Page 39 of Remember Me

I took my time in replying, stirring the remaining ingredients into the sauce and setting the wooden spoon carefully onto the spoon rest. Then I wiped my hands on a towel and met her eyes. “I was a little worried, to be honest, about you being there with her. You haven’t lived with her in over four years, Birdie. Even though you were practically going to school in the same town and could have saved thousands on living expenses, you elected to live in the dorms for the first couple of years. She’s never been neglectful or unloving, but you’ve always held some resentment toward her for her decisions over the years. You weren’t close and I couldn’t see that staying there, in that place you haven’t been in for years, would help you remember.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s the impression I got. So why was I staying there? When I got out of the hospital that’s where I was taken.”

“Because you at least recognized her. You didn’t know me from Adam. And I don’t have any legal ties to you.” She trailed a finger along the surface of the table, considering. I tossed the dish towel to the counter and stepped toward her. “Come on. Let’s go look at the rest of the place, see if anything strikes you as familiar.”

Taking her hand, I ignored her start of surprise or discomfort when my skin slid against hers and held on to it firmly. “This way.”

I tugged her first to the small room we’d declared a library, a front room off the foyer with walls that curved. “Library,” I announced. She peered around me at the mostly empty shelves, the hard wooden plank of a window seat that still needed softening up, the boxes of books and knick-knacks we had yet to unpack.

“What were we doing in here?” She questioned.

“We had just finished putting in the built-ins,” I told her. Your next project was painting or staining them and then I think you had plans for window treatments.” I scratched the back of my neck. “I can’t believe I even know the term window treatment. I guess I was paying attention to all thoseFixer Upperepisodes.”

She laughed once, low in her throat. “I don’t know whatFixer Upperis, but impressive all the same.”

“I have many impressive qualities but knowing what a window treatment is isn’t one of them,” I replied. I couldn’t help teasing her a bit, trying to remind her of the feeling between us.

“Hmmm.”

“Next…” I led her to the family room she’d peeked in earlier and gestured from the doorway. “Family room. We were refurbishing the fireplace in here, but I think more often than not it was the room we used to work on stuff. You’d sit in front of the tv and work on a piece you were painting, like that chest.” There’s a cherry-red chest sitting in the middle of the room, mostly done but still in need of a finishing coat.

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” We walked toward the back of the house.

“I was doing all these projects…what were you busy with?”

“Oh.” We stopped in front of the door to the bedroom we converted into her studio. “I did a lot of grading for work. Fencing, outdoors. The porch, the barn…anything that needed hammer and nails, really.”

She nodded toward the studio. “What’s this?”

“This is your studio.”

Curious, she wandered in while I leaned in the doorway, studying the workspace that ran the length of the room and the neatly organized assortment of paints, half-finished signs, and papers. She shifted a notepad off of one of the signs that had a few lines penciled in but not yet painted, reading the verse just under her breath.

And if my heart be scarred and burned, the safer, I, for all I learned. — D. Parker

She canted her head to the side, murmuring the words a second time. “I know this…” Then it seemed to hit her.

“I made these? For Maggie, I mean?” I watched as the connections formed in her mind, revealing themselves on her expressive face as quickly as they did so. “We knew each other…before.” She shook her head a little, her confusion clear. “But why wouldn’t she just tell me?”

“The doctor said to let your memories return on their own, to not try to tell you everything at first. We were hoping that this, out of everything…your art, your work…would jog something.”

Her crystalline blue eyes, when she looked at me, blazed. “I don’t like this, Hayes Michael Ellison.”

Glee hit me with the force of a punch, and I pointed at her. “You remembered my middle name!”

“I…it just popped out —”

“Birdie, don’t you see? Being here is a good thing. It’s helping.”

She studied me uncertainly for a moment before brushing past me and heading back the way we came. “I’m hungry.”

¦Birdie

ISTALKED PASTHAYES, WHO WAS STILL LEANING IN THE DOORFRAME OF MY STUDIO.It was difficult to see past the sudden anger that flared bright in my vision.

All this time, this piece of me had been here. It was part of me — theclickI’d felt when that house came into view had been undeniable. Why, then, hadn’t I come here, rather than to my mother’s home? Why hadn’t Hayes fought harder to bring me here?

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