The Second Mrs Adams. Sandra Marton

seen those wispy curls lying against Joanna’s pale skin kept intruding.

      “Did they say anything about the traffic?”

      “It’s tied up for miles. Would you want me to take the long way? We could detour to the Palisades Parkway and take the bridge.”

      “Yes, that’s a good idea, Hollister. Take the next turnoff and...” David frowned, then leaned forward. “No, the hell with that. Just pull over.”

      “Sir?”

      “I said, pull over. Up ahead, where the shoulder of the road widens.”

      “Is there a problem, Mr. Adams?”

      A taut smile twisted across David’s mouth.

      “No,” he said, as the big car glided to a stop. “I just want to change seats with you.”

      “Sir?” Hollister said again. There was a world of meaning in the single word.

      David laughed and jerked open the car door.

      “I feel like driving, Hollister. You can stay up front, if you like. Just slide across the seat and put your belt on because I’m in the mood to see if this car can do anything besides look good.”

      For the first time in memory, Hollister smiled.

      “She can do a lot besides look good, sir. She’s not your Jaguar by a long shot but if you put your foot right to the floor, I think she’ll surprise you.”

      David grinned. He waited until his chauffeur had fastened his seat belt and then he did as the man had suggested, put the car in gear and the pedal to the metal, and forgot everything but the road.

      

      He called Joanna every evening, promptly at seven. Their conversations were always the same.

      How was she? he asked.

      Fine, she answered.

      And how was she getting along at Bright Meadows?

      She said “fine” to that one, too.

      Friday evening, when he phoned, he told her he had some work to do Saturday but he’d see her on Sunday.

      Only if he could fit it into his schedule, she said.

      His teeth ground together at the polite distance in the words. Evidently, she didn’t need to remember the past to know how she wanted to behave in the present.

      “I’ll be there,” he said grimly, and hung up the phone.

      Sunday morning, he went for his usual run. He showered, put on a pair of time-worn jeans, a pair of sneakers and—in deference to the warming Spring weather—a lightweight blue sweatshirt. Then he got behind the wheel of the Jaguar and drove upstate.

      Halfway there, he realized that he was out of uniform. Joanna didn’t care for the casual look. She didn’t care for this car, either. She had, a long time ago. At least, she’d pretended she had.

      The hell with it. It was too late to worry about and besides, it was one thing to pretend they hadn’t been about to get divorced and quite another to redo his life. He’d done that for damned near four years and that had been three years and a handful of months too many.

      The grounds of the rehab center were crowded with patients and visitors, but he spotted Joanna as soon as he drove through the gates. She was sitting on a stone bench beside a dogwood tree that was just coming into flower, the creamy blossoms a counterpoint to her dark hair. She was reading a book and oblivious to anything around her, which was typical of her. It was how she’d dealt with him during so much of the time they’d been married, as if she were living on a separate planet.

      It made him furious, which was stupid, because he’d gotten over giving a damn about how she acted a long time ago. Still, after he’d parked the car and walked back to where she was sitting, he had to force himself to smile.

      “Hi.”

      She looked up, her dark eyes wide with surprise. “David!”

      “Why so shocked?” He sat down beside her. “I told you I’d be here today.”

      “Well, I know what you said, but...”

      But he hadn’t cared enough to come up all week. Not that it mattered to her if she saw him or not...

      “But?”

      Joanna shut the book and put it on the bench beside her. “Nothing,” she said. “I guess you just caught me by surprise.”

      He waited for her to say something more. When she didn’t, he cleared his throat.

      “So, how are things going? Have you settled in?”

      “Oh, yes. Everyone’s very nice.”

      “Good. And are they helping you?”

      “Have I remembered, do you mean?” Joanna got to her feet and he rose, too. They began walking slowly along a path that wound behind the main building. “No, not a thing. Everyone tells me to be patient.”

      “But it’s hard.”

      “Yes.” She looked up at him. “For you, too.”

      He knew he was supposed to deny it, but he couldn’t.

      “Yes,” he said quietly, “for me, too.”

      Joanna nodded. “I just can’t help wondering...”

      “What?”

      She shook her head. She’d promised herself not to say anything; the words had just slipped out.

      “Nothing.”

      “Come on, Joanna, you were going to ask me something. What is it?”

      “Well, I know I’m not a doctor or anything, but—” She hesitated. “Wouldn’t my memory come back faster if I were in familiar surroundings?” He looked at her, saying nothing, and she spoke more quickly. “You don’t know what it’s like, David, not to be able to picture your own house. The furniture, or the colors of the walls...”

      “You want to come home,” he said.

      Joanna looked up at him. There was no mistaking the sudden flatness in his voice.

      “I just want to get my memory back,” she said softly. “It’s what you want, too, isn’t it?”

      A muscle flickered in his jaw. “It wouldn’t work,” he said carefully. “You need peace and quiet, someone to look after you. I’m hardly ever home before ten at night and even when I am, the phone’s forever ringing, and the fax is going...”

      A cold hand seemed to clamp around her heart.

      “I understand,” she said.

      “Who would take care of you? I could hire a nurse, yes, but—”

      “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Her voice took on an edge. “I’m an amnesiac, not an invalid.”

      “Well, I know, but what about therapy?”

      “What about it?” she said with sudden heat. “I don’t see how learning to paint by numbers or weave baskets is going to help my memory.”

      David stopped and clasped her shoulders. He turned her toward him.

      “You don’t really weave baskets, do you?”

      She sighed. “No, not really.”

      “Good.” A grin twitched across his mouth. “For a minute there, I thought Nurse Diesel might be breathing down our necks.”

      Joanna’s mouth curved. “Don’t even mention that movie when you’re here,” she said in an exaggerated whisper. “They’ve got no sense of humor when it comes to things like that.”

      He laughed.