by Norah Wilson
“Yes! That’s right. My dentist gave them to me a while ago. It’s a narcotic used to manage post-surgical pain. I thought it would knock your pain down faster.”
A narcotic? “Well, that explains the memory loss, I guess.” He dragged a hand over his face. “Anything else I need to know? Did I do or say anything?”
“No.” She shook her head. “It was lights out pretty quick.”
Well, that was a blessing, at least. “Thank you for telling me.” He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger to them. “You’re a doctor, so I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how stressful it is when you lose time.”
She made a small noise. He glanced up to catch her expression. She looked positively stricken. Cold.
“Ember?”
“Are you saying this has happened before? The memory loss?”
“Just once,” he said, meeting her eyes. “The morning after my nineteenth birthday.”
“Jace, don’t.”
She moved to step back, but he grabbed her hand. This time, he’d make her listen. “You never let me explain. You never—”
“What’s to explain? I thought we were waiting, I was wrong. You found someone else for the in between time.”
“You still believe that?”
It was her turn to shrug.
He sighed. “I don’t remember much about that night. I was a kid who drank too much and did something that I regretted with some woman I’d never even met before.”
“Seriously, Jace, I don’t need to hear anymore.” She tugged her hand and he released it. “I saw the pictures, remember?”
Those fucking pictures. He still didn’t know where they’d come from. “You’re one up on me. I only saw the ashes of them.”
Her throat moved convulsively. “I saw the ashes of everything else.”
Her words rubbed him raw. She wasn’t the only one who’d lost everything.
He wanted to leap to his feet. Wanted to pace the tiny cabin. But he was stuck in the damned chair. He found the lever on the love seat and jammed the footrest down so he could at least sit up. His ankle screamed a protest, but the flare of pain seemed fitting.
She took a step back when he leaned forward. That made him even angrier, but he reined the emotion in. He had a chance now to tell his side, and this time she’d have to listen. Unless she wanted to go out into the wind and rain in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere.
“It’s true,” he said, deliberately relaxing back into the cushions. “I have no memory of the night of my nineteenth birthday, after about mid-evening. I woke up at home the next day, cold and sick, with a hickey on my throat I didn’t remember getting.”
“Ah, that was why you gave me the run-around for the next week.”
“I am not proud of that either. But I swear to God, I didn’t think there was any more to it.”
She snorted. “Right. It was so inconsequential that you hid from me until it healed.”
His fingers tightened on the arm of the love seat. “I didn’t want you to think the worst. To hate me. And until you told me about those pictures, I didn’t believe anything more could have happened. I mean, I don’t remember who it was, what she looked like. I don’t remember anyone even catching my eye. I don’t remember a woman’s lips on me or her skin or her smell. And I sure as hell don’t remember any of the stuff you said you saw in those pictures.”
The silence was heavy. Yet he felt a little lighter with it. He’d been holding that in for a long time. The shame of knowing something happened, yet having no memory of it. How could he have lost control? Lost himself?
The worst of it was he would have sworn he’d never betray Ember. Knew it in his bones. Back then, he’d never wanted anyone else. He’d assumed any misconduct had been minor, maybe a girl cornering him for a kiss in the back alley at the bar or in a car. But from Ember’s hysterical accusations on the phone that final night nearly a month later, there’d evidently been photographs. Compromising ones, taken in his bedroom. He’d tried to defend himself, but she’d all but jammed his words back down his throat. Being drunk was not a defence, she’d said. It was an excuse to do what he obviously wanted to do all along. By the time he trekked back out of the woods and reached her house, she’d refused to talk to him. And when he’d gone back the next day, she was gone.
Now that he’d finally gotten that off his chest, would she finally own up to the heartache she’d cause him all those years ago? No, not just running away, but for sleeping with his brother.
When Ember had left town, Jace had been determined to find her, come clean about everything. Hiding the hickey, the memory loss, the shame. He’d beg her forgiveness, do any penance she wanted. But then his older brother had come clean himself to Jace. He’d slept with Ember. The night she’d run from the camp, she’d run to him. Neither of them had meant for it to happen, Terry’d said. She’d been pissed at Jace over something. Somehow, when Terry tried to smooth things over for Jace, they’d wound up kissing. Then they kissed some more. When he realized what was happening, he tried to stop it, but she was so insistent, propelled by anger and a lust for revenge.
“I’m sorry, bro. She was your girl and I should have been stronger, but she was not about to be denied. You know how headstrong she can be.”
He hadn’t spoken to Terry for six months after that—not until the old man had forced a truce at their aunt’s funeral. And Jace hadn’t spoken to Ember until a few hours ago.
Now, after all this time, he’d confessed. Would she?
She didn’t.
“You really don’t remember the woman?” she asked.
Jace shook his head. “I don’t remember anything. What she looked like, what her name was. After you told me about the pictures, I asked Terry about it. He didn’t know her either. Said she was just some chick I picked up in the bar and brought home. She was gone before I woke the next day.”
