“Well, he is my husband, isn’t he? Why can’t I kiss him?” I’m trying not to sound belligerent, but it’s hard. Everyone is treating me like I’m a child.
She peers at me with her big, doe-like eyes. She’s not wearing any mascara, but she has unfairly beautiful eyelashes. “Do you remember him?”
“I… a little.”
It’s a lie. I still can’t remember a damn thing about Graham, aside from what I learned this morning. But I married him, so I must have loved him. And he’s been amazing to me this morning—even after I spit out the pomegranate juice he went to so much trouble to buy for me.
Camila flashes me a skeptical look. It irritates me that this woman knows more about my life than I do. I wish I could ask her some of the questions I was afraid to ask Graham. But there’s no way. I can’t have a heart-to-heart with a girl I just met. I’ll have to give Lucy a call later.
Camila looks down at my plate, where the eggs Graham made me are nearly untouched. In addition to being dry, they lacked any sort of seasoning. She smirks. “Your husband is not a good cook.”
“No,” I admit. “He isn’t.”
“I’ll make you some breakfast,” she says. “What would you like? More eggs?”
The thought of a big heaping plate of scrambled eggs makes my stomach turn. “Just some toast would be fine. Thank you.”
She winks at me. “Coming right up.”
I watch Camila rifle through the refrigerator for a loaf of bread. I don’t think she’s done it intentionally, but she looks incredibly sexy in her casual outfit. She’s wearing the same skinny jeans that I am, but they show off the sensual curves of her bottom and her shapely legs.
I can’t help but think of the way Camila and Graham were sharing those knowing looks. They see each other every day, sharing the experience of dealing with me and my memory issues. And Camila is at least a decade younger than I am and far more attractive. Is it possible that they…?
No. I can’t think that way. I’ll drive myself crazy. God knows, I have enough to think about today.
Ziggy was whimpering at the back door, but when he notices Camila, he trots over to her and nuzzles her leg. She smiles down at him, then she grabs a treat from the cabinet over the sink. She holds it in her palm and he laps it up happily.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask her.
She runs her fingers under the faucet to wash off the dog’s saliva. “About a year. Since you came home from the hospital.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s not bad.”
“That sounds enthusiastic.”
She laughs. It’s a throaty sound, like the laugh of a sixty-year-old lounge singer, and it makes me like her better. “I’ve worked for some horrible people. You—you’re not so bad.”
“Wow, thanks.” But I’m smiling now as well.
The bread pops out of the toaster. Before I can tell her how I like it, Camila is already spreading butter and honey on top of the bread. That’s how my mother used to make me toast. She used to let me do most of it though. Ever since I was about three years old, she would step back and let me press down the lever for the toaster. Then I would take a pat of butter and let it melt onto the warm bread. Then a little smear of honey. Not too much, Tess!
Camila is making me toast the way I like it. She’s using the exact right amount of butter and honey. But instead of that uneasy feeling I’ve had most of the morning, it’s comforting. I don’t have to explain every little thing to Camila. She already seems to know me. It makes me feel taken care of, like when I was a little girl.
She deposits the toast in front of me with a glass of water. She flashes me a warm smile. “I’m going to clean up the bedrooms. Unless by any chance you made the bed?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever made a bed in my life.” I vaguely remember my mother asking me to do it when I was young, but after she got cancer, it was the least of her concerns. And Harry never cared—if I ever made the bed, he would think I had lost my mind. “Do I usually make the bed?”
She laughs again, that same engagingly throaty sound. “Not even once the whole year. But Graham likes them made up.”
“Can I help?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sure you’ve had a difficult enough morning. You just stay here and enjoy your breakfast. Later we’ll go shopping and take Ziggy for a walk.”
As Camila wipes her hands on her jeans and leaves the kitchen to go upstairs, my shoulders relax. Shopping and taking my dog for a walk. It doesn’t seem like a terrible day. Ziggy returns to me and rests his head on my lap, panting happily as I run my fingers over his fur.
This is going to be okay. Yes, my memory is patchy. But I feel taken care of. I can still enjoy the simple pleasures. Yes, I liked my life before. I miss Harry and I miss running my company. But this is okay too. And Camila did a good job with the toast. I’m going to take the advice in that letter I wrote to myself and just try to enjoy the day.
And then my phone buzzes on the table.
It’s the same sound my old phone used to make when I had a text message. Did somebody send me a message? Maybe it’s Lucy or my father. Or maybe it’s Graham. Maybe he’s the sort of doting husband who likes to check in on me at regular intervals. He seems like that sort of a sweet guy.
I pick up my phone—there’s a text message on the screen. But it isn’t from Graham or Lucy or my father. It’s from an unknown number. And as I read the message, my mouth falls open.
Don’t trust the man who calls himself your husband.
Chapter 7
Don’t trust the man who calls himself your husband.
I stare at the text message on the screen, as I grip the phone in my right hand. I read it and reread it, hoping maybe it will say something different the second time. I do have a brain injury, after all.
But no. It still says the same thing.
My fingers are shaking as I type a reply:
Who is this?
Three little bubbles appear on the screen, flashing over and over. I sit there, frozen, waiting for the response.
Meet me.