Husbands and Other Strangers

by Marie Ferrarella

  “The best-laid plans of mice and men,” he muttered under his breath.

  It looked as if he was going to be spending the night alone.

  He knew he could probably get together with one or both of her brothers, but he didn’t much feel like being around people tonight. He’d been counting on spending time with Gayle, on wearing her down a little more.

  With a sigh, he looked around the room. He supposed he could work on the living room. There was nothing stopping him, but right now, he didn’t feel up to that, either.

  He noticed the stack of mail on the breakfast bar. At least two days’ worth. Gayle got around to it about once a week. With nothing else to do, he decided to look through the mail, see if any bills needed paying before they became overdue.

  Sorting, he divided the mail into three piles. Her mail, his and the mail they received jointly, which usually amounted to catalogs and ads.

  When he came across the hospital bill addressed to Gayle, he stopped and whistled softly. Talk about speed. He thought it took about a month to process a hospital bill. Obviously Blair Memorial wanted its money as fast as possible.

  They both carried insurance. Hers was through the station, his was through an individual carrier. He imagined that hers would cover the charges completely, since an accident had been involved.

  He might as well get the process going, he thought as he opened the envelope.

  The logo on top of the bill proclaimed it to be for out-patient services rendered a month ago in Phoenix General.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The eerie feeling of déjà vu shimmied along Gayle’s spine her the moment she crossed the threshold and walked into the hotel suite the station had reserved for her.

  She couldn’t remember being here. Yet she had to have been. Where else could this feeling be coming from? Besides, Will had said he’d booked the same suite for her. So she had to have been here before.

  It didn’t come back to her.

  And yet…

  Gayle was hardly aware of putting money into the bellman’s hand as she looked around the room, searching for something to trigger her memory. But when he said something to her about how nice it was to see her again, Gayle looked at the young man sharply.

  “You’ve seen me here before?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He put her overnight case on the bed. “I was the bellman who brought your bag up the last time.” And then he flashed her an overly toothy grin. “I guess with all the traveling you do, it’s hard for you to remember one person.”

  No, that wasn’t the case. She prided herself on remembering everyone she came in contact with, not just the celebrities.

  Frustration took a bite out of her. Before the accident, she had complete recall, about people, places, events. Now, it was as if she was a length of fabric that moths had attacked, chewing away one complete section.

  Except now it looked as if there was more than just one section missing.

  She looked around again as the bellman crossed to the window. There was nothing she could recall about being here. And yet, this uncomfortable feeling that she had been here before haunted her. Something was trying to get through, but all the doors and windows were locked, blocking its access.

  “When was that?” she pressed. She needed to draw up some kind of a timeline. Maybe that would help her zero in on what else she forgot besides Taylor.

  The bellman didn’t even have to pause to think. “Just last month, ma’am.” About to open the drapes, he looked down at the bill she’d just pressed into his hand. “You were very generous the last time, too.” Tugging, he pulled open the drapes. Harsh sunlight immediately filled the room. “And you look a lot better now, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Better?” What a strange thing for him to say. Gayle looked at his name tag. “What do you mean by ‘better,’ Wyatt?”

  He seemed pleased that she bothered to use his name. It made things somehow more personal between them. “You were real pale the last time, like you were coming down with something or just getting over it. Sorry,” he said suddenly, apparently realizing that he’d gone a little too far into the personal realm. “My girlfriend says I talk too much. I’ll get out of your way now.” And with that, the bellman known as Wyatt closed the door behind him and left.

  Standing in the middle of the room, Gayle slowly looked around at her surroundings. It was a perfectly lovely hotel suite. What was it about it that made her feel so uncomfortable? What was she feeling that her mind wouldn’t let in?

  Will had said that he—or at least his secretary who makes all the arrangements—had gotten her the same room as before, as if it was something that she’d wanted. But if it was, why did she have this odd anxiety strumming through her? As if she was waiting for something to happen.

  Had something happened in here that her mind hadn’t wanted to deal with? And did it have anything to do with Taylor?

  God, she wished she knew.

  Momentarily defeated, Gayle sank down on the bed beside her overnight case and covered her face with her hands. Was she ever going to figure this out? Was she ever going to remember any of it, much less everything?

  She absolutely hated dealing with the mental gap. She’d always been the type to want to know everything: answers to every question she came across, the bottom line to rumors, everything. And now the biggest mystery she had ever encountered in her life had to do with her and she hadn’t a clue.

  With an exasperated sigh, Gayle glanced at her watch. It was already after six. She had a game to attend.

  Maybe when she came back, her memory would be clearer and some minute detail might come back to her.

  At least she could hope.

  Opening her overnight bag, she took out her somewhat outdated PDA, a recorder in case she had any thoughts about anything on the way to the stadium and a trusty pen and pad in the event she had any random thoughts regarding the interview she was to conduct.

  For a woman walking through a fog, she congratulated herself for being pretty together.

