The Brass Ring

by Susan Crose

  "Am I supposed to be?"

  "If you don't want your breakfast served cold, your temperature to be taken at four am., or your TV cable to be mysteriously tampered with."

  "I'd pay someone to do it," Parker muttered. "Then maybe I wouldn't have to watch any more of that." He nodded in the direction of the overhead television. On the small screen, a wavy-haired reporter with a bright smile was sitting behind a huge desk while discussing the worldwide ranking of America's tennis professionals.

  "—and the tennis world is still reeling from the unfortunate death of Brad Lomax, perhaps the brightest star in professional tennis since his mentor, Parker Harrison's, meteoric burst onto the circuit in the midseventies."

  A picture of Brad, one arm draped affectionately over Parker's broad shoulders, the other hand holding a winking brass trophy triumphantly overhead, was flashed onto the screen. Brad's dark hair was plastered to his head, sweat dripped down his face, and a fluffy white towel was slung around his neck. Parker, his chestnut hair glinting in the sun, his face tanned and unlined, his eyes shining with pride, stood beside his protege.

  Now, as she watched, Shawna's stomach tightened. Parker lay still, his face taut and white as the newscaster continued. "Lomax, whose off-court escapades were as famous as his blistering serves, was killed just over two weeks ago when the vehicle Parker Harrison was driving swerved off the road and crashed down a hundred-foot embankment.

  "Harrison is still reported in stable condition, though there're rumors that he has no memory of the near-collision with a moving van which resulted in the—"

  Ashen-faced, Shawna snapped the television off. "I don't know why you watch that stuff!"

  Parker didn't answer, just glanced out the window to the rain-soaked day and the gloomy fir boughs visible through his fourth-floor window. "I'm just trying to figure out who I am."

  "And I've told you—"

  "But I don't want the romanticized version—just the facts," he said, his gaze swinging back to hers. "I want to remember—for myself. I want to remember you."

  "You will. I promise," she whispered.

  He sighed in frustration, but touched her hand, his fingers covering hers. "For the past week people have been streaming in here—people I should know and don't. There have been friends, reporters, doctors, and even the mayor, for heaven's sake! They ask questions, wish me well, tell me to take it easy, and all the time I'm thinking, 'who the hell are you?' "

  "Parker—" Leaning forward, she touched his cheek, hoping to break through the damming wall blocking his memory.

  "Don't tell me to be patient," he said sharply, but his eyes were still warm as they searched her face. "Just take one look around this room, for crying out loud!" Everywhere there were piles of cards and letters, huge baskets of fruit, tins of cookies and vases of heavy-blossomed, fragrant flowers. "Who are these people?" he asked, utterly perplexed.

  Shawna wanted to cry. "People who care, Parker," she said, her voice rough as her hands covered his, feeling the warmth of his palms against her skin. She treasured the comfort she felt as his fingers grazed her cheekbones. "People who care about us."

  He swore under his breath. "And I can't remember half of them. Here I am with enough flowers to cover all the floats in the Rose Parade and enough damned fruit and banana bread to feed all the starving people in the world—"

  "You're exaggerating," she charged.

  "Well, maybe just a little," he admitted, his lips twisting into a wry grin.

  "A lot!"

  "Okay, a lot."

  She stroked his brow, hoping to ease the furrows in his forehead. "Unfortunately neither of us can undo what's happened. Don't you think that I would change things if I could? That I would push back the hands of the clock so that I could have you back—all of you." She swallowed against a huge lump forming in her throat.

  He rested his forehead against hers. His gaze took in every soft angle of her face, the way her lashes swept over her eyes, the tiny lines of concern etching the ivory-colored skin of her forehead, the feel of her breath, warm and enticing against his face. Old emotions, cloaked in that black recess of the past, stirred, but refused to emerge. "Oh, why can't I remember you?" His voice was so filled with torment and longing, she buried her face in his shoulder and twisted her fingers in the folds of his sheets.

  "Try," she pleaded.

  "I have—over and over again." His eyes were glazed as he stroked her chin. "If you believe anything, believe that I want to remember you . . . everything about you."

