twelve
Headshrinkers, Blood Drinkers,
Mental Blinkers
As a general rule, when you can’t remember where you left a corpse, you have to accept that maybe you could have done some things a little better.
So I really tried to listen when Lily yammered about integrating my inner child with something or other. I nodded my head a lot while admiring her necklace and noticing that my fingernails looked terrible even for a gardener.
When Lily called Oswald back to the study, she looked as happy as a kleptomaniac who’s found an unsupervised perfume counter. She said, “We’re in agreement now about the need for therapy.”
I wanted to be proactive so I said, “Give me a quick synopsis of everything that’s happened in the last two years and then we can go after the dirty bastard who killed Wilcox.”
“That’s Milagro all over,” Oswald said to Lily. “She rushes into situations.”
Lily looked sympathetic to my goals. “Milagro, your mind is fragile now. You’re going to go through a process of evolving like—”
“Like a butterfly from a chrysalis?”
She tipped her head. “I was thinking more of a frog from a tadpole.”
“Not as appealing,” I said.
“Use whatever image you like,” she said with a patient smile. “Oswald and Mercedes have agreed not to overwhelm you with information when you don’t have your own perspective on your recent history.”
“Okay.”
Oswald looked concerned and said to Lily, “Usually she’s much too curious.”
Lily smiled at me but spoke to Oswald. “Milagro’s lack of curiosity is a symptom of her illness. Her inquisitiveness will return when she’s feeling more secure.”
Oswald nodded and said to me, “Mercedes and I have talked to my cousin, Gabriel, who’s a security specialist. He’ll investigate Wilcox’s murder. You should sleep now. It can be the best short-term restorative and, who knows, you might wake up with your memory.”
I felt the need for comfort so I reached out to take his hand, but Lily shook her head. “No skin-on-skin contact, Milagro. It will just be more confusing until you’re better. Let me walk you to your room.”
We went to the maid’s room, and I sat down on the bed and said, “Lily, what is this condition that Oswald told me I have?”
“It’s a genetic autosomal recessive anomaly. You’re the only person I’ve ever met who didn’t inherit it. It’s extremely rare and not in the books.”
“Everything is in some book.”
“I have the condition, too. It’s specific to people descended from a few villages in Eastern Europe.” She sighed. “It makes life complicated.”
“Life is always complicated. So I was engaged to Oswald? I have a friend named Nancy who’s sure I’d get married in a nightclub to someone without a legitimate job who spends all his time partying. I can’t wait to tell her ‘I told you so.’”
“But you and Oswald broke up. We can discuss your relationships later,” she said. “Now try to rest.”
Sleep knocked me out like an anvil on the head of an unsuspecting coyote. I woke up on my back, with my mouth open and dry. I sat up quickly, listening to see if anyone was near.
The room was dark, but I could see everything perfectly, which was extremely weird and yet fantastic. The red numbers of the clock radio glowed 4:47 a.m. and the house was quiet.
I was hungry in an unusual, painful way. I went through the dark to the kitchen, hoping the refrigerator wasn’t as bare as that of most bachelors. I opened the door and saw high-end foodstuffs: gourmet pasta and grain salads, imported cheeses, roast turkey, exotic condiments, juices and wines, perfect fruits and vegetables …
And steaks. There were six New York strips in the meat bin, brazen in their tight plastic wrapping, enticing me with bright ruby juices. So this is what Oswald meant when he said I craved red foods.
Since I’d missed dinner I didn’t think he’d mind if I grilled one up. I took a skillet from the pot rack and put it on the six-burner range. My cooking skills were limited, but even I should be able to cook a steak.
I was about to drop a New York strip in the hot skillet when I got the urge to smell it to see if it was fresh. It smelled delish. Then I thought that giving it a lick would be no worse than eating steak tartar, and then I thought that cooking the excellent beef would compromise it, so I began gnawing and sucking on the raw flesh.
The salty, rich juices were so delicious that I moved on to the next steak. It was only after I’d finished my invigorating snack that I realized that Oswald might not appreciate me raiding his fridge. As I was hiding the chewed-up gray steaks in the trash, I heard footsteps behind me. Without thinking, I grabbed a knife from the sink and turned around.
A silver-haired man in striped cotton pajamas and a white terry robe clicked on the overhead light and looked startled. “Good evening, or rather, good morning.” He looked like an older, slightly shorter version of Oswald, but with blue eyes and features sharpened by age.
I dropped the knife in the sink and said, “Hi.” I resisted the urge to glance down and see if I had any spots of blood on my clothes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t recall if we’ve met.”
“I’m Oswald’s grandfather, Allan George Grant, AG. You must be Milagro.”
“I am. Hi, Mr. Grant.”
He went to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of scotch. “I can’t sleep. Would you like a drink?”
“Sure, thanks.” I spotted a shelf of glasses and took two tumblers down.
“Let’s go to the lounge.” He began leading the way and said, “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard about you. My grandson says you have amnesia and don’t remember the last few years.”
“I thought it was simple amnesia and I’d be over it by now, but everyone thinks I’m traumatized.” The blood snack had filled me with warmth and I felt the very opposite of traumatized. “I’m sorry to impose on your family.”
