybe a Doberman.”

  “I’m sure they’re lovely, but I can’t imagine snuggling up into a powerhouse of muscle and aggression.” She ran a hand down his arm. “Present company excluded.”

  “They’re supposed to be very loyal,” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed her compliment, and pictures of dogs with gleaming black coats, pointed ears and superkeen eyes blinked onto the screen. Laura’s mouth pulled to one side. Sorry. Just not her.

  “Did you have a dog growing up?”

  He clicked on a link and a list of breeders flashed up. “A golden retriever.”

  “Guide dogs.”

  “One of the breeds used, yes.”

  “Can you tap that in?”

  A few seconds later, images of the cutest, most playful puppies on the planet graced the screen and childlike delight rippled over her. Her hand landed over his on the mouse and she scrolled down for more information. Nothing she read or saw turned her off.

  “They’re so adorable,” she said as Bishop slipped his hand from beneath hers and covered his mouth as he cleared his throat. “They look like they’re smiling, don’t you think? I can definitely see us with one of those.”

  “Good family dog,” he read from the blurb. “Gentle temperament. Prone to overeating, shedding and joint problems.” Obviously uneasy, he shifted in his seat. “One of my foremen spent over two grand getting his cat’s broken leg fixed. Bad joints mean huge vet bills.” He clicked the previous page back. “Let’s look at Rottweilers.”

  She grinned. It wasn’t about money. “I don’t want a guard dog. I want a companion. A personality that will become part of our family.” And would eagerly welcome new members in. “Just tell me…do you still like retrievers?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then if we both want a retriever and somewhere down the track he needs some medical attention, wouldn’t you rather have what we really want than settle on something which may or may not have other problems? There are risks everywhere, Bishop. Risks in everything.”

  His jaw jutted, but the dark slashes of his eyebrow quirked. While he considered, Laura folded her hands in her lap. She’d made her point. She was talking about far more than which dog to buy.

  “But we don’t have to make a decision today,” she ended in a placating tone. “There’s no hurry.”

  “You’re right.” He clicked on the top right-hand X and the puppies disappeared. “No hurry at all.”

  The phone rang. Not his cell phone this time. Which meant there was a good chance the call wasn’t about business. Maybe Kathy from the library. They’d been talking about starting a literacy program for over-fifties.

  Trying to recall what their last discussion had outlined, Laura pushed back her chair but Bishop was already up. The bbbbrrr-ring of the phone ripped through to his bones, as unsettling as a bank alarm. Moving quick, his hand landed on the extension.

  During his drive to the shops earlier, he’d considered the phone and the problems surprise calls could cause. If one of Laura’s friends contacted her, it wouldn’t take long for inconsistencies to rise and questions to flare in both parties’ minds. Laura didn’t need to be backed into a corner, faced with a reality that seemed Hitchcock-esque given what she could and could not remember. Prodding was far different to someone knocking you for a complete loop during a phone call.

  Driving back, he’d decided to intercept calls, not to keep Laura from her friends and others who cared, but to forewarn of the situation and ask that they tread lightly for now. Eventually, Laura would check emails. Oddities like Swan Lake playing rather than The Nutcracker would become more obvious. Dates wouldn’t mesh, like the dates he worried she might see on the web when trying to book those tickets. Soon there’d be questions. Ultimately, as she needed to know and was ready to hear, there’d be answers.

  But for now…

  His hand still on the receiver, he said, “I’m expecting a call.” Then to divert her, “Is that scones I smell warming?”

  Leaping up, she cursed and sprinted out. “I forgot.”

  Waiting until her padding down the hall quieted, he answered the call. He should’ve known who it would be.

  “How are things going?”

  He exhaled and a measure of his tension dissolved. Grace.

  He ran a finger over a tiny crystal clock. “Not as bad as I thought.”

  “She hasn’t remembered?”

  “Not a thing that I can tell.”

  “I should probably come up and see her.”

  Or not.

  “That’s up to you.”

  “But you’d rather I stay away.”

  Smirking, he pushed the clock back. “You can read me like a book.” He liked as much distance between himself and Grace as possible.

  “But she’s happy?”

  He imagined Laura in the kitchen she loved, drawing the scones from the oven then finding those special little spoons she saved for serving jam. She made the best jam.

  He surrendered to a smile. “Very happy.”

  There was a long pause. Bishop could imagine Grace smoothing her French roll. “I hope she’ll understand when this is all over.”

  “Depends on who ends up sticking around. This Laura or the one who couldn’t wait to see the back of me.”

  “Did I hear my name mentioned?”

  Bishop’s heart squeezed to his throat and he spun around. Laura held a tray with scones, whipped butter, jam and those tiny silver spoons. From the open look on her face, she hadn’t heard too much.

