“If what? If I come in with you?” Michael shook his head, a sarcastic snicker rumbling out. “No, thanks. I’m not that much of a masochist. But I will be right here to take you home when you’re done, and that’s exactly where we’re going. Like it or not, and as the good doctor noted, you’re my wife. I’m going to have a say in what happens here, Mia. This is far from over. Ten minutes, or I will be through that door to get you.” She nodded, taking a deep breath as she pushed it open.
Mia hesitated between the closed door and the edge of the curtain. It was all that separated them. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Michael, whose head was down as he contemplated the wrong turn his life had taken. Loss of any kind was unfamiliar territory. She faced the curtain, suddenly wondering how it all could possibly live up to her expectations. Be patient. He may not remember the past. She took a small step and stopped short. What if he doesn’t remember me? It hadn’t occurred to her. Keep it simple. Don’t upset him.
Flynn’s eyes were closed, like before, but he was free of the ventilator. The feeding tube was gone and his head was propped higher. Somehow he looked more alive. Not making a sound, she edged her way over. A hand went out to him. She snapped it back. For weeks she’d touched him, brushed back his hair, run her fingers over those lean muscles in his arms. But now he was going to react. Flynn could tell her to stop, admit that he didn’t quite recall her. She was too many women ago. He could tell her to get out, laugh at the fact that she’d stayed by his side. Or worse, ask her to call his wife—the one that he’d been married to for five or ten years. Mia shuddered, closed her eyes, and prayed for the right words. Her trembling hands balled into two tight fists trying to rein in the fear. There were too many unknowns. Michael was right; she dreamt too big. She nearly retreated. But then there was a gift, unlike any she had ever received. It floated into her ears on a path straight to her heart. The sound was raspy and weak, but familiar as her own skin, a deep voice breaking over that silent prayer.
“I was wrong. I thought this was hell, but I guess—this would be heaven.”
The fists relaxed. Mia’s hands flew up over her chest, trying to hold in that bursting heart, her eyes flashing open wide. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Say something! “Hi . . . I’ve missed you.” They were the perfect words.
“Hi, yourself,” Flynn said, as if not a day had passed. The ease in his voice was enough. He remembered everything. “How long have you . . . have I . . . have we been here?”
We, he said we! “You’ve been here, in a coma, for about a month.”
“A month? What month is it?”
“September. It’s September, Flynn. Did the doctor tell you about your injuries?”
“Yeah, some I guess. Your birthday is . . . September . . . Soon? Everything’s . . . foggy.”
My birthday . . . He remembers my birthday!
His eyes rolled up in his head. Dr. Logan was right. He was shakier than he’d ever admit. Mia smiled, wanting to touch him, wanting to throw herself right on top of him, but wrapping her fingers around the cool metal guardrail instead. “No, today’s the second. It’s not for a few weeks. Does anything hurt? How do you feel right now?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” His Adam’s apple bobbed with a deep swallow. “Thirsty.”
“Oh, here,” she said, grabbing a cup of ice water that she’d seen the nurse bring in. “It was an SUV, actually,” she explained as he sipped gingerly through the straw. It was amazing. God had come through. This had seemed impossible a few hours before. Now he was breathing, talking, sipping water through a straw—it was a beautiful thing. “Enough?” He gave a small nod. She couldn’t stop staring. There were deep, etched lines around his eyes. They weren’t there when he’d left. She couldn’t see them when he was in the coma. She loved them, a heavenly afterthought for those angelic eyes. “Do you know what happened? Do you remember anything? About the accident, I mean.” Well, I really don’t mean about the accident. What I want to ask is do you remember leaving me, not a word, not a note, nothing. Could you explain that to me? I’ve only been waiting for twelve years, two months, and sixteen days.
“About the accident, no. I remember being mad about something . . . I was on my way . . . Ah, I must be dreaming.”
“What? What were you on your way to?”
“I think . . . I think I was on my way to see Roxanne. That’s crazy. Why the hell would I do that? How would I know where to find her?”
