Remember My Love

by Elise Dee Beraru

  Until she knew what to do she couldn't tell Susannah. She began to piece together almost three weeks of mystery as she sat there nursing.

  Susannah told her that Thunder had kicked Brian and that he had been carried away unconscious. Blair Carroll had the remnants of a bruise on his forehead. When she found Brian, he had been struck in the head and had lost all memory of who he was. Was it possible that the new injury had reversed the process, returning his lost memory and wiping out Brian Strange as if the last two years hadn't existed?

  "It's the only explanation I can think of," she mused aloud. "Oh, Bea, what are we going to do?"

  BLAIR DIDN'T sleep well that night. He kept having odd dreams of holding a dark-haired woman in his arms. He could not see her face for the curtain of long hair obscuring it. She was laughing and reaching out to him. But he kept waking from the dream hard as a rock and smelling roses. Who was she? Was she a clue to his missing two years? He didn't know.

  And why did he think of that odd Mrs. Strange?

  He rose and struggled into his dressing gown. It only wrapped around him from the waist down, gaping open across his broad chest. He stormed across the hall to his office. Going to the sideboard, he splashed whisky into a glass and took a sip. It hit him like a bitter slap. Suddenly, he didn't care for the taste. He slammed the glass down.

  "What the hell has happened to me?" he growled aloud. "I don't smoke anymore. Now I can't stand the taste of whisky. I'm having nightmares about women, for God's sake! I'll be a fucking wreck in a month if this continues."

  DONELLI PRACTICALLY had to push a protesting Adele into the Carroll carriage the next morning with the clothes in a canvas garment bag and her sewing kit for any last minute alterations.

  "I know it's Sunday, but it's got to be done," he insisted.

  Once inside the Carroll mansion, Adele handed a large box containing the newly finished garments to a servant to take upstairs.

  At Jennings' direction, Adele headed into the parlor to wait. When she looked up, she saw another black-haired man sizing her up from the doorway. He entered the parlor.

  His face was gentle and intelligent. Although clean-shaven, reed slender and closer to her age, he reminded her more of Brian than Blair did. She held out her hand.

  "I'm Signor Donelli's assistant, Adele Strange. Signor Donelli told me that Mr. Carroll had a brother. You must be him."

  Stephen took her hand and shook it. His handshake was steady, his hands cool and dry. "Yes, I'm Stephen Carroll. I'm a client of Donelli, too. You couldn't have finished something already. You were only here yesterday."

  "It's a loan until we finish something else. I'll get started first thing Monday morning."

  "Hmmm. You're very pretty, you know."

  "Now, Stephen, don't flirt with the tailor. You turn her head with compliments and I'll be walking around half naked." Blair had walked in wearing the suit and a blue shirt.

  Stephen and Adele exchanged glances. There was an instant camaraderie established in that look. Adele knew that when the time was right, this young man--her brother-in-law--could be an important ally.

  "I was just leaving for the office, Blair," Stephen responded sharply. "I've got to get that motion finished so I can file it Monday morning."

  "Bring me back something to do, for God's sake. I'm bored to distraction sitting around idle like this," Blair commanded to Stephen's departing back.

  Turning to Adele, he said, "Well, Mrs.--what's your name again?" He actually remembered it, but this was a ploy to make others believe he had no time to remember their names.

  "Strange, Adele Strange, Mr. Carroll."

  "Mrs. Strange. It seems your husband was pretty close to my size. This thing fits pretty well."

  "Actually, it's a good style for a man as large as yourself. More fitted suits might make you look a little squeezed."

  Adele walked behind Blair and put her hands at the shoulder seams of the jacket. It was hard to retain her composure and act in a professional manner. "How does it feel through here?" she asked, "Any pulling or straining?"

  "None."

  "Button the jacket, please...Good, no straining." She knelt down in front of him and tugged on the trouser legs. "How does that feel? Any binding, um, up there? Can you sit for a minute and tell me?"

  Blair sat down. "It feels fine. Almost as if you made it for me. Why don't you add one of these to my order?"

