If She Only Knew

  She picked up a pen. Wrote her name on a note pad. Compared the handwriting. It was different, a stronger, harsher script than Marla’s . . . or was she going crazy? She wrote her name again. Alex’s name. Then Nick’s.

  Maybe it was the accident that had caused the difference. But an eerie sensation crept under her skin and she dropped the pen.

  She fought the feeling that something was wrong.

  She was jumping at shadows, for no good reason.

  So what about the trip to Santa Cruz? Why wasn’t it on this marked-up calendar?

  Maybe you were leaving Alex. But the baby? And Cissy . . . perhaps it was a last-minute, spur-of-the-moment trip? No. She wouldn’t have just left the kids. It didn’t fit. Anxious, she turned to the Rolodex. What were the names she knew? Robertson? Phil and his wife, Linda, were listed. Lindquist . . . Joanna Lindquist, yes, she was in the cards as well. Joanna and Ted. Miller . . . Randy and Sonja were listed but Sonja had been crossed out as if she’d died or left. . . . With fingers that were still a bit sluggish, she flipped to the Ds and searched for Pam Delacroix, but there wasn’t a listing for anyone with that last name.

  “How odd,” she thought aloud, tapping an old card at the back and then, starting again. Slowly, card by card, she flipped through, thinking that Pam’s name and number might have been misfiled. Some of the people who had sent her cards and flowers were listed: Bill and Sheryl Bancroft, Mario Dimetrius, Joanna and Ted Lindquist and . . . Kylie Paris . . . Her heart stopped. That name was familiar . . . very familiar . . . as if . . . as if she were a close relative . . . someone near and dear. But the address and phone number meant nothing to her. Think, Marla, think. Why does this woman’s name ring a bell and none of the others do?

  But nothing came. Not one lousy recollection. “Damn it all,” she muttered and turned her attention back to Pam Delacroix. Why wouldn’t she have listed Pam’s name in this master file of friends and business acquaintances?

  Because she never existed. She’s a lie.

  The thought struck her hard. Like a hammer blow to her chest.

  Of course she did exist, the rational side of her mind argued. But she’s dead. You killed her. In her car! The police are investigating her death. So, be rational. Use your head. Figure this out, damn it. Pam had existed, was her friend, so there should be something in this house that would serve as a reminder.

  A computer, monitor glowing, hummed softly on one corner of the desk and she wondered if she had the time to check the computer files. Later, she told herself, when you know you won’t be caught.

  “Don’t get paranoid,” she told herself. “Or you’ll end up in the loony bin.”

  Marla touched the keyboard. The screen saver of tropical fish shifted and icons blinked up at her. With surprising ease she found the word processing program, nearly jumping out of her skin when she saw Marla’s files. So she had used this machine! Good. That thought should have been reassuring and she tried to open the file only to discover she needed a password. Her heart sank. She glanced around the drawers, searching for a hint of the password and found none. She tried to retrieve her e-mail. Same problem. Attempting every combination she could think of—her name, her children’s names, anything, she finally gave up. Her fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the arm of the chair and she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  She jumped, for no reason she understood, knocking over a mug holding pens and pencils. It rolled onto the floor, spilling its contents. “Great.” As quickly as possible, she scooped up the pens and pencils and crammed them back into the mug with its Harvard logo.

  She heard the door to the suite open, the footsteps fading away. “Mrs. Cahill?” a woman’s voice—one she didn’t recognize—called, muffled.

  “In here,” she replied, determined to stay put. “In the office.” She reached up from the desk, opened the door to the hallway and spied the open door to Cissy’s room on the other side of the staircase. Her heart was drumming, her hands clammy, but she forced herself to stay calm. This was her house, damn it, her husband’s room. She had every right to be here. So why did she feel as if she were trespassing?

  A few seconds later a slim woman with flashing brown eyes and dark skin stuck her head through the doorway. “Hi.”

  “You . . . you must be Carmen.”

  “Yes.”

