If She Only Knew

by Lisa Jackson

  “Other than the accident and James’s birth I only remember little things. Riding a horse, wearing a party dress, talking with Alex in the foyer of the house, nothing really very solid . . . just glimpses. I think seeing my records could jog other memories.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said with a change of attitude. “Why don’t you come back to the clinic in a few days and if you want, I’ll show you every scrap of information we’ve got on you?”

  By that time it will be tampered with. Sanitized. Changed.

  “I will,” she promised and told herself that she wasn’t involved in some great conspiracy. All the records would be intact. She’d just seen too many movies, that was all. She walked to the sink, found a paper cup and rinsed her mouth again.

  “Good. By the time you call, who knows? Maybe your memory will have returned.” He was so calm—nearly dead, it seemed. Because it wasn’t his life, his memory he was discussing. Robertson could afford to be patient while Marla felt her life slipping by, like grains of sand sifting through her open fingers, and she couldn’t clench her fist to stop it. She took a final swallow of water and worked at stretching the muscles of her face. Her tongue felt odd and oversized, her teeth still acting as if they were laced together, and after speaking with only her lips for over two weeks, she had to force her tongue, teeth and jaw to work together.

  Alex helped her into her coat and Phil snapped off the lights to the clinic. Together, with Alex’s arm around her shoulders, they walked across the sky bridge to the parking lot where Alex ushered Marla to the Jaguar. “We’ll have you over for drinks,” he promised Phil as he held the door open for her. “When Marla’s more herself.”

  She couldn’t help bristling at the insinuation, but bit back a hot comment that rose quickly to her lips as Alex settled behind the wheel. There was something about him that brought out a bitchy side of her and she was spoiling for a fight. With him. Though she didn’t really understand why.

  “Okay, so how’re you feeling now?” he asked, giving her a quick glance as he fired the engine and wheeled out of the lot.

  “Like someone took a jackhammer to my jaw.”

  “That good, huh?” He pressed on the lighter, then eased a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Yep, that good.” She couldn’t rouse a smile. His attitude rankled and the fact that she suspected he and Robertson were keeping something from her grated on her nerves. Worse yet, his attitude of stewardship—spousal concern when he was always away—bugged the hell out of her. Something wasn’t right and it wasn’t her imagination, but she was too tired to figure it out tonight.

  The lighter clicked and he lit up, sending a cloud of smoke into the car’s interior. With a push of a finger, the driver’s window slid down and a gush of rain-washed air slipped inside. Smooth jazz played from the speakers as he eased the car into the late night traffic and the Jaguar sped up a steep hill.

  The lights of the city burned in the surrounding skyscrapers. In the distance she recognized the historic district of Jackson Square and the Transamerica pyramid. As she’d seen it a hundred times before. And there was more . . . a flash . . .

  In her mind’s eye she saw herself at a desk, in a huge steel and glass office building. A computer monitor hummed, a telephone jangled and in the cubicles surrounding hers, other workers were on phones, at keyboards, staring into monitors. A bank of windows on one wall opened up to a view of the San Francisco skyline and a cerulean sky that stretched over the Bay.

  But that was crazy. She wasn’t an office worker. Never had been. Huddled in the far corner of the Jag she looked at her husband, his face grim and set in the glare of oncoming headlights.

  “Was there ever a time when I worked?” she asked, knowing the answer before he even said a word.

  Alex gave off a deprecatory snort. “You? Come on.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Of course not. Why would you work?”

  “I don’t know, I just had a vision of myself at a desk . . . in a loud, open room separated by half walls and filled with other workers, men and women bustling by, all wearing suits. . . .” Her voice faded and she rubbed her temple as she tried to remember.

  “Marla, you’ve never worked a day in your life,” he said and chuckled as if the thought were incredibly amusing. “You’ve been in dozens of office buildings, of course, but never as an employee.”

  “You’re certain?” she asked. Why would she dream this?

