Remember Me

by L'Amour, Nelle

  My eyes mist as the magic of this moment fills every atom of my being. Narnia. I never want this day to end.

  I make a wish. Then a vow. I can never lose my husband and daughter again.

  They are my unicorns.

  CHAPTER 43

  The magic of last night carries over to the next day. While I don’t see Finn, who’s had an early start in his studio, Maddie and I have a wonderful school session. Moving on to a new science unit about the solar system, we’ve delved into some Greek mythology and constellations. I’ve given her a homework assignment . . . to write a story about Pegasus, the winged horse, and to include a picture and at least one line in French.

  Leaving Maddie with Rosita for her afternoon snack, I get a text from Finn.

  Please come to my studio. Need your help. Also want a Maddie progress report.

  Surprised, I immediately reply: On my way.

  My heart pitter-patters. Despite living here for almost a month, this is the first time I’ll set foot in his studio. Something I’ve so wanted to do. And the timing to give him an update on Maddie’s progress is perfect.

  Finn’s studio is located at the far edge of the property overlooking the ocean. Architecturally magnificent, the two-story structure reminds me of a conservatory. With the outpour of natural light from its high vaulted ceilings, it feels almost spiritual. As if I’ve just stepped into a crystal cathedral.

  Large abstract paintings are stacked against the walls. A few of which I remember Finn painting before my accident, some already boxed for his show. My eyes circle the vast space. There are shelves filled with vats of paint, various sized brushes, and other supplies . . . drafting tables with scattered reference books . . . and a home gym—with a bench press, weights, and other workout equipment, including a trapeze. It’s a study in beautiful chaos.

  I spot Finn in the southwest corner standing before a tall canvas, a drop cloth covering both the painting and easel it’s propped against. His back to me, he doesn’t see me. For a few minutes, I silently observe him as he mixes paints on the portable stand next to him and admire his breathtaking virility.

  “Hi,” I finally say.

  He spins around and smiles. “Scarlet! Thanks for coming.”

  “Your studio is amazing.” Indeed, it’s a far cry from the dark, depressing warehouse in decrepit Vernon.

  “Thanks. It’s one of the things that sold me on this property. The light, the size, the ocean view. The property belonged to some fitness guru who became a monk. This is where he worked out and meditated. It was perfect for me. It has a great sound system and he even left me some of his workout equipment, which I use daily.”

  My eyes dart again to the workout area, and in my mind’s eye, I can picture Finn with his rippled muscles lifting weights, his tattooed biceps bulging. The image of his sculpted body glistening with a coat of sweat makes me wet. My thighs stiffen with liquid heat.

  “You should work out with me sometime. I’ll teach you how to use the trapeze.”

  So aroused by the sight of him, dressed in low hung sweats, a V-neck black T-shirt and barefooted, I falter for a response. “Sure. Maybe sometime when I’m wearing workout clothes.”

  His eyes roam down my jean-clad body and then he flashes a dazzling smile. “I’ll look forward to that.”

  For a moment, the image of straddling him on the trapeze flashes into my head. My mouth smothered by his. Riding him to orgasm. Heating, I ask him why he needs my help.

  “Come here, Scarlet.” He motions for me to walk over to him with his long, talented fingers. My heart thudding, I head his way. My eyes never leave him as he flips around and yanks off the drop cloth covering the mysterious canvas, letting it fall to the floor. Then, they practically pop out of their sockets as my heart almost stops. Oh. My. God.

  He turns again to face me. “Scarlet, this is my masterpiece. It’s called Girl with the Flower Tattoo. I started it years ago—I was going to give it to my late wife on her next birthday—but I stopped working on it after she died. Only recently have I been able to go back to it.”

  “It’s b-beautiful,” I stammer, trying impossibly hard to control my emotions and not let him see through them. It’s a life-size nude portrait of me—of how I used to look—except instead of chin-length brown hair, the woman, who’s looking over her shoulder, now has lustrous auburn hair that cascades over her luminescent flesh and stops at her waist. Just above her right butt cheek—the one with the flower tattoo. It’s exactly like the one on my ass. And his.

