On the frame of the mirror was a magnet. Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right. That saying had become her mantra, the code she’d lived by.
Where am I? Marla dragged her eyes open to a strange room and she was disoriented for a second before she remembered that she was home. This was her room. Her bed. Her . . . everything. How long had she slept? Gray daylight showed through the shades, but Marla had the impression from the fullness of her bladder and her groggy mind, that she’d slept around the clock. Her mouth tasted bad and her hair, what there was left of it, felt lank and dirty. She hadn’t heard Alex come into the suite, hadn’t heard her baby cry, had slept as if she were dead. In bra and panties, she staggered into the bathroom, used the toilet, splashed water over her face and avoided looking at her pathetic reflection. There were fresh towels on the bar. She stripped, then stepped into a glass shower large enough for two and turned on the spray. Hot water needled into her skin, soaking her muscles. Gingerly, avoiding touching her stitches, she washed, shampooed and found a safety razor to tackle the hair on her legs and under her arms. Then, still feeling as if her mind was shrouded by cobwebs, she braced herself and cranked the spray to the right. Icy water shot out of the showerhead and she sucked in her breath, leaning against the slick tiles. Slowly she began to feel human again, stronger than she had since she’d woken from the damned coma. Twisting off the spray, she reached for a towel and in that moment she had a flash of memory, of another time and place. She’d been at the beach . . . and there had been friends with her . . . or her husband . . . or . . . Cissy? Her daughter . . . no, that wasn’t right . . . but the sun had been shining and she’d come running out of the ocean, her feet nearly burning on the hot sand as she took a towel from . . . from . . . whom? Her head hurt from the effort of concentration. It had been a man . . . Yes, a man. He must’ve been Alex . . . or . . . Nick? Her throat tightened at that particular implication and she rubbed the thick terry cloth over her arms and legs. Maybe it had been someone else. Or maybe it hadn’t happened at all. Propping herself against the tiles with one arm, she shook her head and tried to focus, to call back that fleeting, tantalizing memory, but it had faded as quickly as it had appeared. Determined to discover more about herself, she stepped out of the shower and faced her reflection. Jesus, she was a mess. The bruises were disappearing, the swelling nearly gone but she didn’t recognize herself. And her hair! What a catastrophe! The blunt cut at her chin on one side of her face would have to be cut short, maybe even spiky, to try to blend with the new fuzz that was just covering her scalp. If nothing else, she and her newborn son would be sporting similar hairdos. Wasn’t there some famous singer who had shaved her head . . . part of some kind of religious protest or something. . . or was she wrong about that, too? Damn the amnesia! “This is a start,” Marla reminded herself as she squeezed some toothpaste on her finger and ran it over her interlaced teeth. These little bits of memory certainly were precursors to her recovery. “Rome or even San Francisco wasn’t built in a day.” But she couldn’t wait to piece together her history and as she rinsed her mouth, she grew impatient. On impulse, she searched the medicine cabinet and drawers. She came across two prescription bottles, one for tetracycline with two pills still in the tiny plastic jar, the second empty of premarin. On the second shelf she found a pair of scissors and started snipping her locks. Shorter and shorter, one tuft after another, bits of mahogany-colored hair fell into the sink. When she was finished she didn’t look any worse than when she’d started, so she opened a can of mousse, worked some around her stitches and fluffed up what she could. Salon perfect it wasn’t, but it would grow and fill in, covering the scars. Her hair was the least of her problems. She didn’t bother with any of the makeup she found carefully arranged in the top drawer of the vanity. What was the use? Instead she headed for the closet. It was immense, a row of perfectly coordinated suits, slacks and jackets. A rainbow of shoes, each pair placed neatly in an individual cubbyhole, filled one wall, another was reserved for evening gowns that sparkled within zippered plastic bags. Tennis outfits and warm-ups owned one corner, while purses lined two shelves. A full-length mirror was fitted next to the door and inside a tall, slender cupboard was an ironing board. “Wonderful.” So