Owen's Touch

by Lee Magner

  “I’m sorry, Owen,” she whispered, unexpectedly fighting back tears that unaccountably threatened. “I’m not teasing you.”

  “I know,” he sighed. “And I’m not teasing you.” He glanced at her.

  She brushed away the tears and smiled at him reassuringly.

  “I know.”

  “I should have kept my hands off you,” he said evenly, although he was having a very hard time regretting it. Hell. He didn’t regret it. He just regretted the circumstances that were making it impossible for him to handle this like a normal—He stopped and frowned. A normal what? Courtship? Was that the word he’d almost said?

  Owen sat up and rolled off the bed. He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking, trying to shake off the lingering feelings of unslaked passion, and pacing back and forth across the room. Finally, he came back to the bed and squatted in front of Mariana.

  “When we came in here, I was going to give you something for your headache, if I recall correctly,” he said dryly.

  Mariana laughed. “You mean making love wasn’t for my headache?” she teased.

  He sighed and looked at her like a starving man. He shook his head regretfully.

  “No. That just created new aches, it would appear,” he noted in wry apology.

  She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips.

  “Some aches are worth it,” she whispered sympathetically.

  His eyes darkened, but this time he resisted the urge to throw her back down on the bed and make love to her.

  “In spite of your siren provocation,” he noted gravely, wearing a pained expression, “I’ll ignore that invitation, and give you the cure for your headache.”

  “Is that so?” she said, laughing a little dubiously.

  “That is right. Now, sit up on the edge of the bed, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Mariana did as he asked. He placed his fingertips on her face, and she trustingly closed her eyes.

  Owen pressed his thumbs against the small indentations in the occipital bones over each eye. He held the pressure for a few counts, producing incredibly deep pain. Then, just when Mariana thought she would scream from the agony of it, he released the pressure. He repeated the procedure twice. Next he pressed his thumbs just above the points where her jawbone connected to her cheekbone. He pushed down very firmly, until pain welled up almost unbearably beneath the points of contact. Then, as she squirmed beneath the torture, he released the pressure. Then he repeated the treatment. Again, twice. He paraded his thumbprints across the centerline of her skull, from front to back, as if marking a trail for a Mohawk hairstyle. There were several other spots that received his special treatment, too. Each side of her jaw. Behind each ear. Two points at the base of her skull on either side of her spine. And between the V made by the thumb and forefinger of each hand. Each spot was tremendously painful and knotted when he first applied pressure. Each was languid, its discomfort miraculously vanished by the time he concluded his final release.

  Owen sat back on his heels and rested his forearms on his thighs. He searched her eyes deeply, looking for any remnant of the headache’s pain.

  “Better?” he asked softly.

  Mariana’s eyes widened. She nodded her head in surprise.

  “Yes. Much better.” She tilted her head from side to side and examined herself mentally. She looked at him in admiration. “All better. How do you do that?” she demanded with childlike curiosity.

  He grinned and slowly stood up.

  “I’m not telling you all my secrets right away,” he told her. “But if you need another treatment...let me know.”

  She laughed at his flagrant teasing.

  “Why Owen, are you flirting with me?” she challenged, getting off the bed and straightening her significantly rearranged clothing.

  “I think you could say that,” he admitted. He looked her up and down, a wolfish admiration in his still dark eyes. “We’d better get going,” he warned.

  “Uh-huh.” Mariana looked at him innocently. She concentrated on refastening her slacks. If she continued gazing into his eyes, he’d realize what she’d much rather be doing at the moment. And they’d never make it to Maryland this afternoon. Which wasn’t a good thing, she told herself sternly.

  She heard the padding of his bare feet on the floor as he walked back to his bedroom to put on his shoes and socks and grab his wallet and keys.

  Mariana collected her own things, including the purse and its contents, and waited for him by the front door. The tingling of her lips, however, remained a lingering reminder of their electrifying kisses.

  “We’re here.”

  Mariana opened her eyes and looked at the two-story brick house. She’d fallen asleep in the car, but now she was wide-awake.

  “Look familiar?” Owen asked as he parked in the two-lane driveway in front of the double garage.

  “I...don’t know. It’s not exactly unfamiliar,” she said slowly. She saw the big black front door and its huge golden door knocker. A memory flashed into her mind. “I’ve been here before,” she said in a deathly still voice. A chill passed over her, and she rubbed her arms to ward it off.

  Owen frowned slightly and turned in his seat to study Mariana’s worried profile.

  “Do you want me to go in?” he asked. “You could sit here, if you’d feel safer....”

  She smiled wanly and glanced at him. “You read me very well, Owen,” she acknowledged. “I would feel safer here. But I think I should do this.” She tried to be optimistic. “Maybe fear is the key to my memory. Maybe if I see some things that heighten this fear, I’ll remember what’s causing it.” She opened the car door. “And if I remember what’s causing it, maybe I won’t have to fear it much longer.”

  Owen got out and followed her to the front door. He was thinking she might not be able to escape her fear quite that easily. He wasn’t going to advise her to cower in ignorance, however, so he just hoped that whatever was scaring her wasn’t as bad as her nightmares made it seem.

