Forget Me Not

by Vicki Hinze

  Her former guardian. He was worried too. “Doris, I’m sorry,” Kelly said, feeling elated and guilty at once. She had a past. And she’d upset the people in it. “Let me explain.”

  “Now that’s a fine idea, missy, and I’m all ears.”

  “I was in New Orleans. I’m not sure what for exactly. Supposedly I was looking for a place to build—”

  “A new Safe Center,” Doris cut in. “I’m aware of all this. What I don’t know is where you’ve been for the last day, leaving me to worry myself sick you were somewhere dead in a ditch.”

  “I was carjacked and have no memory, Doris.”

  “You were what?”

  Kelly wanted to cry at Doris’s outrage but didn’t. “I was beaten and now I can’t remember much. I just found out who I am today—and about Mr. Denham being my former guardian.”

  “Are you all right? What does the doctor say?”

  Kelly related that information and glimpsed three little flashes of memory. Her at a table with Doris bustling around the kitchen. Doris in the audience, Kelly on the stage, dancing at a recital. Doris under an umbrella walking Kelly home from where the school bus had dropped her off. “You took care of me.”

  “Most of your life, child. Ever since Mr. Denham brought you home from that cretin your parents left in charge of you,” Doris said with a click of her tongue. “Where are you?”

  “Florida.” She swallowed hard. More and more memories flooded through her. Her as a child, a gangly teen, a young woman. Mr. Denham bringing her into his home. Stern and sober, always teaching or instructing—or so it’d seemed until much later. Such a master at manipulation! His weapons? Domination and control—and he’d led her by the nose a lot longer than he should have.

  But he hadn’t locked her in closets. And he was cold, but he wasn’t mean unless his patience wore thin. When it did, he reverted to Alik Demyan and his Russian roots. She didn’t like Alik Demyan at all. He terrified her, so for years she hid from him. The first time she bucked his advice and followed her own heart, the tension between them thickened to sludge. It had never thinned again.

  Doris … she and Doris in church, shopping, praying. “I remember you.”

  Ben set down a glass of iced sweet tea on the table at her elbow. She flashed a look up at him, and he smiled. “You remember her?”

  Kelly nodded.

  Ben clasped her hand, gave it a little squeeze. “Terrific.” He headed toward the door, looking as if he were no longer needed.

  “Wait. Ben, wait. Please.” She didn’t want him to leave. He stopped, came back toward her. “Doris, where are you located?”

  “Oh, honey, you really can’t remember?”

  “No. I’m remembering little things, like you and me baking cookies.”

  “We did.” Doris sounded elated. “Every time Mr. Denham was gone, we baked.”

  “Oh, it was our ritual, then?” Kelly smiled into the phone.

  “So to speak. He forbade you to be in the kitchen. It wasn’t seemly for an heiress. I don’t mind saying we disagreed on that, but he is the boss, so I had to do what he said.”

  Heiress. Kelly stiffened. “Doris, where are you?”

  “Marietta, honey.”

  That told Kelly next to nothing. “Is that in Florida?”

  “No, it’s Georgia.” Doris sounded flustered. “Tell me where you are right now. I’m coming to see about you myself.”

  “Will Mr. Denham be coming too?” Kelly had gut-level resistance to that. Her own fears? Or just cause? She had no idea.

  “Of course he won’t be there,” Doris said. “You know he always winters in Europe.”

  Something in her voice set off a warning in Kelly. “Did I go to Europe every winter too, then?”

  Doris didn’t answer.

  “Doris?”

  “Um, no. You stayed here with me.”

  “I see.” So her guardian hadn’t been a typical guardian, then. “I’m going to put Ben Brandt on the phone. He owns the Crossroads Crisis Center. They’re helping me.” She bit back further questions, then added, “He’ll give you directions. We’ll talk more when you arrive.”

