Because You're Mine

by Colleen Coble

  She handed over her car keys without question, then poured him a glass of iced tea and forced some cookies on him in the kitchen.

  “Who knew me best before the explosion?” he asked. “Other than you and dad.”

  Her brown eyes, so like his own, held worry as she studied him. “Jesse, you’ve got to quit pushing. Your memory will come back when it’s ready to come back.”

  “I can’t wait that long. I want to find out who Jesse Hawthorne really is. I didn’t much care for the man who harassed a fellow worker. Is there more nasty stuff in my background I don’t know about?”

  “Of course not,” she said, not meeting his gaze.

  “Mom? What else is there?”

  She rose and carried the pitcher of tea back to the fridge. “There’s nothing else, Jesse. You’re looking for trouble where none exists.”

  He’d have to find out the information from someone else. Many friends had stopped by to see him after the bomb incident, but their names and faces were a blur now, and the visits had stopped when they realized he didn’t know them. He knew where to find the list though. His mother had kept a notebook with the names of all his visitors. It was in his room.

  “Thanks for letting me borrow the car.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then went upstairs to his room, a stranger’s living space.

  He’d once been at home in this room. Pictures of him at football games covered one wall. He didn’t remember any of these scenes: prom with a girl he didn’t know, football games where he laughed triumphantly into the camera, a party scene where he lifted high a mug of beer. He despised the expression of entitlement he wore in many of the pictures.

  The bedroom decor was what one would expect in a college dorm. A twin bed with a Stingrays bedspread. Other hockey memorabilia covered the dresser. A Stingrays throw was over the easy chair in the corner. Hockey was a totally foreign sport to him now. Did he even like the game?

  He sighed and went to the closet where he riffled through the stack of photograph albums and scrapbooks his parents had collected for him from his condo after the explosion. The doctors thought looking through the stuff would help his memory, but it hadn’t worked then. Maybe it would now.

  The notebook he sought was about halfway down. He grabbed it and the address book under it, then went to the garage. If he stayed here to go through the books, his mother would want to know what he was doing.

  He backed out of the garage, then drove to the Battery. He parked and walked along the grassy park area where the two rivers converged. The sunshine warmed his arms and lifted his spirits. The breeze brought the scent of water to his nose.

  He sat on the seawall and listened to the cry of the gulls for a moment before he began to flip through the notebook. Two names appeared over and over in the early days: Mark Holmes and Ginny Smith.

  When he cross-referenced their names, he discovered they lived at the same address. They must be a couple. And they didn’t live very far from here. He strode back to the car and drove to the apartment complex. Since it was Saturday, they might be home. After pressing the doorbell, he heard footsteps.

  The door opened, and an attractive brunette with her hair up in a ponytail smiled at him. She wore short-shorts and a skimpy tube top. “Jesse, what a surprise! Come on in.” She stood away from the door to allow him entry. “Mark, you’ll never guess who’s here.”

  Jesse followed her toward the sound of a baseball game that blared from the TV. A man about his age, early thirties, removed his feet from the coffee table and leaped up, knocking off a stack of magazines perched on the end of the table.

  “Jesse! Man, it’s good to see you.” Mark pumped Jesse’s hand and studied his face. “You’re getting your memory back?”

  Jesse shrugged. “Bits and pieces.”

  “Great to hear.” Mark pointed to the chair. “Have a seat. Bring me up to speed on what’s going on with you.”

  Jesse forced a smile and perched on the edge of the armchair. “I’m still trying to put it all together. Could you tell me how long we’ve been friends, how we met?”

  Mark exchanged a glance with Ginny, who had joined him on the sofa. “Man, you don’t remember? We met at a strip club when I yanked you off a dancer. It took two of us to pin you down. You were totally trashed.”

  Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t imagine ever doing something like that. He must have had an issue with respecting women. Did that side of him still lurk somewhere? “Di-did we do that kind of thing a lot?”