  “Scarlet, I can’t seem to get the contours of her shoulders or backside right. Do you think you could model for me? Your body shape is a lot like hers.”

  My heart races. The hairs on my body stand on end. “You mean, get naked for you?” Reveal who I really am?

  He pauses reflectively, his eyes boring into mine. I swear he’s mentally undressing me. Or seeing through my clothes. And I’m doing the same with him. Temptation gnaws at me, my body growing feverish with need and desire as I decide whether to placate him. Or run away as fast I can.

  He senses my distress. “If it makes you more comfortable, you can keep your undergarments on. I won’t look while you undress. When your clothes are off, I want you to pose like the subject in the painting . . . over there.” He points to a spot not far from the easel.

  I hesitate. What if he sees my tattoo? Or my scars. I anxiously bite down on my lip. “Is this painting going to be featured in your show?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m thinking of holding on to it. Maybe, one day giving it to a museum.” He pauses again. “Scarlet, if you’re uncomfortable, I understand and we can just chat about Maddie’s progress for a few minutes.”

  “No, Finn, I’ll do it.” With all my heart, I want to help this beautiful man—my husband, the devoted father of my child—achieve his dream of greatness. Moving to the location where he wants me, I face a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Pacific, and with my back to him, I pull my top over my head, letting it drop to the floor. I’m not wearing a bra. Feeling Finn’s traitorous eyes on me, I kick off my Vans, slide down my jeans, and step out of them. All that remains is a pair of skimpy lace panties that barely hide the tattoo. My body trembles. So much of me wants to yank down the bikinis. Reveal the tattoo to him. Finally end this masquerade.

  Finn’s voice: “Good, Scarlet. Now look over your shoulder at me.”

  My back still to him, I do as he asks and meet his penetrating gaze. The eyes of an artist. Expecting him to pick up a paintbrush, he instead lopes up to me.

  “I need to fix something.” Gently, he pulls my ponytail out of the elastic, and as my long hair falls down my back, he styles it so it’s draping over one shoulder just like in the painting. His fingers graze my flesh and I shiver with desire. A desire so great it shakes me.

  His eyes on fire, he steps back and studies me. “Scarlet, you’re absolutely perfect.”

  To my relief, he hasn’t noticed the scars scattered on the front side of my body. I twitch a nervous smile. Feel my bare breasts quiver. And watch him jog back to the canvas. Before starting to paint, he picks up a remote and music fills the space. The Boss. “Brilliant Disguise,” an early Springsteen song that couldn’t be more fitting. More unnerving. And I wonder, more deliberate.

  “Relax, Scarlet.” He selects a paintbrush, and dipping it into a can of pigment, he puts it to the canvas, his intense eyes on me. My gaze meets his and I feel even more naked and exposed than I already am. So connected to this man. So full of lust and love. Getting into a groove, he begins to sing along with his music idol, his gravelly voice every bit as good as the rock star’s. With each brush stroke, his eyes still burning into mine as he belts out the refrain. In my mind, I sing back, desperation underlying each silent word:

  Yes, it’s me, baby. Look in my eyes. It’s just a brilliant disguise.

  I’m your wife . . . Skye.

  The girl in your painting with the flower tattoo.

  My heart is aching. Breaking
. I want to scream out to him who I really am. I want him to take me in his arms, devour me with his lips, and make love to me. Anywhere. Everywhere. Against a wall. On a drafting table. On the floor. Just like we used to.

  Suddenly, his cell phone rings. He turns down the volume of the music and pulls it out from a pocket. He curses under his breath as he looks down at the caller ID. Putting the phone to his ear, his face tenses.

  “Shit! I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He shoves the phone back into his pocket and flings the paintbrush on the stand without cleaning it.

  “Scarlet, I’ve got to split.”

  “Is everything okay?” My mind instantly jumps to Maddie’s well being. My pulse spikes.

  “I have an emergency. I’ve got to pick up Kayla and meet with the dickheads who printed the catalogue for the opening. They screwed it up with all the wrong images, and it’s supposed to be going out to five hundred people tomorrow. Maybe, we can work together later if I don’t get back too late.”

  My heart plummets to my stomach; my face falls. I can’t mask my disappointment. “I understand. You should go.”