  Marla felt the urge to apologize. “I’m sorry I—”

  “I know. Amnesia. Don’t worry.” Carmen stepped into the office and if Marla’s change in appearance affected her, she managed to hide it. Dressed in a slim navy skirt and white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, Carmen said, “Mrs. Eugenia sent me to check on you and ask you about dinner. When I didn’t find you in your room, I was worried.”

  “I’m fine . . . well, considering. Right now it’s all relative, I suppose.” Marla glanced at the computer screen again. “I don’t suppose you know my password for this?”

  “Sorry.” Carmen shook her head. “I don’t remember that you used it that much.”

  “How about where my purse might be—the one that was with me the night of the accident?”

  Deep lines grooved the woman’s high forehead and she pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I haven’t seen it . . . or anything else from that night for that matter.”

  Marla’s heart sank. She pushed the chair back. “How about my personal things, pictures of me as a little girl, or when Cissy was a baby?”

  “Sure.” Carmen brightened. “That I can do.”

  Marla’s head snapped up. “Really?” This was something. Not much, but something tangible to link her to her past.

  “Sure. All the photo albums are in the library.”

  “Maybe I should look through them and I know this sounds a little weird, but would you mind showing me around?”

  “No problem at all. Now, about dinner?”

  “Is it dinner time already?” She glanced at the skylight high over the staircase and noted that the sky was darkening.

  “No, not until eight. But Mrs. Eugenia likes things organized.”

  “That, I believe,” Marla said imagining her unbending, socially conscious mother-in-law. She doubted if Eugenia ever bent a rule, much less broke one, and she couldn’t imagine the little woman ever adjusting a schedule.

  As they walked across the hall, Marla said, “I checked. James isn’t in the nursery.”

  “He’s downstairs. With Fiona and Mrs. Eugenia.”

  Good. One less concern for the moment.

  As deftly as a museum director, Carmen showed her the rooms on the third floor—Cissy’s bedroom, painted in yellow and, it seemed, forever a mess with books, computer discs, CDs and magazines strewn all over the floor. Her vanity was covered with jars and tubes of makeup, her walls plastered with posters of teen idols . . . some of the faces looked familiar, but none of the names came to mind.

  Another room on the floor was the guest room and Marla looked for any trace of Nick. There was none, of course. The room was as precisely decorated as her own. Too perfect with its matching oil paintings, color-coordinated drapes and carpet and casual, understated elegance. Fake. Phony. Why she felt this way, Marla didn’t understand but she felt that her life and this house were a sham.

  “What about Fiona—where does she sleep?” she asked as they walked along a corridor banked by soft lights.

  “The live-ins are upstairs on the top floor,” Carmen explained. “The cook, maid and probably the nurse when he arrives.”

  “Nurse?” she repeated.

  “Mr. Cahill hired a round-the-clock nurse.”

  “For me?”

  Carmen winced and rolled her dark, expressive eyes. “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  “No, it’s fine. I would have found out sooner or later.” They walked to the elevator. “You said ‘he.’ ”

  Carmen held up a hand and stepped inside the elevator. “I thought Mr. Cahill said the nurse was a man. Tom something or other, I think, but don’t quote me.”

  “I w
on’t,” Marla promised, and as the car ground down to the second floor, she felt, for the first time, that she’d actually bonded with someone in this towering, beautiful, cold house that was her home.

  They walked along a wide corridor that Marla assumed was the heart of the house. It was dark except for a few lamps that burned on tables. Soft music flowed from hidden speakers, and paintings that she suspected were originals decorated the walls. Floral print runners covered the hardwood floor and branched into several rooms.

  She followed Carmen into what appeared to be the living room with intimate clusters of chairs and couches, potted philodendron and ferns nestled between small tables and a massive stone and brick fireplace that rose to a tooled copper ceiling that reflected the lamplight with a warm, mellow glow.

  Through sliding doors, Carmen showed her a music room. Antique instruments adorned the walls and a concert grand piano gleamed in a corner surrounded by windows overlooking the city.