  Kelly passed the phone to a puzzled Ben and then took a long drink of tea. Her hands shook so badly she had to hold the glass with both hands to keep the tea from sloshing over the rim. In the periphery, she heard Ben talking to Doris, but the weight of wondering sidetracked her. Why was she a grown woman on her own with apparently no financial worries who had no friends, no one who cared for her?

  What is wrong with me?

  She could take being loved or hated. But others’ indifference cut deep. She didn’t matter, she was insignificant, and that was the most awful testament of a human being. It spoke volumes. Insignificant. Ignored. Unworthy.

  “Kelly?” Ben said from seemingly far away. “Kelly?” He cupped a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh.” She jumped. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.” She reached for the phone.

  He shrugged. “Doris hung up. She’ll be here by dawn.”

  “Good.” Kelly took another drink.

  “What are you thinking?” He sat down, his chair scraping the tile floor. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Lost again, but fine. A former guardian who avoided her but had apparently levied heavy restrictions and controls on her. An heiress. That meant she had money, which was good. But it also meant that her family was dead and gone. She was alone. Except for Doris: a woman who seemed kind and concerned but who was paid to care for her. A tear leaked from her eye.

  “Hey.” Ben squatted beside her chair, swept the tear away with a gentle thumb. “This doesn’t look like a happy tear. Is it the stress?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, what is it, then?”

  He would understand. She hated knowing it even as she took solace in not having to explain. These were depths she had no desire to plumb. Looking into his eyes, she let him see her hurt and disappointment.

  “No one loves me, Ben. Not one person in this whole world.”

  “I’m sorry, Kelly.” He pulled her into a hug. Held her head to his shoulder with a big hand cupping her crown. “I know how hard it is to get used to that.”

  “At least you remember being loved.” She sniffed, pulled back to look at him. “I don’t remember it. I’m afraid I’ve never had that.”

  He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.” In his eyes she saw the bond between them deepen, a new dimension forged in shared pain creating a new layer. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” She didn’t smile.

  Neither did he. “We are.”

  Be patient.

  She wasn’t being impatient, but if she were, this would be a bitter pill to swallow.

  A glimpse of gleaming eyes filled with mirth pressed into her memory. A woman. Gray-streaked black hair, eyes shaped like Kelly’s. Thin and airy, expansive and expressive, she sat in the rocker at the cottage, smiling down at Kelly, who sat leaning back against a white post.

  “Wait. Ben, I think I was loved.” Her tone lightened. “This is coming out all wrong.” She lifted a hand. “I know God loves me. I have no doubt whatsoever about that. I was talking about a human being.”

  Ben smiled. “You’re one up on me, then.”

  Kelly cupped his face in her hands. “No, Ben, I’m not. He loves you too, whether or not you recognize or accept it. His love is still there.”

  Ben frowned, warning her off.

  “I’m not going to push, but it’s true. He promised, and God doesn’t lie.”

  Ben opened his mouth to say something but stopped.

  Before he could complain about the verbal dilemma she’d neatly folded him into, she kissed him. Soundly.

  And he kissed her back. Gentle. Tender. Deliberate.

  A long minute later, breathless and quaking, Kelly parted their mouths and looked deeply into Ben’s eyes. “Should I apologize for that?”
r />   He hesitated. Uncertainty teemed in his eyes and slowly crept across his face. “No. Should I?”

  Amazingly happy, Kelly smiled. “I’d be terribly disappointed if you did.”

  “Good.” His return smile spread into his eyes.

  She loved that. Respected it. He had issues to resolve about moving on with his life. So did she—not in moving on, but in discovering if she had a life. But she couldn’t deny that doing so felt less daunting than it had moments ago. That bond between them was real and growing, and while it had a long way to go, it was there. She wasn’t alone in life. And neither was Ben. They could both be grateful for that. And a lot more.

  God had been working overtime for her lately, and knowing it, she couldn’t deny being concerned. Ben was important to her. He mattered. But God mattered most. And she couldn’t see herself long-term in a relationship with a man not dedicated to God. It just wouldn’t work.