  “Positive.” Some of the lines in his face softened in the dark interior. “You’re imagining things.”

  Or paranoid. Not much difference.

  “Why didn’t you tell Tom or Mother or someone that you weren’t feeling well?” he asked, touching her lightly on the knee. “That’s why I hired the nurse in the first place, you know.” Alex braked at a red light and sent her a look that silently accused her of being a fool.

  “I didn’t think it was anything.”

  “But you were sick when you went to bed?”

  “It wasn’t that bad and then . . .” She hesitated. Could she trust him?

  “Then what?”

  Go on. He’s your husband. “This sounds so nuts,” she said, but decided if she couldn’t trust the man she was married to, she couldn’t trust anyone. “I think someone was in my room tonight.”

  “Who? One of the servants?”

  “No, Alex, there was a man leaning over the bed and he said, ‘Die, bitch!’ ”

  “What?” His head whipped in her direction and the car eased over the center line. A sharp honk blasted from the next lane. Alex got control of the car again. “Christ, Marla, what do you mean there was an intruder in the house?”

  “Just that.” She told him the entire story and he gripped the wheel as if he wanted to tear it from the dash. “. . . I was so damned scared that I checked every unlocked room. I think I really freaked Cissy out, but once I was sure that everything was all right, that the kids were safe, I calmed down a little. I drank some water and went back to bed. The next thing I knew I was vomiting my guts out.” She slid down in her seat, pressing her back against the passenger window and felt a chill as cold as death.

  “Jesus, Marla, who did you think was in the room with you?” Alex sucked hard on his cigarette, the tip glowed bright in the darkness.

  “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure anyone was there . . . but it seemed real at the time.”

  The light turned green. Someone honked behind them.

  “Shit.” Alex stamped on the accelerator and the Jaguar shot forward.

  “It was scary as hell.”

  “I bet.” He gunned the engine. “Damn.” His face had turned chalk white, his lips flattened over his teeth. “I’ll have Lars check the house top to bottom.”

  “No!” she said sharply and shook her head. “I mean . . . it seems ridiculous now and even if there was someone there, he’d be long gone.”

  “We have a security system and a gate. How’d the intruder get in?”

  “Good question,” Marla said and would have yawned but her muscles wouldn’t stretch. She was so tired and it was difficult to talk. “Maybe he wasn’t even there. Maybe I dreamed him up.”

  “Did you call the police?” Alex’s voice was grim, his knuckles showing white.

  “No.” She shook her head. “It could have been a dream. You know, like the one at the hospital . . .”

  “If you’re frightened, we could have the police come out and investigate,” he said. “You wanted to talk to Paterno anyway . . . but . . . shit, I don’t know. Maybe we’re all just tired and we can sort it out in the morning.” He cranked on the steering wheel. “I could hire a security guard.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Well, there is another option.” His voice had softened.

  “What?”

  “You could sleep with me.”

  No! She looked at him sharply, but he kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Her heart pounde
d and adrenalin surged through her blood at the thought of sharing a bed with him. She couldn’t imagine kissing him, or even just lying close to him, spooned on his king-size bed, his arm around her. Her stomach clenched and she glanced through the window to the fog that was rolling in, seeping around the lampposts and buildings. Though the thought of being in his bed with him was repellent, she couldn’t help but ask. “Why don’t we sleep together?”

  He snorted and stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “That was your choice. A couple of years back.” He glanced at her as if deciding whether to confide in her, then after waging a mental battle, lifted one shoulder. “The truth of the matter is that you . . . well you’ve been interested in other men.”

  “Men,” she repeated aghast. Nick’s rugged image and the memory of wanting to kiss him sizzled through her mind. It was true she was far from immune to Nick’s innate sexuality or his damned irreverent charm. She even fantasized about feeling his work-roughened hands on all parts of her body, but she never for a minute considered the fact that she’d been involved with someone other than her husband, other than in a fantasy. Oh, God, what kind of woman was she? Clearing her throat, she picked at a button on her coat, then inched up her chin and pinned her husband with her gaze. “Men? Plural?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re trying to tell me that I’ve taken lovers,” she whispered, disbelieving. No way. But then her feelings toward Nick were impossible to deny and she knew somewhere in that most innately feminine part of her that she was a sensual creature. A passionate woman. Yet someone who slept alone. Or so it appeared.

