It’s why I don’t blame Charlie for being so cold. I’ve never once blamed her for treating me poorly because I understood. I understood that being told to be better, to work harder and that nothing is ever good enough by someone who was supposed to be closest to her—it changes a person from the inside out. Charlie grew distant, but none of it was her fault. I could have piped up, defended her against Charles’ constant lecturing, but I’d been too afraid to overstep.
Maybe while we’re here, I can give Charlie the chance at a carefree, normal life. Even if only for a week or so.
The sheets I lie upon are heavenly and soft. I don’t realize just how weary I am until my head hits the pillow, and I almost drift off in an instant. The cot at the hospital hadn’t been the most comfortable thing, and I’d spent the majority of the night at Charlie’s bedside awake and worrying.
I roll my head to the side to look at her. There’s something about the way Charlie looks so cozy and content that makes me feel the same. Her blonde hair’s fluffy and dry, spilling onto her silk pillowcase like a halo of light around her head. I admire her long, curling lashes and the faint freckles sporadically gracing her cheeks. They used to be a lot darker, but they’ve since faded with time.
Charlie must sense me looking at her because she tilts her head over to look at me with those big blue eyes like winter mornings. Clear, a little chilly, but the promise of warmth beneath them.
“Will you tell me what the wedding was like?” she asks softly.
I set my jaw and look away. I don’t think I can lie to her and look at her at the same time. She peers up at me earnestly, lost and in need of guidance. I don’t deserve to be this close to her.
“It was a really small ceremony.” I lie through my teeth. “Held at the courthouse.”
“Practical,” she muses. “Definitely sounds like something I would do.”
I nod. “I personally wanted a huge wedding, but you made a good point about how much it’d cost. You said you’d rather use the money for a grand honeymoon.”
Charlie looks none the wiser. “Would you say I’m pretty frugal?”
“Where it counts, yes.”
“Uncle Charles used to say, ‘Save money and money will save you.’”
My heart picks up in pace. “You remember that? Charlie, that’s great!”
“Yeah,” she says with a gentle smile. “I can’t remember his face, or where and when he told me that, but I do know he said it. Is that weird?”
“Bits and pieces. See? Your memories are coming back slowly.”
Charlie grins and lets out a relieved sigh. “I’m glad. It’s been stressing me out not remembering you. What a way to start a marriage, right?”
I lift a hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. I know I have no right to touch her, but I can’t help it. Her cheek is so distressingly soft and her hair smells so wonderfully warm that I’m not in my right mind. I haven’t been in my right mind for quite some time.
“Get some rest, Charlie.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Roman.”
Before I can stop her, Charlie leans in and presses her lips to mine. The kiss is quick, just a peck, but it’s simultaneously the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Her lips are the softest things I’ve ever touched. Even though it’s brief, the kiss sends a bolt of electricity straight through my system. I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am. It’s a perfectly natural thing for a wife to kiss her husband.
But Charlie isn’t my wife. She just believes that she is.
Charlie rolls onto her back and closes her eyes, pulling the duvet cover up over her shoulders. Her eyelids drift shut. Within minutes, she’s fast asleep, snoring softly.
I close my eyes too, but I’m too wound up and stressed to even think about sleeping. Guilt’s a little gremlin sitting directly on my chest, making it impossible to breathe. Reality’s hit me over and over again like a freight train. I’m sharing a bed with Charlie because I can’t stop lying. I want to, but I can’t. Every time the logical part of my brain tells me to end this pointless charade, the other, louder voice of irrationality tells it to shut up. I’m in too deep now.
What if she remembers everything? She’ll be crushed.
What if she doesn’t remember at all?
Once I’m sure Charlie is out for the night, I get out of bed and go to the living room. I fish out Charlie’s cell phone from the backpack I crammed full of mismatched clothes before boarding a plane to the Caymans. I’ve already gone into the settings to deactivate the passcode. The screens cracked, a lightning pattern streaking across from corner to corner from when I accidentally dropped it at the hospital.
There are a million and one new emails waiting for Charlie in her inbox, and just as many text messages and missed phone calls. I’m annoyed and stressed out on Charlie’s behalf.
Can’t the woman catch a break?
There’s a string of messages from Molly that seem particularly urgent, but I don’t know if I should bring it up to Charlie. Like she said, she doesn’t even remember how to do her job. The likelihood that she’ll know how to handle anything company-related seems slim.
[Molly] Maloney has the draft acquisition contract ready for your approval.
[Molly] I also wanted to let you know that your meeting with Forbes has been pushed up to Monday. Your calendar was clear, so I took the liberty of scheduling them after your 11AM hair appointment.
[Molly] There are also a couple of important emails that I’ve forwarded to your inbox. Mostly financial plans that require your sign-off.
[Molly] We’ve also completed the third round of interviews for the Head of Accounting position. I can arrange the final interviews with you this Tuesday, if you’d prefer.
[Molly] Miss Pace? Is everything alright? You normally answer right away.
My thumbs fly over the screen before I give myself the chance to truly think about my actions. Charlie needs to focus on her recovery. There’s no way she can do that with Molly and a thousand other employees constantly hounding her for this and that.