“Flynn, Roxanne is a doctor at this hospital. The accident happened in between her house and here. I don’t understand.” His eyes searched hers for a moment. He tried to lift his head from the pillow, but it flopped back down. “Shh, don’t move.” Mia gently touched his shoulders. It was nothing more than a small gesture to calm him, but the urge to hang on was overwhelming. She forced herself to let go. “You need to rest. They don’t want you excited.”
“Mia?”
My name, he said my name!
“I don’t understand either. Wait, what state are we in?”
“Maryland, just north of D.C., south of Baltimore. I live about half an hour from here. Where did you think we were?”
“I don’t know . . . Did I find you?”
“Find me? No, I found you. Roxanne called me the night they brought you in. I’ve been kind of, um, waiting around. Waiting for you to wake up.”
“Then I didn’t imagine it? These . . .” he said, pointing weakly toward the drawings. “These are yours?”
“Yes, they’re my sketches.”
He smiled, his eyes closing for a moment. There was a slight nod as he swallowed deeply. “And your voice. You’ve been here all this time? But I don’t get . . . Why . . . Why would you wait like that?”
Why? It wasn’t exactly the thunder of heartfelt appreciation she was hoping for. Flynn didn’t want me then, he doesn’t want me now. For twelve years he could have found me, and nothing. Mia struggled for an “I don’t love you either” explanation. “Well, there wasn’t anyone else that I knew of. They couldn’t find your mother . . .”
“She’s dead. Five years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Anyway, I just thought someone should be responsible,” she said, stealing Michael’s word. “Is there . . . is there someone you want me to call? Your sister, a friend”—say it, say it, say it—“a wife maybe?” The word stuck in her throat like hot tar. There was that horrible picture Roxanne painted. The trailer, a bunch of runny-nosed kids, none of whom resembled him. They all looked like his fat, dowdy common-law wife, maybe the postman. There was even a mangy dog.
Wife? Whose wife? He stared into her face. Mia’s face. What was she doing there? Questions pelted his mind, vast as raindrops on the ocean, but he couldn’t put them in order, couldn’t get them out of his mouth. She was so beautiful, and she was standing right there. Something wasn’t right. The pain in her face was incredible and just as real as her. Goddamn, there was that anger, burning at him. Surely it wasn’t meant for her . . . He was riding fast, going somewhere. He wasn’t paying attention. So furious he couldn’t see the road. Murky scraps of information tumbled in and out, a whirling vortex. He couldn’t stop it long enough to connect it. Wife? Then, like a rush-hour train, it slammed back into his head. Mia’s married. I know she’s married! Why shouldn’t she be? She didn’t come. She didn’t want to wait. Mia loves someone else. He gasped in a trembling breath, turning his head away, as far as his neck would allow. Flynn couldn’t recall the accident, but he remembered that horrific pain, right before, minutes before. Mia belonged to someone else. “No, there’s no one to call.” There was a tremendous sigh from Mia, so deep he couldn’t miss it. Terrific, now she thinks there’s no way out, she’s stuck here.
“Are you all right? Should I get the nurse? Does something hurt?”
“Hurt?” he mumbled, trying to clear his throat. “No, I’m just having trouble remembering things, that’s all.”
“Dr. Logan said that’s normal. The medication they’re giving you for the
pain is making you groggy. Maybe I should go for now. It’s late.” Mia glanced toward the door. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”
“Is that . . . is that okay with your husband?” He turned his head back; he had to see her reaction. “Does he mind you visiting your ex . . . ex what? How’d you explain me, Mia?”
“Not very well,” came her shame-filled whisper. Their gazes drifted together then down to Mia’s fingers wrapped tight around the bar. The fat wall of diamonds on her left hand sparkled and danced under the fluorescent lights. She clumsily yanked it away, the diamonds bumping along the rail, a clinking calling card of betrothal to someone else. “Don’t worry about that. Michael’s not your problem.”
Michael. Jesus Christ, he has a fucking name. And why is it familiar? “Whatever, Mia.”
“Does that mean you want me to come back?” She reached over the bar and picked up his hand. “I spent a lot of time here. I’d like to at least see it through, until you’re better. If you’ll let me.”