“No imposition for me,” Mr. Grant said as we went to the living room I’d seen earlier. He searched for a light switch; I saw one and turned on a lamp with a mica shade, which cast an amber glow on the cream walls and Mission-style furniture. “I wish it was under more providential circumstances.”
“My policy is always to make the best of a situation.” I placed the glasses on a cocktail table and Mr. Grant poured the scotch.
He lifted his glass and said, “To our friendship,” and we toasted, then sat down in comfy club chairs.
I ran my hand on the butter-soft leather of the chair. The room was attractive, but nothing seemed familiar and there were no traces of me in the room. I asked, “Are you and Oswald close?”
“Not yet, but I hope we will be. I got here a few days ago. This is my first visit to his ranch,” he said, and smiled as he shook his head. “Does that seem odd?”
“No, but I haven’t seen my parents in … I really don’t know, but I think it’s years now.”
“Every family has its problems. Oswald’s grandmother and I divorced long ago, and I moved away. Unfortunately, that means I only see my grandsons on their rare visits.”
“Exes can be a problem,” I said, thinking, Especially when you find them dead in your loft. “Did you remarry?”
He raised his eyebrow. “Once bitten, twice shy.”
“That’s where we’re different. I don’t mind being bitten, as long as I get to bite back.”
He laughed and said, “Maybe it has to do with who does the biting. I think that there are some people who are so extraordinary that they overwhelm you. If you lose them, you can go on to other relationships, but you’ll never fully recover and you’ll always regret not doing absolutely everything and anything to keep them.”
Was Oswald one of those people to me? I asked, “Where do you live now?”
“A place called Peggys Cove, no apostrophe, near Halifax. It’s foggy, but I like that.”
“I adore fog. Where did the name come from?”
We’d finished our scotch, but I didn’t feel the slightest effect.
Mr. Grant picked up the bottle and poured another glass for each of us. “There are lots of different stories, but all agree that Peggy was the only survivor of a wreck at sea during a ferocious sleet storm. When she was found, she didn’t know who she was, and the family who took her in named her Peggy.”
“That’s a wonderful story,” I said. “I wonder what the chances are of having a place named after me. Milagroville. Milagroberg. Milagrocita. None of those sounds quite right.”
He chuckled in that charming way that silver foxes do, as if you’ve said something terribly clever. “With you, I’d say they’re much better than average. My grandson wasn’t expecting you, but I’m glad you’re here. I was quite curious about you.”
“Did you hear good things about me, or bad things?”
“Interesting things. I did hear that you were very pretty, and you are.”
“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to lie. It’s not as if I’m a vampire and can’t see my own reflection in a mirror. I’ve never looked more hideous.”
“But you are pretty. Very pretty. Of course you’d have to be for Oswald, because beauty is his business.”
“I thought he was a doctor.”
“Yes, and he went on to become a plastic surgeon. Didn’t he tell you?”
“There was a lot of material to cover.” I never imagined myself with a plastic surgeon. I bobbed in my seat to see if everything jiggled the way it was supposed to. When Mr. Grant stared at me, I kept bobbing up and down and began humming. “Ever get a song stuck in your head?” I said. “What inspired you to visit here?”
Mr. Grant considered for a moment before saying, “Since you and Oswald broke up, he’s wanted more grandfatherly guidance. I could understand what he was going through since I lost the only woman I ever loved, the woman who gave me wonderful children and carried on the family line.”
“That’s so romantic and tragic,” I said. “A love that dare not bite again.”
Someone behind me cleared her throat. “Well, AG, I see you’ve made friends with the Young Lady.”
In the doorway was a petite older woman dressed in elegant sea blue satin lounging pajamas with a matching robe and sleek brown leather slippers. Her shining silver hair was cut close to her elegant noggin, and she turned her luminous, exotic green eyes toward me.
“Hello, Milagro. My grandson tells me that you claimed to be transporting a dead body in a pickup, on the run from unknown assailants, and that you’ve conveniently acquired amnesia.”
She was the sort of woman who enjoyed intimidating others, so I looked sincere and said, “That story does sound implausible, but I’ll work on a few subplots to fill it out so that there’s sufficient foreshadowing and a reasonable justification.”
“That’s the spirit, Young Lady.” And then her bravado was gone and she turned away.
AG stood and said, “Edna, are you all right?”
“I just need a moment.”
I jumped up and went to her. “Can I do anything?”
She produced a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “Yes, give me a hug.”
“But Lily said I was to avoid flesh-on-flesh contact.”
“Good God, you always make everything sound sordid,” the woman said, giving me a look that would have seared a T-bone in seconds. “Are you going to listen to her or me?”
I put my arms around the woman and felt her soft cheek against mine. She smelled marvelous, like the scent released by lemon verbena in a spring shower, and I got a comforting zizz from her. She drew in a ragged breath and I patted her on the back and said, “I wish I wasn’t making everybody miserable.”
“That’s always been your way, Young Lady, leaving a wake of destruction in your rush to the next party or attractive man,” she said, and then we both started laughing.
“That sounds like someone I know,” said Mr. Grant dryly. “I think I’ll go back to bed. Good night, Edna, Milagro.”
When he left the room, the woman stepped back and looked at me, and I looked at her.
