Page 38 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

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, t

hrough 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.

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