where were the jeans? The old sweats? Her purse? Yes . . . where was her purse with her wallet and checkbook and maybe even an address book, all the things important in her life? She went through each and every handbag, clutch, tennis bag and suitcase on the two shelves. All empty. Clean. As if they’d been vacuumed, for crying out loud. “Damn.” She threw them back onto the shelves in disgust, then riffled through the drawers of an armoire and found a stiff pair of jeans that were a size too big and a pink sweater that was soft enough to make her believe it had been her favorite. Or had it? “Don’t even go there,” she warned herself, slipping on a pair of battered tennis shoes she found in one of the cubbies. She thought of her daughter, her son, her husband and Nick, the man who had been her lover. Her lips folded in on themselves as the questions about her life started coming fast and furiously again, bringing with them the inevitable headache. Outside the closet in this bedroom that felt so odd, she paused at the bureau and swept her gaze over the pictures arranged in front of a bevel-edged mirror. One snapshot framed in gold caught her eye. There she was, long before the accident. Mahogany hair shining in the sun, a little girl of about three balanced on her hip. The ocean spread out behind her like a shimmering sequined blanket. Marla stood barefoot on a boulder, her head thrown back, her eyes squinting. A rose-colored sundress was caught in that split second of time and billowed up past her knees, showing a length of tanned thigh, while Cissy’s chubby little arms encircled her neck. Marla picked up the picture, her fingers holding the frame so hard her knuckles showed white. Think, come on, remember! This is you and Cissy and . . . and the person taking the picture, the one whose shadow is partially visible at your feet, must be Alex! But try as she would, she couldn’t recall the day at the beach. Or any specific day for that matter. “Give yourself time,” Marla said again, replacing the photo and nearly dropping it as her fingers didn’t move with the dexterity they should. She still felt clumsy and awkward, out of sync. Edgy, she made her way to the nursery. James wasn’t in his crib, but she didn’t panic. The nanny probably had him downstairs, or Eugenia, “Nana,” as she called herself, could be doting on him for she certainly acted as if the boy’s birth was nearly as important as the Second Coming. Or maybe even the First. Outside the nursery, she heard voices floating up from downstairs, but decided, while she was alone, to do a little exploring—get the feel of the place. Whether it was paranoia or just a need for self-preservation, she wanted to learn as much about herself and her family as possible, and not always by asking questions and getting answers she felt had been premeditated and carefully constructed so as not to upset her. She’d have to straighten that out, and fast. She was home now. Ready to get on with her life, eager to put the past behind. But you can’t. Not yet. You still have so much to remember and the police to deal with . . . Marla’s thoughts turned dark with regret, but she pushed them from her mind. She would have to call Pam’s daughter and her ex-husband, try to express her grief and regret and she’d have to do it soon. Regardless of the police. Or the attorneys. Or the damned insurance companies that she’d heard Alex whispering about. She walked through the suite, a sitting area with its own fireplace and verandah, then tried the door to Alex’s room and found it unlocked. Without thinking twice she stepped inside. The room was as neat as if he expected a military inspection. A king-sized bed, dresser, small couch and armoire hiding a television and stereo system were placed around the room. A bay window offered a view of the grounds, and farther off, the lights of the city. Through a walk-in closet filled with suits and sports clothes hung with precision was an exercise room and the equipment that kept him in shape. Marla ran her fingers over the handle bars of the exercise bike and eyed the treadmill, weight bench and NordicTrack, wondering if she’d ever used any of this stuff. She was in reasonably good shape, but she couldn’t imagine spending hours in this room working up a sweat. No, something told her she’d rather be outside . . . walking, running, playing tennis, riding . . . maybe even rowing. Through another door she stepped into a private office, paneled in dark wood, accented with brass fixtures. Forest green leather furniture, potted plants, and beveled glass windows mounted high, near the ceiling, offering light but no view. This, she supposed, was