Intimate Strangers

by Denise Mathews

  "What good would it do to go through every detail?" he asked. "You'll remember it quickly enough. I want to trust you again, so let's start trusting each other from now on." He walked over to her and stood facing her but made no attempt to touch her. "If you have a question when you remember something, we'll talk about it, honestly and openly."

  "But what about us? What about the past and your feelings about it?" she questioned him.

  "This is our beginning, Sara. Let's begin as friends. Friends who believe in and trust each other." He took her hands into his. "We won't rush or push it. I think you're a new person and maybe I can become a new person through you." At her questioning expression he explained. "You used to question my every move; you didn't trust me at all. Now you seem to want to trust me and believe in me. That's the foundation we'll build on." He took her face between his hands and kissed her lightly on the lips. "I think it's time you went to sleep now, you've got dark circles under your eyes." He smiled tenderly down at her while he traced the dark smudges with his finger.

  Roarke steered Sara toward the bed and made sure she was under the covers before he turned out the bedside light. "I'm going to leave your door open and mine also. If you need me for anything, just call."

  "Roarke," Sara called out to his retreating back.

  He turned in the doorway. "Yes?" He looked at Sara huddling under the covers. The light from the hall shone on her hair that spread over the pillow, making her look young and vulnerable.

  "Someday I'll have to know about our past. I can't go through life with blinders on."

  "You'll remember it all soon enough, and maybe by then we'll have found out what we're both really like and the past won't matter so much. We'll make our present so strong, the past will seem like a dream," he stated positively.

  "More like a nightmare, don't you mean?" she asked pensively.

  "No more talk about nightmares. I'll see you in the morning," he ordered. "Good night."

  Sitting up, she implored, "Roarke, just one more thing. What about the marriage? After all, you said we've been separated for two years. A lot of things must be changed in your life. Maybe a wife doesn't fit in anymore, even a wife who's just a friend. I don't want you to feel obligated to resume a marriage you no longer want."

  Roarke turned to face her again. The light was behind him and all that Sara could see of Roarke was a black silhouette in the doorway. "Sara, a lot has changed in my life. I found out I don't like being alone. That kind of life doesn't appeal to me at all. And after this evening, I realize that I need you in my life. I don't have any answers about our future. For now, let's live in the present. Good night, Sara," he said once again and went into the hall, leaving the door open several inches.

  Sara tried to settle down, but sleep eluded her. Roarke had said he was willing to begin again. And even if she couldn't remember the past, she knew that right now, this minute, she loved Roarke. She was never more sure of anything in her topsy-turvy world. If he wanted to build a foundation of trust and friendship, she would cement the foundation with love.

  She couldn't remember, but she was absolutely sure she had loved Roarke all along. Not knowing why they separated or anything about the marriage didn't make any difference. Her love felt right, it felt good, it was familiar to her.

  Roarke hadn't spoken of love tonight and maybe he never would. She knew she couldn't let him know that she loved him; it might make him regret his decision to try again. Sara didn't want that to happen, not only because she needed him, but because she wanted him near her. She wanted to talk and get to know this man her heart and body already loved.

  He hadn't said if there was another woman in his life. Maybe he was trying to imply there might be another woman when he said he didn't like being alone. He was a handsome man and very virile. Surely he hadn't spent the last two years celibate. But was there anyone special in his life—a woman who had become important to him, a woman who had eased his lonely hours, a woman who didn't play the games he accused her of playing?

  Sara turned over and pounded her pillow. All these negative thoughts were getting her nowhere. He had said he needed her in his life even if it were just as a friend. Well, maybe she could become more to him. They had been in love once, and it could happen again. Could she hope to rekindle a flame that might be dead, or should she? She didn't have an answer, but at least the door wasn't closed anymore.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Slowly Sara descended the stairs, her slippers quiet on the heavy carpet. She gazed around in amazement. When Roarke had brought her here weeks ago, she hadn't had time to really see anything. "It's lovely," she whispered, awed by the serene beauty of the foyer. The wide, open arch on the left revealed the living room, and she regarded the elegant furnishings for a few minutes. She could partially see the dining room through another arch at the end of the living room, its massive crystal chandelier sparkling in the sunlight, tossing prisms of color on the cool white walls.

