Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9)

by Heather Wardell

  "I was thinking about this on the train. I'd like to see the house now." The sooner the better, in case it brings back my memories.

  He nods and starts the car. "And then dinner?"

  "Sure. Do you cook?"

  He gives a burst of startled laughter. "Honey, if I didn't believe you have amnesia, which I do, I would believe it now. I managed to burn water once."

  "Oh, you did not."

  He turns and looks at me, his face deliberately blank, then begins to drive out of the parking lot.

  "You did? How?"

  "Forgot the pot was on the stove. It burned off all the water then charred the pan black. We'd only been married a few weeks at that point and that cookware set was a wedding present so I felt terrible."

  I smile. "Did I forgive you?"

  A dreamy smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Once I replaced the pan, and promised I'd never touch it again, yes."

  His smile, though, suggests there was more involved. Newlyweds? They'd almost certainly ended up in bed to seal the deal.

  They? We. I had been a newlywed with this man. I still couldn't quite take it in.

  "So how can we eat at home then? Unless you want me to cook."

  "I wouldn't bring you here and expect you to feed me. No, we have meals delivered. Once a week, frozen. They're really good, and so far I haven't set the house on fire reheating them."

  "Impressive."

  "Thanks. I'm proud of myself."

  We laugh, then he begins pointing out landmarks as we drive to our home. I was in Ottawa on a school trip back in grade eight so some of what he shows me is vaguely familiar, but certainly nothing feels like I saw it only a few months ago.

  The house doesn't either, when we reach it after the twenty-minute drive. It's lovely, a big but not ridiculously huge two-story number with gray stone walls and landscaping just beginning to recover from the winter. But it doesn't feel like home.

  We stop in the driveway and Ryan clears his throat. "So?"

  I hate to do it, but I have to admit, "Nothing. It looks great, but I can't say I know it."

  "Okay. I shouldn't keep asking you, it's just--"

  I put my hand on his arm. "I get it. You want me to recognize something. Trust me, I do too. But when I do, I'll let you know."

  He covers my hand with his and gives me a squeeze. "Got it. Well, shall we go in?"

  After fetching my suitcase from the trunk he leads me up the walkway of large flat stones, unlocks the front door, and pulls it open for me. "In you go, my lady."

  I take two steps into the house, then stop dead.

  Ryan bumps into me. "Sorry, honey, I didn't-- oh."

  I turn back. "I recognize something."

  "Indeed. Mother, why are you here?"

  She blinks innocently, happily. "I wanted to welcome Donna home, of course, and I was hoping to watch your wedding DVD with you. You did say you were going to watch it tonight, didn't you?"

  "I said we would watch it when she felt ready, yes." He clears his throat. "But honestly, I think it should be just us. It'll be strange for her to see it."

  Claire's lip quivers. "Oh, but I haven't seen it for ages. And you looked so handsome that day." She turns to me. "You don't mind, do you, dear?"

  I can tell Ryan wants her gone, and I do too, but it'd probably be easier to watch with her then send her home than to get her to leave now. Besides, it'll be weird watching the video no matter what, so having Claire there can't be that much worse. "It's okay with me, Ryan. If it's okay with you."

  He glances at his watch. "It's six o'clock now. At seven, Mother, I need you to leave me alone with my wife so we can have dinner and see what she can remember around here. Will you do that?"

  "Oh, of course," she says, smiling. "Mustn't get in the way."

  I feel sure Claire has made a career, a vocation, a hobby even, of getting in the way of Ryan and Donna's relationship. But Ryan's standing up for us and I like it.

  He puts some cheese sticks and potato skins from the freezer into the toaster oven then says we'll take a tour of the house while they cook. Gently but firmly, he puts Claire in charge of monitoring the appetizers and putting my roses in a vase so she won't follow us. I'm glad. I want it to be just us.

  He walks me out of the stainless-steel-and-dark-granite kitchen and through the downstairs area, the living room and separate dining room done in serene soft browns and beiges and pale hardwood, and the den which is clearly his hangout, all dark wood and plaid.