her husband’s sanctuary. It smelled faintly of smoke and his aftershave. Oils of racehorses graced the walls. Horses . . . In her mind’s eye, Marla caught a glimpse of herself riding, through open fields, her hair streaming behind her. Her lungs had been near bursting, the wind rushing at her face in a torrent, and beneath her, there had been the feel of powerful muscles stretching under her legs . . . bareback? She rode bareback? Like a wild tomboy or American Indian in old movies . . . ? Yes! As if she’d done it a thousand times, she suddenly remembered the chafe of horsehide against her legs. Stunned, she swallowed hard. Her palms were instantly sweaty, her heart racing. She shook her head. How did that imagery fit in with everything else around here? With the pictures of sleek racehorses, thoroughbreds held on reins by liveried handlers or ridden by jockeys in racing silks and jodhpurs along manicured tracks? Nothing wild . . . or reckless or . . . free. All contained. Constrained. By convention and society. Her knees threatened her and she dropped into Alex’s desk chair to get a grip. “This is good,” she said, but she wasn’t certain she could believe it. The leather chair squeaked and she cringed. It wasn’t that she was trying to do anything behind her husband’s back, she told herself, but she just plain needed answers and she needed them ASAP. Yet she felt a niggling tickle of guilt as she flipped through the open desk calendar, as if she were invading someone else’s private space. “Stupid woman, he’s your husband, for crying out loud. There are no secrets between you.” But she knew the statement was false. She’d felt the secrets, saw them in his eyes though he tried to hide them. There were lies and deceit and . . . “Stop it!” She was making herself nuts. Certifiably nuts! Stiffening her spine, she riffled through the pages of the calendar, studying the dates, places and names, hoping something, any little haphazard doodle or notation, would jog her memory. Her accident had occurred nearly eight weeks earlier, so she turned back to the date when her entire life had nearly ended. That square was blank. “Damn it,” she muttered, feeling as if yet another obstacle had been thrust onto the road to her recovery. Most of the calendar squares were covered with pen and pencil marks, notations in two different hands—dinner party at the Robertsons, the Friday before, Cissy’s riding lesson on the day after the accident were written in a soft, easy-flowing script. Alex’s business meetings or squash and golf games were slashed in a bolder scrawl. She picked up a pen. Wrote her name on a note pad. Compared the handwriting. It was different, a stronger, harsher script than Marla’s . . . or was she going crazy? She wrote her name again. Alex’s name. Then Nick’s. Maybe it was the accident that had caused the difference. But an eerie sensation crept under her skin and she dropped the pen. She fought the feeling that something was wrong. She was jumping at shadows, for no good reason. So what about the trip to Santa Cruz? Why wasn’t it on this marked-up calendar? Maybe you were leaving Alex. But the baby? And Cissy . . . perhaps it was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment trip? No. She wouldn’t have just left the kids. It didn’t fit. Anxious, she turned to the Rolodex. What were the names she knew? Robertson? Phil and his wife, Linda, were listed. Lindquist . . . Joanna Lindquist, yes, she was in the cards as well. Joanna and Ted. Miller. . . Randy and Sonja were listed but Sonja had been crossed out as if she’d died or left. . . . With fingers that were still a bit sluggish, she flipped to the Ds and searched for Pam Delacroix, but there wasn’t a listing for anyone with that last name. “How odd,” she thought aloud, tapping an old card at the back and then, starting again. Slowly, card by card, she flipped through, thinking that Pam’s name and number might have been misfiled. Some of the people who had sent her cards and flowers were listed: Bill and Sheryl Bancroft, Mario Dimetrius, Joanna and Ted Lindquist and . . . Kylie Paris . . . Her heart stopped. That name was familiar . . . very familiar . . . as if . . . as if she were a close relative . . . someone near and dear. But the address and phone number meant nothing to her. Think, Marla, think. Why does this woman’s name ring a bell and none of the others do? But nothing came. Not one lousy recollection. “Damn it all,” she muttered and turned her attention back to Pam Delacroix. Why wouldn’t she have listed Pam’s name in this master file of friends and business acquaintances? Because she never existed. She’s a lie. The thought