by Karina Bliss
She knew better than to ask if he wanted to talk about it. A drop of rain fell on her bare arm, then another, surprisingly cold. “It’s going to pour,” she said. Who was Ajmal? “And you’ve just burned up all your reserves helping me save the Pink Lady.” Sweat dampened his hair from the recent exertion. His skin was the color of wood ash and a blue pulse beat erratically under the thin skin at his temples. “Let’s get you in the car.”
“I’m fine,” he grumbled.
“You will be fine,” she replied pleasantly, “when you’re rested and fed and medicated.” She deliberately stressed the last word and was rewarded with the hint of a smile.
“I’ll join you in a minute.” He turned and leaned against the door, rolling his head back to feel the drops on his face. The rain gathered mass. What on earth was he doing? Jules ducked into the car, grabbed a red umbrella from the backseat. When she reemerged, Lee had walked away a few paces, spread his arms, face still lifted to the sky.
While she could only see his back, his posture suggested a yearning that silenced her.
The shower became a downpour. Raindrops bounced off the road surface, and quickly formed puddles. Arms outstretched, Lee surrendered to it, celebrated it.
Jules stood under the umbrella and waited.
When at last he climbed into the car, water had plastered his hair to his skull and the sodden T-shirt clung to his body, revealing every rib, every sinew of lean, wasted muscle. But his green eyes were luminous, as though the rain had filled him to the brim and spilled over. He looked at her warily.
She passed him the blanket. “I don’t expect you’ve had much chance to enjoy rain lately.”
“Not much.” He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, dragging off the T-shirt underneath it.
“You make it look fun.”
He smiled. “Try it.”
“Rain check. Want me to get a change of clothes out of the trunk?”
“Thanks.”
Reopening the umbrella, Jules got out and rummaged through his bag. He’d left owning a house, a Harley, an old ute, boys’ toys and an extensive wardrobe. He’d returned to nothing, his only belongings this duffel bag holding a few changes of clothes and basic toiletries. They’d have to remedy that.
Clutching the dry clothes against her chest to protect them from the squally droplets blowing under the umbrella, she got back in, catching a flash of skin before Lee hauled the blanket over his shoulders.
Covered, he accepted her bundle and finished dressing under the blanket. Jules busied herself wringing the worst of the water from his discarded clothes before dumping them on the backseat. She fought the urge to weep.
In the six-week whirlwind that was their relationship she’d experienced the world afresh with him. One weekend they’d taken a road trip on his Harley, buffeted by a coastal breeze, gone skinny-dipping on an isolated beach and made love under a waterfall in the bush, laughing so hard they’d nearly drowned. He’d coaxed her into walking barefoot, like a couple of kids, to the campground store for an ice cream. This man, so at ease with the elements, with himself, had spent the past fourteen months in a dank, dark cell.
Heartbroken, she smiled at him. “Let’s get you home.”
* * *
LEE HAD HIS first real chuckle when Jules pulled into her garage. Vintage 1930s, like her Art Deco cottage, it hadn’t been built for an American car the size of a ’59 Caddy.
“Go ahead, make a wisecrack,” she invited as she threw a cover over the protruding rear end with the ease of long practice, then slid the roller door down to a protective pad she’d placed over each Jetson taillight. “I’ve had everything from ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ to ‘Surely you measured the garage before you bought the car?’”
“Your insurance premiums must be huge—anyone could come and open the garage.”
“They could but...” Triumphantly, Jules produced a wheel lock.
And despite his exhaustion, Lee laughed. He turned to the house. “I thought you’d have finished the renovations.” The outside looked as dilapidated as ever, still in need of a repaint, particularly the wooden window frames.
“Nope,” she said cheerfully.
Slinging the duffel bag over a shoulder, he followed her up the broken path to the curved front steps, where the paint was worn to bare concrete in patches from sixty years of foot traffic.
And stalled on the second step. “Are your flatmates going to be okay with this?” Until now he’d forgotten she shared the place with a couple whose rent helped repay her mortgage.
“I live alone these days.” The frosted glass above the front door needed new beading and rattled loosely in the frame as she turned the key and opened it. “Come on in.”
Last time Lee had crossed this threshold he’d been leaving, a ring in his pocket and righteous anger shielding his devastation. Suddenly so weary he could barely put one step in front of the other, he followed her into the tiny hall and turned right into the living room he’d helped paint a light brown.
On the stripped floorboards, pastel coffee mugs sprouted around the base of the couch and armchair like ceramic mushrooms. Both the coffee table and fireplace mantel were stacked with papers. He scanned the title on the top of the nearest pile and his jaw tightened. Common Problems with Post-release Hostages.
Jules dropped her bag over it. “If I’d known you were coming home with me I would have cleaned up,” she apologized.
“It’s a palace compared to what I’ve come from,” he reminded her.
