Dancing In the Dark

by Kathryn Shay

  They had big plans, too, as a couple. Or he thought they had. A sick feeling in his gut at the idea of losing his chance with her immobilized him. Damn it, he’d always gotten whatever he wanted in life, and he’d gone after Clarissa with the same verve with which he’d pursued a business degree at Wharton and ownership of WRNY TV. Sure, he’d been born into a wealthy family, but he’d worked hard to get the degree. And though trust funds from his beloved grandparents had helped him buy the station, he’d put in long hours to make it successful. When Clarissa had come to work there, he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her. She was a diamond in the rough, and he’d helped her polish her exterior until she shone like a brand-new gem. She’d appreciated him for it.

  He glanced at the house. Damn those people. He’d been on the verge of getting her to move out of the condo into a lovely home in a more upscale neighborhood of Rockford. Though she’d been on the fence about it, he’d bought the property and had pretty much talked her into moving there with him. That he might not get to do that with her now because of some quirky twist of fate made him sad and angry.

  Forcefully, he pushed out of his mind the images of the night Clarissa had been on the expressway and her car had skidded on the slick pavement and hit a guardrail. An unfortunate accident, the police and papers had called it. He could barely stand the thought of her being hurt, the fact that she could have been killed.

  And his part in the whole thing.

  Jonathan straightened and started the engine. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel responsible for what had happened to her. When guilt, deep and piercing, hit him, he forced it back as he’d done since the horrid event occurred. Instead, he’d concentrate on getting Clarissa back to her old life—the part where she remembered him, loved him. The longer her memory was kept at bay, the easier it would be for him to prove once again how good they were together.

  And then he’d get Brady Langston out of the picture permanently.

  * * *

  Clare was small, and Cathy was even smaller, both so little they could barely reach the counter in Grandma’s house. Her kitchen always smelled so good, and Clare loved being there. Her favorite was the spicy sauce Grandma had on the stove, but her sister liked the cookies best.

  “Come, bambini, you are not too young for this.”

  Eagerly, Clare climbed up on one stool and Cathy on the other. Mommy put them both in pretty blue dresses and Mary Janes shoes, and Grandma had tied the tiny aprons she’d made for them over their outfits.

  Cathy smiled at Grandma. Clare was three years older, so she helped take care of her sister. Outside, through the big window in the kitchen, she could see her parents, sitting on the swing, holding hands. She liked it when Mommy and Daddy brought them to Italy for a visit, especially a long one where she and Cathy would stay for a month when their parents went back to Rockford.

  Grandma smoothed Clare’s hair down. “This is ricotta. It’s the best kind of cheese.” She held out a fork, and Clare tasted it first, then Cathy.

  “Hmm,” Clare said, but Cathy wrinkled her nose.

  “This is one of the main ingredients of lasagna.”

  Cathy nodded at the noodles. “They’re slimy, Grandma. Do I have to touch them?”

  “Si, bambina. A good cook uses her hands.”

  “I’m going to be a cook,” Clare said proudly. “Just like you, Grandma.”

  “I’m going to be a ballerina.” Cathy scrambled off the stool and did a pirouette. “I’ll practice.”

  Grandma Boneli watched her for a minute and smiled down at Clare. “Someday, amore mio, you’re going to be famous.”

  “I know.” Clare reached for the noodles.

  Suddenly, they started to move. Oh, God, they were forming into something, coming…alive. Snakes, they were snakes! Each poked a head up. Each had a face. One was blue-eyed. It reminded Clare of Brady. The other resembled Jonathan.

  Brady-the-snake curled around her wrist tightly. At the motion, the other, Jonathan, reared up on its body and stung Clare on the cheek.

  She cried out. Help me. I don’t know what to do. Please, help me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Morning filtered in through the open window—cool air, the sound of birds chirping and the smell of newly mowed grass. Pulling the covers up to her neck, Clare burrowed into the pillow and sank deeper into the mattress.

