About Face

by Fern Michaels

  “It’s not your concern, Miss Edwards. Now if you’ll run along, I have a luncheon appointment. If you had paid closer attention, you would have observed the sign on the door. Lunch hour is from one to two. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Casey felt like a child being dismissed and was suddenly fed up. Fed up with everyone in this hateful town.

  Leaning over the wooden counter, Casey grabbed the woman by her sleeve. “Look, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t really care. I simply came here for some information. For some damn reason you and every other small-minded person in this town have treated me like yesterday’s garbage. I want to look at a transcript. Now, either you get it for me, or I’ll go to your superior. And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll go to their superior. Do you understand, Miss . . . whatever-the-hell-your-name-is?” Casey released her grip on the woman’s arm. Outraged by her own behavior, yet feeling as though it was justified, Casey didn’t waver as her green glare met ice.

  The woman shook Casey’s hand off her arm, then reached under her desk for her purse. A moment later she was walking toward the door.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” she said over her shoulder. “Still crazy as a loon.”

  She didn’t get to finish whatever else she was going to say because Blake Hunter walked through the door at that precise moment.

  “Ah-ha. I saw you go inside the library earlier. Lilah said I’d find you here. I’m free for a while. Thought I’d see if you were interested in lunch.” Casey felt her heart drop to her feet and race back upward when Blake smiled at her. His eyes. They were gorgeous. Milky Way brown.

  Casey watched as Miss Ice melted. Red splotches blossomed on her pale cheeks.

  “I’d love to. However, I’m trying to get Miss whoever she is to retrieve a transcript. Seems no one except the sainted Marianne can find it.” Casey’s eyes looked daggers at the Ice Queen, who remained rooted in the doorway.

  Blake took charge. “Brenda, is there some reason why Miss Edwards can’t get what she wants?”

  Casey sensed the woman’s discomfort. She almost felt sorry for her.

  “Marianne was told to take care of her. I’ve been instructed to follow those orders,” Brenda explained.

  Blake smiled at Casey. “Seems like Brenda has the courthouse confused with the military. Who gave you those ‘orders’?” There was no humor in Blake’s line of questioning.

  “You’ll have to ask Marianne.” Brenda paused, then added, “Lunch at Big Al’s again? I can’t tolerate that BBQ. We’ll have to go elsewhere tomorrow, Blake.” She trotted out the door, her chin so high in the air Casey was sure she’d suck in dust from the air-conditioning vents.

  Blake looked embarrassed. “It’s not what you think,” he said as he led her into the hall.

  “You don’t have to explain,” Casey said.

  “I know, but I want to. Let’s get out of here,” Blake said.

  They walked downtown on Sweetwater Way, very much a pair. Blake casually took her hand. Casey liked the feel of his hand in hers. The butterflies in the pit of her stomach were good butterflies, not her usual knot of anxiety.

  “I just happened to have the last booth available at Big Al’s the other day. The place is packed at lunchtime,” Blake explained.

  She remembered the smell coming from the smokestack yesterday.

  “I invited Brenda to join me. I knew she only had an hour for lunch and thought it the gentlemanly thing to do. That’s it. Nothing more.” Blake held her hand tighter as they crossed Main Street. She liked the way he took charge.

  Casey was glad she’d run into Blake. Glad he’d invited her to lunch. Glad Brenda wasn’t more, though she obviously wanted to be. She wondered if Brenda really had a “luncheon appointment” as she called it. Or had she been hoping to run into Blake again?

  “I can attest to your ‘gentlemanliness’ if there is such a word. I really appreciate the ride yesterday.” Suddenly, her chest felt heavy, and her hands were trembling.

  “Hey, you okay?” Blake asked, as they entered Big Al’s.

  Another panic attack. Taking a deep breath, Casey shook her head. She removed her hands from Blake’s grasp. She had to get out of there. She needed fresh air. Pushing the door open, Casey inhaled. Her heart started to race for no apparent reason. She had to concentrate on something, anything, until the pounding stopped, until the fear disappeared. Focusing on the weeds growing out of the cracks in the sidewalk, Casey counted the many shades of green and brown. She counted the cracks. When she was up to thirty-five, her heart rate returned to its normal beat. She could breathe again.