[Charlie] Sorry. Poor cell reception here. Move all my meetings to the following week. I’ve decided to take some vacation time while I’m here.
Molly’s response is almost immediate. It’s kind of alarming considering it’s roughly nine in the evening back in Chicago.
[Molly] A vacation? I can reschedule your meetings, but the acquisition contract really does need your approval before Maloney can proceed.
[Charlie] It can wait. I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m here. I’m leaving everything to you, Molly.
I turn the phone off and hide it at the bottom of my backpack, all the while questioning if my soul’s just earned a one-way ticket to hell.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charlie
True to his word, Roman takes me out for a walk.
It’s a good thing too. As spacious as the executive suite is, I was beginning to feel a little stir crazy. The emptiness of the suite reminds me of the emptiness in my own head, and I really don’t like being in a place that constantly reflects my predicament back to me. At least outside, I can focus on the lively chatter of tourists and vendors, the smell of street food, and the rumble of cars traveling this way and that. Off in the distance, the crashing of ocean waves on white sand beaches fills my ear, along with the constant squawking of seagulls perched up in towering palm trees.
The marketplace is uncomfortably crowded, people occasionally bumping into me by accident as Roman and I make our way through the busy square. I take his hand mainly to make sure we don’t get separated, but also because his firm grip has the butterflies in my stomach fluttering. I like having Roman so close, always at my side. Even though I’m a stranger in this country and a stranger to myself, at least I know I have him.
It’s silly how easily I’ve grown accustomed to Roman being nearby. I can lean to my right ever so slightly and press up against his arm. I can squeeze his hand whenever I feel overwhelmed, and he’ll
automatically slow his pace to give me a breather. Whenever something in the marketplace catches my eyes, Roman always stops and gives me the time to admire whatever trinket I’ve spotted. And like a gentleman, he always offers to buy it for me.
He picks up a colorful keychain and grins, raising his eyebrows like he’s silently asking, You want this? It’s got a two-for-one deal.
“No, it’s okay. I don’t need a snowman made of sand.”
“Wouldn’t it just be called a sandman?”
I can’t help but laugh. “We can’t call it a sandman. The Sandman already exists.”
“The Sandman doesn’t have a trademark on his name, last I checked. Why can’t we call it a sandman?”
“What on earth prompted you to check if the Sandman’s name was trademarked?”
“I was teaching the boys an intro to business class. They wanted to know the difference between a trademark and a copyright.”
I raise an eyebrow at him as Roman sets the snowman made of sand down on the vendor’s table. “You teach too?”
“When I can, yes. Only when we’re short on funding and can’t pay auxiliary staff. I’m not exactly qualified to be teaching, but I’m comfortable with the basics. And anything I can Google.”
We continue our stroll down the busy street, made narrow by the sheer number of people in the way. But even lost in this crowd of nameless faces, I don’t feel alone. Not with Roman right beside me, the only constant I have to gravitate toward. I don’t know what it is about him. There’s just something about the way he smiles at me, the way he leans in to listen whenever I speak, that calms my heart and erases any doubts that manage to creep into my thoughts.
Roman and I are about to cross the street when a street vendor calls out to me.
“Hey, miss! Remember me?”
I turn to see an older man sitting behind a plastic fold-out table, a brightly patterned red and blue cloth draped over its surface. There are tiny bottles of sand for sale at five bucks a pop, multi-color seashell bracelets, sea creatures that have been hand-carved from driftwood, and other little trinkets.
The strangest feeling of déjà-vu washes over me.
The street vendor is an older man, his wispy white hair standing in stark contrast to his incredibly tanned and leathery skin. He has kind eyes and an even sweeter smile. Atop his head sits a straw hat to shield him from the heat of the noonday sun.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Ah, I see you’ve brought your man along this time. I’m glad you’re wearing more sensible clothes. I was worried you would get heat stroke.”
“This time?”
I take a moment to think. For the life of me, I can’t place this man anywhere in my memories. The longer I stare at his table of souvenirs, the more nostalgia bubbles to the surface. I can hear the echo of past conversation, see the flash of something red. I remember the sensation of something cold and wet against my palm.
“Coca Cola,” I whisper.
“What’s wrong, Charlie?” Roman asks.
I break out into a smile, relieved to finally have remembered something more concrete and recent. “This gentleman gave me a can of Coke the other day. I was…” I frown, the details unblurring the harder I focus. “I was on my way back to the hotel from somewhere.”
Roman falls quiet, looking at me intently with pursed lips. He seems lost in thought. “Do you remember anything else?” he asks after a moment.
I close my eyes and think as hard as I can, though I’m rewarded with a slight headache for my efforts. I can vaguely make out a long line, tall counters, and a brightly lit interior of some tall building. My memory of this place is mostly silent, the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional phone ringing lifting into the air. For some reason, I distinctly recall a ton of paperwork and the throbbing in my hand from signing numerous documents.
“A bank,” I realize. “I was in a bank for some reason. On my way back to the hotel. And then the accident happened.” I look to Roman. “Was I getting cash out for spending money?”