  Rested, she let her mind wake up with her body. When it did, gradually, the all-too-familiar anxiety began to wash over her, like a cold stream replacing all warmth. Where was she? Her eyes snapped open.

  Sage-green walls. White trim. Overhead, a fan whirred. She groped the covers—a light quilt swirled with greens and whites interspersed with tiny red lines. Amidst the burst of color, blackness threatened to drown her.

  Take deep breaths, Clare. That’s the best way to calm down. Someone’s voice from the hospital. She didn’t know whose.

  So she breathed in and out, once, twice…she was settled when she reached six.

  All right, all right, the facts were that she didn’t remember this room, this house, these people. But her short-term memory was intact: yesterday, late afternoon, Jonathan had brought her here. They’d come upstairs and there had been a confrontation between him and Brady. Clare had gotten a blinding headache, and Brady had carried her into the bedroom. She’d fallen asleep and not awakened until now, at 8:00 am. The long rest wasn’t unusual, as she’d slept most of the time she was in the hospital. Suddenly, she remembered the dream she’d had. She was cooking with an older woman, and her sister was there. Then there was something else. Something about snakes. She shivered, and her stomach knotted. She didn’t want to remember the dream, hadn’t wanted to remember the ones she’d had in the hospital, either. Her therapist had explained why…

  Dreams are indicative of what you’re not remembering. To keep you happy, or sometimes sane, your conscious mind won’t let you recall incidents in your past. In cases of amnesia, the drive is even stronger. Psychologically you’re hiding what you don’t want to, or can’t, remember.

  Was that true for her? Clare wondered. Was the cause of her amnesia psychological? It didn’t have to be. The workings of the brain were still somewhat of a mystery to doctors and researchers alike, especially when amnesia was involved. Her physicians had told Clare that the cause of her memory loss could very well be physical, even if her CT scans showed no residual brain damage from the bump on her head. Damn, not even knowing why she couldn’t remember things was frustrating.

  Turning over, she pushed herself to a seated position and took in the rest of the room. Gleaming hardwood floors. A bank of windows overlooking the side and back yards. An adjoining room—the bathroom, probably.

  Was she alone? Probably not. Brady said he and his friends—her friends, too—were going to take turns staying with her. She wished he was here when she’d first woken up. Yesterday, just being near him had calmed her fears and anxieties. He must be a big part of the history she couldn’t remember.

  Then she shook her head. Now that she had regained some of her physical strength, she should stop depending on anybody too much. She sensed that wasn’t her style. But fear and distress came too suddenly, too unexpectedly, and made her weak. Oh, well, no sense whining about it. Throwing back the cover, she slid out of bed and noticed she still wore her dress. The fabric was wrinkled, and she felt grungy, so she made her way to the bathroom.

  It was huge. Windows lining the walls about a foot over her head, long and uncovered, let in the light but gave complete privacy. There was a dressing area to the right. A shower stall was on the left, made of white fiberglass with a frosted glass door.

  She stripped, turned on the faucet and stepped under the spray. It was heavenly, and for a few seconds she remembered being in this enclosed space; then the memory was gone. Squeezing shampoo from a bottle in the shower caddy, she washed her hair and luxuriated in the process and the scent of lavender surrounding her—that, too, was familiar. Gingerly, she touched the injure
d area. Sometimes it still ached.

  Done in the shower, she crossed to the dressing room, admiring the vanity, the wooden chest of drawers and the closet.

  From the latter, she chose pink capris and a white T-shirt. When she opened the underwear drawer—it was the first one she tried—she stopped short. Well, she liked pretty things. Sexy ones. Picking up a pair of leopard bikinis, she had a startling flash of a man taking the panties and a matching bra off her. It was a pleasant image and filled her with warmth, but it was gone too quickly. Whose hands were they? Jonathan’s? Or those of another man she was involved with before she met him? Would she ever remember being intimate with someone? How could she forget that? Dr. Summers had cautioned her that in some amnesiac cases, memory didn’t return. The notion chilled her and she dressed quickly.