I said, “You do know me, right?”
“Much to my eternal regret. I’m Edna Grant, Oswald’s grandmother. Your new friend, AG, is my ex-husband. They told me you were in bad shape.”
“I am. I’ve wasted away.” I held my arms out. “Can’t you see how emaciated I am?”
“Your emaciated is another woman’s normal. You look fine.”
“Perhaps we have different standards,” I said. “I don’t hold to the unrealistic, airbrushed consumer-media ideals. I think feminine curves are delightful.”
“Traumatized or not, you are as full of nonsense as ever. Let’s go for a walk.”
I looked to the window and could see dawn edging in past the espresso brown velvet drapes. “What if someone attacks me outside?”
“Fight him off.”
“Because I’m like a superhero now, right?”
“No,” she said. “There are private security guards stationed outside the gate, and you’re also protected by our family.”
“Family like family, or family like the mob?”
“The mob? I’m sure that would appeal to your absurd fantasies.”
“I don’t have absurd fantasies, but I don’t expect those who are more prosaic to comprehend my vibrant inner life.” I followed her through the kitchen to the mudroom, where Mrs. Grant plucked a wide-brimmed straw hat from a hook and put it on.
“The sun’s not even out,” I said.
“I’m sun-sensitive and you should protect your skin, too, so you won’t grow to look like a worn-out easy chair.”
“Your concern is deeply moving.”
The sky was lightening along the edges of the mountains in the distance, and the air carried the heady perfume of all the antique roses, strongest in the morning dew.
A pair of red-handled Felco pruners had been left on the ground. I picked them up and wiped them clean on my jeans. I walked to a fragrant climbing rose, Madame Alfred Carriere in spectacular bloom, the snowy imbricated petals almost glowing in the predawn shadows.
I said, “It was quite astonishing to find out that I was engaged to Oswald.”
“I know I was astonished when it happened.”
“Did you object to my engagement to your grandson?”
“You managed to wreck that all on your own. I’m having a very difficult time believing that you actually have amnesia.”
I snipped dead flowers off the rosebush. “I didn’t believe it either until I saw myself in a mirror. My hair hasn’t been this long since I lived with my grandmother,” I said. “My mother Regina didn’t like dealing with it so she’d take me to have it hacked off every four months. I looked like a boy.”
“And you’ve been compensating for your gender confusion ever since,” Edna snarked.
I cut off a flower and stuck it in my hair. “Do you think so?”
“Let’s walk around and see what’s here. I want to test my superpowers, too. Tell me if you see a fly so I can try to snatch it out of the air.”
“You don’t have any superpowers.” We walked across the field toward the white cottage.
“Who lives there? It’s darling.”
“I do for now. It’s the guesthouse.” Then she said, “You and Oswald lived in it for a while. You called it the Love Shack.”
It hit me then, what I had lost: happiness with a fabulous man, a home, family. I shook off these thoughts and pointed to two structures down the drive from the house. “What are they?”
“One’s the swimming pool compound and the other is the barn. Even with memory loss, you should know what a barn looks like. Heaven knows, you bored me enough nattering on about Faulkner and ‘Barn Burning.’”
“Mrs. Grant, treat me any way you wish, but I will not hear you disparage William Faulkner. In fact, I think we should discuss his short stories as we traipse around the fields.”
“Please God, no,” she said, but the corners of her mouth lifted slightly.
“I wish I was from the South so that I could write Southern Gothic stories. You really can’t do California Gothic. What would that be?” I mused. “Depravity and criminality in the desert set to an Eagles soundtrack? It’s nothing that would work in this day and age. It would become some inane comedy with movie stars and margaritas and alien abductions.”
I waited for Mrs. Grant’s retort, but she didn’t say anything. A fly buzzed by and I reached out and grabbed it. “See, I did it!”
“Add that skill to your résumé.”
I opened my hand and released the insect. “I wonder if I have telekinetic powers.”
“Why don’t you try lifting your feet off the ground so we can continue our walk?” She turned down a path through newly planted crepe myrtles toward the closer building. It was lined with a new grove of crepe myrtle. “We like to come here at night, especially when it’s hot in the summer.”
She stood expectantly at the doors to the redwood structure, and so I opened them for her. As she walked inside, I saw a large swimming pool surrounded by an expansive patio and outdoor furniture. The surface of the water was as smooth as ice.
My heart thudded and I stepped back, feeling something pressing down on me like an incubus, sucking the breath out of my lungs.
Mrs. Grant said, “If you want to take a dip, the swimsuits are still in the …” Then she looked around to see me standing back at the door. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. I just … I’m feeling claustrophobic.” I rushed outside and bent over, my hands on my thighs. I tried to stop from shaking, and the breeze chilled the sweat on my forehead.
Mrs. Grant came out and watched me as I thought, It’s something about the water, but I didn’t want to know. When I stood up, she put her arm through mine and said, “Let’s keep walking.”
We went by the barn and she pointed out the porch on one side. “Ernesto has an apartment there. He’s the ranch hand and our friend. Your friend, too, and we explained what happened to you,” she said. “Mercedes used to like coming here to ride and swim.”
I grinned. “So I was able to help give her some time off from work! That’s great.”