  He hoped his smile didn’t look manufactured. “Your sister.”

  Her eyes rounded playfully and she stage whispered, “You’re having a conversation with Grace?”

  “About your condition.”

  “My fall?” He nodded. “If it gets you two talking at last, it was worth it.” Setting the tray down, she accepted the phone. “Hey, Grace. How’re you doing? Oh, I’m fine.” She gave Bishop a wink and angled toward the window view. “Better than fine.”

  Unable to pass, he dabbed some homemade jam on a scone and bit into the doughy sweetness. Grace would keep Laura on the phone for
a while. He didn’t need to listen in.

  He wandered out from her office, his gaze skimming the same surrealist paintings that had frequented the hallway walls when he’d left. Further on, he took stock of the kitchen, its polished granite benches and gleaming utensils that Laura had taken such pride in when making those superb dinners she whipped up seemingly out of thin air.

  He stopped beneath the ornate arch that led to the main living room. Same chintz couches, crafted timber furniture and grand fireplace, which they’d spent so many evenings cuddled up in front of, she reading a bestseller, he browsing over papers from work. In the beginning they’d felt so relaxed together and yet the steady thrum of excitement had always been there, too. A buzz that not only connected them, but drew them irreversibly, magnetically near.

  Those were the best days of his life.

  His gaze inched along the knickknacks on the marble mantelpiece…silver candlesticks, some ballerina figurines, a cup she must have accidentally left there. His eye line drifted higher. Then his heart stopped beating.

  Their wedding photo was gone.

  And why wouldn’t it be? This was her house. They’d lived separate lives for over a year. His bet was she’d used the photograph as fuel for the fire. But then she’d kept his clothes and wedding ring. Maybe the photo was stored away, too.

  More immediately, what would this Laura say when she realized the picture she adored was missing?

  He swung an urgent glance around. Should he hunt in some cupboards, try to find and hang it back up before she noticed? Or would seeing the photo missing press a necessary button to jump-start her memory?

  Although what had just happened between them should have sent up some flags.

  The inevitable had happened. He’d kissed her. Or rather she’d kissed him. And he hadn’t stopped her. But for a brief moment of “what the hell?” he hadn’t even tried.

  He’d mulled over how it would feel should he relent. Strange? Pleasant? Knock-your-socks-off fantastic? Check box three. And now, God help him, he couldn’t help thinking about later, because Laura was going to want far more than lip service tonight.

  “I was thinking I might come up and see you tomorrow,” Grace said down the line while Laura made herself comfortable in one of the winged armchairs positioned beside a window view in her office.

  “I’d like that, Grace, but Bishop and I are going into Sydney. The ballet’s on.”

  “You’re going out? Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Oh, Gracie, not you, too!” How many times did she need to tell people she was fine? A bit of a foggy memory didn’t count.

  “Learn to live with it,” Grace returned. “I care about you.”

  Laura laughed softly. “I got that.”

  “Will Bishop be staying in town?”

  “Tomorrow night? Why do you ask?”

  “He’s a busy man. I thought he might want to stay down rather than drive out again Monday morning to the office.”

  “I don’t think so.” Laura concentrated on the chess piece, thinking back. No, she was certain. “He didn’t say he would.”

  “How is Bishop?”

  Laura put on a suspicious tone. “Why this interest in Bishop all of a sudden?”

  “Just making sure he’s treating my little sister right.”

  “Always and always.”

  “Really?”

  A prickle of annoyance rolled up Laura’s spine and she held the receiver tighter. “Grace, I know you thought we married too soon. And maybe you were right,” she admitted, knowing she’d thought the same herself yesterday in the hospital. “Maybe we should have waited a little longer to iron things out. But we love each other. That’s what gets a couple through.”

  “I take it you’re going to tell him you don’t want to adopt?”

  “I brought it up yesterday.” And again today. “We’re going to work it out, Grace.”

  Her sister sighed down the line. “Oh, sweetheart, I hope you’re right.”

  Six

  Laura cooked a roast dinner with all the trimmings and rosemary cream gravy. When Bishop took himself off to his office after dessert, Laura steeled herself against disappointment. He was avoiding her. Or, rather, avoiding that touchy subject.

  But as she finished packing the dishwasher and headed off for a shower before bed, she put herself in her husband’s shoes. Analytical. Methodical. He was divorcing himself from her until he thought she was completely well, as well as settle in his own mind the conundrum of adoption versus conception. If he thought she needed rest and he needed to be left alone, she would accommodate his wishes.

  Up to a point.