  Another door led to the library, complete with glass-enclosed shelves that climbed to the ceiling. A wooden ladder attached to the bookcase rolled on casters from one end of the collection to the other. A globe was nestled in a corner near the fronds of a potted fern, and an aquarium, complete with neon-colored tropical fish, gurgled near the bay window. Marla doubted she’d ever withdrawn one of the leather-bound volumes, never stood at these windows, never curled up on one of the soft-looking pillows on the love seats . . . but then how would she know?

  “Here are the photo albums,” Carmen said, pointing to a shelf in a corner. Marla picked up the first volume, opened it and stared at her wedding day fifteen years ago. She and Alex, younger looking, he in a black tuxedo, she dressed in a white lace dress with a train that went on for miles. Other pictures of the church, the wedding party, the cake and reception.

  An entire family assembled, with the exception of Nick. He wasn’t in a single shot. But then he’d claimed to be the “outlaw” and she suspected that translated into black sheep as well. Rogue. Outcast. A man who kept his own set of rules which, she imagined, were often at odds with those of his brother and mother. No wonder she found him fascinating at a very basic and dangerous level.

  Cloistering those particular thoughts, she studied one of the family assembled at the wedding reception. Eugenia, dressed in indigo, her chin thrust forward in pride, stood near a tall, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man who seemed bored by the festivities. Samuel Cahill, Marla knew instinctively. Along with Alex and Marla, there was another older couple as well. No doubt her parents. Marla’s throat closed as she stared at the couple. The woman was reed-slender, with a pointed chin and haughty expression. Short dark hair, piercing eyes and a beaded dress of pale pink showed off her slim figure. The man at her side was tall and rangy, a John Wayne type who looked out of place in his expensive suit. His smile, if you could call it that, was forced, as if he were always impatient.

  Hardly the warm family she was looking for, Marla thought with more than a shred of disappointment. Worse yet, she didn’t recognize her own parents. The woman especially. There was nothing about her that touched her memory, and the man . . . no . . . she felt a flicker of something stir deep inside her, but she wasn’t certain and she didn’t like the feeling. It wasn’t warm or familiar, no . . . it was more like hatred . . . a deep-seated loathing.

  “No,” she whispered, feeling sick inside.

  “Mrs. Cahill?” Carmen’s voice jarred her out of her reverie. “Is something wrong?” she asked, and Marla, embarrassed, snapped herself back to the present. The look on her face must have mirrored her thoughts because Carmen’s smile fell away. “I . . . I’m sorry. This is probably too much for you. I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, no, I’m fine . . . just a little disoriented and please, enough with the Mrs. Cahill, call me Marla.”

  “If you say so,” Carmen said as Marla snapped the wedding album shut and replaced it.

  “I say so, and just remember, I need to know. Everything.”

  “Of course.”

  At the far end of the library there was a sizable nook surrounding a wet bar and the scents of brandy and cigar smoke lingered in the air. They crossed the hall to another door. It had been left ajar and with one glance inside, Marla guessed the room belonged to Eugenia. Her mother-in-law’s perfume lingered in the air. A carved wood bed dominated one wall near a private bath. French doors with sheer curtains opened to a private balcony. In the far corner an antique secretary and love seat crowded around a small fireplace decorated with hand-painted tiles.

  “They’re waiting for you in here,” Carmen explained, touching Marla on an elbow and shepherding her into a long room with a television, two couches and a recliner. The baby was propped on Eugenia’s lap, his wide eyes focused on everything and nothing. Marla smiled at the sight of his fuzzy head.

  “Good Lord, what did you do to your hair?” Eugenia asked, eyes wide and mouth open like a dying, gasping fish.

  “Gave it a trim.”

  “I’ll say . . . well . . . don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I’ll call my hairdresser. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind stopping by and”—she fluttered her fingers anxiously in the air near her own head—“well, evening it up a bit.” Then, recovering slightly, she leaned down and stage-whispered to James. “Look who finally woke up.”