“As shocking as it seems, Young Lady, Mercedes thrives on work, just as my grandson does.”
Mrs. Grant took me on a loop through the property, pointing out a shallow creek with gray stones, which I could look at without reacting, and the corrals for the horses, which she called turnouts.
We walked to the far side of the fields and she said, “By that fence is a pond where you planted native wetland grasses, but we don’t have to go there.”
I noticed a mound of soil that was marked with a boulder and a green oval of rosemary. “This looks like a grave.”
“Your dog is buried there. Her name was Daisy. You have another dog now, Rosemary. Mercedes has him at her club, and your chicken, Petunia, is living in the coop by the barn.”
“I finally get pets and I can’t remember them. I can’t remember Wilcox either.” I bent to pull weeds from the grave. “Faulkner said, ‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past,’ but I don’t think he took amnesia into the equation. How can I feel sorrow for those I can’t recall?”
“You will, Young Lady. Now let’s go make breakfast.”
I walked with Mrs. Grant back to the white cottage, the Love Shack, so she could change out of her pajamas. The interior was a surprisingly modern white and blue scheme. I thought it was sad that she had a framed photo of Thomas Cook, the gorgeous movie star, on a sideboard. I’d had a major crush on him when I was a teenager, but I got over it.
Once we were back at Oswald’s house and in the kitchen, Mrs. Grant said, “I’ll whip up a cold berry soup with crème fraîche, and we can have omelets with red peppers and wild mushrooms.”
“Sounds yummy. What can I do?”
“Why don’t you make your lemon-almond pancakes?”
I looked around the shelves until I found flour, sugar, lemons, almonds, eggs, and a bowl. I grabbed baking powder and baking soda, too. I figured two cups of flour per person should be sufficient, so I measured this into the bowl.
Mrs. Grant glanced over and said, “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
“No, but maybe if I go through the motions, it will come back. Sense memory. I’m guessing that I must have learned how to cook.”
“You did, but maybe you should just make the coffee this morning.”
“No problem!” I looked on the counter and spotted an intimidating chrome espresso maker. I approached it and began waggling the handles.
Mrs. Grant sighed. “There’s a drip coffee machine in the cupboard to the right of the sink. You can grind beans, can’t you?”
“Yes, I can grind coffee beans on my own,” I said, and I had an odd sense of almost remembering something. And then it was gone.
Oswald came for breakfast, looking extremely man-pretty in faded jeans and a navy T-shirt under an old cotton flannel shirt. He gave Mrs. Grant a kiss on her pale cheek. “Morning, Grandmama.”
“Hello, dear.”
“Morning, Milagro,” he said. “How’s your memory?”
“Happily vacationing elsewhere,” I said. “Perhaps it will send a postcard saying ‘Wish you were here.’”
“I’ll keep checking the mailbox.” His crooked smile was more charming every time I saw it. He said, “How do you feel otherwise?”
“Fine, although I still have a sense of unreality. I’m sure the French would have a term for it, because they’re so good at phrases for elusive feelings. Esprit d’ookiness, or in Spanish, espíritu de ookiness.”
Lily came into the kitchen, wearing a cornflower blue linen dress and carrying a huge shopping bag. “Morning!” she said cheerily.
Oswald grinned. “Hi, Lily. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, my room is as comfortable as a luxury hotel.” She looked at me and said, “How’s our patient?”
“Incapable of making pancakes,” I said, “but able to grab insects out of the air.”
She looked a little confused, but smiled and held out the shopping bag, showing a jangle of gold bracelets on her wrist and gold and amethyst rings on her slim fingers. “I picked up some things for you at the spa in town.”
“How sweet!” I took the bag, then glanced down and saw dun-colored material.
“They’re your new outfits,” Lily said. “It’s part of your therapy. Let’s go to your room and you can change.”
As we went together to the maid’s room, Lily said, “Oswald explained that you find dressing appropriately challenging, so I thought we could eliminate that one area of worry and discomfort for you.”
I placed the bag on the bed, already worried and discomforted about what I would find. My dread was justified. There were four identical pairs of beige drawstring pants and four shapeless beige, round-necked smocks. “These are …”
“Organic undyed cotton and hemp,” Lily said. “You’ll feel so relaxed in them.”
At the bottom of the bag were several pairs of beige granny panties, baggy beige socks, beige stretch bras, and thin beige gloves. The pièce de repugnance was a collection of beige scrunchies.
“Those are yoga bras, so they’re not constricting,” Lily said. “We need to break down your artifice, so you’ll be more in harmony with the natural world around you.”
“I’m a gardener. I’m always in harmony with the natural world.”
“Milagro, since drug therapies would have no effect on you, I thought we would go this route.”
“How do you know? You haven’t even tried giving me drugs!” But I remembered how I hadn’t felt the scotch.
“It’s part of your particular condition,” she said. “No makeup, no jewelry, and I’d like you to wear gloves around others, so you don’t revert to your pattern of presenting your sexuality to divert from meaningful interactions. If you pull your hair back, you won’t be prone to some of your flirtatious gestures.”
I stared at her in astonishment. “You’re wearing mascara and lip gloss and a pretty dress and you’ve got a darling ’do!”
