What the Heart Remembers

by Bette Lee Crosby

  WHAT THE HEART REMEMBERS

  Memory House Series

  Book Three

  BETTE LEE CROSBY

  WHAT THE HEART REMEMBERS

  Memory House Series, Book Three

  Copyright © 2015 by Bette Lee Crosby

  Cover design: damonza.com

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Editor: Ekta Garg

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages for a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on life experiences and conclusions drawn from research, all names, characters, places and specific instances are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. No actual reference to any real person, living or dead, is intended or inferred.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9891289-9-5

  BENT PINE PUBLISHING

  Port Saint Lucie, FL

  Published in the United States of America

  To Jan Stacy Albritton

  My Sweet Southern Sister

  WHAT THE HEART REMEMBERS

  Memory House Series

  Book Three

  Ophelia Browne

  They say with age comes wisdom, but I’m not so certain that’s true. By now I should have learned to temper my expectations, but I haven’t.

  I am in my ninety-first year of life, which is somewhat of a miracle. Women in the Browne family do not live long lives; it’s a proven fact. For as far back as anyone remembers there has been only one cousin who made it to ninety-one, but she’s three times removed and hardly worth a mention.

  The truth is I expected to be long gone by now, but here I am. Alive and well. I’ve tried to adjust my expectations and take each day as it comes, but this is not an easy thing to do. Expectations are a way of life. Sadly enough, they are also what cause more heartache than anything else. I spent most of my ninetieth year waiting to die. Now I’m wishing I had that year back. Instead of worrying about dying, I’d be celebrating the fact that I’m still living.

  The problem with expectations is that if you imagine something will be one way and it turns out differently, you’re disappointed. It doesn’t matter if the way it turns out is better, the simple fact is it’s not what you expected.

  When I left Memory House, I expected to leave other people’s memories behind. I figured giving Annie the house meant all the magic would go with it, but I was wrong. Annie has her own kind of magic. It’s different than mine, but in the years to come it will serve her well.

  As for me, I still pick up the memories of other people. In the watch Sam carries I can picture the face of his daddy and the roughness of his callused hands. If I touch my fingers to the Rockettes picture hanging on Lillian’s living room wall, my heart starts to race. I feel the anger she felt when she was moved to the end of the line. I see the pout of her mouth and hear her grumble, “This isn’t fair!”

  But those are simple memories. Clear cut. Over and done with. The saddest memories are those that won’t let go. The kind Annie’s friend Maxine carries around day and night. They’re like a cloak tied tight around her shoulders. Even when she’s deep in conversation or laughing out loud, I can see those memories poking a heartless finger into her brain. After all these many years, I’ve seen enough of other people’s memories to know happy from sad. Max thinks those memories are happy, but they’re not. Handsome men with flashy smiles blind a girl to the truth, and that’s what has happened to her.

  If she doesn’t find a way to rid herself of those memories, she’s in for a sorry life. And it’s all because of her expectations.

  December 31, 2014

  The French claim the start of each year brings a renewal of dreams that have been set aside or forgotten. Max Martinelli hopes this is true. Three years ago she left Paris and returned to America. With less than two months to go until she received her accreditation as an architect, how could she not?

  Back then it all seemed so simple. She would return and Julien Marceau would follow a month or two later. It was as certain as the rising of the sun or the setting of the moon. It was a plan sealed with a kiss that even now lingers on her lips. At night when she closes her eyes she can see his face hovering above hers and catch the citrusy scent of his cologne. But when she wakes he is gone. Somehow something went wrong, but what it was Max can’t say.

  ~ ~ ~

  Max pulls a bottle of chilled champagne from the car, trots up the walkway and taps the brass knocker. There are times when she visits Annie Doyle and doesn’t bother to knock; she simply pushes the door open and calls out. But with Oliver working at home, she is more mindful of their privacy.

  When Annie opens the door and sees Max, she pulls her into a warm embrace.

  “Ooh, it’s so good to see you,” she says.

  “I hope you didn’t think I’d let this day go by without wishing you and Oliver a happy New Year,” Max replies.

  “No, but I thought you were going to a party at…”

  “I am.” Max twirls around. The side of her hair is pulled into a rhinestone clip, and beneath her coat there is the shimmer of a silvery blue satin. “See, no jeans!”

  Annie gives a nod of approval. “You look fabulous,” she says, and it brings a smile to Max’s face.

  “Before I go I figured we could have our own little celebration.” She hands Annie the bottle of champagne then follows her back into the house.

  As they pass through the hallway, Annie catches a wintery scent coming from the new bowl of potpourri. She turns back to Max and says, “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of snow.”

  Max laughs. “I guess I was. I was remembering the New Year’s Eve I spent in Paris. It snowed that evening, so Julien and I skipped going to a party and stayed in.” She gives a soulful sigh. “We had a bottle of wine, some day-old cheese and half of a baguette, but it was the most wonderful New Year’s ever.”