  “What time is it?” Marla crossed the room, took a seat next to her mother-in-law and reached for the baby.

  “After four, dear. You practically slept around the clock. How’re you feeling?”

  “Groggy,” she admitted as she chucked her son under his little chin and wrinkled her nose at him. The scents of baby powder and oil tingled in her nose. “How’s Mama’s big boy, hmm?” she asked, her voice automatically rising an octave as she spoke to the little cherub.

  “Cranky, is what he’s been,” Fiona supplied, as she walked into the room. “And he needs feedin’ and changin’.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “But—” Fiona began to protest.

  “Trust me, I need the practice.”

  “He wasn’t cranky or irritable. His tummy was upset,” Eugenia corrected.

  Carmen, still hovering near the door, said, “Mrs. Cahill says she’ll take dinner with the family.”

  “Really?” One gray eyebrow shot up over the rim of Eugenia’s glasses. “Are you certain you’re up to it? Dr. Robertson wanted you to get as much rest as possible.”

  “I’ll be fine . . . as long as whatever’s served is blended.”

  “Steak Diane, I believe, is on the menu, but we’ll make an exception for you.” She chuckled to herself.

  Marla’s stomach growled at the thought of real food, and she wondered as she changed the baby on a nearby table, then wrested James’s bottle from a reluctant Fiona. She had the nagging feeling that something was wrong in the family.

  Eugenia, seated on the couch, her high heels propped nearby, a tapestried bag of knitting needles and yarn at her feet, looked every bit the doting grandmother. Baby toys were scattered over a blanket spread upon the floor and Fiona, though seemingly not the sweetest person in the world, seemed completely relaxed and competent. Everyone had treated her well, yet she harbored some suspicions about them all.

  She felt that everyone was hiding something from her; something vital.

  She forced that ugly thought aside while feeding the baby, her heart opening to the little imp who seemed to be accepting her . . . if just a little. Coco, the scruff of a dog, lying on a pillow near Eugenia’s knitting bag, was another matter and regarded Marla as if she were Mata Hari. Dark eyes followed her every move and despite repeated warnings from Eugenia, the dog growled deep in its throat.

  “Where’s Cissy?” Marla asked, ignoring the animal.

  “She went shopping with friends after school, and, of course”—she glanced at the slim gold watch strapped on her wrist—“Alexander isn’t home from the office yet.”

  What about Nic
k? Marla wondered, but didn’t ask, and winced as she rubbed her jaw.

  “You’re getting those wires out in a couple of days,” Eugenia said, her eyes fastened on her knitting.

  “It can’t be soon enough.”

  “I imagine. You have an appointment to see the doctor who did the surgery and the plastic surgeon later in the week. If he takes them off, you can have your teeth checked, but it looks as if there isn’t work to be done.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  “You’ll be just like new,” Eugenia predicted.

  Marla hardly felt new. More like rebuilt, similar to a wrecked car that had nearly been totaled, but somehow salvaged. She held her tongue and tried to shake off any lingering feelings that she was being manipulated. By whom? And why? She had no answers and to take her mind off the wearing questions, she played with her son.

  The baby started to cry and Fiona was up like a shot, removed him from Marla’s arms, and announced she’d put him down for a nap. She was out of the room before Marla could protest.

  The phone jangled and within seconds Carmen, carrying a portable receiver, bustled into the room. “It’s for you,” she said to Marla. “Mrs. Lindquist.”

  “You don’t have to take the call—” Eugenia said, but Marla snatched the receiver from Carmen’s outstretched hand.

  “Hello?” she said around the stupid wires holding her teeth together.

  “Marla! You are home!” an enthusiastic female voice nearly yelled over the background noise of voices. “You must’ve been going out of your mind in the hospital. How are you?”

  “Still kicking.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I’m all right,” she qualified.

  “Sorry, I’m at the club and it’s kind of noisy here and your voice sounds funny. The wires, right? Anyway, I just thought I’d take a chance at catching you at home. When can I come see you?”