A Man She Couldn't Forget

“You don’t remember who I am.”

“No, I’m sorry. But don’t take offense. I don’t remember anyone.” She swallowed hard and felt emotion clog her throat.

“Not even Brady?”

“Should I?”

“Oh, dear, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you things.”

Clare shrugged. “That’s not exactly true. The doctor said to make sure I don’t get too much information at once. But familiar people and objects are supposed to jog my memory. It’s already happened some.”

After a hesitation, the woman nodded. “I’m Delia Kramer, from the first floor.”

“We’re neighbors.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And friends?”

“Ah…yes.”

“Could a friend fix me some coffee?” She glanced back at the house. “I didn’t go in the kitchen yet. I’m afraid to.”

Delia came out of the garden. “I’m sorry, Clare. That must be hard for you.”

A flash of recognition of this woman listening to her and comforting her. “Did you always know what I was thinking? How I was feeling?”

“At one point in our lives.”

Confused by the comment, Clare was about to ask for an explanation, but Delia started walking toward the house and Clare fell into step alongside her. “I came to the hospital when you were in a coma. But the doctors didn’t want too many visitors after you awakened.” Another pause. “I sent flowers, carnations. Your favorites.”

Clare smiled. “That’s why I liked them so much.”

In truth, Clare had wondered why no one had visited but Brady and Jonathan. There were flowers from others, none of whom she remembered, and a few calls after she woke up. Her sister had phoned a couple of times from France. She’d cried when Clare didn’t remember her, and often had tears in her voice when she called back. Damn it, how could you not remember your own flesh and blood?

When they arrived at Delia’s first floor condo, they went in through a set of French doors leading into a kitchen, which was roomy with warm wood everywhere. Because it seemed right, Clare took a stool at the island instead of the breakfast nook. Delia assembled the coffee and when it began to drip, turned around. This time, her expression was pained.

“What’s wrong, Delia?”

“It’s just that I haven’t seen you at my kitchen island in a long time.”

“No? You said we were friends. And we live in the same building.”

“I—let’s talk about something else. Your hair looks great short.”

“Please, just tell me that one thing. Why haven’t I been here in a while?”

Delia leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “You got really busy with your cookbooks and TV show.”

“But we were close before that?”

“Yes, we were college roommates, then you went to culinary school, and I got my master’s degree. I’m an elementary school teacher, now.”

“My sister’s a teacher, too.”

“I know. Cathy and I have a lot in common. Anyway, you were maid of honor in my wedding. After you finished your training, you moved here when a condo opened up because we owned one.” She glanced over at a picture by the window. “You don’t remember anything? Anyone?” Her voice caught on the last word.

“I have flashes. I knew I used to sit at the island.” She frowned. “So I must have been here a lot.” When Delia just stared at her, Clare nodded to the photo. “Is that your husband?”

“Excuse me for a minute.” Her voice quivered and Delia disappeared into what looked like a powder room off the kitchen.

Standing, Clare crossed to the window and picked up the picture. It was of a man in army fatigues. Closely cropped hair. Dark eyes sparkling with mischief. He looked so young and handsome and hopeful. Oh my God, he was dead. She knew what had happened.

Delia had been at the computer when Clare had come in through the front door and into this kitchen. She remembered how bereft she’d felt but knew she had to be strong for her friend…

“HEY,” DELIA SAID. “I’m e-mailing Don, but I don’t know how to begin.” Her hand went to her stomach. “How do you tell somebody thousands of miles away he’s going to be a daddy? He’ll be happy, though.” She frowned. “Damn that army reserve. I told him he never should have signed on. He’d be here…”

Finally she looked up. Her face sobered. “Clare, what…” She stood and hurried over to her friend. “What is it, what’s happened?”

“Dee, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The army people, I saw them outside approaching the front door. I told them I was your friend. I insisted they tell me first…so you wouldn’t be alone…”

A knock on the door, as loud as a gunshot.

“What is it?” Delia’s fingers bit into Clare’s arm. “What is it?”

“Honey, I’m sorry. Don’s dead…”

CLARE RECALLED WHAT she wished she hadn’t…crying through the whole official announcement, days of grim reality, nights of holding her friend while she sobbed out her pain. But Delia had gotten through it, with the help of Brady, Clare and someone else. The guy helping Brady carry the couch, the guy from the garden.

Now, however, Clare felt the loss all over again. It was as if someone she knew and loved had just died, making Clare take in a quick breath.

She heard Delia move behind her. “What are you doing?”

Setting down the frame, Clare turned around. “I remember. I’m so sorry.”

“You look so sad. Do you remember Don himself?”

“No, just when we found out he was killed in action and how I felt then.”

Delia shrugged her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does. I’ll try harder.”

Delia swallowed hard. “I appreciated all you did for me, Clare. I couldn’t have gotten through his death and the aftermath without you.”

Which must have made their estrangement even harder. With that thought came pain behind her eyes. Briefly, she closed them and was able to will it away.

The coffee finished dripping. Delia poured them each a mug and brought both to the counter, where Clare reseated herself. Then Delia removed vanilla-flavored International Delight from the refrigerator and sat down. Clare picked up the bottle and poured some of the sweet liquid into her coffee.