  Annie knows the thought circling Max’s mind. It is one that has surfaced many times, one Annie fears because she has come to love Max.

  “There’s a time and place for everything,” she says, trying to turn the thought away gently. “Yesterday was yesterday. What was wonderful then may not be as wonderful now.”

  “I suppose.” Max shies away from the subject, but it doesn’t leave her mind. It hasn’t for almost three years. On occasion she can push thoughts of Julien to the side and focus on work. But the memory of him inevitably comes back, and she is left to probe her thoughts for the answer to that burning question: Why?

  As Annie crosses into the kitchen, she calls for Oliver. He is working in his study, reviewing the cases that will come before him when he returns to the courtroom in just seven short days.

  When he enters the room, his walk is slower than it used to be. He has a slight limp; hardly noticeable, but Annie sees it. Since the accident, she takes nothing for granted. She watches over his every move the way a toddler’s mother watches over her only child.

  Oliver sees Max and smiles. “Happy new year,” he says and pulls her into a warm hug. His arms and back have grown strong. There is little evidence of the damage that was done.

  “You’re looking good,” Max tells him.

  “I’m feeling great,” Oliver replies. “Anxious to get back to work.”

  “Max brought champagne,” Annie says and hands him the bottle.

  As they talk he twists open the wire on the champagne bottle then pops the cork. He pours the bubbly w
ine into two flutes then takes a third and fills it with ginger ale.

  “So,” he says with a grin, “shall we celebrate the end of this year or the start of the new one?”

  Annie and Max answer simultaneously. It is as if a single thought passes from one to another.

  “The start of a new one,” they both say, and then they laugh.

  They are alike in so many ways it is little wonder they have become the best of friends. Their friendship is less than a year old, yet it has been this way from the start. Ophelia claims it is because of their unique abilities to lift the layers of reality and see what is beneath.

  Oliver has no explanation; he simply accepts it for what it is.

  He lifts his glass and makes a toast. “To the new year and the blessings it will bring.” He glances at Annie. The swell of her tummy is only beginning to show, but the glow on her face is unmistakable.

  She returns his smile and lifts the glass to her lips. She sips the ginger ale as if it were champagne. “And to finding a friend like Max,” she adds.

  “That goes both ways,” Max echoes and raises her glass.

  “Tough as this past year has been, I’m very thankful I had you beside me,” Annie says. “You were there when I needed a shoulder to lean on, and that’s something I’ll never forget.”

  “And I’m thankful for the channeling tea you gave me,” Max replies. “I’ve gotten three new clients since I began drinking it.”

  Annie is tempted to once again say the tea is nothing more than an herbal mix to promote focus and serenity, but she knows Max is happier believing in the magic of it.

  “Well, then,” she says, “we all have something to celebrate.” As the three of them come together, there is again the clink of glass against glass.

  Oliver glances at the champagne in his hand and then looks back to Annie. “When it comes to being thankful, I have both of you ladies beat by a mile.” He tries to make his words sound light, playful almost, but the weight of this thought is visible in his expression.

  “Are you trying to steal the show?” Max quips.

  “No.” He smiles. “I’m simply telling it like it is.”

  The smile on his face fades, and a look of contemplation sweeps across his brow. When he starts to speak, his voice falters as some of the memories come into focus. They bring both joy and sorrow.

  “There was a time,” he says solemnly, “when I laughed at the way you two found meaning in things that to me were simply things: a bicycle, a book, even the walls of a room. The thought that a memory could move beyond the person it belonged to or be left behind in an inanimate object seemed almost ludicrous.”

  Oliver sets his glass on the counter and crosses to where Annie stands. He wraps his arm around her waist, draws her closer, then looks at Max.

  “I still don’t understand it, but I’ve come to accept that you, Ophelia and Annie have some deal with the universe that’s beyond my comprehension.”

  Max arches an eyebrow. “Meaning what?”

  “I can’t give you an explanation,” Oliver says. “I only wish…”

  There is a moment of hesitation; he lowers his eyes, and it is as if he is searching for his lost memories in the bubbles of champagne.

  “I wish I could remember everything, but I can’t,” he says. “The days I spent in a coma are still a gigantic black hole. I remember seeing myself in the bed, but at the time I was somebody else. Who, I don’t know. There seemed to be no night or day, no measure of time. I knew nothing of what came before or would come after. I was in one place and the man in the bed was in another. It was as if I was a balloon floating free with no string connecting me to him.”

  He hesitates again, and for a long moment there is only silence. He lifts the glass of champagne and drains it.

  “When I heard Annie reading from my dad’s book, I started to remember. The words didn’t make any sense, but in between the words there were memories. Memories of Dad handing me the book; memories of Annie standing on my doorstep with a wide-eyed grin. Little by little I started to realize who was lying in that bed. Then I heard voices. A lot of voices. Louder than anything else, I heard Annie calling for me to wake up.”