struck her hard. Like a hammer blow to her chest. Of course she did exist, the rational side of her mind argued. But she’s dead. You killed her. In her car! The police are investigating her death. So, be rational. Use your head. Figure this out, damn it. Pam had existed, was her friend, so there should be something in this house that would serve as a reminder. A computer, monitor glowing, hummed softly on one corner of the desk and she wondered if she had the time to check the computer files. Later, she told herself, when you know you won’t be caught. “Don’t get paranoid,” she told herself. “Or you’ll end up in the loony bin.” Marla touched the keyboard. The screen saver of tropical fish shifted and icons blinked up at her. With surprising ease she found the word processing program, nearly jumping out of her skin when she saw Marla’s files. So she had used this machine! Good. That thought should have been reassuring and she tried to open the file only to discover she needed a password. Her heart sank. She glanced around the drawers, searching for a hint of the password and found none. She tried to retrieve her e-mail. Same problem. Attempting every combination she could think of—her name, her children’s names, anything, she finally gave up. Her fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the arm of the chair and she heard footsteps on the stairs. She jumped, for no reason she understood, knocking over a mug holding pens and pencils. It rolled onto the floor, spilling its contents. “Great.” As quickly as possible, she scooped up the pens and pencils and crammed them back into the mug with its Harvard logo. She heard the door to the suite open, the footsteps fading away. “Mrs. Cahill?” a woman’s voice—one she didn’t recognize—called, muffled. “In here,” she replied, determined to stay put. “In the office.” She reached up from the desk, opened the door to the hallway and spied the open door to Cissy’s room on the other side of the staircase. Her heart was drumming, her hands clammy, but she forced herself to stay calm. This was her house, damn it, her husband’s room. She had every right to be here. So why did she feel as if she were trespassing? A few seconds later a slim woman with flashing brown eyes and dark skin stuck her head through the doorway. “Hi.” “You . . . you must be Carmen.” “Yes.” Marla felt the urge to apologize. “I’m sorry I—” “I know. Amnesia. Don’t worry.” Carmen stepped into the office and if Marla’s change in appearance affected her, she managed to hide it. Dressed in a slim navy skirt and white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, Carmen said, “Mrs. Eugenia sent me to check on you and ask you about dinner. When I didn’t find you in your room, I was worried.” “I’m fine . . . well, considering. Right now it’s all relative, I suppose.” Marla glanced at the computer screen again. “I don’t suppose you know my password for this?” “Sorry.” Carmen shook her head. “I don’t remember that you used it that much.” “How about where my purse might be—the one that was with me the night of the accident?” Deep lines grooved the woman’s high forehead and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen it . . . or anything else from that night for that matter.” Marla’s heart sank. She pushed the chair back. “How about my personal things, pictures of me as a little girl, or when Cissy was a baby?” “Sure.” Carmen brightened. “That I can do.” Marla’s head snapped up. “Really?” This was something. Not much, but something tangible to link her to her past. “Sure. All the photo albums are in the library.” “Maybe I should look through them and I know this sounds a little weird, but would you mind showing me around?” “No problem at all. Now, about dinner?” “Is it dinner time already?” She glanced at the skylight high over the staircase and noted that the sky was darkening. “No, not until eight. But Mrs. Eugenia likes things organized.” “That, I believe,” Marla said imagining her unbending, socially conscious mother-in-law. She doubted if Eugenia ever bent a rule, much less broke one, and she couldn’t imagine the little woman ever adjusting a schedule. As they walked across the hall, Marla said, “I checked. James isn’t in the nursery.” “He’s downstairs. With Fiona and Mrs. Eugenia.” Good. One less concern for the moment. As deftly as a museum director, Carmen showed her the rooms on the third floor—Cissy’s bedroom, painted in yellow and, it seemed, forever a mess with books, computer discs, CDs and magazines strewn all over the floor. Her vanity was covered with jars and tubes of makeup, her walls plastered with posters of teen idols . . . some of the faces looked familiar, but