  As she’d told Grace, they were going to work this problem out. And if he didn’t want to talk… Well, she’d simply have to grab and hold his attention some other way.

  Before her shower, Laura removed the bandage from her head. She fingered the raise and shadow of a bruise in the gilt-framed vanity mirror. Barely a scratch. No sign of a headache. Quite honestly, she thought she ought to have done more damage given the six-foot distance off the bridge to the river rocks she must have landed on.

  After a long, hot shower, she took care drying off, dabbing Bishop’s favorite talc powder in all the right places, then slipping into the negligee she’d worn on their honeymoon in Greece. She mustn’t have worn it since then. She’d found the mauve silk pushed to the back of her drawer behind other negligees.

  Moving into the bedroom, she glanced at the clock: 8:43. She filled her lungs and, confident, sashayed down the hall.

  But a few moments later she discovered that Bishop wasn’t in his office. She found him out on the eastern porch, leaning against a column, seemingly counting the stars, and given tonight’s luminous night sky, there must be more than a trillion.

  Crossing to stand behind him, she filed her hands around his waist and set her cheek against the broad expanse of his back. His unique scent filled her lungs, burrowed under her skin. Her eyes drifting shut, she circled her nose over his shirt between his shoulder blades and imprinted the smell…the moment…onto her memory forever.

  He must have heard her coming. He didn’t move when she embraced him. Now, however, as her fingers trailed up his shirtfront and her palms ironed over his ribs, his hands covered hers and tightened around them.

  “It’s chilly out here,” he said in that rich, smooth voice she loved.

  She grinned against his back. “I hadn’t noticed.” Then she twined around and stood between her husband and the view of slumbering mountains. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off by placing a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to hear about doctor’s orders. I’m not cold.” She threaded her arms around his middle. “Not while you’re near.”

  As a breeze rustled through the leaves, in the shadows he focused on her brow. “You’ve taken your bandage off.”

  “I’m hoping to take off more than that.” She found his hand and shaped his palm over her shoulder until the strap of her negligee slipped down. Then she angled her head to press a lingering kiss on the underside of his wrist. “I love you so much, Bishop,” she whispered as her lips brushed his flesh. “So much…sometimes it hurts.” She dropped tender kisses on his palm then on each fingertip in turn. “How long has it been since we made love?”

  He exhaled. “Too long,” he said.

  Arching her neck back, still holding his hand, she skimmed his fingers down her throat. “I feel as if you haven’t held me in an age.”

  Without her help, his hand continued over her shoulder then down the line of her back until it reached the rise of her behind. Laura sighed as the million sparks zapping through her blood caught light. Humming out a smile she grazed her lips over the hot hollow at the base of his throat and placed his other hand on her breast.

  “Bishop, take me to bed.”

  As she pressed softly into him, familiar, simmering heat condensed high in his thighs.

  Bishop grit his teeth but, although he knew what he ought to do, he did
n’t release her. His hold—on her breasts, on her behind—only increased while in his gut he felt an almighty battle raging, a war so fierce, the pull of yes-no threatened to tear him apart. If he did as she asked…if he took her to bed…they would each win and both lose. They wanted this, they’d always been electric together in the bedroom, but this time there’d be a heavy price to pay.

  Unless her memories of that time before were lost forever.

  His heartbeat pounding in his ears, Bishop searched her eyes and challenged himself again to do what Laura would want him to if she could only remember. But all he could see was pure clean love glistening in her eyes, pouring from her face. At this moment, she truly loved and believed in him. If he made an excuse this time it would only hurt her. And yet, if he complied…

  Breaking, Bishop groaned and brought her closer.

  What the hell. If she got her memory back during the night, she could hang him in the morning.

  His head dropped lower and as his mouth claimed hers, he swept her up in his arms and headed inside. When he reached the foot of their bed, he released her lips and set her gently on her feet. While his pulse hammered through his veins, his gaze drank in the heavenly sight of her standing in the moonlight flooding in through the bedroom’s ten-foot-high windows.

  She raised her arms and, understanding, he folded the light fabric up in his hands and eased the negligee over her head. Before the silk and lace hit the floor, his head had lowered over hers again. He felt her dissolve in his arms as she happily, completely surrendered.

  Laura trembled inside and out as her hands wandered over the granite of his chest and muscled sides. Then, only half aware, lost in the kiss, she was helping him tug the shirttails from his belt, unbuttoning the front, winding the fabric off his shoulders, down his arms. His kiss was so skillful, thoughtful, and at the same time, demanding. An avalanche of stirring sensations…of memories…rained down and filtered through her. When his mouth left hers to feather a tingling path over the sensitive curve that joined shoulder to neck, the energy, already so strong, multiplied. Intensified.