by Janet Dailey
Frazier Jardin turned his sharp look on Gabe as Nattie returned to the kitchen with her empty tray. "That is not amusing, Gabe."
"Sorry." He immediately lowered his head in a show of contrition, secretly directing a quick, smiling glance at Remy.
"All that's in the past, and better left there— regardless of how Buchanan chooses to look at it," Frazier stated curtly.
"Yes, but—" Remy began, wanting to ask him why Cole had said her surname should be Donovan instead of Jardin.
"It's the present we need to discuss," her father interrupted. "Specifically your amnesia, Remy, and what we need to do about it."
"Do about it," she repeated in startled confusion. "What do you mean?"
"When I learned about your condition, I called Dr. John—"
"Who's Dr. John?" The name meant nothing to her.
"Dr. John Lucius Sebastian has been the physician for the Jardin family for years. He took care of your grand-père in his final years and delivered you into this world," he explained patiently. "Even if you can't remember, I'm sure you can appreciate that he's developed a personal interest in you—a fondness for you—over these many years. Naturally he was disturbed to learn about your amnesia. Your mother and I talked with him at length about what could be done. He recommended a clinic located outside of Houston. Their staff has had considerable experience treating cases such as yours."
"Dr. John said it was very beautiful there," Sibylle Jardin inserted. "It's one of those secluded, sylvan settings, peaceful and quiet. Every . . .guest. . . has a private cottage on the grounds, complete with maid service and your own private chef if you wish. It's almost like a resort, really."
"Are you suggesting I should go there?" Remy looked from one to the other, not wanting to believe what she was hearing.
"Dr. John assured us that its facilities and its staff are the best to be found anywhere. He knows we wouldn't want anything less for you." Her father calmly carved off another bite of the rich egg dish. "I thought we could fly you over tomorrow. They have their own landing strip—"
"No." Her quick and angry denunciation of his plans sounded unnecessarily loud even to her own ears.
"'No'? What do you mean?" He seemed stunned by her objection.
"I mean—I'm not going," she replied in a more controlled but no less firm voice.
"But why?" he protested. "You can get the kind of care and treatment you need there. The whole purpose is for you to regain your memory. Surely you want that as much as we do."
"Of course I do."
"Well, they can help you accomplish that, Remy."
"They can't," she argued. "The kind of amnesia I have can't be treated with drugs or psychiatric therapy or hypnosis. Believe me, I inquired about every possibility while I was in that hospital in Nice, trying desperately to find out who I was. Unfortunately my amnesia is caused by brain trauma—the kind that requires time to heal. The specialist was very definite on that point."
"I'm not prepared to accept that," Frazier said. "I think we should have a second opinion. After all, who was this specialist you saw? What were his credentials? How can you be certain he's kept up with all the latest medical advances?"
"I checked." She stabbed at a bite of Canadian bacon drenched in the congealing hollandaise sauce, feeling inexplicably angry and unsure—but at what? At her parents? Why? Weren't they merely acting out of concern for her? Or were they attempting to control her life? Had they done that in the past? Was that what she was subconsciously reacting to?
"If your amnesia is something that requires time to heal, then surely the clinic would provide an ideal setting," her mother suggested. "There you can rest and relax, have an opportunity to recuperate free of any stress."
"I can do that here, Mother," she insisted, then laid down her fork. "Why are you two so anxious to get rid of me? I haven't even been home twenty-four hours yet."
"We're anxious for you to get your memory back, Remy," her mother declared, a pained look in her expression. "It isn't that we don't want you here. We do. But we're trying to think not of ourselves, but of what's best for you."
"The best place for me is right here." Again she was overwhelmed by the feeling that she had to be here; it was vital. Just for an instant she wondered whether, if it wasn't for this feeling, she might have let them persuade her to go to the clinic. "I've started remembering things—Gabe, you, Grand-père's portrait. Dr. Gervais told me that familiar surroundings might revive memories for me. What better place than here, in the house I've lived in practically all of my life?"