Dropping the keys on the coffee table, Jules went to close the curtains across the bay window and Lee took the opportunity to pick up another report from the mantel, brushing off petals from a vase of wilting pink flowers next to it. “Different types of amnesia,” he said drily. “I’m touched by your concern.”
“Anything that helps.... Let me tidy that away.”
Embarrassed, she held out a hand for it; Lee tucked the folder under his arm. “Bedtime reading. I might learn something.” Given that most of his amnesia was feigned, he sure as hell hoped he did. “So what does all this stuff say about the odds of my memory returning?”
“Every case is different, but given the length of time that’s passed...probably low.” Collecting the dirty coffee mugs, she added casually, “Have you had any flashbacks?”
“No, but there’s something about this house that makes me feel...” he frowned “...uneasy? Uncomfortable?”
She darted a nervous glance at him.
Lee waited a couple of beats. “I think it’s the beige of these walls.”
Jules’s tension subsided like a soufflé. “You never appreciated mocha. Remem—you tried to talk me into white.”
“Guess I prefer things simple.”
“And yet you chose me,” she said lightly.
He beamed a loving smile. “We chose each other.”
The mugs clunked together as she escaped into the adjacent kitchen. “So what can I get you? A cup of tea, some food?” Dumping the mugs, she opened the fridge. “I have chicken noodle soup...not homemade but organic. I’ll stock up with something heartier tomorrow.”
His stomach lurched at the mention of food. Lee swallowed hard. “Before anything else, I need a shower.”
“Of course, you’ve been traveling, what...a day and a half?” She led the way to the bathroom, passing her bedroom. Her bed was covered with discarded dresses. That was odd. Blushing, she closed the door in passing. “As I sa
id, I would have cleaned up.”
Yeah, but then there’d be no evidence. Lee said nothing. Nervously, Jules rummaged for fresh towels in the bathroom cupboard. “If you want to use my razor, there are fresh blades in here, too.”
He thought of the scar on his cheek. “Thanks, but I’m going for rugged.”
“You start feeling faint...just yell.”
Which meant he looked like shit. A glance in the mirror confirmed it. He saw a pale, glassy-eyed skinny guy clearly about to throw up.
Leaving the bathroom, Jules hesitated. “Maybe you shouldn’t lock the door.”
“In case you want to join me?” But she was off the hook for a few days at least and they both knew it.
“You don’t have to put on a brave front for me, Lee.”
So much for striking terror into her guilty heart. The door clicked shut. He turned on the shower and under cover of the noisy spray, threw up in the toilet as quietly as he could. The cure was almost worse than the disease.
There was mouthwash beside the sink. Lee used half a bottle, then drank thirstily from the tap. Better. Digging in his bag he pulled out a new toothbrush still in its wrapper and brushed his teeth three times. Visiting a dentist was on his list of things to do and he wasn’t looking forward to it.
He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the old-fashioned shower, groaning aloud at the pleasure of hot water. With the luxury of staying in as long as he wanted—not an option in a base hospital—he lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the tiles, letting the cascade pour over him, steamy and hot, easing the aches in his muscles, the kinks in his mind.
And tried to ignore the passion-fruit scent of Jules’s soap and shampoo entwining his senses with unwelcome tendrils of memory.
He must have dozed because next thing he knew, Jules’s silhouette hovered anxiously on the other side of the semitransparent shower curtain. “Lee, are you okay in there?” His hand shot out to hold the curtain closed. He had no desire to show Jules his scars.
“I fell asleep,” he admitted. “I guess it’s being...” Safe. “Jet-lagged. I’ll be right out.”
When she’d left, he stepped out and toweled dry, noticing that she’d refolded his clothes on the chair. Very wifely. He dressed and then followed the smell of chicken soup to the kitchen.
Jules was at the stove, stirring a pot. “Think you can keep some of this down?”
All Lee wanted was a bed, but his medication needed to be taken with food. “I’ll try it.” He noticed she’d lined up the vitamins and minerals in his duffel along the countertop with a tall glass of water and added begrudgingly. “Thanks.”
He sat at the table, watching Jules move around the kitchen, retrieving bowls and spoons, buttering toast. Her movements tended toward brisk and purposeful in keeping with her personality. But it was her curves he was watching.... She had curves that a Formula One racetrack designer would envy. Lee looked away before his bitterness curdled the soup.
Black-framed photos hanging on the wall caught his attention. Before he was even aware of it, he’d pushed back his chair and was standing before one.
Lee’s breathing hitched painfully. Holding a flashlight and wearing a day pack over a green anorak, his father peered over his spectacles at the ugliest animal Lee had ever seen.
Jules came to stand beside him. “Our Tasmania trip.... That strange little marsupial is a Tasmanian devil. We were on a night walk...they’re nocturnal.”
“So was Dad.” He wanted to touch that beloved face, but not in front of Jules.
“You’re telling me.” There was a smile in her voice. “I’d fade out at nine-thirty while he stayed up planning the next day.”