  Mark grinned. “Every weekend. That’s where we met Ginny. She’s an exotic dancer. The best!”

  Ginny gave him a sultry smile and leaned against Mark. Her smile faded when she glanced at Jesse. “I thought you said you were getting your memory back, Jesse. You don’t remember any of this?”

  “Not really, no.” And he didn’t care if he never remembered this type of behavior.

  “Want some she-crab soup? Ginny just finished making it.”

  Jesse smelled it then. “No thanks, I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  “Since when? Man, you can eat your weight in shellfish. Lobster, shrimp, crab. That’s all you ever eat.”

  Jesse inhaled. Why had that initial reaction come out? He had no memory of being allergic to shellfish, but he knew it was true. Or was it? “I’ll have a little,” he said. “Maybe I’m wrong.”

  Ginny frowned. “Shellfish allergy can kill you. Do you have an EpiPen on you?”

  “What’s that?” He shook his head. “Whatever it is, I don’t have it.”

  Mark’s stare intensified. “Man, what is with you? You don’t even talk the same.”

  “The fire damaged my vocal chords,” Jesse said. “My voice is huskier.”

  “It’s not that. It’s the way you string your sentences together. The head injury maybe? I’ve heard that kind of thing can change your personality.”

  “Maybe.” Jesse hadn’t been aware he spoke any differently. Was Liam taking over his speech too?

  He rose. “I’d better be going. It was good to see you.”

  “Hey, man, what about the soup?” Mark asked, following him to the door.

  “No thanks.” He shook Mark’s hand. “See you later.” He waved good-bye to Ginny and escaped into the sunshine.

  Jesse didn’t want an exorcism anymore. Not if it meant he would turn back into the Jesse he used to be.

  Thirty

  Jesse hadn’t left too soon for Alanna. She didn’t want to see signs of Liam in his speech, his actions. And last night’s kiss didn’t bear thinking about. She’d been dreaming that she was kissing Liam. The dream was so real that she’d been unable to distinguish fantasy from reality when she woke up and realized it was Jesse. And even worse, she feared she was coming to care for this Jesse, the blend of Jesse Hawthorne and her Liam.

  She was a married woman, even if in name only, and she’d been kissing him back. She sat at the dressing table and stared at herself. What kind of woman was she? A Christian woman, one who honored her vows? Or a woman who flung herself at any man who reminded her of her lost love?

  She’d been a poor Christian lately, no denying that. Her anger toward God had made her tune out his leading. Self-hatred twisted her mouth. The fix was simple enough—all she had to do was let go of her bitterness. Easier said than done. She moved across the room and found her nearly forgotten Bible in the closet. Smoothing her hand over the cover, she inhaled the aroma of good leather and remembered how she used to look forward to her devotions every day. She and Liam read together every morning and discussed the passage.

  It hurt to remember. Her hand touched her belly. She owed a Christian upbringing to her baby. “I’m sorry, God,” she whispered. “Help me get past the bitterness.” Being willing was the first step. God could take it the rest of the way.

  She flipped open the Bible at random, and her gaze fell on the opening verses of Psalm 139.

  O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know my sitting down and my
rising up; You understand my thought afar off. You comprehend my path and my lying down, And are acquainted with all my ways.

  All she’d gone through was no secret to God. He knew and understood everything about her. She read further.

  My frame was not hidden from You, When I was made in secret, And skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all were written, The days fashioned for me, When as yet there were none of them.

  The passage resonated through her, all the way to her marrow. Her child was unique, as was Liam himself. So where did that leave how she saw Liam in Jesse? Her heart knew her husband. Knew the imprint of his spirit, just as God had formed him. She knew him as she would know her child the instant she held the babe.

  She thought back through the progression of the past few months. Her husband’s mangled frame after he’d been thrown clear of the car after the bomb went off. There hadn’t been anything left of his face, no distinguishing marks. The germ of an idea grew, and she gasped. Was it possible the men had been misidentified? That couldn’t happen these days, could it? She thought the police had run a DNA test.

