Remember Me (7 page)

So he had taken a job as a groundskeeper at Kitteridge House. If he couldn't take her with him, the least he could do was protect his future.

Over the years, he'd become her confidant, her protector and, at times, a substitute father figure. The little girl had brought out the only good there would ever be in Pharaoh Carn. From the day of her arrival, the people at the home had begun looking at him in a different light. It was as if they were seeing him anew through Francesca's eyes. Everyone knew that children couldn't be fooled, and it was obvious that Frankie Romano saw something in him that the others did not. Her dependence upon him and the adoration she gave him elevated him to something important—even something special. With her in his life, he could do no wrong. So when he saw her in the classroom with her chin in her hands, gazing longingly out the window toward the playground swings, he couldn't help but make himself known.

He watched her focus shift as he walked into her line of vision. When her expression changed and she began to smile, he felt lighter than air.

The teacher tapped her pencil on the edge of the desk and then pointed straight at Francesca.

“Frankie, pay attention!”

Frankie jerked at her teacher's angry tone and looked up, embarrassed at being caught daydreaming.

“Yes, ma'am,” she said softly.

When the teacher's attention returned to the blackboard, Frankie dared a last look, but Pharaoh had wisely moved away. It didn't matter, though. He would see her again. He was never far.

 

After sleeping the rest of the night in Clay's arms, Frankie woke up alone in their bed. Her heart ached as she rolled, laying her hand on his pillow and feeling the lingering warmth. He hadn't been gone long.

She fisted the pillowslip in her fingers and closed her eyes, remembering that they used to wake up making love. But she wasn't going to feel sorry for herself. Not today.

Last night had been a revelation. Who could have known when she'd gone to bed so miserable and unable to sleep that the morning would bring her such joy? Sighing softly, she got out of bed.

She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of Clay's sweats and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then headed for the bathroom to brush her teeth and hair. Her scalp was still tender, and she winced as the brush bristles scraped the point of injury. She paused for a moment, staring at herself in the mirror. On the surface, she looked the same. But there were too many variables in what she couldn't remember to fool herself into believing in appearances. Nothing would ever be the same again. Not between herself and Clay, no matter how much forgiveness was passed from one to the other. And certainly not for her. Someone had stolen two years of her life.

Suddenly she heard footsteps coming down the hall, and her heart jerked, but in fear rather than anticipation. Somewhere inside, her subconscious was warning her to run.

“Frankie?”

At the sound of Clay's voice, she went weak with relief and exhaled softly. “In here.”

He pushed the door aside, then grinned wryly when he saw what she was wearing.

“Remind me to move your clothes back into our closet,” he said as he set down the tray of coffee he'd been carrying.

She dropped the hairbrush back in the drawer and threw her arms around his neck. Her grip was fierce as she hugged him.

“What's this all about?” Clay asked. “Not that I'm complaining, mind you.”

“Nothing,” she muttered. “I'm just glad it's you.”

He frowned. “Who else would it be?”

Uncomfortable with the thought, she buried her face against his chest. “I don't know. Sometimes, as I'm turning around, I almost expect to see someone else's face.”

Clay tried not to let his voice mirror his concern. “But that sounds like a good sign. Maybe you're beginning to remember.”

She sighed. “I hope so. I feel like there's a hole in my mind, and every so often a little bit of my past leaks out. I keep trying to focus on the images, but the harder I try, the more vague they become.”

“Just remember, you're not there alone,” he said, then gave her a long, silent look.

“What?” Frankie asked.

“Where do we go from here?”

Her heart skipped a beat, and her voice faded. “You mean us?”

Instantly, he touched her face. “No, baby, no, not us.”

“Then if not us, what did you mean?” she asked.

“You should know that until you remember something, the police can't go any further with your case. The way they look at it, you left me and now you're back. Unless you can give them a reason, they don't see a crime, only a wife who walked out on a marriage.”

Frankie paled. “I didn't do—”

“I know that,” Clay said. “But legally, that's the way it stands.”

Her shoulders slumped. “So what are you saying?”

He watched her mood shifting from joy to despair and hated to be the one to bring it all up. But after what she'd said last night about fearing it could happen again, he wasn't going to sit around and wait to see if she was right.

“When you disappeared before and the police began trying to make a case against me, I hired a private investigator to try and find you on my own.”

Her face crumpled. “Oh, Clay. I didn't know.”

He shrugged. “There's a lot you don't know,” he said. “That's okay. What I'm asking you is, what do you think about hiring him again?”