  Taylor stared at the two sheets of paper before him, one a summary, one an itemized statement for everything that had been pressed into use during Gayle’s short outpatient stay at Phoenix General. Still hoping that maybe he was seeing things that weren’t there, he picked up the rectangular envelope and looked at the upper left-hand corner of the envelope. The return address was marked Phoenix General.

  Was it some kind of a mistake? A foul-up in the hospital billing department? Things like that happened far more frequently than the general public was aware of.

  Chances of that were slim, he thought grimly. Both the summary and the itemized versions had her name on them. Gayle Elliott Conway. He frowned to himself. At least they got that part of it right. Maybe they got the rest of it right, too.

  But if this was her bill, if Gayle had gone to the hospital while she was out of town covering a game, why hadn’t she said anything to him? Either at the time or when she got back?

  And what the hell did this code mean, anyway?

  He was staring at the bottom of the itemized statement, in the area which had the letters DX embossed on it. Following that, which he knew stood for diagnosis, was a mysterious collection of letters, followed by numbers.

  ICDA-8. What was that, anyway? He had no clue, only that it was somehow tied in to whatever had prompted Gayle to seek medical attention.

  Damn it, everything was shorthand these days.

  Taylor looked at the mysterious group of numbers. He had a feeling that trapped inside those numbers was the reason behind why Gayle had gone to the hospital for emergency treatment.

  What the hell could they stand for?

  Muttering under his breath, Taylor made his way across plastic sheeting and drop cloths down the hall to the room that they had both agreed would serve as their joint office once it was completed.

  The smell of fresh paint still lingered. He’d finished painting this room the day before the accident. That morning
, before they left for the dock, they’d moved the furniture back in. There were two mahogany desks in the room, each facing away from the other.

  That had been Gayle’s idea. She’d said if she was facing him, she’d never get any work done.

  A fond smile lingered on his lips for a moment. She’d said that back when she’d known him, he thought ruefully. Back when they both had trouble keeping their hands off each other, especially when the other claimed to have work to do.

  Last night and this morning, he’d thought maybe the old Gayle was coming back. But it was the “old Gayle” who had kept this from him.

  For all he knew, that might even be the reason behind this whole thing. Maybe it was an elaborate charade after all, to draw his attention away from whatever it was that involved this hospital visit.

  A grim expression creased his face.

  Maybe Gayle had been growing away from him even before this accident. It was obvious that she was keeping secrets from him. Significant secrets. Because if this was just a matter of a sinus infection or some minor complaint that had gotten out of hand, he thought, looking at the papers in his hand, she would have told him about it. This happened a little more than a week before her accident. Before she conveniently “forgot” him.

  She would have been capable of talking to him about the reason for the visit.

  Unless it was something she was trying to keep from him.

  His expression was grimmer than ever as he turned on his computer and waited for it to warm up. Maybe he could find out on the Internet what the strange code numbers meant. His initial response would have been to call the hospital’s billing department, but it was after six and they were probably closed.

  If he didn’t find what he wanted on the Internet, he’d have no choice but to call the hospital tomorrow. That meant waiting until morning.

  He felt antsy already.

  When the phone beside his computer rang, he was so completely lost in his search for the meaning behind the “ICDA-8” code that it took a second for the sound and its significance to register.

  He was in no mood to be civil.

  Yanking up the receiver, he fairly barked out a “Yes?” into the mouthpiece.

  “Taylor? Is that you?”

  Her voice, like smooth, warming whiskey, curled into his system. But his feeling of betrayal, of bewilderment was hard to work through. It was all he could do not to let the bitterness out.

  “Yes, it’s me.” There was more than a little background noise behind her. He had to concentrate to hear her voice.

  “Are you all right, Taylor?” she asked. “You sound strange.”

  For once I have a reason, he thought, staring at the two offending pages on his desk. “According to you, I’m a stranger, so sounding strange would be normal.” He heard her pause on the other end. Before he could wonder if that was the end of it, and the beginning of the end of them, she pressed on.

  “What’s wrong, Taylor?”

  Nothing, I hope. Everything, probably. But this wasn’t something they could talk about on the phone. And, to be completely fair to her, he wasn’t sure just what it was they were actually talking about, other than her lack of trust.

  Maybe it was nothing and she didn’t want to worry him. He knew how independent she was. It was a good excuse, but somehow, it rang hollow for him.

  “Nothing,” he finally said, lying. “I just don’t like knocking around in this big house without you.”

  “Speaking of ‘knocking,’ from what I saw, you like knocking things down in that big house. Why don’t you go and eliminate another wall?”

  He felt as if all his energy had been siphoned away. “I don’t feel like working.”

  She attributed that to her sudden disappearing act. She knew he’d planned to come home early in order to spend time with her. After last night, she was looking forward to it herself. No one was as disappointed about this as she was.

  “I know what you mean. I’m sorry about this, Tay, I really am. But this came up at the last minute and I had no choice.”