  She noticed two doors on the other side of the entry. One was closed, but the other was slightly ajar. Peering into the slight opening, she pushed the door open and recognized the room from Martha's description. This had to be her den, she thought. Paintings, paints, and easels were stacked against the one wall, and an easel was standing in the corner just as Martha had told her.

  She went over to the easel and examined the canvas that was propped on its crossbar. The firm material was covered with a pale wash of colors. She reached out and touched it. How did I know it's called a wash? she wondered as she ran her hand over the resilient canvas. Turning around, she scanned the entire room. It wasn't large, but was bright with the light coming through the wall of windows. The only furniture was a love seat, a small table, and one chair. There were books on a row of shelves against the wall by the door—books about painters, museums, galleries. Paintings hung on the third wall—a profusion of paintings with no rhyme or reason, a riot of color and subjects. When she moved closer, she realized they all had a single name on them, just Alexander, no first name. But she knew they were hers.

  Moving over to the stack of canvases that leaned against the first wall, she bent over and sorted through them, glancing at each one quickly. Then she stopped abruptly and pulled one out and placed it in front of the stack. She backed up to the love seat and sat down and studied it in rapt concentration. It was the finished painting she had seen herself sketching in her flashback. It was Roarke sitting on the beach, his hair ruffled by the ocean breeze, the sand, tall grass, ocean, and sky surrounding him, making him an integral part of the scene. It was bold and exciting, just like Roarke.

  Leaning back, she looked around her in wonder. Even though so much of herself was missing, she somehow knew she was good: She had talent. It was a part of her, a part that hadn't disappeared with the accident or her memory loss. It was as instinctive as breathing, writing, talking, and loving Roarke. She was impatient to pick up a brush and paint. Maybe through her painting and her loving she could find all the missing pieces and put herself back together.

  She picked up a sketch pad that lay on top of the table, opened it, and saw a drawing of a garden and an old woman in a floppy straw hat stooped over, digging in the earth around some bushes. She tore it out of the pad and, as she stared at the bent-over figure, she picked up a pencil and began sketching a face on the tablet.

  The lines of the face began to take form and shape. The eyes were lively but held a hint of pain, or was it sadness? The mouth was small, but its smile filled the face. Wrinkles were a cross-stitch over the skin, but they added character to the features. The hair was brushed back severely away from the broad forehead and caught in a large chignon at the nape.

  Sara laid the pencil down; it was the face of the old woman she had dreamed about, and the face was still a vivid imprint on her mind.

  "I wondered where you had gone!"

  Sara's head shot up, startled by the voice that had intruded on her brooding.

  "I went up to see if you wanted some
lunch, and I couldn't find you." Martha sat down beside Sara. "I'm glad you finally decided to leave that room."

  "Well, I've had a couple days to practice walking around my room without the cast. I've walked with and without the cane and my ankle feels almost as good as new. I decided to venture out today and see what the rest of the house looks like."

  "Mr. Roarke will be so glad to hear this when he comes home today. Before he left for California the other day, he asked me to try and coax you out of your room."

  "Yes, I guess he will be pleased," Sara murmured, wondering if this three-day separation had given Roarke time to think over and regret his decision for them to try again. She had had second and third thoughts about their evening and everything they had said to each other, but she hadn't changed her mind. She loved him and something inside her was obsessed with trying to win him back. When he had come to her room the morning after her nightmare and told her that he had to leave immediately for California, he had seemed pensive and frustrated at having to go. He had even told her he'd miss her and she hoped he would because she missed him.

  "Miss Sara, what's wrong?"