  Blake came outside and stood next to her. “Let’s go inside and get a cool drink.”

  Casey nodded as Blake led her back inside the restaurant. After the hot sun, the coolness of Big Al’s revived her. They seated themselves in a booth at the rear of the diner. Fake red leather seats covered in duct tape and tables topped with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths crowded the small room. It reminded Casey of a picnic setting. The smell of BBQ wafted throughout. Until this minute, she hadn’t realized just how hungry she was. A waitress dressed in tight jeans and red T-shirt that read “I do Big Al’s” in black letters plunked down two glasses of water.

  “Watcha gonna have?” she asked, pen poised over her light green pad.

  “Give us a minute, Della.”

  “Sure thing, Doc.” Della sauntered over to the next table, where her customers weren’t as patient. Casey could hear them grumbling.

  “What happened, Casey?” His eyes searched hers for an answer.

  “I had a panic attack. I thought they were under control since I haven’t had one in years, then I had one the day I left the hospital. I don’t understand why I’m getting them now.”

  “Everything is new to you. I’m sure you’re feeling somewhat anxious over your situation. I can prescribe some Xanax if you think it will help.”

  “Thanks, but that’s the last thing I want. I had so many drugs at Sanctuary, it’ll take years to get them out of my system. Dr. Macklin taught me some relaxation techniques that work just as well as medication. I’m okay.” Casey picked up the menu, hoping to change the subject.

  “Try the pork, I’ll guarantee it will melt in your mouth.”

  “Sounds delicious. I’m starved.”

  Della came over at just the right moment, took their order, and seconds later delivered two tall glasses filled with sweetened iced tea.

  Casey drained her glass and wiped her mouth with the checkered napkin. “I needed that.”

  “Apparently so. Casey, tell me something.” Blake paused as if contemplating his question. “What transcript are you looking for?”

  Casey thought it should’ve been obvious. “The day Ronald Edwards died. I want to know what happened. No one wants to tell me. I figured I would find out from the transcript of the inquest.”

  Again, Blake appeared to think before his next question. “Who told you there was an inquest?”

  “Lilah.”

  “Son of a bitch! I can’t believe she’d tell you that. There wasn’t an inquest, Casey. At least not a formal one.” Blake raked a hand through his hair.

  “But . . . why? Why would she tell me that? Surely, she has nothing to hide.”

  “No, you’re right. She doesn’t. Have you talked to Evie since your return?”

  Here we go again, Casey thought. Someone else telling me nothing.

  “Yes, but if you mean has she told me about my past, no. With Mr. Worthington in the hospital, the timing and all didn’t seem right. She has too much to deal with as it is. If there wasn’t a formal inquest, then there isn’t a transcript?”

  “Exactly. However, there is a record. There has to be. I can’t believe Evie would make you wait. You have a right to know what happened. It just might be the key to regaining your memory.” Blake glanced around the diner. Leaning over the table, he whispered to her, “Can you stop by my office, say around four this afternoon?”

  Della approached
the table, a heavy tray balanced above her shoulders, saving Casey from a reply. She stared at plates piled high with BBQ pork, a mountain of fries, and huge scoops of coleslaw.

  “This looks delicious. I don’t know if I can eat all of this.” Casey speared her fork into the spicy pork, surprised at her appetite. After a panic attack the last thing she wanted to do was eat. But that was back in Sanctuary, this was Sweetwater. Everything was different in Sweetwater, even her panic attacks.

  Between mouthfuls of the succulent pork, Casey asked, “Why do you want to see me in your office? Why not here or Swan House?”

  Blake spoke softly, again glancing around as if he were afraid someone might overhear their conversation.

  “I have something I think you should see. It has to do with your past. If my father’s suspicions were correct, it could help.”