Her touch was every memory he harbored come to life. He wanted to, but he couldn’t close his fingers around hers. Great, fucking pity. What’s next? Maybe her husband—that’s right her husband, the guy she’s been fucking sleeping with for who knows how long, five minutes after I was gone—maybe he’ll come by to shoot the breeze, bring a nice house plant. Her eyes, he couldn’t avoid them. There were those sparkling doll’s eyes, so clear and beautiful—and sad? Everything about her was more perfect than he remembered. Almost everything. She let go and his stare moved to her hand again, to that cluster of diamonds. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said she was trying to hide them, tucking one hand behind the other. “Yeah, Mia. Come back if you want to,” he said, swallowing down that last bit of pride.
Chapter 26
Mia rolled over, burying her head in a thick goose-down comforter. She lay there, half awake, fighting to stay inside a beautiful dream where everything was all right. Like the fat, dowdy common-law wife, none of her fears were real. Flynn told her that he loved her. Finally he said the words, confessing that he’d made a terrible mistake, spending years searching for her. It was just the coma. He was confused when he didn’t say it last night. But she couldn’t keep it going; the dream was over.
A stream of sunlight broke through the plantation shutters, drilling a narrow passage into the folds of the fluffy cover. She opened her eyes and bolted upright in bed. Eleven thirty! She snatched the clock off the night table, making sure she’d read it right. Darting from the bed, Mia grabbed her robe and raced into the hallway. The aroma of brewing coffee halted her steady charge. Michael was home. He didn’t do anything without two cups of coffee—God, by now he’d probably had twenty. She inched toward the top of the staircase, like a prowler in her own home. The low mumble of the television confirmed her suspicion. Mia didn’t know why she was so surprised that this morning was going to require further explanation about last night.
It was after midnight when they’d pulled in the driveway, Michael’s car behind hers the entire way. Mia headed straight for the shower, thinking he might be asleep by the time she came out. Then she could go quietly to the guest room. She had misjudged him again. Michael was right where she’d left him, in the middle of the bedroom. The only move he made was to take off his suit jacket and tie. The moment was so awkward she would have felt more comfortable climbing into bed with her last client, a gay man who smelled of lemony aftershave and had a fetish for fringe. She looked around as if searching for the escape hatch, tugging at her terry cloth bathrobe. There wasn’t even a way to say it. It was salt poured straight into the wound, but she couldn’t do it, couldn’t sleep in the same bed with Michael. It would have been a sign of hope.
“It took a whole year to get you to sleep with me, two completely redecorated rooms—not cheap either, mind you—and then, the first time, an entire bottle of champagne. It had nothing to do with commitment jitters, did it?”
She hadn’t answered, amazed by his ability to read her mind. Neither one knew what to do next. She avoided his stare, offering to go down the hall. Michael refused, saying he had no desire to sleep in their bed without her, then stalking off to the guest room.
Now at the top of the stairs, she listened for any sound to gauge his state of mind. There was only the TV. Peering over the top of the rail, Mia could see the entire foyer, blank contractor-white walls. The rest of the interior looked the same. They’d lived there for a year and she’d never bothered to decorate a single room. Michael attributed her lack of interest to not wanting to bring her work home with her. Mia knew better.
She tiptoed back to the bedroom and closed the door. Having memorized every prompt to get her straight through to the ICU, Mia picked up the phone and hurriedly dialed. In a breathless fluster she asked how Flynn was. Had it all been a crazy dream? Her smile widened with each minor detail the nurse offered. Flynn had slept on and off last night, ate real hospital food for breakfast, and was waiting to go down to radiology. If things looked good, they would get him on his feet that afternoon. Mia asked the nurse to give Flynn a message. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
Meeting Michael’s complex stare a few minutes later, she mentally recanted. “Shortly” was wishful thinking. He didn’t look as if he’d slept five minutes; his hair was oddly rumpled. He was poised at the center island in their kitchen wearing a wrinkled polo shirt and sweatpants, his arms leaning so hard on the countertop they looked like an extension of the granite. She was a bit taken aback not to find him in a power suit, prepared to handle his business. There was a confrontational exchange of posturing glances as she passed by, getting out a favorite coffee mug, filling it. When Mia approached, Michael instinctively shoved a sugar bowl at her from the other side of the island. She said nothing, catching it before it sailed past, dumping in the obligatory five cubes of sugar. Mia pivoted toward the refrigerator. He blocked her path by opening the door himself, handing over a small carton of skim milk. The only sound that resonated was the tinkling of her spoon in the mug.