“I’d like you to stop and think before automatically comparing yourself to other women.”
I regretted telling Lily that I’d go along with her therapy. “Sure, fine, whatever.”
Lily smiled brightly and said, “Change your clothes, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”
It was with a heavy heart that I put on the dismal clothes. The bra smooshed my bozooms like overly ripe fruit, and the granny panties left significant, visible lines. But when I went to the mirror to see the totality of the horror, I was stunned.
My eyes shone and my complexion was bright. My hair was shiny and healthy. How had this happened when yesterday I’d looked like a cadaver?
I French-braided my hair and put on a heinous scrunchie. I dabbed on clear lip gloss and a little mascara and brushed on a hint of blush, since it would be a crime to waste my newly stunning cheekbones.
When I went back to the kitchen, Mr. Grant had come downstairs. Everyone turned to look at me.
“Oh, good grief,” Mrs. Grant said with a roll of her eyes that was so extravagant that I knew I had to practice eye-rolling later.
I smiled serenely and said, “I find this clothing very liberating, very freeing, very evolved. Thank you, Lily, for this thoughtful gift.”
We sat at the long trestle table. The delicious food and vase of bright flowers were in striking contrast to the ramen and tortilla-based meals I subsisted on in my crappy basement apartment.
AG smiled at his ex-wife. “This is delicious, Edna. I wish you cooked when we were married.” He looked at the rest of us and said, “All she could do was mix Manhattans and set out bowls of cashews.”
Mrs. Grant narrowed her green eyes at him. “That was a long time ago. I did raise children, AG.”
Oswald looked at his grandparents, shook his head, then turned to me. “Milagro, we’ve got a call scheduled with Mercedes and my cousin, Gabriel, in half an hour.”
Lily said, “And after that we’ll have a session. It will be a real treat getting into your mind.”
Mrs. Grant hmmphed and said to Lily, “Your optimism is sadly misplaced. Milagro’s mind is like quicksand: the harder you struggle to escape, the deeper she’ll drag you in.”
“Grandmama,” Oswald said at the same time that AG said “Edna.”
Lily looked surprised and turned to the older woman. “Let’s not discourage the recovery process. Milagro is in a very vulnerable place right now.”
“The Young Lady is about as vulnerable as a crocodile in a bunny hutch,” said Mrs. Grant. “I warn people, but they keep hopping within range of her jaws.” She got up and put her dishes in the dishwasher.
AG said, “Edna, I thought we could drive over the mountain and do a little sightseeing.”
She gave him a look that wasn’t encouraging, but it wasn’t discouraging either. “All right, AG,” she said, and they left the kitchen to head toward her cottage.
When Oswald ran down to the barn to talk to his ranch hand, Lily and I cleared the dishes. She said, “I hope you won’t let Mrs. Grant’s attitude bother you.”
I thought Mrs. Grant’s pointed remarks were as delightful as the stunning red barbs of the Wingthorn rose, but I tried to look wounded. “I’ll try not to, Lily. Thank you for your support and sympathy.”
When Oswald returned from the barn, his jeans were a little dusty and he had a strand of hay stuck to his shirt. The golden filament against the dark navy fabric disturbed me, and I was going to dust it off, but Lily was watching, so I just followed him to the study for our phone call.
“Come sit close,” he said as he made the call.
I took the chair near the desk and, after a few clicks, I heard Mercedes say, “I’m here with Gabriel.”
“Hey, girlfriend,” I said.
“This is Gabriel,” said a man’s voice. “Milagro, how are you doing?”
I reached over and brushed the hay strand from Oswald’s shirt. “I’m absolutely fine.”
Oswald glanced at me. “She looks much healthier today, but she still can’t remember anything. Lily Harrison is having a session with her later. We’ll see how that goes.”
The man, Gabriel, said, “Mercedes has updated me on everything she knows and I’ve contacted the Council.”
“What’s that? Or who—if it’s counsel?” I asked.
“What,” Oswald said. “The Council is our extended family’s governing body.”
“You sound very organized,” I said. Families were all a mystery to me, since I didn’t have one to speak of.
Gabriel said, “Wilcox’s assistant, Matthews, reported his employer’s disappearance two days after they flew into the country. In fact, Matthews is near the ranch now. Until things are cleared up, Matthews will be visiting his daughter, Nettie, in town. She’s Granddad’s new assistant.
“Wow, that’s a coincidence,” I said.
“Not really,” Oswald said. “His family has a longtime working relationship with our network of families.
“What does Matthews know?” I asked.
Gabriel said, “Only that he was on the flight after Wilcox’s and they were supposed to meet up. He knew that Wilcox was having a surfing vacation and visiting you. Wilcox was supposed to call him that night, but never did.”
“So we’ve still got nothing,” I said.
“Milagro, Matthews told the Council that you might be connected to his employer’s disappearance. He and his daughter are very upset. You met Nettie in London.”
“I can’t believe I forgot a trip to London.”
Mercedes said, “Gabriel would like permission to visit your loft with a forensics expert and see if they can find any fingerprints or trace evidence.”
I imagined a crime scene light illuminating body fluids everywhere. “Um, so long as you understand that I’m a single girl entitled to some privacy.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said. “We’ll keep out of your lingerie drawer. I’d also like to go into your bank records and track the days leading up to and after Wilcox’s arrival.”