  “Did I know your father, Blake? When everyone talks about this person or that person, I feel so . . . empty, like they know all my secrets. What did he know that would concern me now?”

  “It’s your medical records. When you were a child Flora used to bring you in for yearly physicals, shots, that sort of thing. I was going through Dad’s old records when I ran across them. I think it’s something you should look at.” Blake’s tone held no traces of his earlier lightheartedness. This was Dr. Blake Hunter, not Blake the man she hoped would be her friend.

  Casey dipped her last fry in ketchup. She’d eaten everything and felt sick. Even sicker when she thought of what might lie in wait for her at Blake’s office. This was what she wanted: answers to her life, anything to spark a memory, a memory to a past she didn’t recall and a memory of what she’d hoped for in her future.

  “I’ll be there. But first, I need to apologize to Brenda. I was ready to pull her arm off when you came in.”

  “I’m sure you were justified. She can be a bitch, trust me. Rumor has it at one time she hated you. High school stuff.” Blake reached for his wallet, tossed a few bills on the table, and escorted her to the door.

  “No wonder. I really have to apologize now. Who knows what I might have said or done back then? This is what I’m talking about. My life is an open book, and I’m the only one who hasn’t read it.”

  They stood in front of the restaurant continuing their conversation. Casey wished he would take her hand again and ask her if she wanted to go for a walk.

  Blake glanced at his watch. “Don’t be too hasty. She was a bitch then, too. I don’t think it was anything serious, like I said, high school stuff. Brenda has a fear she’ll never marry and won’t be able to join the Married Ladies Club.”

  “The what?”

  “This is the South. Traditions are important. Society life is all some of these ladies have. When their husbands take the ferry over to Brunswick to the real world, many of them are left alone. This club is important. You’re someone if you belong. At least that’s what most of them think. If you have the best china, the best maid, the best cook, the ladies look up to you. People in Sweetwater know it’s Brenda’s dream to be accepted in this club. But first, you have to be—”

  “Married.” Casey finished for him. Brenda must have her eye on Blake.

  “You’re a quick study, Casey. I’ve got a few things to take care of before four. I want to check on John and see what we can do to help you get that memory back.” Blake cupped her chin in his hand. A new and unexpected warmth surged through her.

  Searching for her voice, Casey mumbled a meek okay before Blake walked away, leaving her to stare after him.

  Blake put the phone back in its cradle. The news from the hospital was encouraging. John was progressing nicely. So far, the only serious damage he seemed to have suffered was an impairment to his voice. If he continued to improve at this pace, he’d return to Swan House within the week.

  He glanced around his father’s former office, now his own, for Casey’s file. Blake had no desire to move to any of the new modern buildings in Brunswick. Like his father before him, the idea of walking up a flight of stairs to find himself in comfortable living quarters when he had a lull in his day suited him just fine.

  Hardwood floors still gleamed from weekly polishing. His father’s desk, his desk now, held several files, an appointment book, and his grandfather’s antique clock. The walls were painted a soothing cream color and covered with pictures of delivered babies, some still living, others not. The opposite wall held his medicine chest. An ancient mortar and pestle made of wood sat atop the chest, along with dozens of old jars bearing strange symbols burned into them. Bright red geraniums blossomed outside in a window box. He’d never bothered to cover the window; he liked the view. Both young and old found Blake’s office relaxing. His examination room was the same. No sterile chrome for him or his father. He preferred the laid-back atmosphere, and so did his patients.

  He found the file beneath his desk blotter and read it one last time. He had to make sure he’d interpreted his father’s suspicions correctly.

  Casey had suffered enough already. Blake didn’t know what to expect when she learned of its contents. He’d be there for her, he knew, no matter what. He felt very protective of Casey.

  Maybe it was her eyes. He couldn’t forget how she’d looked at him outside Big Al’s. Jade green, with gold flecks. She’d captured a small piece of his heart when she stared back at him, innocent in one sense and worldly beyond her wildest dreams in another. He’d wanted to comfort her, tell her everything would be all right. But he couldn’t, because he didn’t know if it ever would be all right.

