Forget Me Not

by Lee Boschen

  Leslie felt her cheeks burn. Handing the woman a business card, she said, “My name is Leslie Carson. We need very much to talk to you. Can we go some place where we can have a private talk, Ms...?"

  "Forrester. Alice Forrester.” She looked down at the card. “A private talk? What's the matter, Richard, are you in trouble?"

  "Not exactly,” Leslie started to answer, “but we need—"

  Richard interrupted. “Excuse me, Leslie. Mrs. Forrester, tell me who I am."

  "Oh, dear,” Forrester said. Her eyes grew round. “What's happened to—well, your name is Richard Webb. With two B's. ‘W-E-double-B-Webb,’ you told me the first time I had you in class."

  Richard looked at Leslie with shining eyes, spreading his arms wide in exultation. “Webb! Two B's. Just like that, and I've got a name. Richard Webb.” He gathered Alice Forrester in his arms for a bear hug. “Let's find some place private,” he said. “Have I got a story to tell you."

  They sat in one corner of the faculty lounge while Richard and Leslie told Forrester what had happened. Leslie didn't remember exactly when her hand found Richard's.

  "You mustn't tell a soul, you know,” Richard concluded, “until we find out who's behind these knots on my head."

  "Of course not,” Forrester said. “Not a single syllable.” Her eyes glanced at the clasped hands. “But you, young lady, are not what I first thought. What's your interest here?"

  "I'm—” Leslie's eyes sought Richard's. I'm not really his attorney. I can't be his girl friend. I'm not his fiancée. I'm—"What am I, Richard?"

  "Mrs. Forrester, I need you to tell us something. Am I married?"

  Alice Forrester stared at him, surprised by the question, but seeing the blue eyes and the golden eyes fixed intently on her, she knew the answer was important. To Richard, and the woman with him. He really doesn't know, she thought. He doesn't remember anything. He's lost Barbara and Timmy. She answered carefully, “you weren't married the last time you were here, a year ago, and I don't recall reading about your getting married.” She hesitated, then, “Do you really not remember Barbara?"

  Leslie was shocked at Richard's response. Forrester's sudden, unexpected question had arrowed straight past any blocks, and the memory came boiling up in Richard's mind. He turned to stare at Leslie, his face paling.

  "Barbara,” he said. She felt his grip on her hand suddenly slacken. He whispered the name again. “Barbara. Yes, we..."

  His voice was faint as he started telling his story, and his eyes changed and Leslie knew he wasn't seeing her anymore, but some other person, some other time.

  * * * *

  The little white car climbed steadily up the West Virginia mountain road, the young blonde woman driving carefully, competently. As she approached the crest of the hill, she flipped down the sun visor and reduced her speed to prepare for the sun she knew would be in her eyes briefly as she topped the hill.

  The driver of the heavy red sedan behind her, mellowed by his Happy Hour cocktails, chose this moment to pass. It was only when he saw the looming grill of the semi that he realized the enormity of his error. He turned his wheel hard right to avoid the oncoming juggernaut, trying to squeeze into the impossibly small space between the little white car and the semi.

  When the red car appeared before his grill, the driver of the semi instantly attempted to ‘anchor’ his rig. He almost made it. But the few feet he moved forward were enough to punch the red car sideways. There was no more space now, no more slack. The little car was smashed against the railing by the side of the road, and somehow the man riding in the passenger's seat was spilled like a broken doll onto the highway. The two cars slid along the railing, showering sparks, then abruptly the smaller car was squeezed up, over the railing and out into space.

  Turning lazily as it fell, it struck the side of the mountain, spinning wildly as it bounced free, only to fall and hit again, and yet again before finally coming to rest on its side, hundreds of feet below. No sound came from the crumpled ruin.

  There was a brief pause, as if the car rested from its struggle. Inside, wires which had been shorted together by the crushing impacts grew hot enough to glow red, then white. There was a tiny flash of yellow, scarcely larger than a spark, and a small puff of pale smoke, then almost instantly a huge ball of orange flame as the fuel from the smashed tank exploded. A dense column of black smoke, shot through with roiling white and yellow flames, drove skyward.