"I have to agree with Remy." Gabe spoke up for the first time. "If she's starting to remember things, she should stay here with us. Hopefully we can help her to remember more."
"Perhaps," Frazier conceded, indicating a definite coolness toward the idea. "Personally, I'm still not convinced the clinic isn't the best place for her."
"I—" As Remy started to reassert her position, Gabe laid a silencing hand on her arm.
"Let me argue your case. I'm your brother the lawyer, remember?" He winked and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. Grateful for his support, Remy smiled back and held her silence as he turned to their father. "What time is your committee meeting this morning, Dad?"
"Ten o'clock. Why?"
"I was thinking you could ride downtown with me. It would give us a chance to talk over Remy's situation."
"We've already talked it over."
"So?" Gabe shrugged. "We'll talk it over again. But let's not argue about it now and ruin a perfectly delicious breakfast."
"All right," Frazier Jardin agreed, albeit grudgingly.
No further mention was made about the clinic for the rest of the meal, yet the issue hung in the air with Damoclean insistence. However well-intentioned her parents might be in wanting her to go there, Remy knew she couldn't—and wouldn't. She couldn't leave New Orleans, not until she remembered why it was so important for her to be here.
12
Soon after Nattie cleared the breakfast plates, Gabe and Frazier Jardin left the dining room together. A few minutes later Remy heard the sound of a car pulling out of the driveway. She took a sip of her coffee, conscious of the silence that had fallen between her and her mother, and of her own odd reluctance to break it.
"Remy," Sibylle began in a hesitant yet momentous tone, "I don't want you to misunderstand about the clinic."
"I'm not going, Mother, and that's final."
"But we only want you to go because we truly believe it's for your own good."
She sighed, regretting her initial abruptness. "Thanks for caring, but—"
"Gracious, Remy," her mother broke in with a soft, breathy laugh. "You don't have to thank us for caring. We're your parents. We love you."
"I know." She wished she could remember feeling a similar closeness to them. She wished she could remember this house—this room.
Automatically she looked around it, seeking something familiar in its furnishings. Her glance fell on the footed Sevres bowl on the serving table, ornately gilded and adorned with a view of the gardens of Versailles, all on a background of royal blue. Intuitively Remy knew that the piece was from the very early 1800s, the golden age of topographical porcelains. And she knew, too, that the footed bowl had long been a family heirloom.
"Did I ever determine whether that bowl was an individual piece or part of a service?" She sensed that the question was one that she would have been lured to investigate.
"You always believed it was part of a service, but I don't recall whether you were ever able to find another piece sufficiently like it in style and design to prove it," her mother replied. "Two or three years ago, however, you were able to locate the source material for the engraving on the bowl. In fact, you obtained a copy of the original painting. It's somewhere about, I'm sure." She lowered her cup to its nesting place on the china saucer and tipped her head curiously to one side. "Why? Have you remembered something?"
She shook her head. "Only that it's been in th
e family for years."
Sibylle started to respond to that, then stopped. "I almost forgot. Paula called for you this morning. She'd heard you were back and wanted you to come to a little dinner party she's having tonight. Isn't it amazing how fast news travels in this town?"
"Who's Paula?" Remy tried, but she couldn't make the name seem familiar to her.
"Paula Michels. Well, she was a Michels before she married Daryl Gaylord. The two of you have been the dearest of friends since childhood. Actually there were three of you—you and Paula and Jenny D'Anton."
She shook her head in defeat. "I can't remember either of them."
"I'm sure you will ... in time."
"Yes," Remy murmured, silently wondering how much time it was going to take. "Am I supposed to call Paula back?"
"It isn't necessary. When she told me about the party, I went ahead and made your excuses. I— I hope you don't mind."
"No, that's fine."