  Before they’d gotten married, he’d made her a promise that he would never interfere with her work. He knew she needed to work, needed to be exactly who and what she was. But what about the other promises, promises they’d both made? Like never to lie to each other. Or to keep secrets.

  He struggled to keep his temper under control. “It’s your job.”

  He’d fairly growled out the words to her. “You don’t sound very convincing,” she said.

  Taylor blew out a breath as he dragged a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, I had a long day.”

  And then, instead of hanging up or just continuing to exchange small talk, she blew him away by saying, “I miss you.”

  The noise behind her was growing louder. She was probably calling him from the game she was supposed to be covering, he guessed. The din partially blotted out what she’d just said. Taylor was sure he’d misheard her. “What?”

  Gayle raised her voice. “I said I miss you,” she repeated. “I’ve got to stay in Phoenix overnight, because by the time the game’s over and I do my interview, it’ll be late and you’ll already be in bed, so there’s no point in catching a red-eye flight.” He heard another noise, closer this time, near the vicinity of the cell phone. He envisioned Gayle cupping her hand around the mouthpiece as she said, “I wish I was there with you.”

  He wished he could believe her. But now he didn’t know if he could ever believe her again. “Yeah, me, too.”

  He heard her laugh and tried not to let the sound into his system. “Someone is going to have to do something about the romantic way you talk, Taylor. You just sweet-talk a girl right off her feet.”

  Taylor frowned at the teasing tone. He was in no mood to let her wrap him around her little finger. “I’m a doer not a talker.”

  He could almost hear the grin in her voice as Gayle replied, “Amen to that. Look, I’ll be back tomorrow before noon. Can you knock off early tomorrow? I’d like to make it up to you.”

  Her sultry voice when she said the last sentence caused his imagination to take flight. He struggled to strap it down. “What about work?”

  If she noticed his cool tone, she gave no indication. “Will’s letting me tape the scores early and then the station can just run the tape in the proper segment for the rest of the evening.”

  “What about late scores?”

  “Nothing that I can’t handle,” she assured him. “This time of year, the teams are down to a significant few games. There are only a couple of baseball games a day and as for the other sports, they can have John sub for me.” She hesitated before taking her next plunge. Since he was her husband, she was jumping with a safety net in place. “Keep the bed warm for me, Tay.”

  He thought of last night and a smile crept out, despite the negative thoughts plaguing him. “No need, you’ll heat it up plenty yourself once you get here.”

  Her laugh, soft and low, echoed in his head long after she’d hung up.

  He looked back at the offending pages he’d brought into the room with him.

  Maybe it was all just a big misunderstanding. Maybe he was letting himself get worked up for no reason because of the unstable situation he was in. Maybe he was creating all these dark scenarios when it was all perfectly innocent.

  Doggedly he went back to searching through the Internet, looking to demystify the code numbers. He found a site that dealt with medical diagnoses that corresponded to the various ICDA-8 code numbers. He discovered that not only was there something called ICDA-8, but ICDA by itself, as well. Taylor snorted, uttering a few ripe words under his breath. Until just now, he hadn’t even been aware that there was one set of code numbers, much less two.

  The world was getting too damn complicated.

  Which was why he’d opted to work with his hands when it came to forging a career for himself. Working with his hands, creating something out of nothing the way he did, gave him some sense of control.

  E
xcept that right now he hadn’t a clue as to how to settle down his out-of-control life.

  An infinite number of codes corresponded to an equal number of diagnoses. He kept on scrolling, going through what seemed like an endless stream of numbers, numbers augmented by decimal increments.

  After a while, he felt as if he was going cross-eyed, but there was no other option available to him. He had to continue looking for the code numbers imprinted on Gayle’s hospital statement.

  Finally, nearly half an hour later, he found the right numbers.

  When he did, he wished he hadn’t.

  The diagnosis that corresponded with the ICDA-8 numbers cut through him like a dull-edged knife, taking out huge chunks of his soul.

  Taylor double-checked the numbers on the page, marking them with his index finger as he looked back up on the screen.

  But no matter now many times he looked back and forth, the numbers didn’t change. They remained the same. The diagnosis remained the same.

  The pit of his stomach twisted, making him feel ill.

  When he could feel his legs again, Taylor stood up and went to Gayle’s desk. He began opening drawers, rifling through them until he located her address book. Because he had insisted on it, she’d written down the numbers that were important to her in longhand, putting them in an old-fashioned address book. He said he’d only use it in case of an emergency.

  This constituted an emergency.

  When he’d made his request for an address book that he could hold in his hand and page through, she’d called him a hopeless throwback, but there’d been affection in her voice.

  He couldn’t help wondering now just how much of that had been genuine, and how much of it had been faked. Because if the page he was looking at was true, and there was no reason for him to believe it wasn’t, then she couldn’t love him. Not if she’d done this without telling him about it.