  As he hastily tidies up, I throw on my clothes. As I pull my top over my head, I look down and gasp. Oh my God! My gold locket with the photo of Finn, Maddie, and me is missing! I frantically look all around me. It’s nowhere in sight. Despair sets in with the force of a wrecking ball. Maybe it fell off in the house. Or on my way here. Or maybe worse, on the beach last night! It’s been my lifeline to my family and my sanity—my lucky charm—and now it’s gone!

  Panic grips me. I feel sick to my stomach. My heart beating like a jackhammer, I dash out of the studio, hoping to retrace my steps.

  “Scarlet! Wait! What’s the matter?”

  Finn.

  I don’t stop to answer him. My fate is at stake.

  CHAPTER 44

  I arrive back home at close to midnight, exhausted. With a headache the size of Texas. The rest of this day has been a frickin’ nightmare.

  It began mid-afternoon with Kayla’s emergency phone call about the loser catalogue publisher she hired. I hurried to her condo, battling the LA traffic, only to find her not ready for our trip to Hawthorne. Forty fucking miles away.

  “Sorry, darling, I’m in slow-mo with my crutches, thanks to your bright idea to go to that despicable apple dump with your imp and that wilderness girl.”

  Too bad I couldn’t tell her fuck the catalogue and then turn around. Go back home. Finish my painting. Spend time with Scarlet.

  Then, I battled more traffic on both the 10 and San Diego Freeway, which included a big rig accident that brought everything to a standstill. Another two unbearable, agonizing hours. With Kayla chewing my ear off. My audacity. The nerve of me abandoning her yesterday. My incompetence. Like it’s my fault the catalogue got screwed up. My clothing. Sweats are for peasants. My driving. As if I can make the traffic go away.

  An ugly shouting match followed at the printer’s with Kayla threatening to sue the small start-up company. I actually felt sorry for them. Just a bunch of young creative guys. And the screw up wasn’t even their fault as it was fucking Kayla who sent the wrong slides.

  Once everything was resolved to her satisfaction, she insisted I take her out for dinner at the Chateau Marmont, her favorite hangout, to talk about “things.” I foolishly agreed thinking that she wanted to go over final details for my show. Wrong. All she wanted to talk about was our upcoming wedding and I didn’t want to talk about it at all. More angry words were exchanged. Had we not been at a public place surrounded by her high falutin friends, many of them coming to the opening, I would have broken up with her right then and there. I lost my opportunity, when in a tiff, she Ubered home.

  On my drive back to Malibu, I put on some Springsteen. All I could think about was Scarlet, replaying in my head our afternoon together against The Boss soundtrack. Beautiful, sensuous Scarlet. There was a moment as I fixed her hair that I wanted to claim her almost bare body against the window. Rip off those scanty panties, then fuck her like a madman. Then splay her on my drafting table . . . paint her body . . . tease her with a brush . . . and fuck her senseless all over again. All the erotic things I did to my late wife. The similarities between the two of them have messed with my sanity. Both my heart and my head. In retrospect, I should have ripped off that little piece of lace and fucked her from behind. Confirmed what I thought I saw in that motel shower. Then, I thought it was just a coincidence. Maybe just a bruise. But now, I’m having other thoughts. Could it be possible? All just “A Brilliant Disguise?”

  Rubbing my throbbing temples, I lumber into the kitchen and pour myself a Scotch. I guzzle it in one shot, the searing liquid quickly seeping into my veins and alleviating my tension. A warm, familiar voice sounds in my ears.

  “Señor Jackson.” Rosita. “You are home late.” Shuffling my way, she studies me. “Your eyes, very heavy.”

  “I’m tired. Tired and stressed.”

  “That muy mala mujer—she does that to you.”

  Rosita has made it no secret that she despises Kayla, who treats her like a lowlife servant.

  “You do not belong with her. Señorita Scarlet, she eez a good woman!”

  At the mention of Scarlet’s name, my spirits lift a little.

  “Did she have dinner with you and Maddie?”

  She shakes her head. “She was feeling sick. Went to bed early.”