“Sure. I’d like to know where I was, too.”
Mercedes said, “We’ll tell you whatever we find out.”
“What about my missing time? I mean, in addition to the two years I’ve lost.”
There was a pause on the line and then Mercedes spoke, “Lily advises, and we all agree, that you need to recover your memory ‘organically’ to prevent the possibility of false memories.”
She was keeping something from me, but I didn’t seem to care.
Mercedes said, “Okay, I’ve got all your account info from the last time I upgraded your laptop, and I’ll give Gabriel the key to your place.”
“Sure, whatever,” I said. “Where’s my laptop?”
“Don’t you have a therapy session?” Mercedes said. “The faster you recover, the better chance of us finding Wilcox’s killer.”
I said good-bye to my friend, and Oswald put the call on hold and told me that Lily was waiting for me in a small parlor down the hall.
I went past the staircase and saw an expansive family room through one doorway.
The parlor, on the other side of the hall, was a cozy room lined with bookshelves with a plum-colored velvet sofa. I’d look wonderfully melancholic reclining on this sofa while I mused about the intricate workings of my psyche.
Lily was sitting at a delicate writing table, working at her laptop. She looked up as I came in. “Hi, Milagro. Please take a seat.” She reached for a notepad and a ballpoint pen.
When I sat across from her, she said, “Let’s start off with a few word associations.”
“Fantastic. I’m all about the words. I like them whether they’re mono- or multisyllabic. I like onomatopoeia and foreign words and expressions. I like funny words like ‘bric-a-brac’ and ‘noodle’ and ‘persnickety.’”
“Good. Just say the first thing that comes into your mind without thinking,” she said. “Hot.”
“Chocolate.”
“Cold.”
“Hands, warm heart.”
“Cat.”
“Pickles.”
She paused before writing down my answer and then said, “Tree.”
“Prune. The verb, not the fruit.”
“Just one word is fine, Milagro. Black.”
“Bra.”
“Red,” she said.
“Wine.”
“Blood.”
I wondered if she knew that I snacked on the steaks and said, “Blue.”
“Blue?”
“Blue-bloods. Fancy-pants, hoity-toity.”
“Oh.” Lily wrote for a few seconds. “Knife.”
An image flashed through my mind of a knife slipping through flesh, crimson fluid welling in the cut, a man’s hot mouth hungry for my flesh, but I answered, “Spork.”
Lily looked confused, so I said, “It’s the combination of a fork and a spoon, a spork. Ah, the elusive charm of the spork!”
We went on in this fashion for a few more minutes. I must have done well, because Lily looked utterly captivated by my answers. I said, “I’d be thrilled to do some inkblot tests, or we can go outside and I can tell you the shapes of clouds.”
“That’s all right. I need a little more of your personal history, so I’d like you to tell me your earliest memories.”
It was refreshing to talk nonstop about myself. While I gabbed, I also tried to use my brainpower to lift a book off the shelves. It was a slim volume called Spiritual Transformations: Adventures of a Shapeshifter by someone called Don Pedro. I scrunched my face in my effort to make it move.
Lily put down her pad and said, “I know this is a painful process.”
“It’s arduous work, but I’m happy to soldier on.” The damn book hadn’t budged a smidgen.
“I’d like you to process what we’ve discussed and we’ll have a session this afternoon.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, and when Lily glanced down at her notes, I grabbed the book and took it back to the maid’s room.
It had an intriguing cover with a man morphing into different shapes, including a platypus. The memoir used the same flowery language I’d seen in the composition books I’d brought, and I recognized several of my favorite words and expressions.
This must be the memoir I’d ghostwritten, and I knew I was commissioned for a follow-up. I went back and forth from the book to my outline and somehow I knew the story I wanted to write. When I put my pen to paper, the words flowed easily.
Lily and I had a quick lunch of strawberry yogurt and then she said we should return to the small parlor.
“The day is too nice to be stuck inside. Let’s go outside.” She pursed her lips as she thought, so I added, “It’s wrong to waste such fresh air.”
“All right. Let me get my notepad.”
She left the kitchen, I spotted a half bottle of zinfandel on the counter and took several glugs to quench my red-thirst. I was wiping my mouth when she came back with her notepad and a jaunty cotton hat.
We went into the garden, where there was a table and chairs in the shade of the old oak. I noticed that the truckasaurus had been moved to the covered carport. I grabbed the red-handled pruners from where I had left them.
“You don’t need those,” Lily said. “I want you to focus on our session.”
“Gardening puts me in the zone. Otherwise I’ll just be distracted by all that needs to be done here.”
“All right. I may as well weed while you whack.”
“Do you know anything about gardening?”
“My parents garden,” she said. “I had my own flower plot and worm bin growing up, but I don’t know much about roses. Are these heirloom varieties?”
I grinned and said, “Let me get my gloves so you won’t get snagged by thorns.”
I dashed to the ugly truck, grabbed my goatskin gloves and a plastic bin for green waste, and ran back. I handed Lily the gloves and led her to a large shrub growing over an arch. “She’s called Reve D’Or, or Dream of Gold. The flowers get more goldy-pink if the plant is in partial shade.”