  The dull boom of the explosion was clearly audible to the young semi driver, still sitting in his cab, stunned by what had happened. As the three vehicles had topped the rise in the road the late afternoon sun had shone into the little white car like a searchlight. He'd seen the shock on the pretty woman's face, the instinctive gesture— as ancient as mothers—which she'd made to protect the child sitting between her and the man. And he knew what the sound of the explosion and the pall of black smoke meant. He leaned his head against his steering wheel.

  "Oh, Jesus,” he said. Tears came. “Oh, God, I'm sorry."

  The man who had been thrown from the car lay motionless in a smear of blood on the highway.

  * * * *

  Listening, Leslie watched the tears spill from Richard's eyes and felt her own eyes burning with shared sorrow. His grip on her hands had gradually tightened as he told her what had happened, and he was only now slowly relaxing as he moved away from the pain of the past.

  "It was six years ago. Timmy was five. I didn't know anything about ... that they were dead, until I woke up in the hospital more than a week later. Oh, God, that was hard. For a long time I felt guilty. Why hadn't I died with them? Then I was angry—why had they gone away without me?"

  He was still for a moment. “The semi driver came to see me in the hospital. Poor guy, he really felt bad. It wasn't his fault, and I knew it and I told him so, but he had this picture in his mind and it was tearing him up.” His face turned dark. “I never did see the guy I really wanted to see, the guy who drove the red car."

  He was quiet for a moment, then he sighed, a deep, accepting sigh. “Six years ago...” He tried to free his hands.

  "No,” Leslie said.

  "I only want to get my handkerchief,” he said, feeling the tears cooling on his cheeks. “I must look—” He moved his shoulders slightly.

  "I don't care,” she said, fiercely possessive, “I don't want to let go yet.” Then, relenting, she freed a hand and fished a tissue out of her purse to dry his face, blotting her own eyes carefully. Her mind was awhirl with what she had heard, and mixed with the feeling of sorrow for the loss of his wife and son was the thought—he's not married.

  Alice Forrester stared at her, and Leslie had the feeling that the woman knew exactly what was going through her mind. Forrester nodded slowly, finally speaking to Leslie. “Richard and I are friends. Good friends. He has kept in touch all these years. He brought Barbara to see me when they were newly weds. Later, there was a baby, Timmy. Timothy Scott Webb. Next year, Timmy was a toddler who'd talk your arm off.” She sighed, remembering. “Richard always brought Barbara and Timmy with him when he came to see me. Then he stopped, and came alone. For six years, alone. But in all those years—” Her gaze moved to Richard for a moment, then back to Leslie, “In all those years he never told me what happened to them. I thought perhaps a very painful divorce. I knew it was something that had hurt him dreadfully, but I never imagined anything like this.” She shook her head at him. “It's about time you got it off your chest, Richard.” Then her smile approved him. “But that was years ago,” she said, “I was about to ask you how everything is going now, but that wouldn't do a lot of good, would it?"

  She grew serious. “Instead, let me tell you. Maybe it will help you. You were my star, you know.” She made a small, impatient motion. “No, you don't know, do you? Well, you were. I was your faculty advisor, your home room teacher and your English teacher. We had some right stormy sessions, the two of us. They paid off, though. Do you remember that you were a Rhodes schol
ar?"

  Leslie gasped. “A Rhodes scholar? Really?"

  Richard said, “I'm not even sure I remember what a Rhodes scholar is."

  Mrs. Forrester blinked at that. “Uh, do you remember—do you know what you've done with your life?"

  "No,” Richard said. “We...” He gestured with the hand still holding Leslie's. “We think it's something to do with photography, maybe selling cameras?"

  "Selling cameras indeed.” Alice Forrester sputtered indignantly. “You have a chain of stores that sells photographic equipment. I guess you could say that's selling cameras. But all I've been hearing about for the last couple of years is the way your film processing business has been growing in those stores."