  The ache within her burned, but before she could respond, his palms, still pressed against her cheeks, tilted her face upward. Slowly, he touched her lips with his. Warm and pliant, they promised a future together—she could feel it!

  Shawna's heart began to race.

  His lips moved slowly and cautiously at first, as if he were exploring and discovering her for the first time.

  Tears welled unbidden to her eyes and she moaned, leaning closer to him, feeling her breath hot and constricted in her lungs.

  Love me, she cried mutely. Love me as you did.

  The kiss was so innocent, so full of wondering, she felt as flustered and confused as a schoolgirl. "I love you," she whispered, her fingers gripping his shoulders as she clung to him and felt hot tears slide down her cheeks. "Oh, Parker, I love you!"

  His arms surrounded her, drawing her downward until she was half lying across him, listening to the beat of his heart and feeling the hard muscles of his chest.

  The sheets wrinkled between them as Parker's lips sought hers, anxious and moist, pressing first against her mouth and then lower, to the length of her throat as his hands twined in the golden sun-bleached strands of her hair. "I have the feeling I don't deserve you," he murmured into her ear, desire flaring in his brilliant blue eyes.

  From the hallway, Jake cleared his throat. Shawna glanced up to see her brother, shifting restlessly from one foot to the other as he stood just outside the door.

  "I, uh, hope I'm not disturbing anything," he said, grinning from one ear to the other, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his cords as he sauntered into the small room.

  Shawna hurriedly wiped her cheeks. "Your timing leaves a lot to be desired."

  "So I've been told," he replied, before glancing at Parker. "So, how's the patient?"

  "Grumpy," Shawna pronounced.

  "He didn't look too grumpy to me." Jake snatched a shiny red apple from a fruit basket and polished it against his tweed sports jacket.

  "You didn't see him barking at the orderly."

  One side of Jake's mouth curved cynically as he glanced at Parker. "Not you, not the 'ice man.' " Still grinning, he bit into the apple.

  "This place doesn't exactly bring out the best in me," Parker said, eyeing the man who had almost become his brother-in-law.

  "Obviously," Shawna replied. "But if everything goes well in physical therapy today and tomorrow, and you don't get on Dr. Handleman's bad side again, you'll be out of here by the end of the week, only doing physical therapy on an outpatient basis."

  "No wonder he's in a bad mood," Jake said, taking another huge bite from the apple. "Outpatient physical therapy sounds as bad as the seventh level of hell, if you ask me."

  "No one did," Shawna reminded him, but smiled at her brother anyway. Jake had a way of helping her find humor in even the most trying times. Even as children, she could count on him and his cockeyed sense of humor to lift her spirits even on her worst days.

  Jake tossed his apple core deftly into a trash can. "Two points—or was that three?" he asked. When neither Parker nor Shawna answered, he shoved his fingers through his hair. "Boy, you guys are sure a cheery group."

  "Sorry," Shawna said. "As I told you, Grumpy isn't in a great mood."

  Jake glanced from Shawna to Parker. "So, what can we do to get you back on your feet?"

  "You're the psychiatrist," Parker replied stonily. "You tell me."

  Shawna reached into her purse. "Maybe I ca
n help." Ignoring her brother's questioning gaze, she reached into her purse and withdrew a thick packet of photographs. "I thought these might do the trick."

  Her hands were shaking as one by one, she handed him the snapshots of the fair. Her heart stuck in her throat as she saw the pictures of herself, her long blond hair caught in the breeze, her green eyes filled with mischief as she clung to the neck of that white wooden stallion on the carousel and stretched forward, reaching and missing the brass ring with the fluttering ribbons.

  Other photos, of Parker trying to catch a peanut in his mouth, of Parker flaunting his prized brass ring, and of the dark-eyed fortune-teller, beckoning them inside her ragtag tent, brought back her memories of the fair. Now, in the hospital room, only a little over two weeks later, the old-time fair seemed ages past, and the fortune-teller's prediction loomed over Shawna like a black cloak.

  Parker studied each picture, his eyes narrowed on the images in the still shots. His brow furrowed in concentration.