He shakes his head. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Why weren’t you with me?”
“Like I said, I arrived after you because of work. Maybe that’s why.”
I pick at my fingernails and ignore the fact that my heart’s picked up in pace.
Something isn’t adding up.
“Are you hungry?” Roman asks hurriedly. “There’s a restaurant a couple blocks from here I thought you might like.”
It’s then, and only then, that I realize my stomach’s been grumbling. I’ve been so distracted by our walk that I hadn’t realized what an appetite I’d managed to work up. My feet are aching too, so the thought of sitting down somewhere that has air conditioning pleases me.
“I guess I could eat,” I say.
~
Roman and I end up in a lovely little Italian restaurant. He sits across from me, the small table decorated with a pristine white cloth and a single rose in a translucent blue vase. The smell of roasted garlic, savory sauces, and grilled meats wafts from the kitchen where a team of cooks work quickly to get out the orders that keep flooding in. The restaurant has a large window that gives its patrons a look into the kitchen, and it’s utterly fascinating to watch the chefs move about with a level of impressive efficiency and command. A few of the chefs closest to the window put on a bit of a show, adding flare whenever they sauté or season with salt and pepper.
The restaurant patrons, mostly tourists, eat it up. More than a few of them take pictures on their phones, uploading directly to Instagram or Facebook for the likes.
But I’m not paying attention to any of them.
I’m too entranced by Roman to notice much else.
He really is handsome. Roman’s got a swimmer’s body, strong shoulders wider than his tight waist. I briefly imagine what he’d look like in a pressed suit, sleek and powerful. I think he’d look fantastic with a navy blue tie, the color complimenting his dark green eyes that now rake over the restaurant’s menu.
They remind me of forests, full of light scented pine mixing with tree bark and earthy underbrush. I don’t know if hiking was ever my thing, but just looking at Roman makes me dream of outdoor adventure. It’s odd what aspirations he inspires in me without even trying. It’s exhilarating to think about the endless possibilities we can get up to. When our honeymoon is over and we inevitably return to Chicago, we’ll likely fall back into the rhythm of our daily lives.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want that.
I’m all over the place. I don’t even known if I have a rhythm to get back to. If my memories don’t return, I’m going to have to figure out an entirely new plan of action. I wonder if Roman will take additional time off to help me, but I don’t really like the thought of him stepping away from the work he clearly loves so much—even if only for a little while.
“Will you tell me about the boys?” I ask. “At Phoenix House. I’m curious how you find them.”
It’s endearing how Roman’s face lights up at the mention of his charity.
“Most of the kids find me, actually. Word of mouth, mostly. Sometimes kids telling other wayward kids is the most effective advertising method. I try my best to partner with the local foster care network, but that’s not always the best move.”
“Why’s that?”
Roman shrugs a shoulder, a gloom sweeping over his eyes. “These kids, the ones who come to me for help, they don’t exactly have the best time in foster care. Just because a person’s qualified to be a foster parent doesn’t mean they’re a good parent. You know? Just because a kid’s in a home doesn’t mean it’s a good home.”
I remain silent, thoroughly engaged. I like the way Roman speaks. His voice is deep and low and soothing.
“A lot of them have it rough. It’s why Phoenix House exists, kind of like an alternative. I’d rather they stay with us if we have enough open beds than be in an overcrowded shelter or out on the stree
t.”
“I’ve probably asked you before, but what made you decide to run the charity?”
The corner of Roman’s lip curls up into a soft smile. “Before Charles took me in, I was one of those boys—a foster kid without a family, handed off from foster home to foster home. Until Uncle Charles took me in, I really had nobody.”
My brows knit together as I reach across the table, placing my hand gently over his. “I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been tough.”
“It was. And it was tougher still because there weren’t that many resources available to me. Thank God for Uncle Charles. Without him, I have no idea where I would have wound up. I attended college and studied sociology. Thought I was going to become a social worker, but I realized there’s this sort of hit or miss trust between a social worker and their kids. I figured the best way to help kids was to be more direct, treat them like actual people, and not case numbers. Charles gave me a small loan to start up Phoenix House, and the rest is history.”
I smile at him fondly. “You must really love your job.”
“I don’t really think of it as a job. I know it sounds really douche-y, but I … I guess I see it as my purpose in life. Like it’s my calling. I don’t think I’d rather do anything else for as long as I live.”
I giggle. “Why would that be douche-y? I think it’s great.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. It’s fantastic, actually. When we get home, I hope there’s something I can do to help you.”
“You … you do? Seriously?”
“Yes? I mean, if I’m some hotshot CEO, surely I have the funds to help your cause, right?”
“Oh, um… Wow. Thanks, Charlie. Yeah, that’d be awesome. Maybe we can talk about it some more when we get back.”
“You seem really surprised. Did I not help out much before?”
“Uh–” Roman swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Well, to be honest… You know what? Never mind.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Roman,” I say firmly, “tell me. I want to know. Did I… Did I not support you?”
Forgotten Inheritance (Inherit Love Book 6) Page 5
