"Roarke, don't be silly. What would Martha and Bradley think?"
"What do you mean, what would they think? We're married, for Pete's sake. When we get home, we're going to move all your things into my bedroom and from now on you're going to sleep with me!" He nipped the end of her nose with his lips.
"Are you sure about this?" Sara drew her head back and gazed into his eyes. "If I move back into your room that means that our marriage is a reality and all the vows that go with that reality are valid again."
"I wouldn't ask you back into my room unless I was sure," Roarke replied, his voice losing the sexily teasing sound it had had and becoming more serious in tone.
"You may think you're sure, but what if I remember every-thing and revert back to the Sara you closed out of your life two years ago?"
"How many times do I have to tell you we'll face that if it happens!" he replied with a sharp edge to his voice.
"Look, Roarke, we can't do that. There's no 'if about it. We have to face this now, every day. Making love doesn't erase all the hard facts we're facing. It doesn't erase anything! As a matter of fact, it shouldn't change anything. You said our lovemaking was always great, that it was a good thing even when our marriage was going bad. We just can't run away and make love instead of decisions."
"You're talking nonsense again." Roarke walked to the tree and took a cigarette out of his pocket.
"No, Roarke, I'm not. Are you prepared right now to tell me that when I do remember, and if I'm the old Sara, that you'll still want me to share your bed… your life? I need reassurance, Roarke, reassurance from you."
He threw his cigarette down and ground it out with his shoe, twisting the grass beneath his toe. "Maybe you haven't changed as much as I thought, Sara. You have to take apart and psychoanalyze everything we say until I don't know what we're talking about. I'm tired of this. Let's go. You can stay in your own room, but don't expect me to ask again." Roarke picked up their picnic things and began putting them back into the basket.
Sara was aghast. She reached out her hand to grasp his arm, but he shrugged it aside and walked by her to put the things into the trunk of the car. "Roarke, please listen. I'm not…"
"I said, we'd better start home." His stern voice was gruff.
Sara knew there was nothing she could say or do that would make the situation any better, so she kept silent and helped him clean up the remaining debris from the picnic, knowing the memory of their love scene would always remain.
Riding back to the house, they were silent, Roarke's hands tightly gripping the wheel, his knuckles white. Sara was miserable and fretful. She shook her head in bewilderment. They were certainly a different couple from the one who had traveled this same road several hours before.
Roarke paused at his study doorway, "If you change your mind, let me know, and we'll talk about it."
Uncontrollable anger seethed through Sara. How dare he be so magnanimous? We'll talk about it! Who does he think he is? Then a calming sheath settled over her. Turning to Roarke, she smiled. "Yes, we'll also discuss your impulse to go out with other women and leave your wife behind."
His lips twisted in a bitter smile as she turned her back on him and started up the stairs, his voice trailing behind her. "Damn you, Sara. I was right! You haven't changed. You are still accusing me of things that are in your imagination."
Sara walked into her room and threw the sketch on the bed. She looked at the drawing of Roarke, propped against the tree, a smile creasing his face. Her mind pictured his tense face and frown as he went into the study. What a change in just a few hours, she thought. It's like he's two people also. Sitting down in front of her vanity mirror, she examined her reflection intently. Suddenly, as if through a clearing mist, she saw Roarke and herself reflected in the mirror. He was dressed in a tuxedo and she was in a filmy blue gown. She was standing before Roarke with her hands on her hips. "Who was that woman, Roarke?" the reflection was saying and the memory of her voice sounded shrewish.
"Sara, I've already told you who she was," Roarke said impatiently.
"You told me she was 'someone's wife.' She certainly didn't act like 'someone's wife'." Sara turned on her heel and started pacing the room.
"What exactly do you mean?" Roarke reached out and gripped her arm as she passed him.
"Just what I said. She practically hung on to you the entire evening. It was embarrassing. She acted as though you were her lover or husband and didn't belong to someone else. As a matter of fact, she didn't even acknowledge my presence." Sara's eyes bored into Roarke's.