Except one morning he didn’t wake up. Tell me he didn’t suffer. Tell me he coped okay after my death. Tell me he died happy. But Lee couldn’t go there yet. “How did you become such good friends?” They’d previously met once over dinner at a restaurant. He couldn’t recall an instantaneous bond being struck. If anything, Jules had been reserved.
“After your memorial service, Rob and Connie asked me if I’d keep an eye on him—since we both lived in Whangarei.” She added, “Both of us were on our own and somehow we ended up having dinner once a week.”
Gregarious and open, Dad had always collected friends easily.
“One night when we were talking about regrets Ian said he’d had dreams of traveling with your mother which he’d put aside when she died.”
Lee folded his arms. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“I had to practically drag him on the initial trip, but then he got the travel bug. The other trips were his idea. And like his son, he could be persuasive.” She smiled.
“Neither of us like to take no for an answer.” He’d hoped to make her squirm; instead, Jules moved to the next picture.
“Your dad wasn’t a quitter.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Her tone was so neutral as to be accusatory.
“This is a volcano on the Big Island in Hawaii.” His father grinned against a backdrop of lava. Same hat, same jacket. He did enjoy getting good wear out of clothes. Briefly Lee closed his eyes. Oh, Dad.
“Because of my work our trips were short,” Jules continued. “Never more than a week, but that suited Ian. He didn’t like to leave his garden for too long.”
“And yet he gave it up for an apartment in a retirement home.” Lee struggled to keep accusation out of his voice.
“Rob and Connie saw his decision as being out of character. Maybe it was, I didn’t know your dad well before the ambush.” She hesitated. “After your death, he found it very hard living in the house he’d raised you.”
“And you helped him pick up the pieces.”
“We helped each other.” The frame was askew and she straightened it, her fingers lingering. “I think I got the best of the deal.”
That’s what worries me.
“But to answer your question, the retirement home had a communal vegetable garden. Ian could be involved without doing the digging.... This last picture was taken in Queenstown.”
It was the only shot of Jules with his dad. They stood on the deck of the vintage steamship TSS Earnslaw, arms threaded affectionately, smiling. While he’d been in a hellhole in Afghanistan.
Jealousy, relief, gratitude, grief...they all churned inside him. He’d tethered these emotions for nineteen months; the idea of giving them free rein was terrifying.
“I have a holiday album if you want to see it,” Jules said.
“Some other day.” He returned abruptly to the table. The kitchen was tidier than the rest of the house, which suggested she didn’t use it much. “What happened to your flatmates?”
“I needed my own space.” Jules finished preparing the meal. “I turned the third bedroom into a home office.”
“You’re still a workaholic?”
“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may be incriminating.... Here you go.” She placed a bowl of soup and a plate of toast in front of him, before returning to the counter for her own.
Lee sipped his first spoonful and cursed.
“Be careful,” Jules warned as she returned. “It’s—”
“Hot, yeah.” Picking up his glass, he swilled cold water. “I’m still not used to it.”
He caught her eye and got burned again, this time by her sympathy. Something else he wasn’t used to. She must have seen his recoil because she got busy, pouring tea from a teapot already
on the table, adding milk and two sugars to each mug.
“I don’t take sugar,” he reminded her.
“You do tonight...it’s good for shock.”
He raised a brow. “As a paramedic I can tell you that’s a myth.” He didn’t like that she’d picked up on his reaction to seeing his father. “Plus you’re being bossy.”
“Surely you didn’t forget that about me.” With a warm smile, she slid a mug over.
“No.” He returned her smile. “But we took turns being on top.” Shock flared in her eyes, and she stopped stirring her tea. Hey, baby, he thought, and that’s on one sip of wholesome soup. Imagine what I might do on a whole bowl.
Jules started stirring again. “And tonight it’s my turn on top.”
His groin tightened. Definitely still in working order. “When I get my strength back—” he smiled across the table “—you’re in trouble.”
“Finish your soup since our shared priority is making you healthy.”
He managed half a bowl, eating it slowly, giving his stomach time to digest it. The spoon seemed to get heavier and heavier, as did his head. He propped it in one hand. Next thing Jules was pulling his arm over her shoulder. Sliding a hand round his waist, she helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“I’m awake,” he mumbled.
He did wake up when she led him into her bedroom. Jules must have felt his muscles tense. “It’s closer to the bathroom.... I’ll take the spare room.”
She released him to pull back the covers. She must have cleared away the clothes when he’d been in the shower. Lee collapsed face forward on the fresh sheets, fully clothed. “Ah, God, this is good.”
“There’s a basin on the nightstand if you need to throw up.”
“Spoil the moment, why don’t you,” he complained into her pillow, and she laughed.
“Sleep in. I have to go to work but I’ll be home by lunchtime. We’ll go to the doctor—”
He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. She’d already turned out the light, but the beam from a streetlight sliced through a gap in the curtains, illuminating her silhouette.
