Look into My Eyes

by Glenda Sanders

  “You’re not thinking of leaving the force?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I am.”

  “I can’t imagine you as anything but a cop.”

  “How about as an FBI agent?”

  “FBI?”

  “I’ve always wanted to get into the real meat of police work—crime-scene analysis. Where else would I get such great training and challenging cases?”

  Josh in the FBI. It was perfect. “Have you done anything about this yet?”

  “I talked to an agent yesterday, and I’ve requested all the applications. I’ll probably have to finish up my degree—I left a couple of semesters before graduating—but my experience on the force and the career-enrichment courses I’ve taken should work in my favor.”

  Holly drew in a breath and released it abruptly. “I’m astounded. I...I think it’s great, Josh. I hope it works out for you.”

  “If it does, you can come to the academy at Quantico when I graduate.”

  “I think Craig would be happy for you, too.”

  “Craig would have been right beside me,” Josh said. He chortled bitterly. “Too bad I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  “At least a couple of people are getting happy endings out of this mess.”

  “I am,” he said. “Who else is?”

  “Timothy Sotherland,” she said tautly. “He’s flying off to Europe for the grand tour of old-world architecture.”

  “You should go right over to that old Victorian house and tell him exactly how things were between you,” Josh said. “What do you have to lose?”

  “I would have told him if he’d asked,” Holly said, and then stared into space. “Unfortunately, he didn’t ask the right questions.”

  * * *

  “ARE YOU GOING to be in town long?” the server asked.

  The hope in the seemingly innocuous question was impossible to miss. She was an attractive girl, with sun-streaked hair that fell well below her shoulders and tanned legs long enough to tweak a man’s imagination. And she was his for the asking.

  But Tim wasn’t asking. He’d spent the better part of the past several days on the beach watching long-legged women in bikinis with sun-streaked hair and he hadn’t asked any of them. He attributed his reticence to the lingering effects of his injuries. Although physically, he was almost as good as new, the shock of everything he’d been through had left him in the throes of some type of lethargy of the spirit. He’d lost a piece of his life. He was not depressed, but his foundation had been rattled. The shake-up had left him more aware of the details of his life, and the idle time he found on his hands waiting on his stitches to come out so he could be on his merry way to England and other European destinations had given him a rare opportunity for reflection and evaluation.

  He was lucky and he knew it. He’d been blessed with a loving family, an extraordinary talent and the education to refine and enhance it. He’d survived one nearly fatal accident and a second potentially fatal one. The award he’d just won cast a rosy hue on his future. His professional future was chock-full of promises; all he had to do was deliver performance for expectation. He was off to a grand tour of many of the finest architectural wonders of the world and he would come home to a commission that would enable him to combine skill and creativity into the realization of a vision.

  If the plane didn’t crash, he thought wryly. Two brushes with death made a man aware of such possibilities. Just as it made him look more closely at his life and his priorities. Having lost the months between his lunch with Tom Mitchell and his fall in Holly Bennett’s apartment, it seemed as if scarcely a week had passed since he and Tom had cruised the same beach in search of an easy conquest. They’d sat on beach chairs under rented umbrellas and discussed body parts the way they’d have discussed antilock brakes or rear spoilers on cars in a showroom, rating breasts and legs and butts without sparing a single thought to the fact that they were looking no deeper than skin and muscle. They were bachelors on the prowl, accountable to no one, out for a good time, enjoying their freedom.

  They’d talked to a few of the women, sharing soft drinks from the cooler Tom had brought, but their conversation had been as superficial as their appraisal of the women’s physical attributes. They’d exchanged names and hometowns and job titles and discussed the merits of particular brands of tanning lotions. The women had been impressed by the fact that Tim was on his way to Europe and that Tom was a pilot. They’d asked about the scar on Tim’s chest and the tattoo Tom had gotten when he was dead drunk following his graduation from the first phase of flight school. There had been idle suggestions that they might meet on the beach again, but no times had been set.