  “Okay, I won’t tell you anything of the kind.”

  “But . . .” she prodded.

  “You asked, Marla,” he said angrily.

  She felt a flush flame up her neck. “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He took a corner a little too sharply. The tires chirped.

  “Like hell it doesn’t,” she said angrily, her frayed nerves finally giving way.

  “Let’s not go into it now. It was quite a while ago.” Alex fiddled with the radio, found a soft-rock station.

  Marla snapped the damned thing off. “Then what about . . . what about James?” she asked, needing to know the truth. “Is he . . . is he . . .”

  “Mine. James is mine.” He slid her a glance and offered a tight smile. She felt more confused than ever.

  “But, how—?”

  “See what happens when you have too many gin and tonics?” His smile crept slowly from one side of his jaw to the other as if he somehow felt victorious. His laugh was just as vile, and she told herself she was imagining things. Overwrought. Drained.

  A gnawing ache settled deep in the pit of her stomach. Could she sleep with this man? Her husband? Kiss him? Make love to him? Something inside her recoiled, but she ignored the feeling. They were married, had children . . . “Maybe, when I get my memory back, if we both think it would be a good idea, we could . . . try . . .”

  “What? Sleeping together?” he asked, his lips twisting sardonically, the angles and planes of his face hard-looking in the coming headlights. “I don’t think so, Marla. I’m really not into mercy-fucking.”

  She froze. Her stomach curdled like sour milk. “Is that what you’d call it?”

  “Don’t try to pretend that you’re in love with me. I see it in your eyes. You don’t even remember me. And when you do, well, then you’ll know. So . . .” He braked for a corner and cranked hard on the wheel. “So let’s just not push it. Not yet.” He patted her knee again. “Unless you really want to bang my brains out.”

  She drew away.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Good. She couldn’t imagine tumbling into bed with him and kissing him, or . . . she couldn’t think about it. “Neither one of us is ready to move into the same bedroom again.” His fingers were tight over the steering wheel. “We’ll take that one step at a time. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.”

  She didn’t argue. Couldn’t. She felt no spark of desire for this man who was her husband. Why, she didn’t understand. Handsome and fit, at forty-two, Alexander Cahill was a successful lawyer-turned-businessman and yet there was something about him that didn’t ring true, a coldness she felt beneath his charming exterior—a crudeness that wasn’t covered by his spit-and-polish, Ivy-league, white-collar shine.

  Or maybe it’s all in your head. One way or another, Marla, you’ve got to find out. And Alex isn’t going to help you. No one is.

  Street signs flashed by as Alex drove up the hill. Stanyan, Parnassus, Willard . . . names that seemed familiar yet weren’t. Streets she’d have to know. Even though Lars was always at her disposal, she wasn’t about to use him for what she was planning. She needed independence. Freedom. Self-assurance.

  Her breath fogged against the window as she turned to look at the shops lining the streets. Coffeehouses, small grocery stores, flower vendors, apartment buildings, climbing ever upward on the hill to the top. To the house.

  With a press of a button on a remote control, the gates to the estate opened and Alex drove through. Marla stared up at the house rising high on the hill, steep gables pitched over dormers, paned windows glowing from the interior lights, chimney stacks rising proudly above it all. Home, she thought but really didn’t buy it.

  It still didn’t feel right.

  Nick drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of his pickup as he mentally kicked himself from one side of San Francisco Bay to the other. He stared out the windshield at the gloomy night and couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being manipulated. But by whom?