  The mirror reflected a stranger again, and fear started to coil inside her, but she forced herself to stay detached and examine her face. The bruises under her eyes were better today. Automatically she reached for a box, knowing cosmetics were in there. She used concealer to erase the last trace of black and was satisfied with the results.

  “What the hell?” she said, and picked up the lipstick. It was pretty, and she liked it.

  Then she blow-dried her hair just enough to get the water out and keep the mass of pretty waves.

  Back in the bedroom, she stared at the doorway. Forcing herself to move toward it, she stepped out into the hallway. A large living area sprawled before her. She hadn’t seen the condo last night because she’d buried her nose in Brady’s chest as he carried her into the bedroom. Just the recollection of him made her feel better, and she wondered why.

  The living area was one big space, demarcated by couches sectioning off a dining room that graced one end. Ceiling fans lifted the air around her, making her shiver. She snagged a sweater off a chair, where she must have left it before the accident, and slipped it on. Ahh. She recognized the scent. Her scent.

  Slowly, she crossed to the doorway of another room off this one. An office, which sported a pink-and-blue striped couch that pulled out to a bed, she somehow knew. Her desk, bookshelves…evidence of her work. When her pulse quickened, she left without going inside. For that reason, she bypassed the kitchen, too.

  There was no sign of Brady, no sign of anyone. Hmm. She walked to the windows in the back. A woman was in the yard weeding the huge garden.

  Oh, Brady, thank you for digging this. I can grow all my herbs fresh for my recipes. She’d thrown her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

  Hey, I helped. Another man, a very big, very handsome black man, teased her. Don’t I get a hug?

  Wow! That was a very specific memory, and it cheered her.

  Since no one was obviously in the condo, maybe the woman in the garden was the one keeping Clare company this morning, she grabbed her keys, stuck them in her pocket, and headed out of the condo and down the stairs to the backyard. The morning air was cool and a bit damp. She made her way across the grass and called out when she was a few feet away, “Hello.”

  The woman’s head jerked up, and she looked over her shoulder. Once again Clare’s heart started to beat fast. Something was familiar about her, but it was the look on her face that upset Clare. Her dark brows knitted, and her mouth formed a definite frown. She wasn’t happy to see Clare.

  Slowly, she stood. “Hi, Clare. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were awake. Brady had an eight o’clock appointment, so I came up to stay with you. I checked on you, but you were still sleeping. I thought I’d pull a few weeds, since no one’s had time to take care of this.”

  “Thanks for thinking of that.”

  The woman cocked her head as Clare came closer. Wide, almond-shaped eyes the color of chestnuts stared at her; hair to match swung in a short ponytail. She was dressed in pretty yellow shorts and a matching top. Clare gave her a tentative smile.

  “You don’t remember who I am.”

  “No, I’m sorry. But don’t take offense. I don’t remember anyone.” She swallowed hard and felt emotion clog her throat

  “Not even Brady?”

  “Should I?”

  “Oh, dear, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you things.”

  Clare shrugged. “That’s not exactly true. The doctor said to make sure I don’t get too much information at once. But familiar people and objects are supposed to jog my memory. It’s already happened some.”

  After a hesitation, the woman nodded. “I’m Delia Kramer, from the first floor.”

  “We’re neighbors.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And friends?”

  “Ah…yes.”

  “Could a friend fix me some coffee?” She glanced back at the house. “I didn’t go in the kitchen yet. I’m afraid to.”

  Delia came out of the garden. “I’m sorry, Clare. That must be hard for you.”

  A flash of recognition of this woman listening to her and comforting her. “Did you always know what I was thinking? How I was feeling?”

  “At one point in our lives.”