  That night, when Tim and Tom—the Terrible T’s as they were called in high school—retired to their hotel suite to pig out on pizza, reminisce about old times and catch up on everything that had happened to each other since they’d gone off to their respective colleges, they’d laughed about how they’d both outgrown the “any girl, anywhere, anytime, any way” mentality. Tom was seeing a career air-force dentist he’d met at his previous duty station and hoping she could get assigned to Patrick. And Tim had admitted that he was growing weary of the chase and wouldn’t mind finding a steady woman of his own.

  Now, three months-that-seemed-like-a-week after that admission to his childhood buddy, he was giving much thought to his life. The rafting accident had been a “ha-ha” close call, but his second brush with death so soon afterward had impressed upon him how tenuous life really was. His number had not come up, but he had been made aware that anybody’s number could come up at any time—even Timothy Sotherland’s. He walked the beach communing with nature and thinking about what he’d have left behind if his number had come up. Or if it came up tomorrow.

  The answers he discovered were less than satisfying. Life had been good to him and he was a good person, but if he had died when he’d encountered that tree limb or when he’d taken on a moving car, he’d have left behind a legacy of promise rather than one of achievement. Everything he had to be grateful for, he’d been handed on a silver platter: his family, his talent, his looks. Everything he’d achieved could be traced back to the family who’d nurtured him or the talent that came from his gene pool. He was on the threshold of a new phase in his life. The foundation was laid; it was time to build on that foundation. He was ready to make his contribution to the world, to leave a mark. If his number came up, he wanted to leave behind something positive to show he’d been there.

  On Sunday, the beach had been packed with families. Tim had looked at couples and felt alone. He’d looked at children and wondered what it would be like to be a parent. He’d looked at grandparents and contemplated the continuity of generations. He’d looked at the occasional long-legged beach girl and thought of a librarian with a pretty face and green eyes as readable as any book.

  Today, Monday, he left the pier restaurant and slogged through the soft sand, thinking about Europe. The travel agency had called to say they were expressing his new tickets. A visit to the doctor to get rid of his stitches and then he’d be catching the bird to the opposite shores of the ocean he was wading in.

  Alone.

  He’d never given any thought to that aspect of the trip. He had too much to see, too much to learn. The award had opened doors for him. He’d be meeting architects in almost every city on his itinerary. It had not occurred to him that he would be doing it all alone. Enchanted by the prospect of all that beauty, he had never considered that he might enjoy it more sharing it with someone. Not until he’d watched couples at the beach, holding hands, running together, laughing. Young couples walking with their children between them. Older couples walking with decades of shared lives linking them.

  He left the beach and drove to the Victorian house. He still found it hard to believe he’d lived so long in a two-room suite with carved molding, rose-splashed wallpaper and a lumpy single bed. Encased by plastic shower curtains hung on a curved rod suspended from the ceiling, he shower
ed in the claw-foot tub and then changed into fresh clothes.

  He did not actually decide to go to the library. He just went, realizing as he walked into the hushed atmosphere that he was in search of answers that would not be found between the covers of the books shelved here.

  He didn’t see Holly in the children’s area, but he lingered there, remembering the richness of her voice as she read to the children, the charming, if inept, accents she’d used to portray the English goose and the dogs from Ireland, Scotland, Germany and France.

  “Tim. I thought I saw you come in.”

  It wasn’t the voice Tim had been hearing in his mind. He turned. “Hello, Sarah.”

  “Holly doesn’t come in on Mondays.”

  “I wasn’t—” He grinned sheepishly. “Yes, I was.”

  “She’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try to make it in tomorrow.” He grinned again, and nodded. “I’ll be back.”

  “Those are the flowers you sent,” Sarah said, indicating a basket of cut flowers atop one of the waist-high shelves in the children’s area. “They’re still pretty. I gave them fresh water first thing this morning.”

