Long-Lost Wife?

by Barbara Faith

  After a little while he pointed toward a small island. “I’m going to put in there and anchor in the cove for the night. We could have a swim before dinner if you’d like.”

  “No.” She gripped a stanchion. “No, I don’t want to swim.”

  “The exercise would be good for you.”

  “No.” Fear pinched her face and she turned away.

  Okay, he told himself. She’s been through a terrifying ordeal. It’s natural for her to be afraid of the water. He wondered then if he’d been heartless in insisting they sail back to San Sebastián instead of chartering a plane, as he had when he first heard about the accident at sea. But he’d wanted these three or four days alone with her to try to find out if, after all, she was faking her amnesia. He didn’t think she was, but he had to be sure.

  She stayed where she was, as though afraid to let go of the stanchion, until he guided the boat into the shallows of the cove. The water was calm here, a pale turquoise shadowed by the fading light of day. Palm trees lined the white sand beach, sea grape plants clustered near the shoreline, where yellow hibiscus and Madagascar jasmine grew. Deep purple bougainvillea climbed up what must have been the remains of an old fort.

  Luis dropped the two anchors. “Sure you don’t want a swim?” he asked. And when Annabel shook her head, he poised himself at the rail, arched his body and dived into the water. He cut cleanly through the surface and she could see him swimming there, underwater, his tanned body strangely white. When he came up he started swimming, muscular arms reaching out, stroking hard.

  She watched him for a moment or two before she went down the four steps into the galley and took the makings of a salad out of the refrigerator. When the salad was made, she set the table with dishes she found in the cupboard. She didn’t start the hamburgers until she felt the boat tilt and knew that he’d come aboard.

  He walked into the galley, a towel around his neck. Droplets of water glistened in his dark hair, and his skin smelled of the sea. He glanced at the table, then at the hamburgers sizzling on the fire. “I’ll just have a quick shower,” he told her, and disappeared through the cabin and into the head. Five minutes later he came back wearing a clean pair of cutoffs and a black T-shirt.

  “Would you like a beer?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “But you like beer.” He opened the refrigerator, reached for a can and popped it open. “Try it.” He handed it to her. She took a sip, made a face and handed it back to him.

  “The burgers are ready,” she said.

  He glanced at the table. “Where’s the mayonnaise?”

  “Mayonnaise? You like mayonnaise on your burgers?”

  “No, but you do.”

  Annabel shook her head. There were a lot of things she didn’t remember, but one thing she was sure of—never, ever in her life had she put mayo on a hamburger. Cheese, mustard, onions and lots of little sliced pickles. But mayo? Uh-uh.

  So it seemed he was testing her, trying to find out by little things like this whether or not she was faking. As though anybody in their right mind—if indeed she was in her right mind—would fake amnesia.

  She slid the burgers onto the buns and slapped them down on the table. If he was aware of her anger he didn’t say anything. He shoved a tape into a battery-powered radio-cassette player and the music of a slow and sensuous bolero began.

  “You always liked Spanish music,” Luis said.

  “Did I?” She stabbed at a piece of lettuce. “I don’t remember.”

  “But you will. Someday you’ll remember everything.”

  “How long...?” She took a deep breath as though to prepare herself for the question. “How long were we married?”

  His mouth tightened. He looked out of the porthole instead of at her. “For eight years.”

  “Where did we meet?”

  “In New Orleans. At a Mardi Gras party.”

  “Is that where I lived?”

  He bit into the burger, waited, then said, “No. You lived in Miami. You were from some place in Oregon.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What about my parents? Is that where they live?”

  “Your parents are dead.”

  She balled the paper napkin up in her fist. “Brothers and sisters?”

  “You were an only child.”

  “What about...?” She tried to keep her voice level, her tone impersonal, as though she were talking about someone else. “What about friends?”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your friends.”

  Had there been no one in her life except him? No parents, no siblings? No friends? The food stuck in her throat. She felt a sense of confusion, of utter helplessness.

  “I’m...I’m not hungry.” She stood. “I’m going up on deck.”

  He started to get up, then stopped. Maybe she needed this time alone to sort things out. It would be best not to push her, to give her a little space. As much space as two people could find, sharing a boat.

  He finished eating, and when he had cleared the table he put two cups of coffee into the microwave and took them up on deck. She was sitting in the bow of the boat, looking out to sea. In the last rays of the setting sun the sky was saffron yellow, and clouds, mauve-colored and heavy, hastened the encroaching darkness. A lone egret skimmed low over the water in search of a fish, and behind in the trees he could hear the call of night birds.

  He loved it here in the Bahamas, loved the quiet, the sense of being so far from civilization.

  The last rays of the sun reflected on Annabel’s face in a rosy glow of color, and with a start he found himself thinking how pretty she was, not classically beautiful perhaps, but certainly appealing in a waif-like kind of way. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin, staring out at the sea as though searching for an answer to all of her questions. Questions he would not answer. At least not yet.

  She turned suddenly, and as if she were reading his thoughts, she asked, “Who am I really?”

  He crossed the deck and, when he had handed her a coffee, sat next to her. “You’re Annabel Alarcon, my wife.”