  Shawna held her breath. Couldn't he see the adoration shining in her eyes as she gazed into the camera? Or the loving way he had captured her on film? And what about the pictures of him, grinning and carefree? Wasn't it obvious that they had been two people hopelessly head over heels in love?

  For a minute, she thought he reacted, that there was a flicker of recognition in his gaze, but as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

  "Nothing?" she asked, bracing herself.

  He closed his eyes. "No—not nothing," he said, his voice dry and distant. "But what we shared— what was there at the fair—it's . . . gone."

  "Just misplaced," Jake said quickly as if feeling the searing wound deep in Shawna's soul. "You'll find it again."

  "I'd like to think so," Parker admitted, but he still seemed vexed, his thick brows knitted, his chin set to one side, as if he were searching for a black hole in the tapestry her pictures had woven.

  "Look, I've got to run," Jake said quickly, looking at his sister meaningfully. "Mom and Dad are expecting you for dinner tonight."

  "But I can't," she said, unable to leave Parker. She felt that if she were given just a few more minutes, she could cause the breakthrough in Parker's memory.

  "Don't stay on my account," Parker cut in, glaring angrily at the pictures spread across his bed.

  Shawna saw them then as he did, pictures of a young couple in love, their future bright and untarnished, and she cringed inside, knowing instinctively what he felt—the anger and the resentment, the pain and the blackness of a time he couldn't remember.

  "Maybe I shouldn't have brought these," she said hurriedly, scooping the photographs into the purse.

  He snatched one out of her hands, the photo of her with her face flushed, her long hair billowing over the neck of the glossy white carousel horse. "I'll keep this one," he said, his features softening a little, "if you don't mind."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive."

  "Let's go." Jake suggested. "You can come back later. But right now, Mom and Dad are waiting."

  Shawna felt her brother's hand over her arm, but she twisted her neck, craning to stare at Parker who didn't move, just studied the photograph in his hands. Impatiently, Jake half dragged her through the building.

  "That was a stupid move!" Jake nearly shouted, once they were outside the hospital. "He's not ready for pictures of the past, can't you see that?" Jake's expression turned dark as he opened the car door for her, then slid behind the wheel and shoved the Porsche into gear.

  "You can't just skip into his room and hand him pictures of a rose-colored future that could have been, you know. It takes time! Think about him, not just yourself! Where's your professionalism, Doctor?"

  "Back in my medical bag, I guess," Shawna said, staring blindly out the windows. "I'm sorry."

  "It's not me you have to apologize to." He let out a long, disgusted breath, then patted her shoulder. "Just hang in there. Try to think of Parker as another patient—not your fiance, okay?"

  "I will, but it's hard."

  "I know," he said, "but he needs all your strength now—and your patience." Jake turned off the main highway and veered down the elm-lined driveway of his parents' house. "Okay, Sis. Show's on. Stiff upper lip for Mom and Dad," he teased, reaching across her and pushing open the car door.

  As Shawna walked up the flagstone path, she steadfastly shoved all her doubts aside. Tomorrow she'd see Parker again and when she did, she wouldn't push too hard. She'd be patient and wait until the walls blocking his memory eroded—even if it killed her.

  ❧

  Long after Shawna left his room, Parker stared at the small photograph in his hand. Without a doubt, Dr. Shawna McGuire was the most fascinating, beautiful, and stubborn woman he'd ever met.

  He knew now why he'd fallen in love with her. Though he was loath to admit it and despite all the problems he now faced, he was falling in love with her again. The depth of his feelings was a surprise. She aroused him sensually as well as intellectually. Doctor McGuire, though she professed her love, was a challenge. Just being near her, smelling her perfume, seeing the glimmer of mystique in her intelligent green eyes, was enough to drive him to distraction and cause an uncomfortable heat to rise in his loins.

  Unfortunately, he had to be careful. No longer was he a recent tennis star with a future bright as the sun, acting in commercials and coaching younger, up-coming athletes. Now his future was unsure.