  But for now, they were in the same world, dealing with many of the same issues and facing the same unknown people who clearly meant them harm.

  Be patient with him.

  For now, that directive carried reassurance. Following it required faith—no woman eagerly rushed to embrace getting a broken heart. But follow it she would, and hopefully her faith would be strong enough for both of them until Ben could again find his own.

  Exactly.

  John stumbled into Darla, nearly knocking her off her feet.

  “Okay, Mr. Mayor, it’s time to put the glass down and change to water.” Darla gave him a stern sniff. Nine o’clock. Too early. Had he been drinking earlier?

  John leaned closer to her, dropped his voice. “I’ve only had the one glass. Something’s wrong, missy. My head won’t clear, and I feel like the top of it is going to blow off.”

  Darla hooked her arm in his. There was no way she’d allow him to be seen in public like this. The reception was crawling with media, who would be only too thrilled to report nasty snippets filled with innuendos alleging John was drunk. If they only knew what a prude her beloved really was, they would be bored stiff.

  John stumbled, having challenges putting one foot in front of the other. Darla struggled to keep him upright, the task more difficult in four-inch heels tricking her own sense of balance.

  They finally made it to the door and then to the elevator. Inside it, John held on until the door closed behind them, then he leaned against its mirrored wall, his face pale, sweat beading at his brow.

  “John, what is it?” Darla pressed two buttons—one two floors below theirs and then their floor. She snatched his handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his face.

  “I-I’m not well, honey.” He groaned and let his eyes close. “I just need to lie down for a bit.”

  Darla turned away, pulled the syringe from her bag, and injected herself for protection, urging the elevator to hurry. It stopped. John tried to pull away from the wall.

  “No, dear.” She hastily wiped the syringe. “This isn’t our floor.” Under the cover of pushing the button for their floor again, she reached out and dropped the syringe into the trash can just outside the door.

  John slumped back against the wall. “Oh, this is awful.”

  The elevator shot up, then stopped. A bell chimed, and the door crept open.

  “Come on.” She wrapped her arm around his waist. “Lean on me.” Fumbling, she fished the key card from her purse. “It’s just a few more steps to the door.”

  “Oh, this is bad.” John groaned.

  The hallway was empty. Grateful for that, Darla, aided by John’s hand to the wall, got them to the door, fiddled with the key until the little light turned green, then shoved open the door and got them inside.

  The door shut behind them. “Come on, honey. A few more steps.”

  “I … can’t.”

  “Sure you can.”

  John looked at her, his eyes liquid. “Honey, I … can’t. Call a doctor.”

  She stilled. “It’s an upset stomach. What do you mean, call a doctor?”

  “It’s not.” His eyes clouded. “I’m dying.”

  A chill shot through her body. He wasn’t supposed to know. Her ally had said he wouldn’t suffer. He wouldn’t know until the very end. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be dying.” She tugged at his sleeve. “I’ll get you to bed and then phone a doctor. You’ll see. He’ll tell you you’re going to be fine.”

  John looked her in the eye and didn’t budge. “I love you.”

  “John, please. You’re scaring me.” She licked her lips, her mouth bone-dry. The last thing she needed was to have to fight him to keep him away from the phone. He was twice her size. “Please move.”

  “Nagging me even now.” He took a step that had his face drenched with sweat. “That’s my girl.”

  “One more, John. One more.”

  He fell onto the bed on his back and let out a swooshed breath. “Thank You, God.”

  From the vanity across the room, a phone beeped. John’s special line.

  Darla ignored it.

  “You’d better get that. It’s important.”

  “It’s nothing.” She removed John’s shoes, loosened his tie.

  “Darla.” The tone of his voice stopped her cold.

  She paused and met his gaze.

  “I know the truth.”

  Her heart beat hard, thumping against her ribs. “The truth about what, darling?” But she already knew. It was there in his eyes.

