by Anne Ha
Even if it had all come about the wrong way, they might be able to make it right.
They walked together to the counter, their shopping spree winding down.
“What about Warren and Jenny?” she asked.
“They got on a little better.” That was all he wanted to say. He’d already said way too much.
She seemed to accept his answer. “I guess I’ll understand it more if and when I get my memory back.”
“Probably.” He just hoped she fell in love with him first.
They got in line behind an African-American couple with a newborn infant. He and Samantha both watched the baby, then looked at each other and smiled.
Garrick felt his chest tighten. He still couldn’t believe that in six short months they’d have one of their own. Suddenly it struck him as miraculous.
Watching her husband, Samantha knew he felt the same sense of wonder she did. She flushed, feeling closer to him than she ever had before.
Back in the car she asked him what he knew of her childhood.
“You were happy,” he said, pulling into the street. “Well loved. But it’s all secondhand, Sam. Just little things you told me, or things I picked up from Jenny.”
“Like what?”
“Your parents used to rent a cabin on the coast for a week every summer. I’ve seen snapshots of you as a child on the beach, in a little blue swimsuit with your toes in the water and a look of absolute glee on your face.”
“I’d like to see that.” She wondered if she still had the pictures somewhere.
He described her parents, who’d died separately within a few months of each other. They’d been fairly old when they’d had her. He told her she had a photo of them on her desk at the office.
Garrick also talked about her school activities. “In addition to soccer and community service, you always wrote for the paper. I remember you used to conduct a lot of polls.”
“Training for my job in marketing, I bet.”
He grinned and nodded.
It was so strange, she reflected, that he knew more about her past than she did—at least for the moment. She was glad he’d told her more details today.
But she couldn’t help wishing, for the hundredth time, that she could remember them herself.
They arrived home to another delicious meal cooked by Hugh. After lunch she took a nap, then asked Garrick to show her the attic. He’d told her she’d placed some items in storage there, and she wanted to look through them.
The attic was hot and slightly stuffy. After cracking open a window, Garrick removed the dustcovers from her things. He revealed a farmhouse-style dining table, four simple matching chairs, a few lamps, a bureau, and an armchair upholstered in lime green polyester with tiny purple flowers.
She stared at the chair. “It’s hideous!” she exclaimed.
Garrick nodded. “But comfortable, you always said. I got the impression you were very fond of the thing…. It doesn’t bring up any memories?”
No memories—just the feeling that perhaps her taste was not as good as she would have preferred. She ran her hand across the fabric. “I really liked this?”
“Try sitting on it,” Garrick suggested.
She did so, gingerly.
The chair was deceptively comfortable. It cradled her body perfectly. It was the kind of chair on which to spend long hours, she thought, reading a book or staring out the window.
And then, as she sat there—and much to her surprise—a memory did come.
Chapter Eight
Samantha’s mind flashed back to a cool fall day in the not-too-distant past. She could feel the fresh air in her lungs, see the orange and red colors of the trees and the newly fallen leaves scattered across the yards in her neighborhood.
She and Garrick had been combing tag sales near her apartment when she’d spotted the chair. She’d tried it out as a joke, knowing she would never actually own anything so ugly, but had been amazed by how good it felt to sit on. She’d had to borrow ten dollars from Garrick to come up with the cash to buy it.
Samantha grinned up at her husband, thinking of what he’d said when he’d first laid eyes on the chair. “You called it the furniture crime of the century.”
He stared at her. “Did you just—did you just remember that?”
“Yes,” she said, still grinning. “We bought it together, right?”
Garrick didn’t answer at first, as if making a mental adjustment Then he smiled almost reluctantly. “Over my protests, as I recall.”
“But I talked you into it,” she returned, amazed how good it felt to have another memory. “You carried it home on your head.”
She smiled, remembering how she’d teased Garrick mercilessly on the way home, poking fun at how he looked with her ugly chair on his head.
A block from her apartment, a small terrier out for its afternoon walk had started barking madly at him, no doubt thinking he was a space alien come to invade the peaceful neighborhood. The woman on the other end of the terrier’s leash had given Garrick a strange look, echoing her dog’s confusion.
Samantha had whispered to the woman, “He’s color-blind. He can’t tell how ugly it is,” just loudly enough for Garrick to hear. He’d swung around to scowl at her, his face framed by the arm of the chair. Although his expression had been fierce, his eyes had sparkled with amusement. She’d giggled, causing the woman and her terrier to go off in a huff.
Samantha probed the rest of her memory, trying to find its boundaries. In total, she recalled about an hour. And everything about it indicated a close and caring relationship between herself and Garrick.
She’d felt completely at ease in his presence. The mood between them had shifted from lively banter at the tag sale to relaxed intimacy in her apartment as she sat on her new chair and watched him make a pot of coffee.
She was going to get her memory back, she thought with renewed confidence. Her amnesia wouldn’t last forever. She wouldn’t have to go through the rest of her life with a great blank page where twenty-five years of memories should be. They would come back, slowly but surely.