  Richard's eyes grew wide. “You mean I own the chain of stores?” He looked at Leslie. “We were right. I do work for a chain of photo stores.” He crowed in delight. “As the boss."

  "Don't let it go to your head,” Leslie said. “We've still got a long way to go."

  "Yes, but ... come on, Leslie, just think what we've learned. I can look myself up in the phone book—” He glanced at Alice Forrester. “Webb. That's my name? With two B's. ‘W-E-double-B-Webb.’ Tell me I didn't really say it like that."

  Forrester nodded.

  Richard shrugged casually. “I was younger then."

  "Oh, not so much younger,” Forrester said, “you were still saying it last year when you came by to see me."

  "Anyway, I can look myself up in the phone book, go to that address, and—” He stopped, his face stricken.

  Leslie nodded. “Uh-huh, and break a window to get in."

  * * * *

  An hour later they were sitting in Leslie's living room discussing what to do next. “You were sure right when you said that learning my name didn't mean I'd regain my memory. All those things she was telling me, it's like she was talking about some other guy.” He shook his head. “I don't identify with that guy at all.” He added unhappily, “I don't even remember Alice Forrester, and nice as she is, that's a damned shame."

  "She remembers you, and I think she loves her star. I liked her."

  "Me too. How could I help but like her. I still respond to people like I always have. That goes deeper than memory, I think.” He breathed out a long sigh. “Now what? Time for the police?"

  Leslie gazed at him for a moment. “What was she like, your Barbara?"

  His gaze met hers and he smiled. “Come on, Leslie."

  "Tell me."

  "Even after Alice Forrester's jolt I don't remember very much about Barbara, and I'm not trying to cop out. It's been too long. All I have now are impressions—that she was wonderful, that she wasn't like you at all.” Seeing the look on Leslie's face, he hastened to add, “I didn't mean that you aren't wonderful too, but ... she was blonde, you're dark. Her eyes were blue, yours are golden ... and beautiful."

  "You didn't have to say that,” she scolded.

  "Yes, I did."

  She felt her cheeks warming, but it was nothing like the fire he started when he added, “We did settle one important thing. I'm not married. Nothing standing in the way of my courting a certain woman I know, the one with the sharp legal mind."

  She wanted to say something witty. “Mm-m.” Her sharp legal mind had turned to mush.

  "What about Coleen?"

  "...Coleen? What about her?"

  "She's sharp, you said,” Richard said. “Like her mom.” He leaned toward her across the seat, almost whispering, “And how are we going to keep your daughter, with her mind as sharp as a razor, from guessing that we're carrying on."

  Leslie looked narrow-eyed at him. “Carrying on?"

  He shrugged. “What would a courtship be without a certain amount of ... carrying on?"

  Her cheeks started burning hotly. “This is nutty. I know what goes on between men and women. So why am I blushing like a teenager?"

  "About Coleen...?"

  "Here's the way I see it. You're mysterious, and there's a certain danger just being around you. That appeals to we Carson women. On top of that, she's wanted me to marry ever since I can remember. Since you're a prospect, she'll like you, all right."

  He was silent for a moment. “Okay, what about after? What about when I'm just an ordinary guy, not dangerous anymore?"

  Her glance was warm. “Speaking for this mature Carson woman, that's not the only thing you've got going for you."

  She was amazed at his response. He blushed. My God, she thought, a Nineties man who blushes. Oh, don't ever change, darling.

  He cleared his throat. “So do we go to the police?"

  She blinked at another mercurial change of subject. “I've been thinking about that,” she said.

  "And...?"

  "What if the guys who tried to kill you have noticed that your name hasn't appeared in the paper, either as dead or hospitalized?"

  "Mm-m. Okay, suppose..."

  "What if they've decided to wait inside your house for you to come back?"

  For a moment, his gaze locked on hers. Then he nodded slowly. “If it didn't bother them to break my skull, it wouldn't bother them to break a window."

  "You got it."

  "I can't even send a locksmith around to change the locks. He'd just hand the keys for the new locks to whoever was in the house."