  He stops and takes a deep breath, one that rattles through his chest and returns as a weary sigh.

  “I still don’t remember everything, but Annie was there and she remembers for me.”

  His eyes begin to water as he turns to her. His voice is weighted and crackles with emotion.

  “Without your faith and persistence, I might not be here to celebrate the new year.”

  For a moment Max is speechless.

  “Is that true?” she finally asks. “You really think you might not have found your way back if not for—”

  He nods. “I’m fairly certain of it.”

  “Wow,” she says. “I never thought I’d hear you say you believe—”

  “I’m not saying what I do or don’t believe,” Oliver cuts in before she can finish the thought. “After all, I’m a judge. I’ve spent most of my life making decisions based on fact. But I’ve come to accept there are certain realities that have no logical explanation…”

  As he continues to speak Max’s mind wanders, and she drifts back to that last goodbye when Julien held her in his arms and promised—

  “Are you all right?” Annie interrupts her reverie.

  “All right?” Max sputters. “Of course I’m all right. I was just thinking I’d better get going or the party will be over by the time I get there.”

  She downs the last of her champagne, sets the glass on the counter and reaches for her coat.

  Annie walks with her to the door. “We’ll see you tomorrow, won’t we?”

  “Of course,” Max answers. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  As she watches Max disappear down the walkway, Annie calls out, “Drive safely.”

  This is what Annie now says to all those she loves. After the accident that nearly took Oliver’s life, a fear has settled in her heart. It is one that has already grown roots and will never leave. Statistics say that only one person in ten thousand motorists will be killed in an automobile collision, but still she worries. She worries that the one person could be someone she loves.

  The Party

  The party is at LuAnn Barkley’s apartment in downtown Richmond. It is well over an hour from Wyattsville but Max hasn’t seen these friends since graduation, so she’s opted to make the drive. By the time she arrives, the festivities are in full swing. Silver and black balloons bobble overhead, and the stereo is turned up so loud the walls vibrate.

  Before Max has time to shed her coat, Brianna Mosley spots her and rushes over. She gives an air kiss and gushes that it’s been ages since they’ve seen one another.

  “Where on earth have you been keeping yourself?” Brianna asks.

  “Mostly working,” Max answers.

  Brianna rolls her eyes. “Working?”

  Max nods with a feigned smile. “I’ve been doing some relatively small redesign projects; nothing big, but I’m getting my name out there.”

  Although Max is decked out in party gear she still has the big black leather satchel she carries every day slung over her shoulder. She reaches into it, pulls out a business card and hands it to Brianna.

  Brianna eyes the card. “You have your own firm! Awesome,” she says, sounding impressed. “How many employees?”

  “Just me,” Max replies. “I work out of my apartment.” She spots the way Brianna is looking down her nose at such a thought and adds, “But once I have a few more clients, I plan on setting up an office.”

  “You need one now,” Brianna says. “If you had a real office, clients would take you seriously. You’d get more work and better fees. You know what they say, it’s the sizzle that sells.” She tilts her head back and laughs.

  “Maybe in a year or two,” Max says with a sigh. “When I can afford it.”

  Again Brianna rolls her eyes. She glances across her shoulder then lea
ns closer and in a hushed voice whispers, “The secret to success is to marry money. Wayne set me up in a studio big enough for exhibitions.” She gives a self-satisfied grin then adds, “If you want I can have him introduce you to some of his friends.”

  “No thanks,” Max replies.

  She now remembers why she’s avoided getting together with Brianna for the past few years. Across the room she spots a familiar figure.

  “Excuse me,” she says, “I’ve got to say hi to Jeff. I haven’t seen him since—”

  “Suit yourself,” Brianna cuts her off, “but if you change your mind and want to meet a man who can set you up in the kind of office you need, call me.”

  Max promises to do just that, then pulls away and inches across the room. She stops to chat with several others before she finally reaches the far side.

  Jeff is standing beside a woman he introduces as his wife. He then produces a wallet filled with pictures of a round-faced baby with no hair.

  “This is our Kylie,” he says proudly. “Isn’t she adorable?”

  Max smiles and gives a nod of agreement. After she has seen a dozen pictures of the bald baby, she moves on.

  This is how the evening goes. Max circles the room greeting friends she has long ago lost touch with and chatting about things that somehow seem of little interest. Perhaps if her thoughts were not elsewhere…perhaps if she was not thinking back on what Oliver said…maybe these people talking about their lives would be of greater interest.

  Max finds it almost impossible to generate enough enthusiasm to speak of her own life. She is at a loss for what to say. It would be of little interest to hear that she has a small practice with a handful of random clients or that her apartment is barely large enough to hold the clutter of drawings, a drafting table and a bed, a single at that.