  "In that moss gray tweed, do you think?" God help me, I'm discussing fabric selections when I want to beg him to remember me. "How is the shirt?"

  "Passable. Fits fine."

  "Good. Then I'll be going. It is Sunday."

  "Tell Donelli I will come to the shop for fittings. Now that I have this suit, it's not half as humiliating as those rags I was wearing when you saw me yesterday."

  Adele had enough insults to her sewing, even if he did not know they were directed at her. Somewhat defiantly, she commented, "I'm sorry, Mr. Carroll, but it looked like those clothes fit you pretty well. I'm sure whoever gave them to you took care, but she must have been very poor."

  "Why would you think it was a woman?" Blair asked defensively.

  "No reason, just a guess. It could have been a man. After all Mr. Donelli sews and my husband could sew a little."

  "Your husband sewed?"

  Adele laughed, "He got bored one winter evening, so my sister dared him to learn how to quilt. He got quite good at it after a while. The hardest part was finding him a large enough thimble."

  "Were you and your husband poor?"

  "We worked hard; we made do. We didn't have much money, but I never felt poor with Brian...Please, sir, I must go. It's really very painful for me to talk about with you."

  Adele couldn't get out fast enough. Upon returning to Donelli, she buried herself in the workroom and sewed nonstop until late in the evening, breaking only to go home for an hour to eat and nurse Bea.

  For two weeks she was already in when Donelli came downstairs and stayed long after he left. She was averaging three hours of sleep per night and her face became drawn with dark circles beneath her eyes. She celebrated Twelfth Night by sleeping the clock around and waking up early on January seventh to return to the shop.

  Blair's order was taking most of the time and attention, but other patrons needed work done as well. Once the bulk of the Carroll order was delivered, the time demands were greatly reduced and Adele began to regain her energy. But she didn't know what was worse; seeing Blair or not seeing him.

  Donelli was pleased with the positive comments Adele's work received as well as by the positive comments about his pretty assistant. He was well aware that Adele did not flirt or treat these clients any way except professionally, but he could live with the hint of promise, as long as the trade continued to increase. Her discomfort around Blair Carroll was obvious as was his with her. Yet both denied that anything had been said between them that would have caused the discomfort.

  Adele was out on a lunch break when a messenger delivered the loaned sacque suit and cambric shirt from Blair Carroll. Donelli took out the garments and examined them carefully, looking for alteration marks that would have been made when Adele delivered the suit. The tailor had seen the suit on his client and knew it fit perfectly.

  There were no marks, no cut threads, no moved seams. There was only one man this garment had been made to fit, and that man had been the one wearing it.

  That would explain Adele's behavior--if Blair Carroll were her missing husband--but, if true, it didn't explain Carroll's lack of recognition of her.

  "No, it can't be. If I had a wife like her, I wouldn't act like I don't know her," he declared aloud. "Or don't remember her."

  He poured himself a cup of coffee. An image of his Angelina appeared in his mind. He toasted the memory.

  "Angelina, mi amore," he said in the Italian he hardly used anymore. "Watch over this lady for me. If anyone deserves help from Heaven, it's her. I only pray her heart doesn't get broken."

  Cha
pter 12

  THE TELEGRAM read:

  ARRIVING JANUARY 20 11AM TRAIN STOP RETURN TRAIN DEPARTS 12:30 STOP COLLECT CHILD AT STATION STOP MUST RETURN IMMEDIATE EASTBOUND STOP MARGARET FAIRCHILD WISCONSIN ORPHAN SOCIETY.

  "Impossible," declared Blair, looking out over the stack of documents and files covering the desk in his office at the Carroll Enterprises warehouse on the Embarcadero.

  "What is impossible?" asked Stephen as he entered the office with a thick file under one arm. "The Villanorte contracts are in order," he added, putting the file down on Blair's desk.

  Blair gestured with the yellow Western Union form. "This woman from Milwaukee. She expects someone to pick up the child at the station."

  "Joshua?"

  "Joshua?" Blair echoed stupidly.