"Sara, I can't help what that woman does. I did nothing to encourage her. It's nothing that I said or did. I've met the woman twice before and both times her husband was there. You're reading things that aren't there. Furthermore, I don't belong to you. I am not your possession." Roarke removed his tie and shook his head in disgust then turned to leave the room.
"Roarke, don't you dare walk out on me. Every time I turned around, she was beside you. It was as though she couldn't let you out of her sight. You must have done something to encourage her." Sara stamped her foot in impotent fury. "And don't tell me you don't belong to me. You certainly do!"
Roarke pivoted back, anger raging over his face. "Sara, I'm sick of having this conversation every time we go out. I did nothing, I tell you, nothing, to encourage that woman." His voice raised in pitch from exasperation. "I don't care to discuss this anymore."
She went to him and grabbed his arm as he was walking out of the room. "Roarke, I don't believe you. Why would a woman you've only met two times behave around you as she did? I feel sure everyone at that party thought the same thing I did."
"And what was that, Sara?" Roarke asked in a bored tone.
Sara gripped his arm tightly. "Why, that you were lovers, of course."
Roarke shook himself loose of Sara's hand. "I'm tired of your accusations. Every time we go somewhere I have to come home and listen to you accuse me of being someone's lover. I'm tired of this, Sara. It has to stop," he insisted. "I'm tired of your jealousy, I'm tired of your reading infidelity into my every move. I'm tired of this conversation," he said, punching his fist into the door frame in disgust.
"If you're so tired of everything, and that seems to include me, then why don't you leave. Why don't you just leave!" Sara shouted, her face distorted with jealousy and anger.
Roarke stepped back into the room, slamming the door behind him. He reached out and grabbed Sara by the shoulders, jerking her toward him. "Don't push me, Sara. One of these days you'll say it once too often and I will leave." He let her go so abruptly she stumbled backward.
Sara recoiled at the fury she knew he was barely controlling. But for some reason she couldn't stop the words that poured out of her mouth. "Don't threaten me, Roarke. I'm not afraid of your threats anymore." She stood rigidly, her eyes flashing, and stared at him haughtily, a grim smile on her face.
He drew his clenched fist back but dropped it, his shoulders slumped, a look of defeat crossed his face. "All right, Sara, you win. I'm leaving. I can't live like this any longer." He slammed the door behind him.
Sara stood in the middle of the room, looking with shock at the closed door. "Roarke, you'll regret this," she screamed. She placed her hands over her face and bowed her head, desolate.
The mist in the mirror cleared and Sara was once more staring at her reflection. Her hand shook as she reached out to touch the mirror where the nightmare scene had been enacted. Was that me? Was that what our marriage had been? Sara put her arms down on the vanity top, cradled her head in them, and sobbed as though she would never stop.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lying with her eyes opened wide, the undulating darkness of her room making her nerves taut, Sara twisted and turned, trying to fall asleep. She yearned for a few hours of blankness, forgetful-ness. The sheets clung to her, making her feel sweaty and uncomfortable. Exasperated, she kicked the top sheet to the foot of the bed. What was she going to do? Roarke went out shortl
y after their return from the picnic, and Sara ate alone in her room. Long after she gave in to her exhaustion and went to bed, she heard him come home. She listened to his footsteps on the stairs and stiffened when they paused by her door. She held her breath, waiting for the sound of the doorknob to turn or of the hinges to rub harshly if the door was opened. But after a few torturous minutes she heard the faint latch of his door and heaved a shuddering sigh.
Staring at the faint light filtering in around the edges of her closed door, she tried to cry, wanted to cry, anything to relieve the pain in her chest and the lump in her throat, but no tears would fall. Her eyes burned from the need to cry. But her pain was too deep and the constant assault on her emotions these past months had just about broken her spirit. She was nearly resigned to whatever contorted design her life would take and felt powerless to stop it.