  Flustered, not wanting to tell Martha what she was thinking, she glanced down at the sketch pad on her lap. She handed the sketch to Martha. "Martha, who is she?"

  Martha looked at the sketch, then at Sara, a sad expression passing quickly across her face. "It's your grandmother. Did you just draw this?"

  Sara nodded absently, trying to fit this new piece into her puzzle.

  "What brought this face to your mind? Did you remember something?"

  "No, I didn't really remember. I had a dream last night, or rather early this morning."

  "Do you want to tell me about it?" the older woman asked quietly.

  "Well, in my dream, I was somewhere that was foggy and the air was damp. The ground felt spongy and tried to clutch at my shoes when I walked on it. There were huge marble stones, and they seemed to surround me on all sides." Sara shuddered. "It wasn't until I saw two coffins that I realized I was in a cemetery. The coffins were sitting on the misty ground, covered with flowers and lots of people were standing around, some of them crying. I—I didn't recognize any of the faces except an old lady who was holding my hand tightly. I felt as though I knew her. We were dressed in black and crying. When I jolted awake, I imagined I could still feel the woman's hand holding mine."

  Martha remained silent throughout Sara's recollection, but the expression on her face alarmed Sara. "What's the matter, Martha, why do you look so disturbed? Have I said something to upset you? What is it?" Sara touched Martha's cheek with the palm of her hand.

  Martha took Sara's hand and pressed it warmly between hers. "I'm upset because it makes my heart break that in order for you to become a whole person again, you have to remember the tragedies of your life along with the happy things. What a shame that you can't be allowed to remember only the good."

  Sara smiled poignantly and her heart lurched. She realized how much Martha did love her. It was as though she were Martha's own daughter.

  Martha sighed. "The dream you had really happened. The older woman who held your hand so lovingly was your grandmother. Your parents were both killed in a horrible head-on collision one night on their way home from a party. A drunk driver who was passing a truck… they were killed instantly." Martha broke off with a shake of her head.

  Sara was trembling, partly from the horror of her parents' untimely and horrible deaths and partly from the excitement of her remembering something of the past, even if it were in a dream. "Do we have any photographs of my parents or grandmother?" she asked breathlessly, hoping against hope that the answer would be yes. She was elated when Martha told her there was an album upstairs and could hardly contain herself until they got to her room and Martha brought the album to her.

  The woman in her dream and in her sketch was indeed her grandmother. The pictures of her parents saddened her but brought no memory other than the feeling of sorrow. But Sara was more optimistic than she had been in the last several weeks. If she could remember the funeral and her grandmother, maybe soon she'd remember the rest.

  Martha's voice invaded Sara's thoughts. "Miss Sara, do you want some lunch now? I have to get started on dinner soon. Why don't you come back downstairs and eat it in the kitchen and we'll talk while you eat." She clapped her hands together and a smile split her face. "I know, why don't you and Mr. Roarke eat in the dining room tonight? We'll celebrate your first day out of your room and Mr. Roarke's homecoming!"

  "Two celebration dinners in one week?" Sara laughed. "It sounds to me that you look for any excuse to cook a big meal and fuss over us."

  Sara spent a great deal of time on herself in anticipation of dinner with Roarke. After her shower she brushed her hair till it shone like golden silk around her face and shoulders. She chose a pastel pink, full-length dress and pink shoes to match. The dress flowed against her body, molding her lovely, lithe form, the bodice draped over her breasts, clinging softly to the round firmness underneath. She wore very little makeup, but her eyes glowed and her cheeks flushed with expectation.

  "Sara, you never looked lovelier," a deep voice sounded from the open doorway. Roarke leaned against the door frame, his suit jacket flung casually over his shoulder and his hair a trifle rumpled.

  Sara hadn't heard her door open but was pleased when she turned and saw him. "Thank you, kind sir," she quipped with a slight dip of her head in a mock curtsy.