  "The child. Your son. His name is Joshua."

  "Oh, yes, of course, Joshua," Blair responded absently. He started rooting around in the Villanorte file Stephen had just put down.

  "When?"

  Blair looked up. "When what?" His mind was already back on business.

  "Joshua. When is he due?"

  Blair looked down at the telegram again. "Tomorrow at eleven. It's impossible."

  "Oh yes, Winslow told me you have that meeting with Edward Donaldson and Captain Nels Sorensen regarding the run to Japan and Singapore. Couldn't you change the appointment time?"

  "What, and have Donaldson take his shipment to Rafferty Brothers? We can't afford to lose his business to the competition. Shit, it takes every waking minute to stay one step ahead of that son of a bitch Gerald Rafferty. He deviled me at school and he still does, he and his brother. Why couldn't Dad have made his money in gold mining or gambling? Molly can just go with Lopez in the carriage and pick the boy up."

  At that moment, Stephen wanted to deck Blair. He could feel his hand curling into a fist in his ire. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath and after a pause, quietly admonished, "Your son is coming two thousand miles to a strange city and a strange father and you're going to send a housemaid and coachman to fetch him?"

  Blair slammed his hand down on the desk. "What do you expect me to do? One of these days your soft-heartedness is going to be the ruin of me."

  Stephen felt the stab to his pride. Carroll Enterprises had not lost money the two years he was at the helm. In the month since Blair returned, he made it seem as if the younger man had brought the company to the verge of bankruptcy instead of bringing in modest profits in a cutthroat market.

  On the issue of the boy, Stephen felt even more anger. In the previous two years, Stephen had maintained a steady correspondence with Cherry Leval's attorney, Orville Garrett, conducting negotiations for custody of young Joshua Leval. He understood Miss Leval's need to keep her son with her even as her health continued to wane. Stephen sent regular drafts to pay her lodging and medical bills and support both mother and child. These were sent through the attorney in order to assuage Cherry's pride. Until the actress finally succumbed to consumption, Stephen made no attempt to remove the boy from her care and company, but in the weeks between her death and Blair's return to San Francisco, Stephen was able to finally arrange for custody of the child he had never actually met. Stephen actually looked forward to meeting Joshua, even if Blair had trouble remembering the boy's name.

  "Actually, I think I'll get Joshua myself. An uncle is better than a housemaid and I wasn't going to the Donaldson meeting anyway. I can take care of that short clause matter at the courthouse tomorrow morning and be at the station by eleven with no effort whatsoever."

  Blair chewed on that a moment. "You were going to take him on anyway--if I'd turned out to be dead."

  "Uh-huh. I would have been his only living relative. It would have been only right." As it is, I'm the only one who cares.

  "Should I expect you in the office at all tomorrow?" Blair asked dourly.

  "No, I don't think so. I think I'm going to spend the day getting acquainted with your son. I just wish you'd figure out a way to find the time to do it yourself."

  "Damn it, Stephen, he's gone six years without meeting me. What difference will a few hours make?"

  "If you don't know the answer to that, big brother, I'm not the one who can answer it," responded Stephen as he shut the office door on his way out.

  JANUARY TWENTIETH was clear and cool. Susannah gathered up her drawing things and grabbed the horse-drawn street trolley for the station, arriving about eight. Quickly, with practiced habit, she set up the easel and two chairs. On the top of the easel she hung the sign that had been Adele's gift to her.

  *YOUR PORTRAIT* BY A PROFESSIONAL ARTIST *$1.00*

  Just below on one of the easel legs she pinned up a sketch of Brian that was labeled, "Have you seen this man," set up her sketchbook and began to sketch a picture of the elaborate station clock. She had discovered very quickly that she got more customers if she was actually working on something than if she sat idly waiting for someone to arrive.

  The morning was decent. By eleven she had sketched three portraits and was in the middle of a fourth and even sold the sketch of the clock. The five silver dollars rattled comfortably in the pocket of her calico skirt and the station master was pretending to look the other way. Maybe the sketch she had drawn and given him had been enough for him to leave her alone.