  “Annabel.” She looked into his eyes for a moment before her gaze shifted and she stared out at the sea. “Like Annabel Lee,” she said, and began to recite.

  “And this was the reason that long ago In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling...”

  She hesitated. “She died, you know. Poe’s Annabel Lee died.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  A sigh shuddered through her. “I looked in the mirror today. I don’t look like an Annabel.”

  That made him smile. “What does an Annabel look like?”

  “I don’t know. Not like me, I think.” A sigh shivered through her. “Are all the nights like this in the Bahamas?” she asked.

  “Most of them are.”

  “Tell me about San Sebastián. Where is it?”

  “Some forty nautical miles east of Grand Turk.”

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  He took a sip of his coffee. “The Bahamian archipelago covers hundreds of barren islands and islets. Only about twenty of them are inhabited. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the Bahamas offered pirates ideal bases. During the Civil War, Confederate blockade runners used the islands, and when Prohibition came, liquor was smuggled through here. Later, of course, it was drugs.”

  “How long have you lived in the islands?”

  “Almost fifteen years now. I was raised in Spain. My family was in the import-export business and they traded goods in the Bahamas. I spent my school vacations here with my father, and when I was out on my own I decided this was where I wanted to live.”

  “Are you still in importing and exporting?”

  “No.” He waited a moment, as though deciding how much to tell her. “I’m in the salvage business.”

  “Salvage?”

  “I hunt for sunken treasure.”

  “The nur
se at the hospital in Nassau told me there was a gold doubloon in my pocket when I was picked up,” Annabel said. “Gold doubloons came off old Spanish ships, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I’m keeping it for you.”

  “How did I get it?”

  “How indeed?” he said.

  Annabel stared at him, chilled by the sudden coldness in his voice. For a little while she didn’t say anything, nor did he. It was dark now, and still, with only the gentle slap of water against the hull and the muted cry of a night bird to break the silence. Mingled with the smell of the sea she caught the spent of the Madagascar jasmine, and suddenly, unexplicably, she felt an overwhelming sadness, a sadness that went far deeper than her inability to remember. For this was a remembered sadness, soul-deep and painful.

  She stood and, gripping the rail, looked out over the water. What was it? Dear Lord, what was it? And because there were no answers, she said, “I think I’ll go below.”

  He stood. “Of course. Do you need any help?”

  “No, I ... I’m all right.” And because she had to know, she asked, “Where will you sleep?”

  “In the salon.”

  “Oh.” She took a deep breath. “Well then, good night, Mr. Alar...” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Good night, Luis Miguel.”

  “Luis,” he said. “Call me Luis.”

  Annabel nodded. Then she turned away from the railing and left the deck.

  Chapter 3

  Whatever breeze there had been died during the night. The air grew still, hot and muggy. When Annabel awoke a little before seven, she took a shower, pulled on a pair of shorts and a shirt and, when she smelled coffee, went barefoot into the galley.

  Luis was at the stove, clad in French-cut black bathing trunks that left very little to the imagination. “Too hot to sleep?” he asked.

  “Uh...yes.” As Annabel averted her eyes, she remembered reading in a nineteeth-century book of etiquette that a lady never looked below the second button of a gentleman’s vest. This gentleman wasn’t wearing a vest. Actually, he was all twentieth-century male, great material for a centerfold, with broad shoulders and a waistline most women would have given their teeth for. The patch of curly dark chest hair came to a vee over his flat stomach and narrowed to a thin strip that disappeared beneath the black trunks. Maybe she didn’t remember much about anything else, but she certainly knew a good-looking man when she saw one.

  “We’ll leave in a little while.” He handed her a mug of coffee. “How about a swim before breakfast?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well then...” He finished his coffee and went topside. When she felt the motion of the boat, followed by a splash, she took her coffee and went up on deck. The water looked cool and inviting, pale turquoise in the early morning.

  When he saw her he circled back toward the boat. “It’s great,” he called to her. “Come on.”

  She hesitated, then with a nod said, “I’ll go put a suit on.”

  She hurried below and grabbed one of the suits she’d found when she unpacked the suitcase. There were two bathing suits, one a white bikini, two small swatches of material that seemed barely enough to cover her. The other one, a red-and-white polka dot, was even smaller. With a muttered curse she stripped out of the shorts and blouse and put the white bikini on. It fit like a second skin. “Ni modo!” she mumbled. Then stopped, startled because she had no idea why she’d said it or what it meant.

  She was still frowning when she went up on deck. Luis was swimming a few yards away, but when he saw her he waved and started back toward the boat. She saw now that he’d hung a ladder over the side in case she wanted to ease into the water.

  She ignored the ladder and, like him, poised near the railing and dived in. For a split second, just before she hit, she wondered if she knew how to swim. But it was all right. She cut the surface of the water, went down into the cool turquoise depths, then rose and started swimming toward the island.

  He watched her. She had one hell of a figure but she was too pale. For the next few days he’d put her to work out on the deck, have her polishing the brass, maybe mending a sail, something to keep her out in the sun and get the color back into her cheeks. But pale or not, she was an eyeful, a nicely wrapped package of small woman in the skimpy white bikini that he really didn’t approve of.