"I thought you'd want to spend tonight here at home with us." Something outside the window caught Sibylle's eye. "The florist's van just drove in. I hope the flowers are better than the ones he sent last week. The daisies drooped terribly, and the petals of the day lilies were turning brown around the edges. Unfortunately I was out of the house when the delivery man came, or I never would have accepted them. It was nearly six when I returned home, and by then it was too late to do anything about it. And the Girards and the D'Antons were due to arrive for dinner in less than two hours. At seven o'clock, there I was, trimming the brown off the lilies and wrapping wire around the drooping stems of the daisies, trying to salvage something so we would have a few fresh bouquets in the house. Worse than that, the roses didn't last three days. I warned Robert that if this week's flowers weren't absolutely exceptional, I was returning them en masse and taking our business elsewhere." She removed the linen napkin from her lap and laid it beside her coffee cup and saucer. "Excuse me while I inspect today's delivery."
"Of course." Remy watched her leave the room. With her own coffee finished, she had no desire to linger at the table by herself. Leaving the dining room, she drifted aimlessly across the wide central hall into the main salon.
For all the subtle grandness and the touches of antiquity in the high-ceilinged room, it had a comfortable, lived-in quality. Magazines cluttered the Louis Napoleon console, and a lap robe of white cashmere lay carelessly draped over the back of a Victorian sofa covered in a vibrant plum brocade and flanked by matching chairs. Next to the tufted easy chair, upholstered in a cream velvet material with a thin purple stripe running through it, stood her mother's petit-point frame, and beside it her tapestry sewing bag.
A walnut whatnot desk sat in the corner by a window. Remy wandered over to it and idly ran her hand over the top, wondering if she'd sat here to do her schoolwork, and stared out the full-length window instead. Briefly she touched the pale orchid sheers, then smiled when she noticed the puddling of the orchid damask draperies on the floor—a typical yet subtle display of wealth in the old plantation days, and a tradition that had once more become fashionable. Turning, she looked again at the room, noting the black marble fireplace and the Oriental rug on the floor, its strong tones repeating the richness of color in the room.
How many hours had she spent in this room? Hundreds, no doubt. Yet nothing in it stirred up memories.
Suppressing a sigh at the continued blankness, Remy crossed to the entrance hall, which was dominated by the graceful curve of the grand mahogany staircase. Her glance strayed upward to the ornate frieze that outlined the ceiling and the elaborate plumed medallion from which the bronze doré chandelier was suspended. The walls were covered with a scenic wallpaper, its blue panorama a replica of a historical design made famous by Dufour. A Brussels carpet stretched the length of the hall's cypress flooring.
Something flickered along the edges of her mind, and she closed her eyes. The image she saw was the same one before her now—except that boughs of shiny green magnolia leaves were wound around the stairs' carved balustrade. She heard the echoes of giggles and saw herself scampering down the steps, trying to reach the bottom ahead of Gabe. Papa Noël. Yes—as a very little girl, she had called Santa Claus by his French name.
From the mists of that memory came another, of the Carnival season of her debutante year, when she'd glided down the steps in her ball gown, a stunning creation in white satin and lace studded with shimmering beadwork and rhinestones—and another time in a different ball gown, adorned with snowy aigrettes and pearls. To her mother's glorious delight, Remy had been named Queen of two balls, an honor so rare as to be almost without precedent—and an indication of the power and prestige attached to the Jardin name.
Frowning, Remy tried to recall what her feelings had been toward it all. Had she enjoyed the whole social whirl of parties, suppers, and balls, or had she participated grudgingly, regarding the entire business of being presented to "society" as outdated in today's liberated world? Neither one —she'd seen it as a duty, and her acceptance of that duty as a recognition of her family . . . just as her failure to be accorded honors would have been a reflection on them.
"Certain things are expected of you because you are a Jardin" She heard the words in her mind, but she couldn't remember who had spoken them. Yet they stayed there, softly ringing, subtly applying a pressure that she felt even now.
Remy opened her eyes, breaking the spell. And the entrance hall became once again merely the entrance hall of a mansion, faintly haunted by long-ago memories. She hesitated a moment longer, then walked across the Brussels carpet, past the base of the staircase, to the double set of doors opening onto the gentlemen's study.