Sara rolled onto her side and curled into a ball, tucking her feet under her nightgown. This afternoon she had been so happy, but it had been just a mirage created by Roarke's need of her and her love for him. She had been deceived, enticed by a vision of how their life could be. All she had wanted from Roarke was a little reassurance, that if she did have a total reversal of personality when her memory came back he would help her, stand by her, comfort her. His blind spot, his refusal to face the fact that one day her memory would come back, puzzled her. She loved him so much, but the obstacles in their path seemed insurmountable.
Then the specters she had seen in the mirror floated in her mind. The memory of her shrewish, accusing voice echoed in her ears, the kaleidoscope of images filling her brain until she couldn't stand it another second. Putting her hands over her ears and clamping her eyelids shut, she rolled around trying to escape the ghost of the woman she had been.
Could she really blame Roarke for how he behaved? She had been equally guilty of unthinking actions. Even now, with her love for him burning inside her, in a petty act of anger and hurt, she had tried to get even. Her snide remark alluding to his impulsive behavior concerning other women must have seemed to him that she was reverting back to the person she had been. Maybe she was! At last, tears scalded her lashes.
Was there no way out of this mess? "What's going to happen to us?" she whispered to the darkness.
Sara clutched her cup of coffee in both hands, letting its warmth relieve the iciness of her fingers. She was light-headed from lack of sleep and the turmoil that churned inside her.
"Sara!"
Tensing at the sound of his voice behind her, she slowly turned and glanced in his direction. Roarke stood just inside her room, waiting for her response.
She couldn't answer him. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. He came over and sat across from her. "I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me."
Sara shook her head and continued to turn her coffee cup in her hands, absorbing the warmth that emanated from the cup.
Roarke scrutinized her face. "You look like hell. Didn't you get any sleep last night?"
"Thanks for the compliment. As a matter of fact, I didn't sleep very well." She rose from her chair and went out onto the balcony. She really wanted to get as far away from Roarke as possible. She wanted to end the misery for both of them.
She felt the warm touch of the sun on her skin, but the heat couldn't penetrate the bleak frigidness beneath. Her misery was bone-chilling. She tilted her face to the sun and closed her eyes.
"Do you want more coffee? There's a fresh pot here."
Sara walked back into her room and sat down at the table again. Roarke poured her coffee, the spout of the pot clinking against the edge of her cup. The silence thickened and was deafening. She glanced at Roarke's face. It was drawn and tense, with dark puffy circles under his eyes. The lines running from his nose to his mouth were deeply creased. He looked haggard, but she couldn't feel even a twinge of concern or sympathy. She was incapable of expending any emotions on him. She didn't have any.
In a raw voice he said, "Martha mentioned you have a doctor's appointment this morning." Roarke leaned back in his chair, his steel blue gaze wary.
Sara nodded. "It's supposed to be my last one."
"I'll drive you in, if it's all right with you. Bradley's busy and I'm free this morning."
"It's all right. I don't care as long as I get there."
"Sara…"
"My appointment is at ten, I'd better start getting dressed."
The hum of the motor roared in Sara's ears. The windows were down and a brisk wind blew through the car as they drove onto the George Washington Parkway.
"Would you like to go somewhere for lunch after your appointment?"
Roarke's sudden question surprised her. Figuring that at best, until she got her memory back, their lives would be an armed truce, she was stunned that he'd ask her to go anywhere with him. "Why, Roarke?" she asked with a dead calm.
"I have to take you back home anyway and I thought you might enjoy it. If you don't want to… it's up to you."
"I'm just surprised you asked me."
He gave her a quick look. "I don't understand! Why is it so surprising? We used to go out for lunch frequently."
"You also told me once you were sick and tired of my behavior when we went out."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, Roarke, don't try to hide the past from me!" She pounded her fist on the dashboard. Her voice suddenly went flat. "After we came home yesterday, I was sitting in front of my mirror and like an old movie, I could see the two of us reflected in it. Apparently we'd just come home from a party and were fighting over some woman. It was horrible. I accused you of being her lover and finally I screamed at you and told you to leave and… and… you did…" Sara's voice trailed away.