  He glanced down and the woman in the photograph smiled up at him. She swore she loved him and he believed her. And, if he let himself, he could easily get caught in her infectious enthusiasm. Several times, when he'd kissed her, he'd seen images in his mind—smelled the salty air of the beach, or fresh raindrops in her hair, heard the tinkle of her laughter, felt the driving beat of her heart. Reality mixed with sights and smells that were as elusive as a winking star—bright one minute, dim and clouded the next.

  And now, lying in the hospital bed, with months, perhaps years of physical therapy staring him in the face, what could he offer her?

  A big fat nothing. Because no matter how she deluded herself, Shawna was wrong about one thing: Parker would never be the man he was before the accident. His perception, with his memory, had changed.

  Brad Lomax was gone, as was Parker's ability to coach and play tennis. The man Shawna McGuire had fallen in love with no longer existed and this new man—the one who couldn't even remember her— was a pale substitute. How long could she love a faded memory, he wondered. When would that love, so freely given, turn to duty?

  Glancing again at the woman in the picture, Parker ached inside. Yes, he wanted her, maybe even loved her. But he wouldn't let her live a lie, sacrifice herself because she believed in a dream that didn't exist.

  Gritting his teeth, Parker took the snapshot of Shawna and crushed it in his fist—then feeling immediately contrite, he tried to press the wrinkles from the photo and laid it, face down, in a book someone had left by his bed.

  "Help me," he prayed, his voice echoing in the empty room. "Help me be whole again."

  Chapter 6

  Shawna snatched a patient's chart from the rack next to the door of the examination room. She was running late and had to force herself into gear. "Get a move on, doctor," she muttered under her breath as she glanced quickly over the patient information file. The patient, Melinda James, was new to the clinic, had an excellent health record, and was eighteen years old.

  "Good afternoon," Shawna said, shoving open the door to find a beautiful black-haired girl with round eyes perched on the edge of the examination table. She looked scared as her fingers clamped nervously over a sheet she'd pulled over her shoulders, and Shawna felt as if the girl wanted to bolt. "I'm Dr. McGuire," she said calmly. "And you're Melinda?"

  Melinda nodded and chewed nervously on her lip.

  "So what can I do for you?"

  "I, uh, saw your name in the paper," Melinda said quickly, glancing away. "You're the doctor who's engaged to Parker
Harrison, right?"

  Shavma's stomach tightened at the mention of Parker. Was Melinda a reporter, pretending to be a patient just to get an inside story on Parker, or was there something else?

  "That's right, but I really don't see what that has to do with anything." She clamped the chart to her chest. "Do you know Parker?"

  "He's got amnesia, doesn't he?"

  Shawna tried to keep her tongue in check. Obviously the girl was nervous—maybe she was just making conversation. "I can't discuss Parker's condition. Now—" she glanced down at her chart. "Is there a reason you came to see me? A health reason?"

  The girl sighed. "Yes I, uh, I've only been in Portland a few months so I don't have a doctor here. I went to a pediatrician in Cleveland," Melinda continued, "but I'm too old for a pediatrician now and I've got this problem, so I made an appointment with you."

  "Fair enough." Shawna relaxed a little and took a pen from the pocket of her lab coat. "What was the pediatrician's name?"

  Melinda seemed hesitant.

  "Ill need this information in case we need to contact him for his files," Shawna explained, offering the girl an encouraging smile.

  "Rankin, Harold Rankin," Melinda said quickly and Shawna scrawled the physician's name in the appropriate spot on the form. "Thanks." Pushing her suspicions aside, Shawna set the chart on a cabinet. "You said you had a problem. What kind of problem?"

  Melinda twisted the sheet between her fingers. "I'm sick." Avoiding Shawna's eyes, she said in a rush, "I can't keep anything down and I'm not anoretic or whatever it's called. I don't understand what's wrong. I've had the flu for over a month and it just won't go away. I've never been sick for this long."

  "The flu?" Shawna said, eyeing the girl's healthy skin color and clear eyes. "You're feverish? Your muscles ache?"

  "No, not really. It's just that one minute I'm feeling great; the next I think I might throw up."

  "And do you?"

  "Sometimes—especially in the afternoon." Melinda wrung her hands anxiously together and sweat beaded her forehead. "And sometimes I get horrible cramps."