Memory Lapse Read online

  Memory Lapse

  Kathleen O'Brien

  Dear Readers,

  Once upon a time, long before I thought of writing novels, I fell in love with a fictional man I called a “hero.” Pieced together from stories I heard and movies I watched, he was a handsome figure clad in shining armor, sword raised high to fight for love and honor.

  Of course, even then I knew it took more than bulging muscles and tempered steel to create this paragon. Young as I was, I sensed that the true test of a hero lies in his attitude toward the woman he loves. A real hero will brave any danger for his lady’s sake. He has spent his life cultivating courage, endurance and brawn merely so that he can, when the time comes, use them to rescue her.

  Over the years, I have also learned that heroes come in all sizes and shapes, all ages and occupations—and in both genders. I have seen these remarkable people and have been filled with awe and gratitude for their daily courage. But somehow, through it all, my fantasy hero survived in my imagination, standing ready to face any peril for the woman he loves

  So when I was asked to write the story of a “secret fantasy,” what could be more natural than having this hero step forward? Though Drew Townsend, the hero of Memory Lapse, is a contemporary man, he is as dedicated to rescuing his lady as Lancelot ever was. Drew’s ex-fiancée, Laura Nolan, is a prisoner of her past, and when she comes to him for help, he cannot fail her.

  I hope you enjoy reading the story of Drew’s “secret fantasy” half as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I hope that when you compare him to the “hero” who surely lives on in your imagination, too, you’ll recognize what made him so special to me.

  Sincerely,

  Kathleen O’Brien

  To Ann Blair

  For friendship that regularly goes above and beyond

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  1

  SOMEONE WAS CRYING.

  The sound was feeble, just a few thin notes of helpless misery, like the muffled sobbing of a child who has given up hope of being comforted. Laura might not even have heard it, except that the midnight air caught the sobs in its glassy web, suspending them above her with an unnatural, frozen clarity.

  Such desolate sounds. Cold bands of pity tightened around Laura’s chest, squeezing until she could hardly breathe. Who would make a child cry like that? Why did no one go to her? Why did no one pick her up, warm her, reassure her? She was so unhappy, so unbearably alone.

  Laura knew she should do something. It had snowed today, and the girl was very cold. But it was so dark, so hard to move her strangely aching limbs, and everything was so confusing. She wasn’t sure where the little girl was, or who she was, or whether somehow she was the girl, or whether this was all some horrible nightmare from which she must wake up....

  “No!” Though her eyes had already been open, staring uncomprehendingly at the formless white world around her, Laura was suddenly jolted into awareness by a piercing sense of panic. Her heart thudded high in her throat, and she realized that she had been asleep. The sad little girl must have been a dream. And yet it hadn’t been a dream, not quite.

  Her eyes darted frantically across the snow-shrouded shapes, trying to identify them, though her mind was still fuzzy, clouded with fear and confusion. Where was she? Were those white, reaching arms just tree branches? Was that hulking form only a lawn chair? She shivered, the cold, aching pain in her chest intensifying. Where was she? She couldn’t be back in Albany, back at Winterwalk, could she? But how could she not be there? Obviously she’d been sleepwalking, and she had never done that anywhere but Winterwalk.

  No! She shook her head, trying to clear it. No, no, no. It was crazy to think that, even in these terrifying fugue states, she could possibly be spirited back to Winterwalk. It was a thousand miles away. She hadn’t been there in years. And she would never go there again.

  She would never again stand under the shadow of the thrusting tower, snow-swept colonnades and leering gargoyles of Winterwalk, the eerie Venetian Gothic villa she had once called home. She had fled from there three years ago, leaving behind, like thwarted ghosts, the strange compulsions that haunted her sleep.

  In her desperation, she had left other things at Winterwalk, too. She’d left innocence and hope and love. She’d left Drew Townsend’s diamond ring, tucked into an incoherent, inadequate note she knew he’d never understand.