"I only left you for a couple of days. I came home to get some clothes and you… we made up." His voice was low and Sara looked over at him. She wondered what he had left unsaid.
"Did we fight like that often?" she asked. The vestige of the memory still haunted her. She shuddered when she thought of the anger and viciousness she had witnessed in the mirror.
"Yes," he said so low Sara could barely hear him.
"I see." She turned away from him, devastated by a past she so desperately wanted to remember. "Roarke, how did we stand it? How did we survive, tearing each other to pieces like that?" Sara choked.
"We didn't…"
"Are we back to that again, Roarke?"
"Back to what, Sara?" Roarke pulled the car into a parking space in front of Ted's office. Sara mechanically opened the door and, like a robot, got out, and closed it. Leaning in the window, she drew a deep breath. "I guess that's up to you, Roarke." She turned and walked away without waiting for his response.
When she got to Ted's waiting room, she saw there were other people waiting to see him. Spying a vacant chair in the corner, she moved toward it. As she walked passed Ted's receptionist, she murmured her name and asked the woman to let Dr. Maxwell know that she was here for her appointment. She sat for a few minutes, staring at a painting on the wall across the room from her. She had to try to concentrate on something to get her mind quieted down. Ted was so perceptive, she didn't want him to know she was upset.
To distract herself, she picked up a local magazine that was on the table beside her chair. Flipping through the pages, a warning bell went off in her head, and she sat perfectly still, holding her breath, staring at a photograph. The banner headline above the photo was "Who's Kissing Him Now?" It was a local gossip column that had covered a charity event and the picture was of Roarke and Suzanne. She was hanging onto his arm, smiling and gazing up into his eyes.
Sara stared at Roarke's image. He was laughing down at Suzanne, and the photograph caught an aura of intimacy between them. Sara began to read the story that accompanied the picture. The words seemed to leap out at her, scalding her eyes.
Roarke Alexander, the brilliant business executive who parlayed his late father's sagging construction company into a multi-million-dollar empire, can't seem to apply the same
expertise to his women. Suzanne Morrison seems to be the one who's kissing him now but, then again, maybe it's his wife, Sara! She was recently in a bad car accident and our sources at the hospital tell us Roarke has been at Sara's side as much as possible. In fact, while she teetered between life and death in Intensive Care, Roarke Alexander never left the hospital… he even slept there!
Sara scanned the story. It told of her leaving Roarke and moving into an apartment they owned in the city. The columnist told of seeing Sara on the arm of many different men but that Roarke's steady date seemed to be Suzanne.
According to gossip, it doesn't seem that a divorce is in the immediate future, but things don't bode well for what has been one of Washington, D.C., society's most popular couples.
Sara dropped the magazine into her lap and leaned her head back against the wall. Suzanne! Roarke has been dating Suzanne! They both lied to me. Was Roarke so anxious to see Suzanne that he'd have her come to the house pretending to be my friend? And she did it… came to see me, saying she was so worried about me. How could she? Unless she was in love with Roarke!
She looked at the date under the picture. It seared into her brain. He had gone out with Suzanne while she was in the hospital. That's how much he cared about me! All his reassurance that we'd get through this and he'd help me… it was all lies. And Ted said Roarke loved me. What a farce! Against her will, her eyes moved back to the printed page.
It seems that Marriage-Go-Round Roulette is the new game being played by Washington's super-rich stratum. The game is—who will Roarke choose? Will it be his ailing wife, Sara? Or will it be the glamorous Suzanne, who has been his constant companion for over a year? In this columnist's opinion, Suzanne seems to be the sure winner. Bets, anyone?
Sara felt the blood leave her face. She was stunned and humiliated. How could anyone write such trash? Her whole life, a life she couldn't even remember, was printed in a magazine for everyone to see, for everyone to inspect, dissect. "Oh, what can I do?" Sara whispered aloud.
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