  As Mariana walked along the flagstone path leading to the house, memories began filtering back into her consciousness.

  “I’ve come here before,” she said, feeling a little shocked. She glanced back at Owen. “Several times. In the month before the accident.” She looked at the carefully mulched and pruned plants and the mowed and raked yard. “It always looked like this. They have a contract with a landscaper to do the yard work year-round.”

  “They?” Owen asked cautiously.

  “Louie and Maryanice Roualt.” Mariana stared at the large black-painted door with the huge gryphon’s-head brass knocker. The image of the man in the sketch came back to her full force. Louie Roualt. It was Louie. Of course. How could she have forgotten that? she wondered.

  “Mariana?” Owen asked, becoming concerned as she stood in front of the door, staring at it as if she were in a trance.

  She reached up and lifted the door knocker, then struck the door firmly three times with it. Her hand trembled when she released the brass gryphon’s head. She sensed Owen’s presence close behind her, and she clenched her hands to hold the chilly swell of fear momentarily at bay.

  There was no sound from inside the house. No approaching footsteps.

  Mariana reached for the small button at the side of the door frame. She pressed it firmly, ringing the doorbell. No one replied to that call, either.

  She opened the purse and withdrew the key from the change pocket of the wallet. She stared at it for a moment, holding it in her fingers and studying it for the first time since Lefcourt had given her the purse.

  “It’s the front-door key,” she murmured.

  Owen remained silent, but his eyebrow lifted when she slid the key in the dead-bolt lock and opened the door.

  “You’re remembering a lot,” he remarked. impressed. He followed her inside the house.

  Mariana stopped in the middle of the foyer and turned to face Owen.

  “I feel like I’m trespassing,
” she confessed somewhat anxiously.

  “We tried knocking on the door,” he said reassuringly. “And you obviously have a key to the place.”

  “But I’m not Maryanice Roualt,” she whispered fiercely.

  “All right,” he said, offering her a half smile and the comforting touch of his band on her shoulder. He sobered and asked, “Who is Louie Roualt?”

  Mariana shivered.

  “The man in the sketch. This is his house. Maryanice is his wife. She asked me to come here. I was supposed to...” Mariana stopped. The memory faded out before she could recapture the details. “I was supposed to do something for her. Get something. Or put something back. Or...” She shook her head and sighed bitterly. “I can’t remember the rest!” she wailed, balling her hand in a fist of frustration.

  She wanted to stamp her foot and hurl furious complaints, but there was no one to blame, and therefore, no convenient target to receive her anger.

  “It’ll come back to you, Mariana,” Owen said, his soothing baritone doing more to calm her than his actual words. “Your memories are getting richer, more detailed, more complete every day,” he stated, using the same even, reasonable tone.

  “You’re right,” she agreed, nodding her head. She was glancing around, reacquainting herself with the cool, modern, chrome-and-glass decor, when another memory burst vividly into view. She gasped and threw Owen a desperate look. “And I’ve just remembered another little detail!”

  “What little detail?” Owen shouted at her back as she ran toward a room farther into the interior of the house.

  “The security system!” she declared over her shoulder.

  Owen cursed under his breath as he trotted after her. There had been no warning sign around the front windows. He’d checked. Too late to argue with Louie Roualt about that little oversight, he thought. When he reached the kitchen, he found Mariana anxiously turning the room upside down.

  “It’s inside one of these,” she explained, flinging open another cabinet door. Two cabinet doors later, she found the one with the security master-control panel. She frowned and closed her eyes. Seconds later, she opened her eyes and shot Owen a triumphant glance. “The code’s written on a piece of blue paper.”

  “It’s definitely coming back to yon,” he said wryly.

  “But is it fast enough?” she muttered as she desperately searched the contents of the wallet. “I know it’s here somewhere,” she murmured anxiously. “I think I have two or three minutes after opening the front door to get it turned off before the alarm sounds....” She riffled through the paper currency. “Here!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

  Mariana snatched out a receipt, printed on end-of-roll, blue-striped cash-register paper. There were numbers scribbled on the back. Mariana quickly punched them into the security console’s keypad.

  For a moment, the numbers stared back at her from the small liquid crystal display. Then, finally, the system acknowledged its having been successfully disengaged.

  Mariana raised her hands and exclaimed, “Yes!” Grinning victoriously, she turned toward Owen, who was looking suitably impressed.

  “I’m certainly glad that you were here before,” he drawled. “And that you remember the most critical details about the visit,” he added. “Otherwise, we’d be standing here, hoping that the police who normally respond to this alarm wouldn’t book us for burglary before we could convince Lefcourt to vouch for us.”

  “I can’t tell you how wonderful it feels to remember how to rescue myself!” she said. She sighed in profound satisfaction.

  Owen grinned. He could relate to that.

  “Besides,” she said, touching him lightly on the shoulder, “after all the problems you’ve been bailing me out of, I’d be a poor friend if I failed you when you needed me.”

  “Somehow, I doubt any of your friends have ever felt that you failed them.”