She looked up, startled by the request. But the longer she thought, the more intrigued she became.

“Do you think we could afford to?”

He frowned. “Francesca, that's not the point. The better question is, can we afford not to?”

She sighed, wrapped her arms around herself and turned away. Clay was right behind her. He pulled her back against his chest and cradled her where they stood.

“Talk to me, Frankie. Tell me what you're thinking.”

Before she could speak, the phone rang. Clay crawled across the mattress to the other side of the bed to answer.

“Hello?”

“Clay, it's me, how's Frankie?”

“Oh, hi, Mom. She's good,” he said quietly, watching the way Frankie's body moved beneath his clothes as she took a pair of socks from a lower drawer. He grinned. Those were his socks, too.

“Are you going to work today?” Betty asked.

He thought of the job in progress and knew he should, but it was Frankie's first day home, and he wasn't about to leave her alone.

“No, not today. Dad's already there, isn't he?”

“Yes, he left around seven.”

“Good,” Clay said. “I'll give him a call later, but I thought I'd spend the day here with Frankie. I'm not comfortable leaving her alone just yet.”

“And that's part of why I called. I'm offering my services as nurse, or baby-sitter, or mother-in-law, or whatever is needed,” she said.

Frankie moved to the bureau and got a band to tie back her hair. Clay kept thinking of the mornings after she'd disappeared, when he'd stood in this very room, wondering how he was going to find the guts to keep living without her. And now she was back. He shuddered with a sudden longing to be with his wife in the most intimate way.

“Clay, you didn't answer me,” Betty said.

He blinked. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I guess I'll pass today, but we'll take you up on the offer another time. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure, honey. Just give me a call. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Will do.”

“Bye. Give my love to Frankie.”

“Yeah, I'll do that,” he said, and hung up the phone.

Frankie turned, the hairbrush in one hand, the band in the other.

“Who was that?”

“Mom. She was offering to hang out with you for a while until you felt stronger.”

Frankie frowned. “I love your mother, and I would love for her to visit, but I don't need a keeper.”

“That's debatable.”

Before Frankie could argue, he took the hairbrush out of her hands and set it back on the bureau.

“Come here,” he said softly as he pulled her close. “I have something to give you.”

Frankie smiled hesitantly. “And that would be?”

“Mom said to give you her love. This is the best that I can do.” His mouth skirted the edges of her lips, then centered.

Frankie swallowed a groan and wrapped her arms around his neck.

When he came up for air, Frankie sighed. “Is that the best
you
can do?” she whispered.

Clay's eyes glittered darkly. “Hardly, but it's all you're going to get until I think you can handle it.”

Frankie almost blushed. “
Handle
it? Might we be just the least little bit overconfident?”

Clay moved away from her. “I don't think so,” he drawled. “
We
have been celibate for a hell of a long time.”

She tightened her hold around his neck. “Then don't you think it's about time we corrected that problem?”

C
lay's heart skipped a beat. Over the past months, he'd imagined this moment in the nights when he'd been unable to sleep and had come to accept that memories would be all he had left of his wife. But no more. The reality of her return was now. There were no doctors hovering or police in the next room. Only him—and her—and the love that once bound them. Would she forgive him? Could he trust her? He sighed. Finally, none of it mattered.

He cupped her face with his hands, concerned for her injuries, that this would be too soon.

“Are you sure?”

Her chin quivered. “Sure that I love you? That I want to make love to you? Oh, Clay, what do you think?”

He exhaled slowly, then lowered his head. Finally there was nothing to be heard but the shifting of one body to another as she lifted her lips for his kiss. Within seconds, their joining went from sweet to insanity.

She moaned, yielding to his onslaught as he backed her against the wall. One hungry kiss led to another, then another, until they were both shaking and gasping for air. He tunneled his fingers through her hair. When she winced, too late he remembered her injury and drew back in remorse.

“Sorry, so sorry,” he muttered, and started to move away when she caught him, pulling him back, then yielding to the instinctive thrust of his hips.

“Careful, Francesca.”

“I don't want to be careful. I want to be loved,” she begged.

He groaned beneath his breath. Refusing her—or himself—was impossible. He took her in his arms again, gently kissing her face, her eyelids, then finally her lips. They were warm and soft and yielded to his demands all too easily. But he wanted more—so much more.

Frankie's head was swimming. His passion engulfed her. Shaking, she broke free from his kiss to look up at his face.

“Clay…”

His voice was just above a whisper. “What, baby?”