Pausing a few feet inside the room, Remy let the rich loden green of the walls close around her. A pair of freestanding walnut bookcases flanked the fireplace, again made of black Carrara marble artfully streaked with gray. Near the windows stood a library table of dark ebony and tooled black leather. The deep colors, the heavy solidity of the furniture, and the leather-covered sofa and chairs gave the room a definite masculine aura that appealed to her.
She wandered over to an old platform rocker, covered in dark green leather and studded with brass. On the ebony side table next to it was a well-thumbed copy of Virgil's Aeneid. She ran her hand lightly over its worn cover, then caught the faint, fragrant aroma of tobacco, and her glance was drawn to the walnut pipe stand next to the book.
Images flashed through her mind like pictures caught by the shutter of a rapidly clicking camera. She tried to focus on the images and hold on to this rush of memory merging with the background. Suddenly she could see her father relaxing in the rocker, not a single strand of his dark, curly hair out of place. His somber features wore a smile of pride and approval as he reached out to take something from her.
The pipe. Unerringly Remy picked up an old briar pipe, its stem half chewed, its charred bowl scraped clean of tobacco ash and char. Beside it sat a sterling-silver tamper with his initials etched on it—the one she'd given him for Christmas when she was twelve years old. Remy looked down at the rocker, remembering, hearing the texture of her father's voice, warm with praise and affection. The love in it filled her—just as it had done all those years ago.
Her mother walked into the study, carrying a Baccarat vase filled with a spray of white tulips, their ivory color accented by lacy green fronds of maidenhair fern and delicate baby's breath. Seeing Remy, she faltered slightly in surprise.
"You startled me. I didn't realize anyone was in here." She went over to the library table and placed the vase on one corner of the tooled leather top. "Aren't these white tulips magnificent? Robert sent them as a gesture of atonement for last week's floral fiasco. I thought they'd look perfect in here, and I know your father will enjoy them."
"I remember him, Mother." She was too caught up in the wonder of the memory to care about the bouquet of rare white tulips. "I remember Dad." No longer was he a stranger to her, a face without significance, a name without personal mea
ning. "He used to let me fill his pipe with tobacco— and he showed me how to pack it so it would draw properly. He wouldn't let anyone else do it but me—because I was the only one who could do it right." She gazed at the pipe in her hand, conscious of the lump in her throat, a lump that came with the discovery of how much she loved him, how much she adored him. Before, she hadn't been sure what her feelings for him had been—if they'd been close. Had he cared? Or had Gabe, his son, been the recipient of all his attention? Now she knew. "This is his favorite pipe," she remembered.
"Yes . . . unfortunately. I've been wanting to throw that smelly thing away for years, but Frazier won't hear of it. Why? I'll never know. It isn't as if he doesn't have others," Sibylle declared, waving a hand at the numerous pipes in the walnut rack.
"You don't know how relieved I am," Remy confessed. "It's bothered me that I couldn't remember him."
Sibylle smiled gently in understanding. "It's bothered him too ... as I'm sure you guessed. He was very worried about you, Remy. And he felt guilty that we'd left Nice assuming you'd gone off on your own for a few days—as you'd planned to do. When we finally realized something was wrong, he kept insisting over and over that we should have known you wouldn't have left the yacht without telling us good-bye."
"He shouldn't have blamed himself for that."
"I know, but he did. And it only added to an already stressful situation. He let it work on him. For that matter, he still is." She fussed with the floral arrangement, adjusting a tulip stem here and moving a frond there. "I'm certain that's why he was so sharp with you at breakfast."
"You mean when I argued with him about going to the clinic," Remy guessed.
Sibylle threw a startled look over her shoulder, then quickly tried to cover it with a hasty, "Yes, that too."
Remy knew immediately that she had guessed wrong. "You were referring to when I asked about Brodie Donovan, weren't you?"