  The eleven o'clock westbound is on time today, she thought as she heard it slowing beside the nearby platform. God, I'm getting to know the schedules as well as the porters do!

  RUSHING THROUGH the station, his long legs cutting a swath through the foot traffic, Stephen made it to the platform just as the train came to a complete stop. At six foot two he was nearly the tallest man on the platform, but there were still so many people crowding around that he could not get a good look without being bumped and pushed. Finally, he thought he saw who he was looking for.

  A stocky woman in her late forties, gray-streaked mouse brown hair under a nondescript felt hat and a look of annoyance on her face, stepped off the next car. Holding her hand was a small, wide-eyed, little boy with tousled black curls poking out from under a straw sailor hat that was completely inappropriate for wintertime but looked entirely endearing on him.

  Stephen pushed his way through the crowd. "Mrs. Fairchild?"

  "Mr. Blair Carroll?"

  "No, I'm Stephen Carroll, his brother."

  "Suit yourself," she responded abruptly, handing him a sheaf of papers. "Got to sign for delivery."

  Stephen pulled a pencil from his pocket and signed the necessary papers. God, it's like signing for a shipment, not a person. He handed Mrs. Fairchild the confirming documents.

  The stern woman pushed the little boy toward the tall attorney. "Go on, child; he's your kin. I've got a return train to catch," and without a backward glance she strode across the platform to wait for her train home.

  Joshua looked up at Stephen--and up and up. His dark gray eyes were wide with fear.

  Instinctively, Stephen, realizing how imposing his height might be for such a small boy, stooped until he was just above the boy's eye level. It only took one look at the child for Stephen to know that the boy was undoubtedly a Carroll. He had the Carroll looks as distinctively as could be. He held out his large hand and took the little one in it. With a warm smile, he said, "Good morning, Joshua. Welcome to San Francisco. I'm your Uncle Stephen."

  "You're not my daddy?"

  Stephen tried to sound cheerful for Joshua's sake although he was actually fuming inside. Blair's insensitivity did not surprise him especially; he just wished to God something would crack the shell around that heart of his. "No, he couldn't come this morning. He had to work. You'll meet him later. I'll bet you're hungry. When I was your age, I was always hungry."

  The boy nodded. Stephen stood up and led Joshua off the platform and into the main terminal.

  "Are you a giant?" asked the boy.

  Stephen laughed, "Well, I am pretty tall, but your daddy is even taller. You look just like him, you know."

  "I
know. My mommy told me so." His voice choked.

  Stephen picked Joshua up and held him close. "You miss her, don't you? She was really sick, wasn't she."

  Joshua nodded with a sniffle.

  "Well, she's with the angels now, sweetheart, and she isn't sick anymore."

  "Do you think she misses me, too?"

  "I'm sure she does. But time passes quickly in heaven and she'll happily wait until you're a very old man so she can see you again."

  Putting him down and keeping a hold of his hand, they began to walk through the station, Stephen shortening his stride awkwardly to match the little steps of the six-year-old, when suddenly Joshua changed direction and walked toward an easel that was set up in the terminal.

  Stephen followed him toward the easel. He stopped short, for sitting down before it was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, drawing a portrait of a customer.

  She had hair like a sable stole, worn pulled off her face above her ears, but down in a straight curtain to just below her waist. In her slightly sun-kissed, heart-shaped face, her eyes were large and clear, amber-brown like fine brandy, her nose was slightly upturned and a couple of even, white teeth nibbled on her lower lip as she concentrated on the portrait she was sketching. Even the modest dark-blue calico dress she wore couldn't hide her voluptuous figure, a full bosom and softly curving hips made her waist seem small. It appeared the only flaw in her perfection was a pair of work-roughened hands, one of which gracefully rested on the easel while the other gripped her pencil as she worked. Apparently she did not always make her living as a sketch artist. Stephen thought of his own large hands and then imagined how hers would feel in his. A shot of lightning blasted through him.