  A mixture of guilt and concern ripples through me. Maybe it’s all my fault she’s fallen ill. I fight the urge to check up on her. If she’s sleeping, I don’t want to awaken her. And if she’s up, God knows what I’ll do to her. I switch gears.

  “It’s late, Rosita. What are you doing down here? You should be sleeping too.”

  “I came for a glass of water for Maddie.”

  “My daughter . . . she’s up?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  I set my tumbler down. “You know what, Rosita? Why don’t you get some shut-eye, and I’ll bring Maddie some water.”

  Five minutes later, I’m in my daughter’s room with a plastic sippy cup in my hand. Her nightlight is on. She bolts up when she sees me.

  “Daddy! You’re back! Where did you go?”

  “I had some business to take care of.” No mention of Kayla. “What are you doing up, baby?” I stride over to her bed, my spirits brightening at the sight of my bright-eyed child.

  “I couldn’t sleep.” I hand her the cup of water and she takes several sips. “Thanks, Daddy!”

  “I want you to go to sleep now. Tomorrow’s a school day.”

  “Can I show you something first?”

  Reluctantly, I say yes. Her eyes glistening with excitement, she dips her little hand inside her worn, fuzzy kangaroo’s pouch.

  “Look what I found.” My eyes grow wide at the object in her palm. A necklace.

  “Where did you find that?” My heart galloping, I spit out the words.

  “In my classroom. Under my desk. Before I had dinner. I think it belongs to Scarlet.”

  My mind is a whirling dervish. While I try to make sense of Maddie’s discovery, she snaps open the object hanging from the gold chain. A locket.

  “Daddy, it has a picture of you, me, and Mommy. Just like the one on my nightstand.”

  I stare at the photo, my heart and mind racing, thinking back to that fatal night. It was around Skye’s neck! I’m sure of it!

  Frenzied, I refocus my attention on my daughter. She snaps the locket shut and then flips it over, showing off her reading skills. “And on the back it has the word “Forever.” She spells it out, then cocks her head. “Daddy, why would Scarlet have this locket with our picture in it?”

  I have no words; I’m speechless. Rattled to the bone, I want to snatch it from her, but force myself to slip the heirloom out of her hand as gently as possible. Quickly, I tuck my daughter back into bed and kiss her goodnight. Hurrying out of her room, I hear my heart thud. My need for the truth pulses through my head like a f
reight train. In answer to her question, I’m going to find out.

  Right fucking now!

  CHAPTER 45

  No matter how much I will it, I can’t fall asleep. Tossing and turning, I feel feverish. The loss of my locket has undone me. Tormented, all I can think about is the afternoon I spent in Finn’s studio. What kind of game was he playing with me? Showing me that portrait. Asking me to practically bare myself to him. Touching me. Staring at me with lustful eyes. Taunting me. Playing that Springsteen song that begged me to reveal myself. Then, the phone call. Rubbing my chest where my locket should be, I start to obsess about Finn and Kayla. The two of them together. Getting married. My heart aches. This masquerade has gone on far too long. But it’s probably too late to end it. Besides, why would he ever take me back? He thinks I cheated on him. Had an affair. Maybe I did. I still can’t remember what led to my near-fatal accident. Any glimmer of the truth eludes me.

  The melodic ebb and flow of the ocean drifts through the open window, the soothing sound on replay. It doesn’t relax me. Why can’t I remember? I search my mind, but it’s too clouded with self-doubt and anguish. My head throbs with frustration that gives way to despair. Tears in my eyes, I at last succumb to the night.

  My slumber is short-lived. Just after I doze off, a loud rapping at the front door awakens me. The rapping is ruthless, growing louder and faster with each knock. Finn’s voice accompanies the banging.

  “Scarlet, open the door!” More pounding. “Goddammit! Open it!”

  Shouting my name, he sounds frantic. Almost manic. I bolt up and jump out of bed. My heart hammers. Maybe something’s wrong with Maddie. Another asthma attack though I’ve not heard any indications on my monitor. Was I too fast asleep? Too dead to the world? My heart squeezes with clawing dread.

  Foregoing a bathrobe or slippers, I hurry to the front door in my nightshirt, clambering down the stairs, alarm and fear filling every atom of my being. My Maddie!