“Take me to bed.”

A muscle jerked at the side of his jaw as he picked her up and carried her across the room. When he laid her on the sheets, she pulled him down with her. They rolled, tangling themselves in the covers of the unmade bed.

Immediately, Clay began to pull at her clothes. His message was urgent and impossible to misunderstand. He wanted her naked, and he wanted her now.

Frankie gladly obliged, tugging at his shirt and jeans as well, until the only thing between them was passion.

Clay raised himself onto one elbow, pausing momentarily to look down at his wife. His smile was brittle, his breathing short and shattered. Two years of celibacy had all but destroyed his control.

“Francesca…sweetheart…I don't know if I can—”

Frankie put her fingers against his mouth. “This is for you.”

His groan ripped the quiet of the room as her body made way for him to come in. He began to move almost instantly, thrusting deep inside her. Thoughts came and went, passing through his mind like near-spent bullets, and tearing through the loneliness that had been his sole companion.

Been so long…feels so good.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groaned again. It was going to be over too fast.

Suddenly the blood was hammering against his eardrums and his body was on a plane all its own, moving without thought, chasing a feeling that kept trying to catch hold.

And then it was upon him—pushing, pushing, driving him harder, deeper. He heard a soft cry, then a deep, aching groan. It was himself that he heard—and he was coming undone.

 

It was five minutes after three in the afternoon when the doorbell rang. Clay exited the kitchen on the run, anxious that it not wake Frankie, who was taking a nap. Their morning had been exhausting for her, but so healing for them both. Making love to her today had been like making love to her again for the very first time.

When he saw his dad's car through the window, he frowned, hoping that something hadn't happened on the work site. Hastily, he combed his hair with his fingers, then opened the door. The wind was sharp, the air brisk.

“Hey, Dad, come in out of the cold,” he said quickly, and shut the door behind them as Winston LeGrand slipped inside.

“Damned miserable today,” Winston muttered, shrugging out of his overcoat.

Clay eyed his father's mood as he hung the coat on their hall tree. As always, it was impossible to read his emotions.

“How about a hot cup of coffee?” Clay asked. “I just made a fresh pot.”

“Don't mind if I do,” Winston said, rubbing his hands together as he followed his son into the kitchen.

Curious, he looked around as Clay got down a cup. “Where's Frankie?”

“Taking a nap.”

Winston nodded, taking the hot cup of coffee and cradling it between his cold palms like a hand warmer.

“She all right?” he asked.

Clay leaned against the counter. “She's getting there,” he said quietly.

“Remembering anything?” Winston asked.

“Not enough to help—yet.”

Winston nodded and took a slow sip of coffee.

“Everything okay on the site?” Clay asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I appreciate you stepping in to help me like this,” Clay said.

Winston nodded again and took another sip of coffee.

Several long, uneasy moments passed between the men, with Winston busying himself cooling his coffee and Clay watching him blow into the cup.

“So, what do you think?” Winston finally asked.

Clay sighed. He knew what his father was getting at. He'd been so angry and distrustful before, it only stood to reason that his parents would be curious about his state of mind.

“I think I acted like a jackass,” Clay muttered. “Thankfully, Francesca seems to have a penchant for men with long ears and a tail.”

Winston managed a grin. “It was a rough call,” he said.

Clay nodded. “Maybe so, but the least I could have done was listen to her side first.”

“Well, you have to admit that the needle marks were incriminating as hell. Add to that the fact that she was oblivious to the two passing years, and you have a woman with a lot of explaining to do.”

“I guess,” Clay said. “But it doesn't make me feel any better to know that the whole time I was grilling her about where she'd been, she was suffering from a serious concussion.” He shuddered. “It's a damn wonder I didn't let her lie there and die.”

“But you didn't, and that's that,” Winston said. “By the way, your mother told me to tell you that she'll be here around eight tomorrow morning.”

Clay looked startled. The thought of walking out the door and leaving Frankie behind made him ill.

“I don't know…I was thinking that maybe I'd spend another—”

Winston took his son by the arm. “Clay.”

“What?”

“It's not your fault.”

“What's not my fault?” Clay asked.

“Frankie's disappearance. And just because she's back, that doesn't mean you have to stay here with her for the rest of your lives. If your marriage is going to have a chance of surviving this, you both have to get back to a normal way of life as soon as possible.”

Logically, Clay knew his father was right, but emotionally, he didn't think he was ready.

“I'll think about it,” he muttered.

Winston set his coffee cup down on the counter and looked at his watch.