Wielding a chainsaw of observation, Michael cut through the tension. “I know exactly how much sugar goes into that cup and that you’re not even going to drink it if there isn’t any skim milk. I also know that you don’t get what an asinine contradiction that is. Last night you informed me that you’re in love with someone else, that you’ve always been in love with someone else. I’d like to know how I missed that one.”
Nothing like getting right to the point. If he stared any harder, he’d burn a hole right through her—problem solved. “It’s a better question than I have an answer for.” Mia wiped the spoon on a napkin, looking for something to prolong the moment, giving her time to come up with the structured list of reasons that had landed them both in this place. “Since the day I agreed to marry you, I thought that this—what we have—was what I was supposed to have. I mean, who wouldn’t want this life?” she said, pointing out the gourmet kitchen as her example. “More important, Michael: Who wouldn’t want you?”
“Am I supposed to be flattered?” He leaned against the refrigerator, locking the tight muscles in his arms into an unimpressed fold.
“No, it’s just the truth. I understand that it’s a natural reaction to make this all about Flynn.” She afforded him a courteous pause while he rolled his eyes. “But it’s not. It’s about fixing a mistake I, and I alone, made when I gave up on what my heart said. By the time we met—again, it had been years since Flynn vanished,” Mia said. “Common sense, logic, loneliness—they all said to get a life. And I thought I was ready. A first date, sleeping with you, marrying you . . . I wasn’t resisting because of Flynn—at least not consciously. I was trying to find my way. And I did try. I swear, Michael, I tried so hard . . . at first,” she finished, averting her gaze.
“Oh, so I was an experiment in life skills, to see if you’d healed enough to move on.”
“Come on, Michael; it wasn’t deliberate. You weren’t a theory I was testing,” she said, her vo
ice pinching. “I was just trying to live my life.” Her stomach began to churn, and Mia walked to the sink, deciding she didn’t want the coffee after all. She felt drenched in black, a soot-covered villain for whom mercy would be a moot point. But glancing down, the blackness eased as evidence of what her husband had been up to all morning, a third coffee mug, sat in the sink. Roxanne never could manage to find the inside of a dishwasher. He’d been doing his own calculating. No doubt Roxanne had been to the house before dawn, the two of them comparing notes all the way back to Athens. With her back to him, Mia hesitated, trying hard to think like Michael Wells.
His approach shifted, the tone gentler. “I guess you slept well. That’s good. No doubt you’ll benefit from a clearer head. We need a new mattress in the guest room. That one’s like cement. I came back in for another pillow and you were sound asleep.” He moved closer and his expensive aromatic aftershave wafted around her, like a lasso. “I wanted to get into the bed with you, Mia. And I had to stand there and ask myself, what the hell is so wrong with that?” His hands were on her shoulders, and she felt his mouth press into her head as his fingers dropped, riding along the small of her back. “I think you’re very confused, honey. You haven’t slept in weeks, you’re exhausted. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. To be honest, I knew something wasn’t right—something bigger than a design project.” Michael slid his arms around her, the embrace tightening. “Can we slow this down a little? This man, Flynn—he isn’t what you think. Maybe if we talk it through, you’ll see things more clearly.”
Mia twisted around, finding herself pinned between him and the apron of the sink. “Tell me something, Michael. Exactly how long did you and Roxanne end up brainstorming? That’s two brilliant minds; I just want to know what kind of firepower I’m up against.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mia reached around and picked the mug out of the sink. “Coral lip gloss goes terrific with blond hair. What did Roxanne tell you?”
Beautiful Disaster Page 27