God, he hated the way that sounded; the words practically stuck in his throat. He’d been with women since then, and some of them had been hookups, but that was mostly in his first year at university. He’d quickly decided one-night stands were not worth it. They just left him feeling like such a dick. He’d moved on to longer-term relationships, although most of them hadn’t lasted much longer than six months.
“I know what she looked like.” Her voice was matter-of-fact.
What was he supposed to say to that? How many times had he wished she hadn’t destroyed those pictures?
About as many times as he was glad she had, he supposed.
“She wore bright red lipstick. In one picture, she was laughing as if you’d just whispered the funniest thing in the world into her ear.” Ember closed her eyes as if the image she described was burned into her mind. “Her hair was blond and tightly curled. She was really pale—Goth pale—and had a spider tattoo on her shoulder.”
An image flashed in his head. His mouth went dry and his headache roared back to life. “Was it a large spider?”
Ember’s eyes flew open. “Yes, a red spider. A large one that looked like it was crawling toward her neck.”
“A red spider...”
“I’m glad she was so memorable. You know, to help you narrow the possible pool down.”
She spat the words at him like a mouthful of acid. They had to hurt her as much as they wounded him. But as soon as they found their mark, he let the pain go.
Because after all this time, something about that long-ago night had finally come into focus.
Chapter 6
EMBER’S HEART missed a beat.
She was sure of it—one entire lub dub.
Her words had hurt him. She’d seen the telltale flash in his eyes, felt a small spurt of ugly victory. But he’d steeled that pain away quickly, another expression claiming his handsome features. His eyes had turned inward, sifting through memory fragments lost in the past.
Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the discussion
“It’s late.” She pivoted and s
talked away to put some space between them. Finding herself in the kitchen, she looked at the clock on the back wall. Nearly one o’clock in the morning. “Or early, depending on how you want to look at it. You must be starved. I’ll make breakfast. Supper. Whatever.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Ah, but she did. Anything to be able to turn away and not look in those eyes right now. Jace wasn’t the only one remembering the past. “I can hardly let my patient starve,” she said briskly. “I’m already on shaky ground on the do no harm front, after the Tramadol thing. Let’s see what we have to work with.”
She scraped the cold, unappetizing looking onions from her first attempt at an omelet—the one she’d started before she realized he was high on booze and drugs—into the garbage. After washing the skillet out, she put it back on the stove on a medium heat and dug the bottle of eggs out of the refrigerator. Yes, a bottle. Or rather, a Mason jar. A dozen eggs had been cracked and deposited into it. Pretty ingenious, actually. No cracked eggs seeping into your backpack.
Another trip to the fridge for cheese, butter, the unused half of the cooking onion, and some mushrooms. In the cupboards, she found a loaf of multi-grain bread, some small fingerling potatoes, some canned meats and canned milk. Nothing fancy. Your basic bachelor staples. But she could work with that.
“It won’t be anything gourmet,” she said. “But I’ll whip up an omelet. Maybe some thin-sliced pan fries with—”
“Her name was Bridget. Bridget…something.”
Ember stilled for a few seconds. Then, without a word, she went back to assembling the makings for their meal. The task kept her hands busy, but it did nothing to take her mind off of that night, that woman.
It was all she could do to stop herself from unleashing another sarcastic comment. Bridget—such a pretty name for a man-stealing—
She cut the thought off before she could finish it. The woman wasn’t a whore or a bitch or any of the other misogynistic words that sprang to mind. And no one could steal a man who didn’t want to be stolen. This Bridget person was just a woman who slept with a guy a decade ago.
She dug out a second skillet and put it on the other large burner. Opening the butter, she cut off a couple of hunks, and tossed some in each frying pan.
No, the onus had been on Jace—the one in the steady, supposedly committed relationship—to stay faithful.
She pulled out a cutting board and attacked the onion. A moment later, it was diced within an inch of its life.
What was the matter with her? Jace’s betrayal shouldn’t raise these feelings in her. Not after all this time. Why should she care?
Correction—why did she care?
Because it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve doubted yourself over the years—doubted your decision to run like that, without giving him a chance to explain.
She’d hurled those tearful accusations at him over the phone, and when he’d tried to defend himself, she’d hung up on him. He’d tried to call back, but she’d taken the phone off the hook. When he’d come to the house, she’d refused to see him. And then she’d left early the next morning, before he could come back.
But if she was really honest with herself, she had to admit she’d wanted him to come after her—climb that highest mountain, race a white horse through the streets of Ottawa to find her, slay the dragon, and win her back.
Maybe she even resented that he hadn’t.
But other than one conversation with her father, he’d done nothing to find her. And seriously, how hard would it have been? All he would have had to do was convince Arden he still loved her. Arden was such a softie, such a sucker for love. He’d have given it up.
But Jace hadn’t pressed her father. He hadn’t gone after her. The white horse had remained stabled, the suit of shining armour left standing in the closet.
He was supposed to have started at the University of Ottawa himself that fall. And yes, for that entire first month, she’d looked for him at every school event, at the few hockey games she’d attended, and on street corners. By October, she’d learned that he’d switched universities.
“That red spider tattoo was on her right shoulder, correct?”
