Carides's Forgotten Wife

He lifted a shoulder. “Nothing unremarkable about that. I doubt very many people are suited to cohabitation.”

“Another thing you’re very confident about?”

“Yes. I am confident.” He knew that. He felt that. He turned his focus to his wife. “This has been very trying for you,” he said, trying his best to eliminate some of the waxen quality in her face. He did not like seeing her like this. Which was strange, considering he couldn’t remember what she was like on a daily basis. Still, he knew he did not like her being in distress.

“Nobody wants to hear that their husband may never regain his memory.”

“I can imagine. No man wants to hear he may never regain his memory.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with how difficult it is for me. You’re the one who’s injured.”

“That isn’t true at all. Of course it matters if this is difficult for you. We are one flesh, are we not, agape?” He leaned in slightly, her light floral scent teasing his nose and stimulating...nothing. At least nothing in terms of memory. He was a man, after all, so it did stir something in his gut, low and deep. She was enticing, if not traditionally beautiful. “And if we are one flesh,” he continued, “then what affects me also affects you.”

She shifted, delicate color blooming in her cheeks. “I suppose that is true.”

They were silent the rest of the ride to the airport, silent until he was wheeled onto a plane. A private plane. He had no memory of this, either, so he imagined not remembering her scent wasn’t any more remarkable.

Once they were settled in the opulent surroundings, he leaned back in his chair. “This is mine?”

Rose nodded. “At least I hope so. I would hate to abscond with the wrong private plane.”

“Then we really would make headlines.”

“And of course we don’t want that,” she said, her tone firm.

“Do we not? I would like a Scotch.”

“Certainly not,” she said, frowning. “You’ve had enough pain pills to knock out a large mammal.”

“I am a large mammal. And I am not unconscious.”

“A larger one. Adding alcohol to the mix is a bad idea.” She sat down in the chair across from him. “We do not want it getting out in the press that you are having issues with your memory. I have called a couple of media outlets and let them know you are recovering nicely from what was a traumatic injury. But that you will be back to normal in no time.”

“Efficient of you. Do you work in my company with me?”

She shook her head. “No. But I spent many years helping my father with various details. Particularly after my mother passed away. So I’m well familiar.”

“Am I involved in the same business as your father was?”

Her expression became guarded. “I don’t think we should talk about business. In fact, I know we shouldn’t. That is something I discussed with your doctor.”

“How very nice of you to leave me out of it.”

“It’s for your health and well-being,” she said, her words stiff.

“As though I am a child and not a grown man.”

“You may well know less than a child does, Leon.”

“I know a great many things,” he countered. “I do not need to be sheltered.”

“You’re also not in any condition to go to work. Which means you don’t need to be troubled with the details of business.”

“As I said earlier, I am at your mercy.” His head was pounding, and he really could kill someone for a Scotch. He could not be entirely certain, but he felt as though he did not often go this long without having a drink. He found the experience unsettling. Or perhaps, he was simply unsettled because his entire mind was a vacant field, with nothing stretching as far as he could see.

“I don’t intend to let you atrophy on me now, Leon. We have a bit too much of a history for that.” Of course they did. They were married after all. “You should sleep. When you wake up we’ll be in Connecticut. And it’s entirely possible everything will seem a bit clearer.”

* * *

When the town car pulled up to the Tanner house Leon expected...something. A rush of familiarity, a feeling that he might latch on to. Rose had said this place was very important to him. In fact, she had acted as though his being here would be key to his recovery, and he realized as they advanced on the large, palatial home that he had been expecting something of a miracle when it came into view.

There was no such miracle.

It was a beautiful home, comprised of brick, with ivy climbing up the sides, making it appear as though the earth was attempting to reclaim the space for its own. There were no other houses out here. There was nothing but a large building off to the side he assumed was quarters for the staff, or at least had been at one time. Otherwise, there were large sprawling lawns in a vibrant green, backed by thick dark woods that gave the impression this house was in another time and space entirely from the rest of the world.

It was a beautiful home. But none of the magic he had been hoping for was present.

“This is it,” Rose said, her tone small, as though she had already sensed his disappointment.

How was it that she could know him so well, even as he now didn’t know himself? It was as though she could see inside of him, see into things that he could not. She had done so on the flight, and then again once they had landed. Of course, none of it seemed to matter, as her sixth sense mostly involved realizing that he was craving alcohol, and then denying him the satisfaction.

“Yes,” he said. “So it is.”

“You don’t remember it.” She sounded crestfallen.

“No,” he said, surveying the bricks and mortar yet again. Waiting for a feeling of homecoming to overtake him. Waiting for anything beyond this fuzzy, blank confusion.

“You have been coming here often for as long as I can remember,” Rose said. “Ever since you first started working with my father. When you became his protégé.”

“Is that how we met?”

She nodded wordlessly, the gesture slightly stilted. “You would always sit with him in his study, but I can’t enlighten you as to the content of those meetings. I was not included. Which stands to reason since I was a child.”

He wondered then how old she was. If she was much younger than him. She did seem young. But then, he had very little reference point for that since he wasn’t entirely certain how old he was.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“I don’t think that’s relevant. Anyway, it isn’t polite to ask a lady her age. Is that something you’ve forgotten?”

“No. Survival skills made sure that was instilled deep inside of me still. However, it seems relevant. If I was here having business meetings and you were a child then clearly there is an age gap between us.”

“Something of one,” she said, her tone airy, distant. “But it isn’t important. Why don’t we go inside and I can show you to your room.”

Her words didn’t strike him as odd until they were wandering through the grand foyer of the home, surrounded by enough marble and fine art to make any museum curator jealous.

“To my room?” he asked.

“Yes,” she returned.