“Well, think hard, then, because you only have seventeen hours before your mother shows up. After that, you're out the door.”

Clay sighed. He knew his father was right. When Betty LeGrand got a notion in her head, there was no stopping her.

“I'll talk to Frankie about it when she wakes up.”

“Talk to me about what?” Frankie said.

At the sound of her voice, both men turned. Clay frowned. She looked as if a good wind would blow her away.

“We didn't mean to wake you,” he said.

“You didn't,” Frankie countered, and smiled hesitantly at her father-in-law. He was so like Clay, not only in looks, but personality, as well. She wondered if he had judged her as harshly.

“Well?” Winston drawled. “Aren't I going to get a hello kiss?”

A wide smile broke the somberness of her face as she walked into his arms. Winston's shirt smelled of cigars and diesel and the cold, but the bear hug he gave her more than made up for it all.

“I wasn't sure you wanted one,” she said softly.

Winston cocked an eyebrow at his son, then looked back at her. His eyes were twinkling. “And why wouldn't I want a kiss from my only daughter?”

Frankie wanted to cry. It was rare praise from a closemouthed man, and for that, she cherished it all the more.

“For that, you may have two,” she said, and kissed him on either cheek.

Winston blushed, but his smile never faded. “Well, now. I delivered my message, and the tip was probably more than I deserved, but I'll take it with pleasure.”

Clay chuckled. It did him good to see his father a little distracted.

“Okay, you two,” Frankie said. “I'll take the affection, but I still want an answer. I'm here. What are you going to talk to me about?”

Before Clay could answer, Winston blurted out his message again. “Betty said she'd be over tomorrow to spend the day with you, so that Clay could go back to work.”

Frankie looked puzzled. “Of course I'd love to spend the day with her, but I don't need a baby-sitter, you know.”

Clay tensed. How does a man tell his wife he's afraid to leave her alone for fear she'll disappear?

“Look, you guys, except for a headache now and then, I'm fine. The doctor said so.” She looked at Clay, frowning. “If you needed to be at work, you should have said something sooner. I would have been fine on my own.”

Winston frowned. “Didn't mean to start such a fuss,” he said shortly. “I delivered your mother's message. It's up to you two to let her know if you change the plans. I'm going home now. Call if you need me.”

“Yeah, okay, Dad,” Clay said. “And thanks for helping out.”

“No problem,” Winston said.

Moments later, they heard the front door slam and then the sound of a car driving away.

Frankie was still waiting for Clay to answer, but he seemed overly concerned with washing the coffee cup his father had used. Finally her patience ran out. “Clay, don't ignore me.”

He turned. His expression was blank, his posture stiff and unyielding.

Frankie sighed. “What's this all about?”

Water dripped from his hands as he stared at her from across the room. Long moments passed as Clay struggled with an answer. Finally, it was the truth that came out.

“I'm afraid to leave you alone.”

Her face paled and she jerked as if she'd been slapped. “Why?”

He swallowed, hating the fear in his voice. “What if it happens again? And before you get mad, you have to be honest. You've already voiced the same fear.”

She kept staring at him. Although her accusation was silent, his belly knotted, all the same. He knew what was coming, but so help him God, he didn't know how to stop her from asking.

Finally she shuddered and then blinked. A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You weren't talking about kidnappers, Clay. You were talking about me…walking out on you again.”

“I wasn't…I mean, I don't think you…”

She covered her face with her hands, but before he could get to her, she looked up, and the fire in her eyes stopped him cold.

“I won't say it again,” she said quietly. “There's no need to defend myself to a man who doesn't trust me. So call your mother. Call the neighbors. For the love of God, Clay, call the police for all I care. I don't know what more I can say.”

Then she walked away, and Clay knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that it was going to take more than making love to make this go away.

 

Steam rose from the heat of the water as the shower jets pelted on top of Frankie's head. Twice she worked her shampoo into a lather and then rinsed, each time taking care not to rub too hard on the sore spot. Finally, with her hair squeaky-clean and her body tingling from her bath, she turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. Without thought, she wrapped her wet hair turban-style, and began to dry off with another towel.

The mirror was foggy, the room warm and filled with mist, and yet she felt chilled. Without Clay, she felt weightless and empty. Yes, he was still in the house, but not in her heart. They'd made love, but they had yet to make up. He might love her, but he didn't trust her. That was a fact she had to accept. A part of her almost understood—but there was another part of her that knew if the situation had been reversed, she would have been down on her knees thanking God for his return.