none of the names came to mind. Another room on the floor was the guest room and Marla looked for any trace of Nick. There was none, of course. The room was as precisely decorated as her own. Too perfect with its matching oil paintings, color-coordinated drapes and carpet and casual, understated elegance. Fake. Phony. Why she felt this way, Marla didn’t understand but she felt that her life and this house were a sham. “What about Fiona—where does she sleep?” she asked as they walked along a corridor banked by soft lights. “The live-ins are upstairs on the top floor,” Carmen explained. “The cook, maid and probably the nurse when he arrives.” “Nurse?” she repeated. “Mr. Cahill hired a round-the-clock nurse.” “For me?” Carmen winced and rolled her dark, expressive eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say anything.” “No, it’s fine. I would have found out sooner or later.” They walked to the elevator. “You said ‘he.’ ” Carmen held up a hand and stepped inside the elevator. “I thought Mr. Cahill said the nurse was a man. Tom something or other, I think, but don’t quote me.” “I won’t,” Marla promised, and as the car ground down to the second floor, she felt, for the first time, that she’d actually bonded with someone in this towering, beautiful, cold house that was her home. They walked along a wide corridor that Marla assumed was the heart of the house. It was dark except for a few lamps that burned on tables. Soft music flowed from hidden speakers, and paintings that she suspected were originals decorated the walls. Floral print runners covered the hardwood floor and branched into several rooms. She followed Carmen into what appeared to be the living room with intimate clusters of chairs and couches, potted philodendron and ferns nestled between small tables and a massive stone and brick fireplace that rose to a tooled copper ceiling that reflected the lamplight with a warm, mellow glow. Through sliding doors, Carmen showed her a music room. Antique instruments adorned the walls and a concert grand piano gleamed in a corner surrounded by windows overlooking the city. Another door led to the library, complete with glass-enclosed shelves that climbed to the ceiling. A wooden ladder attached to the bookcase rolled on casters from one end of the collection to the other. A globe was nestled in a corner near the fronds of a potted fern, and an aquarium, complete with neon-colored tropical fish, gurgled near the bay window. Marla doubted she’d ever withdrawn one of the leather-bound volumes, never stood at these windows, never curled up on one of the soft-looking pillows on the love seats . . . but then how would she know?
~~~
There had been an accident. She knew that much--she was in the hospital with medical staff all around her. She was thankful for that, but she still couldn't figure out why they kept calling her Marla. Yes, she knew her injuries could have affected her memory. Still, surely her name would at least sound familiar, or was she totally lost in this new world?
Readers are privy to much more than the woman who had lost her memory... We know that she was in a car with another woman, although it is not clear who, or why... Suddenly she saw a man coming from the side of the road toward her... But she also saw a large truck bearing down upon her--and the man--suddenly a bright light was in her eyes! So bright that she couldn't see but could hear the truck coming closer. It was important for her to move the car out of the way! And then she could hear sounds of crashing, screams, and then silence...
While Heavy Metal played in the background, the man who had accepted the assignment to murder, but make it look like an accident, was trying to justify that he had failed to the individual who had hired him... "I thought she was supposed to be alone!" Even though he argued, he knew he'd never get paid until the job was completed--as ordered...
When she next woke up, she was confused, then realized that she was now home--even if the place where she was didn't in any way seem to be what she thought her home would be like... The ever-present classical music in the background, slowly brought her attention and she wondered how long she'd been asleep. She was in a large magnificent home and, finally realized that somebody was talking to her, calling "Mrs. Cahill..." She paused, but the woman touched her hand and again said "Mrs. Cahill..." She was flustered--who, me? I'm Mrs. Cahill?! And then she was told that her husband was there... Oh dear, she didn't think she was married either... She remembered that she had not known him at the hospital either, wondering if she was going crazy...