  “What you’re doing with Chessman.”

  She stood wooden, waited.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  Silence. She couldn’t talk if her life depended on it—and it well might.

  John doubled over, gripping his chest. Pain contorted his face. “I forgive you.”

  Darla hesitated. She could save his life. Give him the injection from the syringe in her purse, make one phone call, and he’d live. But he knew the truth. He couldn’t doubt or wonder anymore, which was the only reason he hadn’t already addressed this. Plausible deniability. He might have suspected, but until now, until this moment, he didn’t know for sure. But that doubt was now gone.

  And her husband might be her husband, but he would not cover her sins. He would prosecute her. His morals and ethics would demand it.

  “So that’s the way of it, then. You’ll watch me die.” Pity settled into John’s gaze. He closed his eyes. “Forgive her, Father … ”

  Darla silently watched John, torn between saving him and saving herself.

  The battle, if brief, was fierce. She turned away and lifted John’s special business phone from her vanity. A text message waited. She recalled it, then read Gregory’s message. It was, of course, from him. Only he and her ally had the number.

  ON SPOT FOR TOMORROW NIGHT.

  She looked back at John, now writhing on the bed, unable to do anything to help himself. He’d stopped trying to get to the phone. She hadn’t even been forced to move it out of reach.

  John stilled. Darla went to him. His eyes were rolled back in his head, his mouth slightly open. She pressed her fingertips to his throat. No pulse. John had drawn his last breath.

  She thought quickly, then decided on the only course of action open to her that would keep the truth buried forever. After keying in a return message, she hit send.

  Her course was now firmly charted, and there was no turning back.

  It meant spending the night with a corpse, but she’d been married to John far too long for one more night to matter. She was fond of him and she would miss him. He had loved her, and that was rare in most long-term relationships. It was unfortunate that they had become embroiled in a battle of the fittest. But even for love, that was a battle she refused to lose. She had learned young. Above all, survive. And to survive, she would do what she must—even to John.

  No one other than her ally—particularly not the arrogant Gregory Chessman—could know that John was dead until tomorrow. Otherwise Gregory would surely interrupt the shipment t
o the beach house, and that would cost them both a fortune.

  That stupid woman surely knew her identity by now and that she owned the beach house. Odds were against her being willing to sell it—she’d been adamant thus far, despite Gregory’s best efforts to persuade her. So if not tomorrow night, their opportunity for shipping would be lost forever.

  She looked down at John, recalled his inane banter in the elevator. He preferred her wearing red.

  But black had been appropriate. She looked gorgeous in black. Darla turned to the mirror and studied her expressions, practiced responding to the well-intended if trite expressions of sympathy. Oh, there’d be comments about it being a blessing he went so peacefully in his sleep. About his unexpected death being such a shock. About how tragic his death was for her.

  She walked to the door, opened it, hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob, then closed and locked the door. The one risk was that John would be discovered too early tomorrow, word would get back to the village, and Gregory would interrupt the beach house shipment. To prevent that, Darla and her ally had developed a simple but highly effective plan. One with very high odds of success.

  As she passed the beveled-glass mirror, she smiled at her reflection. “Oh, Darla. You’ll make a dazzling widow.”

  Kicked back at his desk, Gregory drew on a Cuban cigar in his study and waited for a response to his text message. He sipped at an insanely expensive brandy. Frankly, he’d never cared for the taste, but it was the best the world had to offer, and drinking it reminded Gregory he’d acquired the best of everything. He loved the taste of that knowledge.

  A soft sound chimed.

  Gregory set down his glass and reached for his phone. A return text from John waited. Eager to see it, he reached over and pressed the button necessary to recall it. PERFECT TIMING.

  He snapped the phone closed, tossed it onto his desk, then rocked back and took a content sip from his snifter. “Excellent.”

  21

  Tuesday, October 13

  The smell of coffee teased Kelly’s nostrils.