“It’s gorgeous,” she said.
“The best thing is the fragrance.” I plucked off one of the creamy flowers and held it to her nose.
“Heavenly.” She crouched down, and I saw her pinch a weed at the base and pull it up by the roots. Pleased that she knew what she was doing, I began to snip at the roses.
Soon we were working harmoniously, moving from one shady area to the next as the sun moved across the sky. The novelty of giving a self-centered monologue wore off. I preferred the interactive drama wherein I nattered as inanely as possible and Mercedes tried to talk sense into me, or Nancy said something even more outlandish.
“Lily, where do you live?”
“Lately in Boston, but I’ve been all over for college, med school, and training,” she said. I’d given her the pruners and she was holding them toward a shrub. “My folks are north of Seattle. What about this branch?”
“Leave it, because we can train it over the top of the fence. What do you do for fun?”
“I like to sketch and do watercolors.”
“What about guys? Do you have any patients doing transference and falling madly in love with you, or hot docs who want to do in-depth consultations?”
She laughed. “It’s completely unethical to get involved with patients, and my situation is complicated by the family condition.”
“You and Oswald keep using that word: ‘complicated.’” I reached over and plucked a leaf out of her hair. “I look at Oswald and I can’t imagine what our life was like together, and the sex …”
“Mmm?”
“He must have been incredible, or why would I get engaged to him? I look at those long fingers and think of what they could do to a woman’s body, and that mouth, oh, my. The way he smiles crookedly is sexy, don’t you think?”
“Well …,” she said uncomfortably. “He does have a nice smile.”
“‘Nice’? There’s such a thing as taking understatement too far, Lily,” I returned to waxing poetic about our host. “I’m enraptured by the way his jeans lovingly embrace his ass, and those eyes, like the color of storm clouds, portending something thunderous to come, and by ‘come’ I mean—”
Lily said, “Milagro?”
“Hm?” I glanced up from the damp soil and saw Lily staring at something behind me. I turned and saw Oswald. “Oh, hi, Oswald.”
His storm-cloud gray eyes portended nothing at the moment. He raised his eyebrows and said to Lily, “Is this part of your therapy?”
“I, uh,” she began.
“It is part of the therapy, Oswald, taking me on the same emotional journey in order to build a framework for my memories, right, Lily?”
“Yes,” she said. “I read about it in the Nordic Journal of Psychiatry.”
“Oh,” Oswald said, taken aback. “I’m sorry for interrupting then. I thought we could have cocktails in about a half hour on the terrace. My grandmother is trying out new recipes.”
Lily said, “Wonderful. We’ll see you then.”
When he nodded and went inside, I laughed and Lily said, “I can’t believe you said that.”
“I can’t believe you went along with it.”
“Only because I’m open to any theory right now. If you can connect with the feelings you had for Oswald, you might trigger memories. But think about him, the whole person, not just his body.”
“I’ll try, but that body is utterly captivating, don’t you think so?”
She smiled a little slyly. “It’s not my role to disagree with your opinions, Milagro.”
I changed into a clean set of the boring clothes and was putting my hair into a scrunchie from hell when there was a knock on my door.
“Enter.”
The door opened and I saw an adorable man with red-gold hair, black slacks, an ecru button-down shirt, and eyes the same pellucid pond-green as Mrs. Grant’s.
“Hi,” I said, lowering my voice for maximum flirt effect.
“Hi, honey,” he said. “It’s me, Gabriel. We spoke on the phone this morning. You look as if you’re leading a revolt against good taste.”
“It’s part of my therapy, like no skin contact.”
“Good luck with that.” He dropped into the old green armchair beside the desk. “We checked your apartment and found a million fingerprints and more body fluids than I want to think about.”
“I probably had parties,” I said. “You know how people get.”
“Actually, I do,” he said, and grinned. “We’ve tracked your activities on the day Wilcox arrived. You left a debit card trail all the way into the late evening. We also found Wilcox’s rented car in the visitors’ parking area of your garage. There was blood in the trunk.”
“Does that clear me or implicate me further?”
“The timeline seems to clear you, but it’s not conclusive. I’ve given a report to the Council and there’s not much they can do without a body.”
“Mrs. Grant scoffed at me when I asked if ‘family’ means mob. What kind of family hires forensics experts?”
Gabriel smiled, showing delightful dimples. “We’ve found it useful to support each other’s businesses and careers. We’re more like a cultural group.”
“Except that ‘cultural group’ sounds more like potlucks and clog dancing than sexy Titian-haired security managers,” I said. “I suppose I know all about this.”
“Yes, you met with the Council when you were going to marry Oswald,” he said. “Now, if you don’t regain your memory …”
“But I will. I’m not going to toss away two years of my life because, ooh, I can’t face reality. I’m willing to do the hard work of wearing my big-girl granny panties.”
“You in big granny panties, how hot!”
“You’d know if you gave me a full-body search.” When he stopped laughing I said, “I’m also not supposed to flirt even though I’m guessing you don’t swing my way.”
“If I swung your way, I’d swing your way,” he said, and winked.
“Hey, that’s something I say!”