  Her mouth went dry, and she swallowed. How had the two men even been identified? The police had said the man behind the wheel was the owner of the car, but what if Liam had asked to drive even though she didn’t want him to? He’d been aching to get behind the wheel of that sports car. It was possible.

  Would Detective Adams help her if she took a strand of Jesse’s hair to him? Though this idea might be dotty, it wasn’t as dotty as thinking Liam’s spirit had transferred to Jesse. She slipped down the hall to the room where Jesse had slept. His hairbrush was on the stand. She pulled out the hair clumped in it and stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans.

  She went outside to find Barry. He was telling the foreman all he wanted done on the summerhouse. Dark circles crouched under his bloodshot eyes. She doubted he’d gotten any sleep last night. It had been nearly four by the time he returned from the city. Without his mother. She’d gone to his condo near the Battery.

  Just as well. Alanna wasn’t sure what she could say to her. Patricia wouldn’t want her condolences—not when she blamed Alanna for more stress on Richard.

  Barry saw her coming and a smile lifted his mouth. “I didn’t know you were up, sugar.”

  She reached his side and took his hand. “Did you go to bed at all?”

  “No. Too much to do.” He motioned to the clouds off to the east. “Heard there were hurricane warnings issued. I’m going to have them board the windows.”

  “A hurricane?”

  He nodded. “So you stay close to the house.”

  She didn’t nod and hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Have you talked to your mother this morning?”

  “I thought I’d let her sleep if she would. She’ll call me when she awakens. We need to go to the funeral home to pick out the casket and make arrangements.” He delivered the statement in a deadpan voice.

  She winced, knowing his emotionless attitude was all that would get him through the day. “I’m so sorry, Barry.”

  He draped his arm around her shoulders. “I know you are. So am I. But we knew Father had a heart condition. It was only a matter of time.” He dropped a kiss on her brow as his cell phone rang.

  He turned away from her and answered it. “Hello, Mother, how are you this morning?” He listened a few moments. “I’ll be there right away.” He put his phone back into his shirt pocket and faced Alanna. “I’ve got to go. Mother is ready to go to the funeral home.”

  Alanna nodded, wanting to ask his permission to use one of the cars. But why bother him with such a petty request? She’d be back before he knew she was even gone. What she needed to do wouldn’t take long.

  She waited until the live oaks hid his car in the curve of the driveway, then went inside and sorted through the keys on the rack by the back door. Keys for a Lexus, a Ferrari, and a second Mercedes were hanging there. All more expensive than she wanted to drive.

  She chose the keys for the Lexus and went out the back door. The six-car garage sat to the west side of the house. She had a right to drive one of the cars—after all, they were married. But she still felt like a car thief.

  The side door was unlocked. He’d probably left it unlocked after getting out his Mercedes. Before she could lose her nerve, she hit the opener by the Lexus, then climbed inside and backed out. A garage-door opener was clipped to the visor, so she punched it and door went down.

  She drove down the driveway to the street and pulled out, remembering almost too late that she was supposed to be driving on the right. She jerked the wheel to the proper side and just avoided the car in the left lane. The other car’s horn blasted outrage at her idiocy.

  She found her way to the police station and was ushered in to see the detective.

  Adams rose from behind his desk. “I’m surprised to see you here. You have information?”

  She pulled the hair from her pocket and held it out. “I’d like you test this.”

  His brows rose. “Why?” She told him her suspicions, and he frowned. “I’ll have a DNA test run.”

  There was something in his manner she couldn’t be putting her finger on. Lack of surprise, maybe?

  “I didn’t think you’d consider such a thing.”

  “We need to keep an open mind.”

  “Didn’t you already run tests on Jesse and Liam? After the accident?”

  “We did.”

  “And?”