  "You're dazzling and Martha is bustling around the kitchen and Bradley is hovering near the dining room. Is this all for me?" He smiled as he took her hands in his, his blue eyes filled with sparks of light.

  "Yes, it's our way of saying welcome home to you. We missed you." Sara smiled into his eyes. "And we're eating dinner in the dining room tonight. We're also celebrating my first evening downstairs."

  "Well, maybe I should go away more often. It's quite clear that absence does make the heart grow fonder," he teased.

  "How did your trip go? Is everything taken care of?" Sara frowned. She wanted to share in his life, but she didn't know enough about his business to ask intelligent questions.

  "It went really well. Not only will we make a considerable profit, but there are some long-range benefits, including more prestige for the firm. I'd better go shower and change clothes before Martha skins me alive for being late and ruining her dinner. If you wait for me, I'll walk you downstairs," he offered. "It will only take me a few minutes."

  "I'll wait for you. I still have a few things to do myself." She smiled.

  "Okay, I'll be back to get you in less than fifteen minutes."

  Sara watched him until he was in his room and behind the closed door. She clasped her hands across her stomach. It was churning from the excitement of having him home again, from having him close. She yearned to tell him about her discovery of her love for him, but knew she couldn't. She hoped that soon she could tell him how much she cared.

  Twenty minutes later they were seated in the dining room with Bradley serving them. He poured their wine and Sara proposed a toast. "Here's to the success you've had with this contract, may you have much more success in the future." She held her glass in mid-air, waiting for Roarke to tap his against it.

  "Here's to you, Sara. A beautiful woman who is once again stealing her husband's heart!" Roarke looked tenderly into her eyes as he touched his glass to hers.

  Sara wanted to run over and throw herself into his arms and entice him upstairs to her bedroom. But she knew she had to move slowly. There was a lot of hurt in both of them to overcome.

  Throughout dinner Roarke regaled her with stories of when their house was new, how they scoured the countryside for a particular piece of furniture that Sara wanted.

  In Roarke's study after dinner they drank coffee and continued their light conversation. Roarke was charming and amusing and Sara was entranced. She watched his blue eyes change color as he would swing emotionally from telling her something funny to something po
ignant. His face dropped the mask of guarded defensiveness, and the play of reactions that softened his features was fascinating.

  Contemplating his magnificent handsomeness, Sara thought to herself, Wouldn't we make beautiful children? Without thinking she blurted out, "Roarke, why didn't we have any children?" With a gasp Sara put her hand over her mouth, regretting the impulsively asked question. The shuttered look that came over Roarke's face told her she had ventured too far too fast.

  Deciding since she had gone this far she might as well pursue the subject despite Roarke's change of mood, she added, "You said you'd be honest with me and answer my questions. Don't shut me out, Roarke, please."

  Roarke stood up and walked over to the bar, his shoulders slumped. He poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter and kept his face averted. Finally, in a toneless voice, he answered, "We had wanted children. We wanted to start a family right away, but after the honeymoon we decided we should wait for a year or two and have some time to ourselves. I thought it was a good idea. You were very young and I was young enough where a little time wouldn't hurt. Later you decided that one more year wouldn't hurt, and it just went on that way until we separated. I never questioned our decision because I felt you needed time to mature. In later years I realized our marriage was in trouble and to bring a child into a marriage that was going bad wasn't fair to the child." He pulled out a cigarette and after lighting it poured himself another drink.

  Sara stared at her hands, deep in thought. This other woman Roarke talked about seemed totally disassociated from her. It was as though there were two Saras, and the more Sara heard about the other one, the less she liked her. She cringed inwardly when she saw the hurt in Roarke's eyes and the tension in his body over the havoc the other Sara had created in his life. When he spoke of the other one, she winced with shame, embarrassment, and deep hurt that she really was the person who could cause this change in him. She felt like a mirror, with the horrible Sara on one side of the mirror constantly reflecting through to the side Sara was on now.