  “The florist did a good job,” Tim agreed. “Good.” They had been sent to Holly—why hadn’t she taken them home with her?

  “You must be thoroughly confused,” Sarah said. “I mean, it must be strange to come back here, and not be able to remember.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Strange is a good word for it.” As good as any, he supposed. And as inadequate. She obviously knew Holly well. He still wasn’t sure what the questions were, but he wasn’t going to pass up a chance to get answers. “Sarah, I know you’re working, but do you get a break any time soon? Could we go somewhere for a cup of coffee?”

  She gave him a long, hard look. “This is about Holly, right? I mean, she’s a friend of mine.”

  Tim smiled. “And you’re obviously a very good friend to her.” He was so preoccupied with Holly, that it hadn’t occurred to him that Sarah might think he was coming on to her. “Yes,” he assured her. “This is about Holly.”

  Sarah glanced at her watch. “I could take a few minutes.”

  Images of Holly assailed him as they entered the break room. Holly’s face. Holly’s eyes. Holly, avoiding his gaze. Holly, hurt and trying to hide it. Holly, admitting they’d been lovers after she’d been introduced to him in his hospital room and he hadn’t known who she was.

  “How do you like your coffee?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t want coffee,” he said. “You go ahead.” He waited for her to fill her mug at the coffeepot and carry it to the table, where she dropped into one of the plastic chairs. He sat down opposite her.

  She took a sip of the steaming coffee, then set the mug on the table, leaving her hands wrapped around it. “You must have a million questions.”

  He shrugged. “If I just knew what they were.”

  “Holly?” she said with a sly grin.

  Tim smiled. “Tell me about her.”

  “What’s to tell?” Sarah said. “She was born to be a children’s librarian. You saw her at Story Hour. She can get kids interested in books faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. She had you checking out Make Way for Ducklings.”

  “Make Way...the one about the mother duck crossing the street with all her ducklings? I read that in second grade. I saw the statue in Boston.”

  “She said you didn’t remember reading it.”

  “I guess I didn’t.” He’d forgotten everything—his name, his history, the books he’d read, the people who’d meant so much to him. What a nightmare! It was probably a blessing he couldn’t remember the experience. He was shaken enough over losing a few weeks.

  “She’s good with children,” he said.

  “Holly loves children. She was planning to have one right away.”

  “She what?” Tim asked with a trace of panic.

  “Not with you,” Sarah said, with a nervous laugh. “With Craig.”

  Tim paled.

  “Not Craig Ford. With the other Craig.” She exhaled in frustration. “I guess you don’t know. How could you? Holly was engaged to a man named Craig. That’s one of the reasons she didn’t want to go out with you at first.”

  “One of the reasons?”

  “You worked here,” Sarah said with a shrug. “She was afraid it would get awkward.”

  “When I was here last week, I got the distinct impression that you were playing matchmaker.”

  Sarah watched him over the rim of her mug as she took another sip of coffee. “And you want to know why.”

  Tim nodded, and she put down the cup. “Holly is a very private person,” she said. “She doesn’t—I hate to resort to clichés—but she’s not the type to kiss and tell. So I don’t know everything about what went on between the two of you. But she was happy when you were together, and Holly deserves to be happy after—”

  She hesitated.

  “You might as well tell me,” Tim prompted. “Did the Craig she was engaged to break her heart?”

  “He was a cop. He was killed just weeks before the wedding.”

  “God.” He hadn’t been expecting that.

  “Holly was devastated. Meryl—she’s another one of the librarians—and I thought she’d never...and then you came to work here and it was obvious what was going on, so—” She smiled.

  “What was going on,” Tim thought aloud. “What was so obvious?”