  But, for that sacrifice, she had believed she was buying freedom. Safety. Here in Boston, in her boring, rubber-stamp town house, she was supposed to be safe from this madness in the middle of the night.

  So why, after three years of peace, had the sleepwalking started again? Why tonight? She took a deep, shaking breath of icy air, though it scoured her nose and throat like sandpaper, and tried to orient herself. How long had she been out here? Her lungs hurt, as if from a prolonged struggle to breathe. Her feet were bare and growing numb. When she touched her fingers to her face, she felt a lacework of frost where unchecked tears had frozen on her cheeks.

  What else had she done? Her trembling fingers dropped to her nightgown, feeling clumsily for the buttons that should have been closed tightly around her neck, dreading what she knew she would find.

  And she was right. Her throat was bare, as cold and unyielding as marble. Her fingers fluttered downward, down across her collarbone, her breastbone, the shivering plane of her stomach. All the buttons were undone, and the edges of her gown fluttered open, exposing her to the frigid wind. Snow blew against the swell of her breast, and her body wasn’t even warm enough to melt the tiny flakes that piled against her pale skin, as if trying to cover her nakedness.

  Oh, God. She wrenched the gown closed with half numb fingers as hot tears ran alongside the frozen ones. It was true, then. It had started again. She knew all too well what would have happened if she hadn’t managed to wake up. She would have removed the nightgown, cast it aside, white on white, silk on snow. She would have knelt on the ground, weeping, and then...

  And then what? From the time she was ten years old, whenever she had walked in her sleep her mother had followed her, put a blanket around her shivering body and led her gently into the house. But her mother had died a month ago, and now Laura was alone.

  Completely alone in her “safe” little Boston town house that suddenly wasn’t safe at all, where the old ghosts could still pluck her out of her bed and toss her out into the cruel winter night, where she might easily have frozen to death.

  Choking on her terrified tears, clutching her gown, she stumbled on numb feet up the stairs that led to her tiny kitchen. She rattled the doorknob frantically, her fingers awkward, the cold metal uncooperative. “Open. Please, open.” The words blew out on a gust of milky vapor, hung in the frozen air like an echo, then disappeared. “Please.” She moaned, struggling with the doorknob as if her life depended on it.

  The latch finally gave way, and with a low sob she flung herself into the warm kitchen, where the range gleamed reassuringly under the hood light, and the blue liquid crystal display of the microwave clock glowed steadily in the corner.

  Breathing heavily, she leaned against the door. Her whole body hurt now that she was warmer, as pulsing waves of hot blood tried to shove through frozen veins. She stared at the room as if she’d never seen it before, though just hours ago this kitchen had seemed a haven, this town house a refuge.

  For three years she had lived a compulsively normal life here, tacking up bouquets of cinnamon so her kitchen would smell like the pies her mother had never baked, subscribing to TV Guide though she hated television, going to work every
day though she’d inherited more money than any human could ever spend. She clipped coupons, filled her hall closet with spare light bulbs and Band-Aids, and planted geraniums on the front stoop, as if these things were talismans, charms with which she could exorcise her past.

  Now she saw how naive those measures had been. Even such an ordinary existence couldn’t camouflage her. Somehow the ghosts or the memories or the madness—or whatever it was that haunted her sleep at Winterwalk—had found her here just the same. Nothing could keep them away—not doors or distance, not charms or cookies, neither locks nor life-style. There was, finally, nowhere to hide.

  And then, as the frozen tears began to melt and run down her cheeks as if being wept all over again, she knew what she had to do. Though she hated Winterwalk, though it represented every nightmare she feared and every dream she’d lost, she knew she had to go back.

  * * *

  TILTING HIS CHAIR and tapping his Montblanc against his temple absently, Drew Townsend stared, half hypnotized, at the snowflakes that drifted past his office window. When he had rented Winterwalk a year ago, he’d deliberately chosen the second-story tower rooms for his office and bedroom, so that his windows had the best view of any of the twenty-five rooms, overlooking terraced gardens and sparkling fountains that spread out around the huge circular front drive.