  "Very hunting lodge," I say as we leave the room, and he bursts out laughing and says, "That's what you told the decorator after we saw the plans. But I love hanging out in there."

  "Where do I hang out?"

  "In your office, upstairs. Let's go see."

  He has an office on the second floor too, high-tech and sterile, and I'm not surprised when he says, "I mostly work in the den. I thought I wanted this room like this but once it was done it just felt too cold."

  I nod, and he opens the next door. "Your office."

  I step inside and look around, stunned. The hardwood floor is almost entirely hidden by a rich purple rug, and cobalt curtains drape the windows. Plush velvet pillows of every color from hot pink to an intense burgundy rest on a beige couch that's been mostly covered by a gorgeous deep teal blanket, and the beige walls bear vibrant pictures and fabric hangings that pick out all the same jewel tones. The effect is like looking at a huge garden in full bloom: the colors should be clashing but instead they somehow work exquisitely together, making the room hum with life and energy.

  I love it, but I'm confused. I look back at Ryan and he says, "I know. Kind of a change from the rest of the place, huh?"

  "Why?"

  He tips his head to one side. "Why what?"

  "Why did I put so much color in here and only beige downstairs?"

  "You wanted the house classy and elegant. This room was like that at the beginning too, but eventually you'd done this."

  I look up, surprised at the sadness in his voice. "You don't like it?"

  He steps forward and touches my cheek. "I love it. I just hate that you didn't do it everywhere. It's clearly something you like. And I didn't know until you were gone."

  I frown, completely lost, and he sighs. "I didn't come in here before you left. It was your space. The den was mine and this was yours. We gave each other that. But I came sneaking in to see if I could figure out where you'd gone and just stared. I was expecting beige everywhere, of course, but instead I found out that you'd been bringing stuff in to brighten the room, brighten your life. I had no idea. Then I found the ticket, that turned out to be fake, and..."

  His voice shakes at the end and he turns his back to me, and I realize he's fighting back tears.

  My heart breaking, I slide my arms around his waist, locking my fingers together over his still-sleek stomach, and press my cheek to his back. "I'm so sorry, Ryan. I really am. I can't believe I meant to really hurt you."

  His hands grab mine and hold on tight. "I love you. Always remember that."

  His mother's saccharine screech rises from downstairs. "The food's ready, Ryan. Time to stop whatever you're doing up there and come down."

  Ryan shakes his head. "That woman can break a mood like a jackhammer breaks concrete."

  I laugh. "More like a jackhammer breaks eggs."

  He laughs too, and I squeeze him again then withdraw my hands from his. "Anything else to see?"

  He clears his throat. "Bedrooms, I guess."

  After calling down the stairs, "We'll be down in one minute," he shows me two guest bedrooms, one on each side of the hall. The one done in soft blues makes my throat tighten as I remember him saying he sat in there listening to Donna cry after he confessed his affair. No time to linger, though, so we move on to the second guest room decorated in equally soft greens, a bathroom of pale wood and paler marble, and then...

  He opens double doors at the end of the hall and says awkwardly, "Our bedroom."

  I
step onto thick white carpet and look around. The furnishings are solid wood, ornately carved and imposing, and I think they're probably heirlooms. They're not to my taste, though, and they don't suit the style of the rest of the house's furniture. The bed, probably no bigger than a double, is covered in a fluffy white eyelet-upholstered duvet and topped with decorative pillows in a cheesy bubble-gum-pink-and-mint-green floral print. The print appears again in the curtains and on the cushions of two small chairs that sit by the window with a white iron table between them. I have to smile at the sight of my sad-eyed teddy bear sitting on the bed, but he's the only light-hearted note. Overall, the room looks like it belongs in a ninety-year-old lady's cottage.

  What it doesn't look like is a place for hot sex. Or any sex.

  I turn to him, wanting to ask about that but obviously not able to say it flat-out, and settle for, "Did I decorate this room?"

  He grimaces and points at the floor.

  I frown, confused, and he mouths, "Mother."