  He swam up alongside her. “Want to explore the island?”

  She looked at him, treading water. “All right,” she said, and together they started toward shore.

  He let her get a few yards ahead of him before he went after her. She reached shallow water before he did and waded ashore. Nice bottom, he found himself thinking. Fantastic legs. And when, as though reading his thoughts, she turned to frown at him, he grinned at her. She didn’t grin back.

  They walked up to the sandy beach without speaking. The island looked scrubby, uninhabited, as though, Annabel thought, they were the first people to set foot here in the last two hundred years. It seemed strange and a little scary that she was here on this deserted island, miles from civilization, with this stranger who said he was her husband. And because that made her nervous she walked back to the water’s edge.

  The boat lay at anchor, sails down, gently moving with the waves. Straight On till Morning. Had she ever seen her before? Had she ever sailed her with this tall, bronzed man who stood beside her?

  “Pirates plied these waters,” he said. “Some say they buried their treasure on small islands just like this one.”

  “Jewels and silver and gold doubloons.” Annabel looked up at him. “I wonder how I came to have one. A gold doubloon, I mean.”

  “Maybe you were looking for buried treasures.” He hesitated. “Or sunken ships. Spanish galleons or pirate ships that went down centuries ago.”

  “The nurse in the hospital in Nassau told me you were like a modern-day pirate.”

  “A pirate?” He laughed. “Sí, maybe I am.” He gazed out at the water, a strange and questing look in his eyes. “I’d have liked to have been one,” he said. “One of the buccaneers who plied these same waters.”

  “Out to pillage and plunder?” she joked.

  “With a red bandanna tied around my head, a sword in my hand and a pretty wench over my shoulder.”

  A wench like her. A woman as fragile and as beautiful as she was. I’d have fought a hundred men for her, he thought. I’d have taken her... you... and I’d have made you a prisoner on my ship. I’d have wooed you and won you, and one day you would have stood beside me at the wheel as my woman. My wife.

  In a way he had made her his prisoner. The day he’d stood by her hospital bed and declared that she was his wife, he had in effect made her his. For better or for worse? No matter. He’d taken the step and claimed her for his own.

  And what would happen when she regained her memory? he asked himself. But no, he didn’t want to think about that now. He’d cross that particular bridge when he came to it. Meantime ...

  “We’d better get back to the boat,” he said. “I’d like to make Samana Cay by dark.” He glanced up at the sky. “I’m not sure I like the look of those clouds.”

  “A storm?” Annabel asked, feeling a nudge of fear.

  “Maybe.” He waded into the water. “Last one to reach the boat fixes breakfast,” he called over his shoulder as he plunged into the surf.

  She was a good swimmer. He had half a mind to hold back and let her win, but he didn’t think she’d like that, so he beat her by two lengths. When she reached the ladder she clung to it, breathing hard, small breasts pushing against the thin white fabric of her suit, drops of water clinging to her long lashes.

  “You’re pretty good,” he said.

  “You’re better.”

  “I’ll have my bacon crisp and my eggs over easy.”

  She laughed—it was a good sound—and swung one foot up on the ladder. When she grasped the sides he put a hand on her bottom to steady her.
She froze, then quickly pulled herself up and onto the boat.

  He climbed up after her. “Let’s not bother to change,” he said. “We’ll dry soon enough in the sun.” He handed her a towel and took one for himself. “Besides, I’m hungry.”

  And though he had kidded her about the loser fixing breakfast, he went down to the galley with her, and while she set the table, he started frying the bacon.

  “Toast or an English muffin?” he asked.

  “English muffin.”

  They sat across from each other in the breakfast nook with the fastened-down table and chairs. He took a tape out of a rack above his head and popped it into the cassette player. When Jimmy Buffett started singing, Annabel smiled.

  “That’s nice,” she said.

  “It’s one of your favorites.”

  “It is?” For a little while she’d almost forgotten that she’d...forgotten. It was pleasant sitting here across the table from Luis, listening to music, even though she was sure she’d never heard the song before.

  Buffett sang nicely, but with unfamiliar words.

  “It’s very hard,” she said. “Not remembering is very hard.”

  He put down the fork he had just picked up and reached for her hand. “Your memory will come back, Annabel. One of these days—”

  “One of these days?” Tears stung her eyes. “I have no past,” she said. “No memory of a mother and father or friends.”

  She looked at him so intently he almost flinched.

  “I don’t know where I went to school, if I went to college, if I had a career. What did I do before we were married?” She withdrew her hand. “If we were married.”

  “I wish you would trust me,” he said. “I wish you could understand that I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

  Jimmy Buffett sang about being a pirate out of time.

  A modern-day pirate like Luis. She bit into a piece of bacon. It stuck in her throat. She pushed her plate away and stood. “I’m going to change,” she said.

  “All right.” He watched her go into the cabin and close the door.

  “It’s very hard,” she’d said. “Not remembering is very hard.” He wanted to go to her, to hold her and reassure her. But he couldn’t, not yet.