Alex, Marla's husband had made a quick trip to see his brother and beg him to come home for a while. Not only because of the accident, but because he shared that the Cahill Corporation was not doing as well as it should and he knew that Nick had done that type of work--going into companies to help review and make recommendations for improvement--hoping he would do the same for the family business.
Nick had become somewhat of a black sheep, mainly because he didn't like what was going on at home and preferred to be alone to live his life as he wished. Plus, there had been...Marla... After talking with Alex, however, he felt a need to help if he could and told him he would get there as quickly as he could. A new face to be introduced to...and not know...
Indeed the family had been trying to keep separate two other members of the family who had thought they would be rich by this time, but their father had spent all of the proceeds when he was bought out. Still they both felt they should get something more... Finally, the cousin got through to Marla directly and got an invitation directly from the only one who didn't know anything about her!
“I know this has been hard,” Cherise was saying. “The injuries and the loss of your friend. It’s a terrible, terrible time. The Lord’s challenges are sometimes difficult to understand.” No kidding.
“The Reverend and I would love to visit you.”
“The Reverend, meaning your husband?” Marla asked. “Yes. Oh, that’s right . . . I forgot about your amnesia.” There was a smile in Cherise’s voice. “He goes by The Reverend Donald.” An image of Donald Duck—one complete with halo and angel wings, one she was certain she’d seen sometime long ago—flashed through her mind. The Reverend Donald probably wouldn’t like the comparison. “Come on over.” The baby cried again and Marla cast a glance up the stairs. Where was Fiona?
“How about tomorrow? In the afternoon?” Cherise suggested. “As it happens, I’m free,” Marla joked, refusing to give in to a sense that she should have checked with someone before inviting guests. This was her house, damn it, and right now, judging from the wails rippling down the stairs, she needed to get off the phone and check on her baby. “I get the wires off my jaw in the morning, so I’ll actually be able to speak clearly again.” “Perfect. Then I’ll check with The Reverend and we’ll be there between three and four. Maybe I can even talk Monty into tagging along.” “The more the merrier,” Marla said before hanging up and facing Eugenia’s scowl. “You invited someone over tomorrow?” “Just family,” Marla said, rankled at her mother-in-law’s superior, disapproving tone as she headed up the stairs. “Cherise and her husband. The Reverend Donald.” “Dear Lord.” “Her words precisely,” she called looking down from the second floor landing. “Her brother might be coming along.” The baby stopped crying. “Montgomery. Wonderful,” the older woman intoned through lips that barely moved. “This should be interesting.”
Amen, Marla thought caustically as she started up the stairs to get James. A-friggin’-men!
“Marla’s different.” Nick was slouched in the passenger seat of his brother’s Jaguar as Alex navigated the car down Market Street toward the Bay. The sky was a light gray, the pavement wet from an earlier drizzle. “Of course she’s different. You haven’t seen her in years.” “That’s not what I meant...” Nick said...
~~~
While Marla is trying to adjust to all the changes--to the fact that she has two children, plus a new baby, the latter being the only connection she really recognizes and wants to care for, even to the point of forcing her to be the one to take care of her child instead of the nurse, is continual chaos. Her daughter and son think she doesn't even know them. On the other hand, she takes the time with Cissy and her brother, perhaps more than she ever did in the past...
While at the same time, Alex seems to be depending on Nick to provide her transportation or other assistance, even though he was supposed to be there to check over the company... So, he needed access to the accounting records...
This Suspenseful story will keep you guessing right through the book, including who exactly is the woman who lived after a car accident where another woman is killed? And will she ever find out? Jackson is known for her suspenseful books and I admit that, even as I was close to finishing the book, I still wasn't sure who was behind the accident! Well Played, Lisa!
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