And if all of them were like this one, with herself and Garrick being so happy together…
Of course, this memory didn’t include the same intense physical desire as yesterday’s. But it must have been there all the same. Over the years she would have learned to hide her attraction from Garrick—and from herself, too, so she could enjoy his friendship without unrequited feelings getting in the way.
Thank goodness she didn’t have to hide her attraction from him anymore, she thought.
They examined the rest of her belongings—without further incident—before heading back downstairs. While Garrick worked in his study, Samantha sat in the breakfast room, enjoying a tall mug of steamed milk.
Hugh kept her company, tending his ferns while she told him about her recent memory.
“The only thing I don’t understand,” she said, “is why I remember some things and not others.” She stared down into her mug. “It frustrates me sometimes. I guess I just wish it would all come back at once, instead of in bits and pieces.”
Hugh joined her at the table. “I can understand. Memory loss is very unsettling.” He put one of his big hands on hers. “I’ve never told you this, but before Beth found me and got me dried out, I was drinking so heavily I’d have blackouts. There’s still a whole week of my life I can’t remember at all.”
“Oh, Hugh, how awful!”
He shrugged. “From what people tell me, I wouldn’t want to remember that week even if I could—sometimes it’s best just to leave things behind.”
Hugh had a point, she thought. So far she’d had only good memories, but she knew life wasn’t that perfect. There might be things in her past she’d be better off not knowing about.
A sudden chill made her shiver. She took another sip of hot milk, telling herself it meant nothing. Even if she’d had her share of ups and downs, nothing could be that terrible. Nothing could change the
fact that she had a wonderful husband and carried his child and felt so close to his family.
She and Hugh discussed her amnesia some more, and he asked about her other memory. She described the water fight, giving him the same chaste version she’d told to Jenny.
Frowning thoughtfully, Hugh returned to his plants and misted them in silence. Then he stopped and stared out the window a moment, eyes narrowed.
Samantha watched him curiously. “What is it?” she said. “What are you thinking?”
Slowly he turned to face her. “That your two clearest memories were set off by sensory triggers—by feeling or touching something.”
She stared at him. “Why, you’re right.”
The first time she’d had her hand on Garrick’s steam-dampened shirt, and the second time she’d sat on the unexpectedly comfortable chair.
A grin stole over her face. “They don’t come when I just look at something, like my apartment or a photo, but when I can actually feel something.” She paused, thinking of how many things she’d touched in the past few days. Only two of them had sparked memories. “Well, sometimes they do,” she admitted.
“Maybe it’s only when you’ve done the same thing before.”
“Right…” She considered what that could mean. The two memories had occurred when she’d repeated things she’d done with Garrick.
If she repeated more things she’d done with him, her memory might come back faster. Sure, she wouldn’t get a memory every time, but she might get enough to piece together most of her past.
She was still mulling it over when Hugh left to start dinner and Jenny arrived home and invited her outside.
The two women strolled through the gardens.
“All right, what is it?” Jenny said almost immediately. “What’s on your mind? Did something happen?”
Samantha told her about Hugh’s brainstorm, and her idea to catalyze more memories.
“Oooh, how interesting…” She smiled, then sobered. “But why the big rush to get it all back? Whether you do or not, it shouldn’t change your situation much. Especially not with my brother. I mean, you married him for forever, Sam. I was there at the wedding. I heard the ‘till death do you part’ stuff. You’re stuck with him, so you might as well get on with loving the guy.”
Samantha grimaced. “I just wish I could remember loving him before.”
Jenny was silent for several paces, her expression curiously blank. Finally she said, “Love isn’t something you need to remember, Sam. Love is something you feel right now. Memory or not.”
They walked for a few more minutes before Jenny had to return to her studies. Samantha remained outside, sitting on the bench that overlooked the city below.
She felt torn. Part of her wanted to do what Jenny advised—stop worrying about the past and just live in the moment. But another part of her couldn’t stand not knowing exactly how things had been. Not knowing exactly what she’d thought and felt before her accident. That was one thing nobody else could tell her.
Samantha sighed, knowing she wouldn’t stop trying to get her memory back. She had to test her idea, had to repeat her past experiences with Garrick and see what happened.
The only tricky part, she thought, would be to figure out what things she’d done with him before. She didn’t relish a lifetime of hit-and-miss attempts to repeat her actions.
It wasn’t until later, as she sorted through the purchases she and Garrick had made at the baby boutique, that the realization came to her.
She was pregnant—which meant there was at least one event in her past she could isolate with absolute certainty.
She’d made love with her husband.
That had to be one of the most intense physical experiences a person could have. Thinking of Garrick, of his sexy male body and her powerful attraction to him, she could easily convince herself that making love would help her reclaim the past.
Surely if anything could spark a memory, it was that. Surely if she repeated such a sensual act, knew Garrick on such an intimate level, she’d remember having known him before.
It seemed like a risk worth taking. Either way, she would get to be with her husband.