“Who do you think I got it from? All right, no flirting, but I’ll pass along a pointer I learned from a waitress. The higher the ponytail, the bigger the tip.”
“You have earned my respect forever.” I pulled out my scrunchie and gathered my hair into a high ponytail. “Now let’s have a drink.”
The sun was low in the sky, just edging behind the mountains, and the sky was deepening to indigo. Lily sat in one of the teak chairs beside AG. Mrs. Grant was mixing a shaker of cocktails, and Oswald set a platter of antipasto on a table.
“Sit by me, Young Lady,” Gabriel said, as he took a chair on one side.
I looked at him and said, “Why does everyone call me that?”
The others looked at Mrs. Grant, who said, “Because I’ve always hoped you’d act like one.”
“Ha, ha, and ha,” I said. “What are we drinking?”
“Pink cellos from my homemade limoncello, vodka, and cranberry juice.” Mrs. Grant poured out the drinks in martini glasses.
I took a sip of the tangy, fruity drink, and AG turned to Gabriel. “How is Charlie’s hotel search going?”
“He’s still looking in foggy towns for a place he can remodel into a boutique hotel for family members.”
“Do you want the responsibility of a hotel?” Oswald asked. He leaned back against a pillar facing us and I admired his shoulder-to-hip proportions.
“It’s Charlie’s dream,” the redheaded man said. “I can’t complain about him taking a time-consuming project when I’m gone so much.”
I was thinking that the vista was so beautiful and that it was such a treat to enjoy the evening with companions, to share this relaxed time, this spirit of camaraderie, when Oswald said to his cousin, “You’re lucky that you’ve got a partner who has his own interests to pursue instead of someone so bored that she … I mean, um, you’re lucky he’s got a career.”
In the silence that followed, I deduced that Oswald’s comment was a reference to me. I put down my drink and said, “Excuse me, but I’m feeling worn out. I think I’ll go rest.”
I felt their eyes on me as I left, and Gabriel whispered, “Oswald!”
Even though I didn’t know Oswald, I was hurt and very confused. How could I have been bored, when I’d always had so many things to do? I’d reached the door to the maid’s room when my ex-fiancé caught up to me. He took my arm and turned me to face him.
His eyes were the same hue as the scarf I’d been making. I must have been making it for him even though we’d broken up.
“Milagro, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I have a history of screwing up relationships and clearly something went wrong between us. You didn’t ask for me to come here, didn’t want me to stay, and it’s good of you to take me in now when you don’t have to.”
“That doesn’t excuse my behavior.” He touched my exposed wrist, sending a zizz through me. “I was the one who brought you into my life and my problematic family. I gave you the condition. I’m responsible for you.”
I looked up into Oswald’s clear gray eyes. “Did you love me, Oswald?”
He hesitated and then said, “Yes, even though you drove me crazy. You still drive me crazy.”
“We took missteps and every time we tried to fix them, others interfered.” He ran his fingers up my sleeve and along my arm, making me want to lean into his touch. “Both of us made mistakes, but if we had just gone ahead and gotten married, this never would have happened to you.”
“And how was it when we made love?”
“Amazing,” he said. “I remember the last time. We were in the City and we’d registered for wedding gifts. Then I’d done some consults. I came back to our hotel suite and you were wearing a white plastic miniskirt,” he said, and smiled.
I smiled, too. “That sounds very glamorous.”
“We were going to go out, but we stayed in and spent the night making love. If I had known it would be the last time …,” he said. “Oh, Milagro, I’ve missed you so much.”
He was serious and sincere, an irresistible combination in a fabulous man, so I didn’t even try to resist. I put my arms around him and his lips went to mine. Delicious sensations rippled through my body, and I thought of the magical kiss that awakens a sleeping princess and the magical kiss that transforms a frog.
Oswald pushed me through the doorway into the room and kicked the door shut behind us.
Each taste of his tongue sent all sorts of happy signals along my synapses. Maybe my memory could be recovered by a different magical act. I pressed myself against him, wrapping my leg around his, and then someone rapped on the door.
Oswald took his mouth from mine.
“In a minute,” he called out. To me, he whispered, “You always do this to me.” He went to face the window, blowing out his breath and adjusting himself in his jeans.
Through the door, Lily said, “Please don’t do anything detrimental to the healing process.”
Oswald said, “We’ll be out in a minute.”
After a few seconds, we heard her walk away.
He said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that when you’re not well.”
“I liked it, Oswald. I like you.”
“When you get your memory back, you may not feel the same way about me.”
I thought of the scarf I had found in my bag and I thought of how I’d come here when I was in trouble. “Can’t we start over? If we loved each other once … unless you’re involved with someone else.”
He gazed out the window for a long time and said, “There’s been no one else for me since you left.”
“So maybe …”
“Maybe. Let’s go back out.” He came to me and stroked his finger along my throat. “I think you came back to me for a reason.”
“I think so, too.”
When we returned to the terrace, everyone acted as if nothing had happened, but Oswald sat by my side and I kept glancing at him.
I had amnesia, but I also had a second chance with exactly the sort of man I’d always wanted—someone worthwhile, a human version of a substantial, hardback book, instead of the guys I usually dated, paperback beach reads that could be left on the bus for the next bored and aimless girl.