  I stare at him and he grimaces even more. Leaning in, he whispers, "I know. Trust me. But she did it while we were on our honeymoon and she was so proud of it, and we couldn't bring ourselves to offend her by redecorating. It's all my grandmother's old furniture."

  I have to ask it, and whispering makes it easier. "We had sex in here?"

  "I love you," he murmurs, his eyes sparking with amusement. "And you're right. It just felt too wrong. But that green room, well, let's just say if those walls could talk..."

  I laugh, and on impulse hug him. He squeezes me tight and whispers, "Ready to go face that video?"

  As ready as I'll ever be.

  *****

  I sit on the couch between Ryan and his mother, too nervous to eat the potato skins on my plate, and watch as the wedding DVD begins to play. The usual cheesy hearts and flowers surround our names and the date. September eighteenth two thousand and four, so we're coming up on our seventh wedding anniversary.

  Was Donna suffering from that infamous seven-year itch? Could it be as simple as that?

  The hearts and flowers fade away and the screen fills with a close-up of Ryan, looking a little younger and painfully nervous, tugging at the collar of his shirt and trying to get his tuxedo jacket to fit properly over it.

  "You can still change your mind, buddy," a tall red-haired man says.

  While everyone on the DVD laughs, I turn to Ryan.

  "Kyle, my best man. A friend from college."

  I nod then say, "Can you go back a bit?" because his words overlapped his words on the DVD and I want to know how he responded.

  He rewinds, and I again hear Kyle's joking comment but this time hear Ryan say, "Not a chance. I'm marrying her now before she realizes she could do so much better."

  "They do call me the best man, you know, not you," Kyle says, but I hardly hear it because the sincerity in Ryan's recorded voice has brought tears to my eyes. He clearly loves Donna so much. Yet again I wonder why she ran, and vow to increase my efforts to break into the Bubbly Words secret area. There might not even be anything there, but I have to check. I have to know what drove her away from this man.

  We watch in silence as the men finish getting ready and head to the church, then the video cuts to me and a crowd of women. There's my mother, looking unusually tense and nervous but also so proud I can barely stand it, and two ladies I recognize as her friends, and three women about my age in pink dresses a few shades darker than my wedding gown.

  "Your bridesmaids," Ryan says quietly. "All from your charity work."

  My dad stands in the back of the room brushing at his eyes, and I have to do the same. He was always so emotional and we loved to tease him for it. I wish I could tease him right now.

  Ethan, beside him, looks thoroughly overwhelmed. In the pictures he looked confident but here he doesn't seem to know what to do with himself and keeps fidgeting from foot to foot and tugging at his collar just as Ryan did.

  I fold my arms across my middle, not wanting to cry in front of Claire. The pictures were one thing, but this? Seeing it come to life, watching myself prepare to marry Ryan, and I still can't remember a damn thing. I hadn't realized how much I've been hoping the DVD would reawaken my memories. If this doesn't, will anything?

  I sigh, and Ryan lays his hand over mine. I spread my fingers so he can intertwine his with them. His touch is comforting.

  On screen, my mother fiddles with the gorgeous white shawl that covers my shoulders, making sure it lies perfectly straight, and I say softly, "Did she knit me that?"

  Ryan nods. "Took her months to make. It's upstairs in our closet. You don't ever wear it because you're afraid something bad might happen to it, but you like to look at it."

  Whether or not I wore it before, I need it on me now. I need to feel that my mom's with me.

  I take a breath to say so, and Ryan pauses the DVD and says, "Oh, did you just shiver? Why don't I go grab it for you? Then you can be cozy and see how great a job your mom did."

  This man is brilliant. And possibly also a mindreader. "Sounds good."

  As he leaves, I look at the screen, at my mother frozen in time, my mother who I'll never get to see again, and I can't control the tears. "Excuse me," I mumble to Claire, and race to the first-floor bathroom that Ryan showed me on the tour.