As bedtime approached, however, Samantha grew nervous. She dawdled in the family room after dinner, working on the jigsaw puzzle, and Garrick had to urge her upstairs. Due to her distraction, she took twice as long as usual to brush her teeth and wash her face.
“Is something wrong?” Garrick asked as she joined him in bed. “You seem pretty tense.”
Samantha felt an attack of shyness. She fussed with the covers, wondering what to do. Just blurt out her idea and proposition him?
Not appealing. Though it might work, it was just too unromantic.
Garrick leaned toward her, tipping up her chin with his finger. “Has something upset you?”
She shook her head. “No, I was just…just wondering… “ Just wondering if maybe you’d like to make love to me.
“Yes?” He lowered his hand to hers, squeezing it.
His hands, she thought, were gentle and strong and sexy. Just like the rest of him. She couldn’t help wanting to feel those hands span her ribs again, have him touch her as he’d done the day before.
But she couldn’t make herself say it. So she asked him for a back rub instead.
Garrick smiled. “I owe you one, don’t I? Roll onto your stomach.”
Samantha remembered something she’d seen in her nightstand next door. “Wait,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”
She returned with the bottle of massage oil and placed it in his hand. He stared at it as she climbed back in bed.
She lay down on her stomach and waited.
Garrick didn’t move.
Several seconds ticked by.
Suddenly she realized the problem. He couldn’t apply the oil through her nightgown. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled, blushing. Keeping her front on the bed and the covers above her waist, she tugged the hem up to her neck.
Nothing happened.
“Garrick?” She glanced over her shoulder.
He hadn’t even opened the bottle. He stared down at her bare back. “Are you trying to seduce me, Sam?”
She parted her lips, then closed them again. She hadn’t been trying to seduce him. Well, not consciously, anyway. “I…I’m not sure,” she confessed, embarrassed.
Garrick cleared his throat. “Let’s just start with the massage.”
Samantha heard him flick up the cap. He poured oil onto his hand, then rubbed his palms together to warm it.
She closed her eyes. Her senses felt amplified. Every rustle seemed loud in her ears. The subtle scent of the massage oil drifted to her nose, and her skin tingled in anticipation.
Finally Garrick’s hands touched her shoulder blades. She told herself to stay relaxed, though her whole body snapped to attention.
He swept downward along her spine, then feathered back up over her ribs, distributing the oil. The smooth, repetitive motion lulled her into a trancelike state. Sighing, she sank into the mattress.
Garrick kneaded her shoulder muscles with strong, capable fingers. He paid special attention to the tops of her arms and, after working slowly down her body once more, pressed deeply into the small of her back, banishing the last traces of tension.
Samantha thought she’d gone to heaven.
He finished with another round of wide, circular strokes before easing her nightgown back down.
She gave a little moan of satisfaction. “That felt wonderful,” she murmured, so languid she could barely form the words.
“I’m not finished yet.” He pulled her nightgown only far enough to cover her bottom, then removed the bedclothes from her legs.
“Garrick…?”
“Get used to it, Sam,” he said gently. “When you start having leg cramps, massages like this will be part of our daily routine.”
Samantha didn’t know what he meant until she remembered that leg cramps, like tiredness and morning sickness, often
accompanied pregnancy. But, she thought, since she hadn’t been sick, maybe she wouldn’t have leg cramps, either.
Before she could say anything, Garrick had warmed more oil between his palms and started on her legs.
It felt too good to resist. He thoroughly massaged each of her calves, then moved higher. He worked on both thighs at once, skimming up to just below the curve of her bottom before sliding back down.
At first he didn’t go near the insides of her thighs, but then he did, working slow, deliberate magic with his hands. He advanced gradually upward, thoroughly relaxing each stretch of muscle before moving on.
She no longer knew who was seducing whom. Garrick’s touch wasn’t overtly sexual—it felt almost detached, as if he were a professional masseur performing his duties without crossing the line—but nevertheless it aroused her. She didn’t know where his hands would stop, how high they would climb before he ended the delicious torture and swept back downward.
Finally his hands did stop, well before the point where a massage ended and something else began. He tugged the nightgown safely to her knees, stretched his long frame beside her and pulled up the covers.
Samantha tried to normalize her breathing. She lay with her head turned away from him, flustered by her response—and her foolish imagination. “Thank you,” she managed.
“My pleasure.” His voice was husky, almost hoarse.
Maybe he’d been more affected than she’d thought. She rolled onto her side to face him.
His position mirrored hers, except for his head, which was propped on one hand. He smiled down at her, then raised a finger to brush a tendril of hair from her cheek. “You’re irresistible, Sam.”
Without really planning it, she leaned over so her lips were only inches from his throat. Her hand came up and grasped his shoulder for support. She could see the steady beat of his pulse beneath the skin of his neck. “So are you,” she whispered.
Tentatively she kissed his throat, tasting his skin, feeling his blood pound. A delightful sense of power rippled through her. Threading her fingers in his hair, she kissed her way up to his jaw. She savored the texture of his five o’clock shadow, liking the way it delicately scraped her lips and cheeks, then traced the curve of his ear with her tongue.