  "So now it's time for the police.” She put her fingers lightly to his lips as he started to talk. “We tell them the whole story, everything, including our suspicions of what's waiting for us in the house, and we ask them to send a cruiser to check out the house. And we warn them for Heaven's sake to tell the officers what they may run into."

  * * * *

  After dinner, Coleen long since in bed, the house was quiet. A three quarter moon streamed its rays through the sheers over the high windows, dimly lighting the living room. Sitting beside Richard on the big couch, her head back, her legs outstretched, it took Leslie a while to sort out all her emotions, to realize why she felt so different. So relaxed, so comfortable. Yet underlying her comfort she felt a certain tension. No, not tension ... anticipation. Nice. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt this way. Was that his doing? She grinned. Probably was.

  "I wish we had a fireplace,” she said.

  He responded with a contented rumble.

  "Just think how romantic it would be to have a fire crackling away."

  "Yeah.” He hid his grin as he proceeded to sprinkle water on her crackling fire. “Throwing sparks all over the carpet. Maybe catch the chimney on fire."

  "Oh, Richard, where's your spirit of winter? We could have a fireplace screen."

  "Who needs that stuff?"

  She rolled her head to look at him. “Boy, you're really some kind of animal, aren't you. A full meal and all you want to do is lie around with your eyes half closed and make grunting noises."

  "You've got some strange ideas, woman."

  "What's so strange about wanting a fireplace?"

  "You're all I need to feel romantic."

  The anticipation grew, and yes, there they were again—the delicious shivers, the tremors deep inside her, the warm feeling that didn't need a fireplace.

  "The reason I'm sitting here with my hands stuffed in my pockets is so I'll keep them off of you. So don't you go prodding this animal, he's got enough problems."

  She felt almost sweaty hot. I feel like that a lot around him. I should do just as he says. It's been too long since I acted like a woman with a man.

  But like a child playing with forbidden matches, she couldn't stop lighting them. She moved close to him, feeling his body heat, feeling her heart begin to beat faster. “You Tarzan, me Jane. Is that the kind of problem you mean?"

  He pulled a hand out of his pocket to loosen his shirt collar. “Yeah.” He resolutely jammed his hand back into his pocket. “Listen, Leslie, I'm not sure what we're into here, but if it's what I think it is—” She saw a flash of blue as he glanced at her. “What I hope it is, then I don't want to mess it up by hurrying."

&n
bsp; "Hurrying? Richard, it's been nine years, and even that long ago my marriage only lasted six months. I don't know what a relationship like ours can offer because I've never had one. Never, never, have I been kissed like you kissed me."

  "Like we kissed each other,” he said.

  "Yes. And now I want to have the rest of it.” Her cheeks flamed. “And give the rest of it.” She put her arms around his neck and began giving him little kisses on the cheek, on his throat, his ear. “Why is it,” she murmured, “that I get the idea I'm trying to seduce you? Isn't it supposed to work the other way round?"

  He groaned, his arms stealing around her slim waist. “You're making it impossible for me to behave."

  She draped a long, shapely leg over his lap, the snug gray pinstripe skirt riding high on her thigh. “Rescuing a damsel in distress isn't behaving?"

  "All right,” he said. “All right, I give up. I'm going to be an animal."

  Grunting, he lifted Leslie, then moved, rearranged and lowered her so that she ended up lying across his lap, cradled in his arms.

  She put her arms around his chest. “Ooh, I think you've done that before,” she murmured.

  "It certainly seemed like it, didn't it. I guess there are some things a man never forgets."

  "It's nice to know I haven't entrusted myself to some amateur. What happens now?"

  His hands were light where they touched her, Leslie thought, like feathers. But they were hot. And she burned where he touched her. And the heat didn't go away. But why didn't he touch her there—her rosy peaks grew stiff with wanting. Or there—she grew moist as desire began to flare.

  She slid her hand inside his shirt, feeling the smooth, warm skin of his chest. “I've been wanting to do this since the night they dumped you in my ditch,” she murmured. “Instead I had to wrap you in foil to get you warm."

  He shivered at her touch. “You certainly aren't going to have any trouble warming me up tonight."