  “The results didn’t come in until yesterday. They were”—he searched for a word—“inconclusive.”

  “So how did you identify them?”

  Adams looked taken aback. “Jesse said he was Jesse. And as of this moment, we still have no reason to doubt him.” He went to the door and opened it. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Frowning, she left the office. If there’d been a misidentification, it would be the police’s fault. Had he been suspicious of something like this already and didn’t want to admit it?

  Backing out of the parking space, she turned the car toward the Travellers’ community. What was she going to say to her great-grandfather? Perspiration broke out on her forehead, and she flipped the air conditioning on high. He might have forgotten she even existed—if he ever knew. She had no memory of him. All she remembered was living hand-to-mouth at the camp, each month in a different family’s house.

  She drove to the Travellers’ village without another incident. Children played in the yards and stared at the car as she slowly drove through. The clouds were dark out to the east. Did these children know a hurricane was coming?

  Two little girls were close to the road. She rolled down her window. “Where can I find Darby Costello?”

  The tallest girl, her light brown hair in pigtails, pointed down the street. “In the silver trailer at the end of the road.”

  “Thanks. Did you girls hear we have a hurricane warning?” They stared back at her. One nodded. “Watch the sky, okay?” She drove on slowly, taking in the expensive houses set amid others that were more modest. Mobile homes also added to the mix. She’d never seen anything quite like it. The Travellers here had done well for themselves.

  This time of year, most of the men would be gone working their trade, some working their cons. That was the problem. The bad ones tarnished the good ones. And there were good ones. A majority really.

  There it was. Her great-grandfather’s trailer had seen better days. It was a steel travel trailer with more dents than smooth metal. The yard held flowers, so Alanna deduced someone cared enough to try to pretty it up. Maybe some of the neighborhood women.

  She parked the car and got out, taking care to lock the vehicle. As she approached the trailer, she heard a TV blaring out the news. What would he say when he saw her? Would her mother have warned him she might be coming?

  She wet her dry lips and rapped her knuckles on the door.

  “I’m coming!” a tremulous voice
shouted from inside.

  She heard a bang as if he’d dropped something, then some shuffling. The door opened and a wizened old man peered out at her. Darby Costello was bald except for tufts of white hair above each ear. He wore a flannel shirt and a pair of denim coveralls in spite of the heat. The rubber soles on his slippers nearly flopped off as he walked.

  Bleary blue eyes regarded her. He spoke words she didn’t understand at first. She listened closer and realized he was speaking Cant, the Gaelic-derived language of her childhood.

  When he spoke again, she caught it. “Yes, I’m Alanna,” she said in English. “How did you know who I was?”

  “Yer mum was by.” He turned his back on her. “Come in. I been expecting you.” He shuffled away from the door.

  Alanna followed him into a tiny living room crowded with worn furniture. The pungent odor of chewing tobacco wafted up from a chipped enamel spittoon. The smell of the tobacco brought back a dim memory of her sitting on a man’s lap. This man’s? She studied the angles and planes of his wrinkled face but couldn’t dredge up the memory any better.

  He pointed to the orange sofa. “Sit.”

  She sat on the sofa and waited until he shuffled to his recliner. “What did Maire tell you?”

  “That you’re looking for yer sister.” He opened a pouch of Copenhagen and tucked a nip of it into his cheek.

  Alanna leaned forward. “Have you heard from Neila since she left?”

  He nodded. “She called every month for a while. Ain’t heard from her in over three years though.”

  Her hope sputtered. “Do you have a phone number for her? Have you tried to call her?”

  “Called once’t. No one answered. Figured if she wanted to talk to me, she’d be calling.”

  Alanna’s pulse began to race. What would it be like to hear her sister’s voice after all this time? “Could I get her number?”

  He regarded her with rheumy eyes. “Wouldn’t gain you nothing. That horse is dead.”

  “She’s my sister. I’ve never stopped missing her. Please, I have to find her.”