  He glanced at his watch. Four-fifteen. Casey was running late. She must’ve really smacked on the apology to Brenda. Too bad, because when Casey’s memory returned, she’d recall what a bitch Brenda was.

  Casey was about to enter the building in search of Brenda to apologize and had second thoughts. Instead, the window display at Haygood’s captured her attention a second time and she decided to throw caution to the wind and go shopping. The iris print dress now belonged to her, along with matching earrings, and sandals. She knew her mother wouldn’t mind; actually she’d probably approve since she herself, according to Flora, was addicted to shopping. While she’d hated to ask the clerk to bill her mother, until she had a job she had no alternative. She’d pay her back. The hateful clerk from yesterday must’ve had the day off. The elderly saleswoman in the store hadn’t been overly friendly, but she hadn’t been rude. This is what she needed, something as mindless as shopping. Anything to take her mind off her dreaded encounter with Blake. What could his deceased father possibly have in his files that would have any bearing on the present?

  The courthouse clock chimed quarter past the hour as Casey stood on the corner of Sweet Way and Main. She was late for her appointment with Blake. She jiggled her packages, trying not to make one arm more heavy than the other.

  Her foot had barely hit the pavement before a sleek black sports car roared past her. She felt herself being hurled back onto the sidewalk. She cringed as her shoulders slammed into the sidewalk. Gravel and dirt flew from all directions, blocking any chance of identifying the car, its occupants, or the license plate. The packages that only moments before had been such a great joy to her were now armed torpedoes digging into her, their pointed edges like knives.

  She managed to push herself into a sitting position. Across the street the elderly clerk from Haygood’s stood under the canopy, watching. A young girl pedaled by, her long braids billowing behind her as she stared at Casey. A quick glance across the street told her Brenda had finished with her luncheon appointment. For a moment Casey thought she’d suffered a head injury. Surely the citizens of Sweetwater weren’t going to stand by and watch?

  Her silk blouse in shreds, Casey brushed the gravel from her back and knees. Her clothes were ruined. She scooted around the sidewalk, picking up her purchases. Piling the boxes in front of her, she took a minute to examine her injuries. Other than a few scrapes, she was fine. Seeing she only had one shoe, she searched for its mate but coul
dn’t find it.

  Casey scooped her packages up with bruised arms and crossed Main Street. Rage didn’t come close to what she was feeling. Murderous rage? Maybe.

  She couldn’t believe no one had offered to help her. No one asked if she’d been injured. She could’ve lain on the sidewalk and bled to death for all the concern Sweetwater’s proud citizens had shown her.

  The sports car . . . Frantically, Casey peered up and down Main Street. There was no evidence of the automobile. It had disappeared without a trace. Abruptly she stopped to peruse Main Street. The elderly clerk had returned to her post. The young bicycler could’ve been imagined. A scene straight out of the Twilight Zone.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  Casey limped along, searching for Blake’s office that he’d pointed out to her on their way to Big Al’s. Had it been only two hours since Blake had left her? Only two hours since her heart had raced as he’d gazed into her eyes? She remembered thinking it was as if he’d reached down into her soul, searching. She’d felt drawn to him and knew he felt the same.

  Spying the older home with its green shutters and welcoming porch, Casey saw the sign proclaiming Dr. Blake Hunter was indeed in his office.

  She barely made it up the short flight of steps without losing her packages. Tossing them onto a wicker rocker, she lifted the brass door knocker.

  Blake himself answered the door.

  “My God! What happened to you?” he asked as he pulled her inside.

  Her legs felt like Jell-O as he escorted her to the back of his house. She didn’t get a chance to see the apartment on the second floor where Blake lived because the next thing she knew, he hoisted her up in his arms and ran down a flight of stairs and into his office.

  Gently, he placed her on the examination table. Her eyes chose that moment to fill with tears. She couldn’t help it.