  I don't want to cry, since I'm cursed with the kind of face that blotches as soon as a single tear falls and then Claire will feel compelled to 'comfort' me in that way that makes me want to run screaming into traffic, so I take several long deep breaths while letting cold water pour over my hands and wrists to calm me. When I've pushed the tears back far enough that I think I'll be all right, I dry my hands and return to the living room to see Ryan standing awkwardly with a white cloud overflowing from his arms. "Sorry," I say. "I went to the bathroom."

  "You're allowed." He gives me a smile. "Here."

  The shawl is so light I don't feel like I'm holding anything, but when I wrap it around my shoulders and feel the warmth of it beginning to flood me I know, I know, how much my mother loved me. She might look awkward and tense in the video, but she loved me too. And I still love her.

  I stroke my shawl-covered arm and feel myself relax. "It's amazing."

  Ryan nods and gives my arm a gentle touch himself. "Everyone raved about it."

  Claire coughs, but Ryan and I ignore her.

  "Shall we keep watching?"

  I nod, and we take our seats then he starts the video again.

  Dad steps forward. "Ready to go, Donna?"

  I smile into the camera. "I can't wait."

  I look as happy, and as sure about our love, as Ryan did earlier. What happened to us?

  We all pile into a waiting limo and head off, then the video shows my arrival at the church and my walk down the aisle, cutting occasionally to the waiting Ryan. Before I walk in he looks nervous, but once I appear his eyes are locked to me and there's nothing but love and certainty in his face.

  We say our vows, ignoring Claire crying with ostentatious sniffles. She stops when nobody acknowledges her, and Ryan and I slip the platinum bands onto each other's finger while promising to love, honor, and cherish each other now and forever.

  Then the officiant tells Ryan to kiss his bride.

  My brand-new husband takes my face in both hands and kisses me, and I watch and wish I could remember how that clearly sweet and tender kiss felt. Then we sign several documents and walk out arm-in-arm with matching grins to the applause and cheers of the audience.

  The video cuts again, to the reception, where everyone is having a great time. Nearly everyone, anyhow: the camera touches briefly on Claire who looks like she's trying to endure some painful medical procedure without letting the doctor know it hurts. But fortunately the videographer doesn't focus on her and spends most of his or her time filming Ryan and me as we chat with and hug our guests and kiss again and again as people ask us to.

  "Ryan, honey," the real-life Claire says. "Could you fetch me one of Donna's swe
aters? It's cool in here."

  I'm not as possessive of Donna's clothes as she probably would be but even I think this is rather presumptuous.

  Ryan must too, because he glances at me and says, "Do you mind?" and waits for me to say it's all right before going upstairs.

  As soon as his footsteps on the stairs begin to fade, Claire turns on me. "I know you're faking this," she hisses at me. "I looked it up. Amnesia doesn't work like this. And I know why you're doing it. You... hussy!"

  I blink, shocked, and she says, "You must have been having an affair with that Jake for ages. Ryan's been so upset the last few months and I never knew why. But now it all makes sense. You've been cheating on him and of course he hates it. How could you?"

  I stand up. I have to get away from her.

  She's faster than I'd expect, though, and corners me so I can't escape the room. "You should be ashamed of yourself. You're a liar and a cheater and a slut, and you've never been good enough for Ryan. Get out of here and--"

  "Mother!"

  The fury in Ryan's voice stops her cold but she tries to recover. She turns to him, her eyes somehow filling immediately with tears though they were snapping with anger just a second ago, and says, "She's lying to you, honey. She's been cheating on you. I know she's no good. I have to make you see that."

  "No, you have to leave," he says, each word dropping with a distinct pause in between, and I know he's fighting to keep from shouting them at her. "Now. I want you gone."

  She recoils as if he did shout. "But honey, amnesia doesn't work like that."

  Ryan moves to stand beside me and deliberately wraps his arm around my shoulders before saying, "The doctors say it does. And even if they didn't, I trust my wife."

  They stand staring at each other a moment, while I try to keep breathing. Then she bursts into tears. "Ryan, I'm your mother! I know best."

  He shakes his head. "You don't. Go. And do not come into our house without our permission ever again."