  At the time, he hadn’t realized how distracting the view could be. From the other side of his desk, his secretary’s intensely feminine voice, as feather light and languorous as the snowflakes, was detailing his commitments for the day, but he could hardly force himself to listen.

  He sighed as Ginger drawled on. How many years, he wondered vaguely, did it take a woman to perfect the art of saying “variable rate liability” as if it were the most exotic sex toy on the market?

  The tapping of his pen quickened, beating an impatient tattoo. It’s only business meetings and financial news, he found himself thinking irritably. Just get on with it. But immediately he was ashamed. It wasn’t Ginger’s fault he was perversely annoyed by her manner today. Ginger was just being Ginger, which, nine days out of ten, was exactly what Drew wanted her to be.

  She wasn’t the first resolutely flirtatious, unabashedly sexual girlfriend he’d had in the past three years. She was, if anyone was counting, the fourth. He seemed to seek out elegantly trashy women who loved sex and didn’t mind showing it. That made sense, he supposed, after the fiasco with Laura. At least with a Ginger you knew where you stood. You knew that as long as you kept the sex exciting, the wine vintage and the trinkets eighteen karat, Ginger would be there. She wouldn’t bolt in the middle of the night, leaving a note full of lies propped against the mantel like some modern-day Jane Eyre.

  No, he damned well didn’t want to get involved in anything like that again. But, even so, sometimes he found the Gingers of his life strangely unsatisfying. They seemed as insubstantial as the snowflakes. They lulled him, numbed him, but when he reached out to capture their essence, his hand closed around nothingness.

  “Are you even listening to me, mister?”

  Ginger’s voice came from just over his shoulder, and he wondered guiltily how long ago he’d tuned her out. Quite a while, he surmised from the throaty, teasing exasperation in her voice. Get mad, Ginger, he thought suddenly, surprising himself, since obviously he didn’t really want a scene. I've been rude as hell.

  Don’t let me get away with it.

  But of course she didn’t get angry—she never did. Bending over the back of his chair, she put her well-cared-for hands on his shoulders and began to massage with slow, kneading strokes. “What is it?” she purred. “Feeling tense?”

  She was leaning so low he could see her silky blond hair draped across his shirt, and her breath softly blew the scent of gardenias against his temple. Within seconds her movements took on a blatantly seductive quality, her hands feathering down the front of his shirt to pull free one button, slide in and rub across his chest.

  He managed the obligatory contented murmur, but in truth he hardly felt anything she did. His mind was still drifting, like the snowflakes that glided aimlessly past the window and landed on the sculpted hedges. Everything out there was white and utterly still, as if it had been placed under a magic spell that mesmerized him, as well.

  When a red-checkered cab suddenly appeared at the edge of Winterwalk’s long drive, it was as conspicuous in this pristine landscape as a bloodstain. But even that didn’t pique his interest much. Letting Ginger’s hands roam unnoticed, he merely watched the cab’s progress as it rolled slowly toward Winterwalk, leaving two long ribbons in its wake. He couldn’t even rouse himself enough to wonder who it was.

  As if confused by his continued passivity, Ginger grew bolder. She stroked the length of his arms suggestively, and taking his right hand in hers, she brought it up and cupped it over her breast.

  Automatically Drew’s hand tightened, and Ginger leaned into his palm, filling it with warm, silk-covered flesh. “Umm,” she murmured as he rolled his fingers slowly. “Oh, Drew.”

  But even as he dutifully performed the expected maneuvers, Drew was suddenly aware of nothing but the cab, which had finally come to a stop in front of Winterwalk. Its passenger was getting out, and Drew stared, his heart racing strangely, some sixth sense prickling. The languid spell was broken, and he felt, for the first time today, fully awake, almost hyperaware as he watched the passenger emerge tentatively and search in her purse for the fare.