  Confused by the comment Clare was about to ask for an explanation, but Delia started walking toward the house and Clare fell into step alongside her. “I came to the hospital when you were in a coma. But the doctors didn’t want too many visitors after you awakened.” Another pause. “I sent flowers, carnations. Your favorites.”

  Clare smiled. “That’s why I liked them so much.”

  In truth, Clare had wondered why no one had visited but Brady and Jonathan. There were flowers from others, none of whom she remembered, and a few calls after she woke up. Her sister had phoned a couple of times from France. She’d cried when Clare didn’t remember her, and often had tears in her voice when she called back. Damn it, how could you not remember your own flesh and blood?

  When they arrived at Delia’s first floor condo, they went in through a set of French doors leading into a kitchen, which was roomy with warm wood everywhere. Because it seemed right, Clare took a stool at the island instead of the breakfast nook. Delia assembled the coffee and when it began to drip, turned around. This time, her expression was pained.

  “What’s wrong, Delia?”

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen you at my kitchen island in a long time.”

  “No? You said we were friends. And we live in the same building.”

  “I—let’s talk about something else. Your hair looks great short.”

  “Please, just tell me that one thing. Why haven’t I been here in a while?”

  Delia leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “You got busy with your cookbooks and TV show.”

  “But we were close before that?”

  “Yes, we were college roommates, then you went to culinary school, and I got my master’s degree. I’m an elementary school teacher, now.”

  “My sister’s a teacher, too.”

  “I know. Cathy and I have a lot in common. Anyway, you were maid of honor in my wedding. After you finished your training, you moved here when a condo opened up because we owned one.” She glanced over at a picture by the window. “You don’t remember anything? Anyone?” Her voice caught on the last word.

  “I have flashes. I knew I used to sit at the island.” She frowned. “So I must have been here a lot.” When Delia only stared at her, Clare nodded to the photo. “Is that your husband?”

  “Excuse me for a minute.” Her voice quivered and Delia disappeared into what looked like a powder room off the kitchen.

  Standing, Clare crossed to the window and picked up the picture. It was of a man in army fatigues. Closely cropped hair. Dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked so young and handsome and hopeful. Oh my God, he was dead. She knew what had happened.

  Delia had been at the computer when Clare had come in through the front door and into this kitchen. She remembered how bereft she’d felt but knew she had to be strong for her friend…

  “Hey,” Delia said. “I’m e-mailing Don, but I don’t know how to begin.
” Her hand went to her stomach. “How do you tell somebody thousands of miles away he’s going to be a daddy? He’ll be happy, though.” She frowned. “Damn that army reserve. I told him he never should have signed on. He’d be here—” Finally she looked up. Her face sobered. “Clare, what…” She stood and hurried over to her friend. “What is it, what’s happened?”

  “Dee, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The army people, I saw them outside approaching the front door. I told them I was your friend. I insisted they tell me first…so you wouldn’t be alone.”

  A knock on the door, as loud as a gunshot.

  “What is it?” Delia’s fingers bit into Clare’s arm. “What is it?”

  “Honey, I’m sorry. Don’s dead…”

  * * *

  Clare recalled what she wished she hadn’t…the two of them crying through the whole official announcement, days of grim reality, nights of holding her friend while she sobbed out her pain. But Delia had gotten through her husband’s death, with the help of Brady, Clare and someone else. The guy helping Brady carry the couch, the guy from the garden.

  Now, however, Clare felt the loss all over again. It was as if someone she knew and loved had just died, making her take in a quick breath.

  She heard Delia move behind her. “What are you doing?”

  Setting down the frame, Clare turned around. “I remember. I’m so sorry.”

  “You look sad. Do you remember Don himself?”

  “No, just when we found out he was killed in action and how I felt then.”

  Delia shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it does. I’ll try harder.”

  Delia swallowed hard. “I appreciated all you did for me, Clare. I couldn’t have gotten through his death and the aftermath without you.”

  Which must have made their estrangement even harder. With that thought came pain behind her eyes. Briefly, she closed them and was able to will it away.