EIGHTY-NINE
BY the end of the evening, Detective Quinn and I had agreed that he would sleep in the guest room, and I would take the master bedroom. Then he went upstairs to settle in, and I cleaned up the kitchen.
As I passed the second-floor bathroom, I heard him starting a hot shower—a good way to dispel the night’s chill. Moving down the hallway, I decided to do the same by starting a fire in my bedroom’s hearth.
This old log fireplace would be more work to clean than my ex-husband’s convenient switch-on/switch-off gas hearth. But I preferred the real thing—the outdoorsy scent of the wood, the uneven crackling, and unexpected pops. The authentic fire wasn’t as safe or easy, but it gave more warmth to my body and excitement to my senses.
The smells and sounds also brought back a cascade of powerful memories. Romantic feelings came over me, and I got the strong impression that Quinn should have been here next to me, sipping coffee and relaxing, whispering sweet words before bed.
Just then I noticed something on the mantel. A phone? It was my smartphone, presumably, the one everyone said I’d left behind on the night of my abduction.
I turned it on and gazed into the glowing display with a little trepidation. Matt had shown me a photo of Joy on his phone. Did I have photos, too? Would I be looking through the recent years of my life? Should I?
That was when I saw the thumbnail image titled Mike’s Proposal.
Swallowing my nerves, I tapped the image, and a video began to play. It felt so odd, watching myself like a stranger, in a scene that I couldn’t recall. Still, I had to smile, seeing the elaborate setup Mike had arranged, the mock arrest, and his cop friends showing up in uniform.
Then the line of blue parted like a curtain, and he was down on one knee . . .
“Clare, I love you,” he began plainly, “and I know you love me.” Opening the white box, he revealed a gorgeous blue diamond ring.
“I have something to ask you. And you’d better think hard about your answer. With these law officers as witnesses, it’s going to be tough to change your story.”
I watched myself nod, looking a little numb.
“Clare Cosi, will you marry me?”
I could see the deep affection on Detective Quinn’s face—and on my own. And I knew I wanted that love back in my life. I didn’t want to lose it.
Like this fireplace with real logs and real ashes, any recovered memories would have to include everything about our relationship, the exciting crackling and unexpected pops, as well as the bitter embers of anger and arguments.
Was I ready for that?
You’ll have to be, I told myself, because that was what a true partnership required, a steadfast agreement to ride the ups along with the downs; to carry on through the stressful mess that was always a part of anything authentic, anything real.
Putting down the mobile phone, I considered my options.
Sensory reminders had helped before. And my ex-husband seemed convinced that making love with him would have been a powerful key to unlocking my memories.
You want to have sex with me for medicinal purposes?
I had asked Matt that question. Now I asked myself—
Are you willing to try?
“MIKE?” I called through a crack in the bathroom door.
“Are you all right?” he asked, pulling the door wide. A towel was wrapped around his hips. His hair was wet, his face full of shaving cream.
“I’m fine,” I said, steeling myself from the sudden shyness. “When you’re finished in there, can you come into my bedroom? I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Okay.”
He arrived barefoot, his long legs hastily shoved into sweatpants, T-shirt collar wet from his damp hair, face freshly shaved.
The attractive look of him made me think of our quiet talk last night. Sitting on the edge of his bed, I had wanted to kiss him. Not because I remembered our history, but because I felt an attraction to him—and not just his half-naked body. I admired the man he was, I enjoyed being in his company, and (most important to me) I trusted him.
Last night, he had kissed my palm. But he never tried to touch me, let alone make love. So what was he going to say to this proposal?
“I’ve been thinking,” I began. “If I could remember our history, it would solve a lot for both of us, right?”
“Sure it would.”
“Well, why don’t you and I . . . you know . . . ?” I bravely gestured to the four-poster bed. “As an experiment, I mean.”
Clearly, this was not the question he’d been anticipating. As I stood next to the bed, blinking expectantly, he stared thunderstruck in the middle of the room. He was so flabbergasted, in fact, I’m sure I could have knocked him onto the bed with a slight tap.
But that bewildered state didn’t last long.
Stepping close, he searched my face. Then he lifted his hand and brushed my blushing cheek. This time, I didn’t back away.
Meeting his gaze, I took in the rugged, clean-shaven look of him, appreciating the square strength of his jaw, the creases, and crow’s-feet. The scent of his aftershave was almost intoxicating. Swirling impressions began to flow over me, faint whispers of intimate moments in this bedroom, caresses and kisses and—
“Clare, before we go any further, I need to say something.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever happens in this room tonight, I don’t want you regretting it in the morning, because I’m not going anywhere. I’ll keep loving you, whether you remember your love for me or not. Even if you decide to end us, and kick me the hell out of your life, I’ll keep loving you, because I can’t do otherwise.”
It was at that moment, when he let go of all his expectations, that I felt a warmth blooming inside me. This wasn’t a feeling from memory. It was brand-new. And I wanted nothing more than to show him what I felt.
I started slowly, with a kiss. Not a peck this time, but a long, lingering taste of him. It seemed so familiar, yet everything else was completely new—his body, his responses.
Clearly, however, I was not new to him.
Quinn seemed to know exactly what I liked. His fingers and lips knew how and where to touch. Soon, we were so turned on, we could hardly stand it.
Then something changed. The empty frames were filling again, repainting the blank walls in my mind with years of experiences.
All along, as we kissed and caressed, Quinn seemed to be struggling to keep himself in check—being careful to go easy, take his time.
“It’s okay,” I finally gasped, breathless and ready. “Don’t hold back.”
His blue eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
With a smile I told him the good news. “I remember you.”
“What do you remember?”
“So much, Mike. And not just you. I remember us, and I remember the love.”
He switched our positions so fast, I thought he’d performed a magic trick. Now I was flat on my back, and he was smiling down at me.
“Let’s see what else you remember . . .”