  Mariana thought about that. Maybe it was the strangely charged ambience she always felt when she was with Owen. Maybe it was the adrenaline-saturated experience of shutting off the security alarm. But Mariana realized that she suddenly remembered lots of friends. People she’d known in art studios, in commercial galleries, in schools and social gatherings. From her childhood, and her adolescence, and her young adulthood. She hugged Owen and just as quickly released him.

  “What was that for?” he asked, bemused, as she turned away and went back into the living room.

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just felt so happy I had to share it with you.”

  He was tempted to tell her to feel free to do that any time she wanted. But before he blurted that out, she had changed direction. Something in the determined way she was striding down the hallway alerted him that she’d remembered yet another important fact.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I remember what I brought here.”

  Mariana pushed open the half-ajar door, flipped on the light switch on the wall and entered the large master bedroom.

  A huge bed dominated the room. It was covered in a thick satin, bloodred comforter. Along the sleigh-style mahogany headboard, there were eight hand-made pillows. Each was covered with a different brightly colored section of fine silk Persian-rug fabric. A large Oriental carpet covered most of the floor except for a small frame of polished wood peeking out around the perimeter. There were two large ornately carved mahogany dressers. Floor-length mirrors on opposing walls. Matching brass floor lamps. And the biggest walk-in closet Mariana could ever recall seeing. Through its partially opened sliding door, she could glimpse a small dressing room with mirror, valet and makeup table, as well as a wall-length rack of clothing. Men’s clothing and women’s clothing.

  Mariana walked over to one of the dressers and pulled open the top drawer. She removed a four-inch-square velvet jewelry box, opened it and turned to show it to Owen.

  “Maryanice wanted me to return these to Louie,” she explained haltingly.

  Owen came close enough to see.

  “Her wedding and engagement rings?”

  Mariana nodded.

  “They look like they cost about as much as that car I’m driving,” he noted dryly.

  Mariana smiled sadly. “I don’t think Louie was ever short of cash.” She looked at the sparkling diamond solitaire and its diamond-studded gold-band mate. “It was love that Louie never had to give.”

  “You seem sure of that.”

  Mariana nodded.

  “Have you met them?”

  “I... I’ve met Maryanice. I keep having this surreal memory of her standing in my studio...and sometimes I see her, like a reflection in my mirror back in my house in Arizona. But I don’t remember coming face to face with Louie...except in my nightmares.”

  “But you sketched him....” he reminded her softly.

  Mariana frowned. She shook her head. “I...can’t make sense of that yet.”

  Owen lifted the engagement ring from the velvet, removed the box from her hands and placed it on the dresser. Then he took her left hand in his. He looked at her, and although his gaze was steady, there was a questioning expression in his eyes.

  She looked at her left hand and the ring he was holding and realized what he wanted to do. She nodded her head.

  He slid the ring onto her finger.

  “It fits,” he observed.

  “Like it was sized for me,” she weakly agreed. She watched as he slid on the wedding ring. “So I wear the same size that Maryanice Roualt does,” she rushed to explain to him. She pulled the rings off, not liking the feel of them on her finger. “She’s probably the same size. It’s a common ring size. Lots of women wear it.”

  Owen watched in silence as she put the wedding set back in the velvet box and then into the dresser drawer.

  She closed the drawer with a little more force than necessary and whirled, keeping her back to the drawer, as if to keep it closed and the contents permanently within it.

  Owen watched her, a slight frown indenting his brow.

/>   “I’m not Maryanice Roualt!” she cried out desperately.

  “I didn’t say that you were.” he said quietly.

  Mariana wrapped her arms around herself, as if to hug the truth close and keep it alive. Her eyes were large and vulnerable as she looked into his shuttered expression.

  “But that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” she demanded, her voice unaccountably shaking.

  “I’m thinking that you still haven’t entirely unscrambled all your memories,” he said carefully.

  “But the ones I have remembered are very clear to me,” she argued. Owen didn’t say anything, but there was the slightest change in the color of his eyes and she knew he was keeping his thoughts back. “What?” she demanded, her skin flushing with anger. “You don’t think I’m telling lies about what I’m remembering, do you?” she asked, horrified.

  Owen reached for her, but she quickly stepped beyond his reach. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his expression became a little grim.

  “Memories are sometimes unreliable, Mariana. They’re unreliable even when people haven’t had head injuries and been in a coma.”

  She stared at him, and a horribly cold sensation crept over her skin.

  “I thought you believed me,” she whispered. “I’ve been pouring out these chaotic, irrational, unconnected pieces of my mind in the raw and nonsensical form they come back to me. I’ve opened my mind to you...not to mention my heart and...” She blushed, recalling the feel of his hands on her, the imprint of his body, the heady taste of his mouth.

  Owen’s eyes darkened, and his whole body tensed.

  “Damn it, Mariana, I do believe what you tell me,” he insisted angrily. “I’m trying to help you remember everything. But I’m getting the impression that there’s something that you may not want to remember. If that’s true, it can warp your interpretation of the facts. And you may unconsciously repress facts because they’re just too painful to face.”

  Although he’d begun speaking with anger in his voice, as he’d talked, that emotion had faded. At the last, he was speaking to her so softly that it brought tears to her eyes.