  Sarah rose unexpectedly. “I could try to explain, but it would be easier to show you.” She left the room and returned a few minutes later carrying a videocassette. “I taped Story Hour the first time you were the wolf.” She inserted the film into a videocassette recorder hooked up to a television set on a rolling cart. Handing Tim the remote control, she said, “It’s ready to play. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Tim pressed the play button after Sarah left the room. He stared at the images on the screen transfixed. Could that really be him wearing fur ears and exchanging sizzling looks with the angel-faced librarian?

  Had the angel-faced librarian in a red plastic cape really looked at him that way?

  “Oh, Grandma, what big eyes you have!” she read sweetly from the text.

  “The better to look at you as though I could devour you!” his expression said.

  He continued staring at the screen long after the images were replaced by snow. No wonder Holly had been uncomfortable when he’d been drafted into an encore performance as the wolf. The two people he’d seen on that tape had been totally involved with each other. And one of them had erased that involvement from his memory as easily as the images could be erased from the tape.

  He rewound the tape and started it again, studying Holly’s face this time, wondering how it was possible for any man to forget a woman’s looking at him the way she looked at Craig Ford.

  Craig Ford. Who was this man with his face, his body, his mannerisms?

  The tape was still playing when a woman entered the break room. She greeted him familiarly on her way to the coffeemaker, where she poured coffee for herself before proceeding to the table. “That’s a hoot, isn’t it?”

  Tim stopped the film. “It’s...interesting.”

  “Sarah was going to add it to our video collection, but we weren’t sure whether to put it under children’s or start a new adults-only list.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tim said. “I probably know—knew— you, but—”

  “Of course! You don’t have the faintest idea who I am. I’m Meryl. Front desk. And I guess I need to call you Timothy now, instead of Craig.”

  “Tim’s good enough.” He shook his head, perplexed. “I don’t know where ‘Craig’ came from. The doctor said I chose the name, but I must have pulled it out of the air.”

  “In a way, you did,” Meryl said. “Holly said you got it from a character on a soap opera. A hunky, playboy type.”

  “I watched soap operas?”

  “In the hospital. You were a captive audience.”
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  Tim muttered a very strong expletive then begged Meryl’s pardon. “I don’t usually use language like that, but this situation sucks.”

  “It’s one humdinger of a situation,” Meryl agreed dryly.

  “I guess you know Holly, too.”

  “Around here, she and Sarah and I are known as the Three Stooges.”

  “So, did you really come in to drink coffee, or do you plan to lure me into a pot of boiling water?”

  “It was time for my break,” she said. “Not that I wouldn’t gleefully boil you like a lobster if I thought you had deliberately set out to break her heart.”

  “I didn’t.” Tim drew in a breath and exhaled tiredly. “I’m sorry she’s hurt. Maybe you’ll tell her—”

  “Sorry,” Meryl said. “I never get involved in romantic intrigues. The messenger is the one who usually gets shot.”

  Tim released a sigh of utter defeat.

  “Back at you, buddy,” Meryl said. “The last thing anybody around here wanted was to see Holly hurt again.” She frowned. “You know, none of us thought it would work out this way. When Holly told us about your amnesia, we were all afraid you’d get your memory back and remember that you were married.”

  Tim used the expletive again. “I hadn’t even thought about that. But Holly—”

  “Holly took a leap of faith. You told her that if you loved someone, there was no way you could forget that feeling, even if you didn’t remember details. You said you didn’t feel married or think like a married man. Holly swallowed it, hook, line and sinker.”

  Meryl paused to take a sip of coffee. “Holly still believes in people. She’ll get over it, if she hasn’t already.”

  “I’d like to—” To what? he wondered. To fix everything? To undo what he couldn’t even remember?

  “Talk to her,” he said, not knowing where the words came from. “Can you tell me where she lives?”

  “Nope!” Meryl said. “It’s against library policy to give out addresses of employees.”

  Tim scowled in frustration.

  “However, we do keep a current residential city telephone directory in reference, and if you looked up a person’s address and asked for directions to a certain street, we’d probably be able to sketch a map.”