The Wife He Couldn't Forget. Yvonne Lindsay

in Xander’s bedroom. From the bathroom she grabbed shower gel, cologne and his shaving kit. She wondered briefly if he remembered how to use it. It had been a while since he’d shaved properly. Only last week she’d teased him about the furry growth that ringed his jaw. Privately, she found she quite liked it. It made him seem a bit softer, more approachable than the cold stranger who’d stalked so emphatically out of her life.

      She shook her head as if she could rid herself of the memory just as easily and wheeled the case to the front door. Should she check the refrigerator? She cringed a little at the idea of finding nine-week-old leavings rotting inside, but she figured she would have to do it sometime. She poked around in the drawers until she found a plastic garbage bag and then, holding her breath, opened the shiny stainless-steel door of the fridge.

      Empty. How odd, she thought as she let the door close again. Not even a half bottle of wine stood in the door. If she hadn’t taken Xander’s things from his bedroom and en suite herself, she would hardly have believed he even lived here. She pulled open a pantry door and was relieved to see neatly labeled containers and a box of his favorite cereal stacked on the shelves. Okay, so maybe whoever had made the apartment look so spick-and-span had cleaned out the fridge, as well. She made a mental note to try and find out from somewhere, perhaps among his personal papers, if he had a cleaning service. If so, she’d need to put their visits on hold indefinitely.

      She looked around the open-plan living room and dining area to see where he might keep his personal files and records. There was nothing to suggest a desk or office space in here. Maybe there was another bedroom? Olivia went back down the hall that led to Xander’s bedroom, and spied another door. She opened it, stepped inside and immediately came to a halt.

      Her heart thumped erratically in her chest as her eyes fixed on the photo on the desk in what was obviously Xander’s home office. She recognized the frame as one she’d bought for him for his first Father’s Day and in it was the last photo they’d taken of Parker before he died.

       Three

      Her hand went to her throat as if she could somehow hold back the sob that rose from the deepest recesses of her grief. She hadn’t even realized Xander had taken the picture with him when he’d left. He must have hidden it away when, after the funeral, she’d packed up Parker’s room and shoved all the boxes in the attic, along with his albums and the framed photos they’d had scattered around the house.

      It had hurt too much to see the constant reminders of his all-too-short life.

      If only...

      Those two words had driven her almost insane. If only Xander hadn’t left the gate open, or hadn’t thrown the ball quite so vigorously for Bozo, their dog. If only Bozo hadn’t run out into the street in pursuit of the ball and—even now, she gasped against the pain from the memory—if only Parker hadn’t run out into the street after him. If only she hadn’t told Parker to run outside and play with Daddy in the first place, instead of staying safely in the studio with her that day.

      Racked with her own guilt and her anger at the world in general and Xander in particular, she’d done the only thing she could to alleviate the searing pain. She’d packed up Parker’s short life and hidden it, telling herself she’d look at his things again when she was able. Every piece of clothing, every toy, every photo—hidden away.

      All except this one. She reached out a finger and traced the cheeks of her little boy, locked behind the glass. A child forever—never to grow up and go to school, play a sport or meet girls. Never to stretch his wings, push his boundaries or be grounded for some misdemeanor or another.

      Her hand dropped back to her side. She stood like that for several minutes before shaking herself loose from the memories and trying to remember why she’d come in here in the first place. Yes, the cleaning service, that was it. Olivia rifled through Xander’s filing system—as linear and exact as she remembered—and found the number she was looking for. A quick phone call to suspend services until further notice was all that was required, and then she was on her way.

      Before she left the room, though, she lifted the photo from Xander’s desk and shoved it in a drawer. It hurt to shut her baby away like that, but if she had to come back here again, she couldn’t bear to see the stark reminder of all they’d lost.

      Thankfully traffic through the city to the harbor bridge approach was lighter than usual and she made the trip home in good time. She dragged the suitcase up the flight of stairs and into the guest bedroom, and quickly unpacked and hung up Xander’s shirts and trousers and a few suits, still in their drycleaner bags, in the closet and shoved his underwear, socks and T-shirts into the small chest of drawers. She put his toiletries in the bathroom across the hall. It wouldn’t be a lie to tell him she’d moved his things in there so he could recuperate in his own space. She just wouldn’t mention that she’d moved them from across town rather than from down the hall.

      Before leaving the house again, she folded a set of clothes and a belt into a small overnight bag for him and then flew out the door. She was jittery with emotional exhaustion and lack of food by the time she got back to the hospital. Xander was standing at the window when, slightly out of breath, she finally arrived.

      “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind about taking me home,” he said lightly when she approached him.

      Even though his words were teasing, she could hear the underlying censure beneath them. And she understood it; really she did. Under normal circumstances she would have been back here much earlier. But their circumstances were far from normal, even though he didn’t know that yet.

      “Traffic was a bitch,” she said as breezily as she could. “So, are we good to go? I have some clothes for you here, although I’m thinking you’ll find everything on the big side for you now. We might need to get you a whole new wardrobe.”

      Her attempt at deflection seemed to work. “And I know how much you love shopping,” he said with a laugh.

      She felt her heart skip a beat. He’d always teased her about her shopping style. While she liked getting new things, she hated crowded stores. She had the tendency to decide what she wanted before she left the house and, with no dillydallying, get in, get the product and get right back out again as quickly as possible. No window-shopping or store browsing for her. Unless it was an art supply store, that was.

      Olivia told herself it was ridiculous to be surprised that he’d remember that. After all, he hadn’t lost all his memory, just the past six years. She forced a laugh and handed him the bag of his things.

      “Here you go. Will you need a hand to get dressed?”

      He’d had issues with balance and coordination since awakening from his coma. Physical therapy was helping him regain his equilibrium and motor skills, but he still had some way to go.

      “I think I can manage,” he said with the quiet dignity she had always loved so much about him.

      “Just call me if you need me.”

      Xander looked her straight in the eye and gave her a half smile. “Sure.”

      She smiled back, feeling a pang deep inside. She knew he wouldn’t call her. He was nothing if not independent—and stubborn. Yes, there’d been a time, early in their marriage, when they’d each been the center of the other’s world. But that had all changed.

      He was so lucky he didn’t remember, she thought fiercely. Lucky that he was still locked in the best of their marriage and couldn’t remember the worst of them both.

      * * *

      Xander took the bag through to the shared bathroom and closed the door behind him. A tremor ran through his body as he allowed the relief he’d felt when he’d seen Olivia return run through him. Ever since she’d left earlier today he’d been tense and uncomfortable, so much so the nurse preparing his discharge papers had remarked on the spike in his blood pressure.

      He couldn’t