The Second Mrs. Adams

“Well, I know, but what about therapy?”

“What about it?” she said with sudden heat. “I don’t see how learning to paint by numbers or weave baskets is going to help my memory.”

David stopped and clasped her shoulders. He turned her toward him.

“You don’t really weave baskets, do you?”

She sighed. “No, not really.”

“Good.” A grin twitched across his mouth. “For a minute there, I thought Nurse Diesel might be breathing down our necks.”

Joanna’s mouth curved. “Don’t even mention that movie when you’re here,” she said in an exaggerated whisper. “They’ve got no sense of humor when it comes to things like that.”

He laughed. “You said something?”

“Sure. The first day, an aide came to call for me. She said she was taking me to physical therapy and we got into this old, creaky elevator and headed for the basement. ‘So,’ I said, when the doors finally wheezed open, ‘is this where you guys keep the chains and cattle prods?’” Joanna’s eyes lit with laughter. “I thought she was going to go bonkers. I got a five minute lecture on the strides that have been made in mental health, blah, blah, blah…”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“My pleasure.”

They smiled at each other and then David cleared his throat, took Joanna’s elbow politely, and they began walking again.

“What kind of therapy are you getting?”

“Oh, this and that. You can paint or sculpt in clay, and there’s an hour of exercise in the pool and then a workout in the gym under the eye of a physical therapist—”

“Yeah, but there’s nothing wrong with you physically.”

“It’s just the way things are done here. There’s a routine and you follow it. Up at six, breakfast at six-thirty. An hour of painting or working with clay and then an hour in the pool before your morning appointment with your shrink.”

“You see a psychiatrist, too?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She made a face. “So far, to talk about how I’m going to adapt to my loss of memory. It didn’t go over so well when I said I didn’t want to adapt, that I wanted to get my memory back.” She laughed. “Now I think the doctor’s trying to figure why I’m always so hostile.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, I said so, too, but she said—”

“I’ll speak to the Director, Joanna. Someone must have forgotten to read your chart. You’re not here for psychiatric counseling or for physical therapy, you’re here to regain your memory.”

“Don’t waste your breath.” Joanna stepped off the path. David watched her as she kicked off her shoes and sank down on the grass. “Mmm,” she said, leaning back on her hands, tilting her face up and closing her eyes, “doesn’t the sun feel wonderful?”

“Wonderful,” he said, while he tried to figure out if he’d ever before seen her do anything so out of character. Did she know she was probably going to get grass stains on her yellow silk skirt? He kicked off his sneakers and sat down beside her. “What do you mean, don’t waste my breath?”

“I already spoke to the Director. And he said since nobody knew much about amnesia and since I was here, the best thing I could do would be to put myself in their hands. I suppose it makes sense.”

David nodded. “I suppose.”

Joanna opened her eyes and smiled at him. “But I swear, if Nurse Diesel comes tripping into the room, I’ll brain her with a raffia basket.”

* * *

It stayed with him as he made the drive home.

Nurse Diesel.

It was a joke. He knew that. Bright Meadows was state of the art. It was about as far from a snake pit as you could get. The staff was terrific, the food was good—Joanna had joked that she’d already gained a pound though he couldn’t see where. And what was wrong with spending some quiet time talking to a psychiatrist? And for the pool and all the rest…for a woman who used to spend half her day sweating on the machines at a trendy east side gym, physical therapy was a cinch.

His hands tightened on the wheel of the Jag.

But what did any of that have to do with helping her recover from amnesia? And that was the bottom line because until Joanna got her memory back, his life was stuck on hold.

Wouldn’t my memory come back faster in familiar surroundings?

Maybe. On the other hand, maybe not. The last thing he wanted was to move his wife back into his life again, even if it was only on a temporary basis.

Besides, what he’d said about the house in Manhattan was true. It was nothing like Bright Meadows, with its big lawn, its sun-dappled pond, its bright rooms…

The house in Connecticut had all that, the lawns, the pond, the big, bright rooms. It had peace and quiet, birds singing in the gardens, it had everything including things that might stimulate Joanna’s memory. They’d spent the first months of their marriage there and the days had been filled with joy and laughter…

Forget that. It was a stupid thought. He couldn’t commute to the office from there, it was too far, even if he’d wanted to give it a try, which he didn’t. He hated that damned house.

Joanna was better off where she was.

David stepped down harder on the gas.

She was much better off, and if that last glimpse he’d had of her as he left stayed with him for a couple of hours, so what? It had just been a trick of the light that seemed to have put the glint of tears in her eyes as she’d waved goodbye.

Even if it wasn’t the light, what did he care?

He drove faster.

What in bloody hell did he care?

He drove faster still, until the old Jag was damned near flying, and then he muttered a couple of words he hadn’t used since his days in the Corps, swerved the car onto the grass, swung it into a hard U-turn and headed back to Bright Meadows to tell his wife to pack her things, dump them into the back of the car and climb into the seat next to him so he could take her home.

Home to New York, because there wasn’t a way in the world he would ever again take the almost ex-Mrs. Adams to Connecticut.

Not in this lifetime.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT STARTED raining, not long after David drove away from Bright Meadows for the second time.

He turned on the windshield wipers and Joanna listened to them whisper into the silence. The sound of the rain on the canvas roof and the tires hissing on the wet roadway was almost enough to lull her into a false sense of security.

Home. David was taking her home.

It was the last thing she’d ever expected, considering his reaction each time she’d suggested it, but now it was happening.

She was going home.

It was hard to believe that she’d stood on the lawn at Bright Meadows only a couple of hours ago, staring after David’s car as it sped out the gate, telling herself that it was stupid to cry and stupider still to think that it wasn’t her recovery he’d been thinking about when he’d insisted she was better off at the rehab center as much as it was the desire to keep her out of his life.

Why would her husband want to do that?

Before she’d even thought of an answer, she’d seen his car coming back up the drive. He’d pulled over, told her in brusque tones that he’d reconsidered what she’d said and that he’d decided she was right, she might get her memory back a lot faster if she were in familiar surroundings.

Joanna had felt almost giddy with excitement, even though he’d made it sound as if the change in plans was little more than an updated medical prescription.

“You go and pack,” he’d said briskly, “while I do whatever needs doing to check you out of this place.”

Before she knew it, she was sitting beside him on the worn leather seat of the aged sports car as it flew along the highway toward home.

Whatever that might be like.

A shudder went through her. David looked at her. Actually, he wasn’t so much looking at her

as he was glowering. Her stomach clenched. Was he already regretting his decision?

“Are you cold, Joanna?”

“No,” she said quickly, “not a bit.” She tried hard to sound bright and perky. “I’m just excited.”

“Well, don’t get too excited. Corbett wouldn’t approve if your blood pressure shot up.”

He smiled, to make it clear he was only joking. Joanna smiled back but then she locked her hands together in her lap.

“You don’t have to worry,” she said quietly. “I’m not going to be a burden to you.”

“I never suggested you would be.”

“Well, no, but I want to be sure we have this straight. I’m not sick, David.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m not an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

He sighed and shifted his long legs beneath the dash.

“Did I ever say you weren’t?”

“I just want to be sure you understand that you’re not going to have to play nursemaid.”

“I’m not concerned about it,” he said patiently. “Besides, there’ll be plenty of people to look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.” She heard the faint edge in her words and she took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. “You won’t have to hire a nurse or a companion or whatever.”