  Marla? His back teeth ground together as he thought of seeing her retching on the floor, nearly suffocating. She’d seemed so small and vulnerable and not for the first time he wondered why she’d gotten sick. A virus? Bad food? Or had someone poisoned her—slipped her a drug that caused her to heave?

  Impossible.

  But she’d thought she’d sensed an intruder.

  Why would anyone want her dead?

  And how had they gotten in?

  Or out? The house was a damned fortress.

  Maybe they hadn’t left.

  “Son of a bitch,” he growled pocketing his keys and climbing out of his truck. He’d parked a few streets from the hotel and hoped a walk through the icy mist and rain would help clear his head.

  For the first time in years he’d wanted to protect Marla, to wrap his arms around her and fend off any attack.

  Like some goddamned medieval knight in . . . well, slightly tarnished armor. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, he crossed the street and ducked into the hotel. He was on the second floor in minutes and as he opened the door, his phone began to ring.

  He snatched the receiver before the door shut behind him. “Nick Cahill.”

  “Glad I caught ya. I was afraid I’d have to leave another message.” Walt Haaga’s voice was rough and gravelly as ever.

  “What’s up?” Nick flopped onto the bed and kicked off his shoes.

  “What isn’t?” Walt said, coughing. “I’ve got more info. Let’s start with Pam Delacroix.”

  “Start anywhere you please.”

  “Pamela, now she’s an interesting lady. Lived off her ex, but dabbled at real estate, writing and the law. Seems that her primary interest was child custody cases. She was writing a book about it—parental rights, surrogate mothers, adoption issues. And that kid of hers—Julie—she dropped out of school a few weeks after starting. Just up and quit and moved in with a boyfriend in Santa Rosa. Has a job at a coffee shop serving up espressos. So her mother wasn’t going down to see her.”

  “Then why Santa Cruz?”

  “Maybe everyone just assumed Santa Cruz because of the kid. For all anyone knows Ms. Delacroix and your sister-in-law could have been pulling a Thelma and Louise and just taking off down the coast. They could’ve been planning to go to L.A. or Mexico.”

  “Another dead end,” Nick grumbled.

  “O
r one less to consider.”

  “Why were they together?”

  “Good question,” Walt said. “But it probably wasn’t to play tennis. As far as I can tell Pam Delacroix never belonged to Marla’s club. I doubt if she owned a racquet much less a membership in an athletic club. She was more of a bookworm than an athlete.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I talked with her ex and a few friends. The only connection she seems to have with your family is that she attended the Holy Trinity of God church in Sausalito.”

  “Where Cherise’s husband is the minister,” Nick said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yep.”

  Nick filed the information away, but it didn’t quite fit. “I don’t think Marla’s a big churchgoer.”

  “Nah, she’s not a member. But my guess is that she met Pam through Cherise’s husband. He was on the staff at Cahill House for a while. Counseled girls in trouble and got himself in a pot of hot water.”

  “Did he?” Nick asked, a bad feeling beginning to gnaw at his gut.

  “Seems he couldn’t keep his hands off one of the unwed mothers.”

  “Shit.”

  “Your brother fired him. About a year ago. There was a big scandal—lots of flak for a while. I’ve got copies of the newspaper articles and I’ll fax ’em to you—but no charges were ever filed and the preacher went back to his congregation over in Sausalito.”

  “And that was the end of it?” Nick was incredulous.

  “Seems as if his flock and the girl he was supposed to have been involved with found a way to forgive him.” Walt paused long enough to light up. Nick heard the distinctive click of a lighter.

  “And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Man, are you related to a bunch of wackos.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Nick said as he pulled the second pillow from the side of the bed and used it to prop himself. He grabbed a pen and notepad from the bedside table.

  “Okay, how about this? Marla’s old man, Conrad Amhurst, he’s about to kick off.”

  “That I heard.”

  “I imagine,” Walt said with more than an edge of contempt. “The rest of the family is practically drooling, waiting for him to buy the farm ’cuz he’s worth millions and the kicker is that most of the estate is earmarked for that new baby.”