  She wore a heavy blue woolen coat, which rendered her figure nearly anonymous. Above that, a blue scarf and a black hat cloaked her face, as if she didn’t want to be recognized. But something twisted in Drew’s gut as, dropping her small suitcase on the ground next to her, the young woman turned toward the house. Slowly she lifted her pale face, scanning the house from terrace to tower, from the conservatory at the south end to the ballroom at the north, as if ticking every detail off against some internal checklist.

  Could it be? As Drew gazed down on that pale, unsmiling oval, which was still too far away for features to be clearly distinguished, his hand dropped from Ginger’s breast. Ignoring her mew of disappointment, he rose stiffly from his chair, his pen tumbling unnoticed to the carpet.

  Oh, God. He could have sworn the woman was looking up at the very window where he stood, though he knew the sun, which at high noon glinted blindingly off the casements, hid him from her view. Even so, he could have sworn her soft gray-blue eyes—he knew they were the softest, saddest eyes in New York State, though he couldn’t see them from here at all—were staring straight into his. Suddenly his chest tightened, and his knees began to tingle, as if he needed to move, to run...

  But somehow, with an enormous effort, he forced himself to stand still while his brain tried to process the information this electrifying bolt of adrenaline was sending him.

  Laura Nolan had come home.

  * * *

  LAURA MUST HAVE stood on the veined marble terrace for a full five minutes, just looking up at Winterwalk, trying to gather the courage to approach the front door. She stood so long the cold began to seep through the seams of her boots and gloves, but still she couldn’t move, hypnotized by the house, which was somehow both achingly familiar and startlingly new.

  She had always, even as a child, been ambivalent about her amazing home. Officially Winterwalk’s architecture was “eclectic,” a labyrinthine blend of Venetian and Turkish elements that defied categorization. To Laura, though, it had seemed half storybook castle and half pure, screaming nightmare.

  Intricate cornices dripped from a complicated stagger of terra-cotta roofs; balconies with elaborate balustrades hung from arched windows and doors; gargoyles lunged from every peak and corner, frozen forever in their postures of agony or aggression.

  Now, after her three-year absence, Winterwalk seemed more nightmarish than ever. Had the roofline always been so heavily crested, baring jagged teeth against the innocent blue sky? And she hadn’t remembered that the tall, thin tower was quite
so strange, the outdoor staircase winding around it like a snake prepared to squeeze its prey.

  She shivered, averting her eyes. She hated Winterwalk. Hated it. She wished suddenly, intensely, that it would disappear, that it would miraculously be struck by lightning and burn to the ground. It was a horrible house. Why on earth had anyone built it? And why, why, why, after all that had happened between them, did Drew Townsend want to live here?

  He had always adored Winterwalk, she remembered, though she had never been able to fathom why. He had been born at Springfields, the neoclassical estate next door, which to the envious Laura had seemed the embodiment of grace and purity. When she had questioned him, he had explained that he found Winterwalk “whimsical” and “stimulating,” words that seemed utterly foreign to her.

  But nothing frightened Drew, not even Winterwalk. He had made fun of the fiercest gargoyles—the ones that terrified Laura most—giving them absurd names like Fifi and Thumper and Bucko. “No peeking, boys,” he would warn the contorted, malevolent faces, and then, laughing, he would turn to kiss the pinched worry from Laura’s lips.

  Her heart tightened, and with a sense of defeat she bent over to pick up her suitcase. She couldn’t go in. How could she enter a house that was so full of painful memories? She could almost feel Drew’s kisses now, nipping, playful, then harder, more insistent...

  Suddenly the heavy walnut door in front of her swung wide on its hinges. Laura froze in the act of turning away, her suitcase half hoisted, her awkward pose as guilty and ridiculous as if she had been caught stealing the silver tea service.

  For a moment she could see nothing in the yawning shadow of the open doorway. And then Drew Townsend walked out onto the terrace.

  “Hello, Laura.” His deep voice was neither warm nor cold, containing neither welcome nor rebuff, and she couldn’t detect, in that careful neutrality, even a hint of surprise. How was that possible? He should be shocked. Three years ago, she had left him a note that had sworn she’d never, never come back.