“I think so.” She’d spent years trying to erase that photo from her memory, but it came up easily. In her mind’s eye, the tattoo was on the right side. But it had been ten years... Could she swear to that? She tried picturing it on the left, but couldn’t. Then she realized why. In the photo where the woman had sat astride Jace, the photographer had clearly been on the right hand side of them, and that particular shot was the only one where the tattoo was fully visible. “Yeah, definitely the right shoulder.”
His brow was furrowed as he dug for the memory. “And she was thin?”
“Way too thin. Except for up top. She appeared to be quite well endowed that way.”
Jace’s eyes seemed focused on something beyond the cabin’s walls. “Yeah, Bridget. I’m sure that was her name.”
“Do you know her?”
A muscle in his jaw leapt. “Apart from the biblical sense those photos would imply, no. I just...when you mentioned the tattoo, that name sort of leapt out of nowhere.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you know her?”
“No.” Thank God. That would be adding insult to injury. But that name, Bridget... Why did it niggle at her? Why did it sound so familiar?
Ember looked down at the butter bubbling in the pans. Grabbing a small bottle of vegetable oil she’d found, she added some to one of them. As it heated, she sliced a couple of the small potatoes into thin, almost transparent medallions and put them into the hot oil. In the smaller pan, she tossed the diced onion into the bubbling butter. Then she poured four of the eggs into a bowl and beat them. When the onions started to look transparent, she added the eggs. For the next while, her mind was blessedly blank as she gave her complete attention to the meal. She removed the eggs from the heat before they had completely set, then focused on the fries. She’d sliced them so thinly, they were more like chips when they browned up. She removed them to some paper towel she’d found, then made toast.
She divided everything between two plates and carried them into the living room.
“There’s some of Mrs. Budaker’s raspberry jam in the front of my knapsack,” he said, absently.
“She’s selling jams and jellies at the market now, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
Ember placed their plates on the coffee table and went to retrieve the small bottle and a knife. Returning, she slathered a generous amount onto the toast, then placed his plate on his lap where he could reach it. Taking her own plate, she sat across from him on an upholstered chair. But as appealing as the meal looked, she couldn’t stomach a bite.
Apparently, neither could Jace, who made no move to eat. From his fierce frown, she presumed he was trying to remember more.
She speared a piece of perfectly fried potato. “The pictures were taken in your bedroom.”
He flinched like she’d slapped him. “Jesus, Ember. I know that.”
She plunked her fork down. “Look, I’m not trying to be a jerk. I was trying to help, but I couldn’t remember whether or not I’d told you that part.”
“You did.” He dragged a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up awkwardly. “Terry confirmed it. He said he caught a glimpse of her leaving our house by taxi early the next morning.”
She gestured to his plate. “You should eat.” She forced herself to take a bite of her toast.
He picked up his fork and ate some of the scrambled eggs and crispy potatoes. Then he put the utensil down.
“I don’t understand. Terry took me out for a couple drinks—I’d just turned nineteen, finally legal to go to the bar. But I swear I only had a couple. That was it. We drove to the Purple Rocket in Crandler. I honestly…tonight was the first I remember any of this.” He shook his head. “Blond hair. Stick thin. Bridget with a spider tattoo. Still not much for me to go on.”
Bridget with a sp
ider.
“Oh my God.”
“What is it?” Jace asked.
“Bridget with a spider. I…I’ve seen that before.”
His eyes followed her as she jumped up, plunked her plate on the coffee table and went to the firewood box by the back door. Yes, there it was! On the small shelf above the wood box sat the guest book. Nothing fancy or formal. Just a small spiral bound book that someone had left there years ago, after having written a thank you in it to Jace’s stepdad for the use of the camp. It had caught on. Ember herself had signed it the first time she’d come up here with Jace. She’d put their initials within a wide heart once all those years ago. But she wasn’t the only one who’d left an embellished personal message.
This time, she sat beside him on the love seat. She flipped through the pages, then stopped. “There,” she said, stabbing a finger down onto the pad. “Bridget Northrup.”
Jace pulled the book closer for a better look. “With a spider dotting the ‘i’.” He released his grip on the notebook. “So that’s who I picked up in the bar.”
Ember flipped back a few pages, scanning the other names. Suddenly, her brain was buzzing. “Unless...”
He looked at her. “Unless what?”
“Unless you didn’t.”
He dropped his gaze. “I think the pictures established that pretty firmly, didn’t they?”
“Obviously she wound up in bed with you, but what if you didn’t just pick her up randomly at the bar?” God, she couldn’t believe she was even entertaining these thoughts.
He rubbed his temple as though his headache had come back. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe she wasn’t as random as you think. Look at the names just below hers.”
Jace leaned closer to read them. “Ross McDonald and Kendri Bloom. I know them. Friends of Terry’s. They’re married now. Kendri actually works at WRP in the Human Resources Department.”
“And all three names are written in that distinctive aqua blue color.”
“So?”
“So they were probably all here together, and used Kendri’s or Bridget’s pretty gel pen to sign the book.”
