Their Christmas Miracle. Barbara Wallace
“Will you relax? Maddie’s in good hands. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“If I’m going to miss stories, the least I can do is call and wish her good-night. And, no, I’m not being obsessive.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
“No, but I could hear you thinking it.” It was probably the stone walls blocking what little signal existed. “I also wanted to see if Mohammed got back with those revised production figures. If we’re going to use your soap factory, we need to know exactly what kind of numbers they can anticipate.”
That was the final piece of his crankiness. Literally everything was riding on this new organic line. If it failed, Collier’s as Britain knew it would cease to exist.
Thinking if he stared at his phone enough he might force a signal, Thomas pushed to his feet. There had to be some way he could get better reception. “I’m going to see if the signal is stronger by the window. If the waitress comes, order me a—”
“Can I get you lads something to drink?”
Thomas’s breath caught. It happened every so often. He’d catch the hint of an inflection or the turn of a head, and his mind would trip up. This time, it was the waitress’s sharp northern twang that sounded uncannily familiar. He looked up, expecting reality to slap him back to his senses the way it had with his cottage memories. Instead...
He dropped the phone.
What the...?
His eyes darted to Linus. His brother’s pale expression mirrored how Thomas felt. Mouth agape, eyes wide. If Thomas had gone mad, then his brother had plunged down the rabbit hole with him. And mad he had to be, he thought, looking back at the waitress.
How else to explain why he was staring at the face of his dead wife?
“ROSIE?” THE WORD came out as a hoarse whisper; he could barely speak. Six months. Praying and searching. Mourning.
It couldn’t be her.
Who else would have those brown eyes? Dark and rich, like liquid gemstones. Bee-stung lips. And the scar on the bridge of her nose. The one she always hated and that he loved because it connected the smattering of freckles.
How...? When? A million questions swirled in his head, none of which mattered. Not when a miracle was standing in front of him.
“Rosie.” Wrapping her in his arms, he buried his face in the crook of her neck. She smelled of lemons and sunshine. “Rosie, Rosie, Rosie.” He murmured her name against her skin.
Hands slid up his torso to grip his lapels. He moved to pull her closer, only to have her fists push him away.
He found himself staring into eyes blazing with outrage, confusion and panic. The last one squeezed at his heart.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
Was this some kind of joke? Now he was confused. Why would she pretend? “They told us you were dead. That—that you were swept out to sea.” He reached for her again, only to have her take another step back.
“I’m sorry. I don’t...” She shook her head, her eyes growing moist with tears. “I don’t know...” Pressing a fist to her mouth, she turned and bolted from the room.
“Rosalind!” Thomas started after her, only to have Linus grab his arm. What the hell was his brother doing? He tried to yank his arm free, but Linus had a grip of iron. His brother’s fingers were dug in so tightly they were going to leave bruises. “Let me go!” he snarled. “It’s Rosalind.” If he lost her again...
But Linus held fast, damn him. “Calm down, Thomas. She only looks like Rosalind.”
“No.” Linus was wrong. It was Rosalind. He knew his wife. Why did she run? Did she hate him that much? “I have to talk with her.”
Before he could try and pull free, McKringle barreled his way over. “What’s going on here?” he asked, all his earlier friendliness stripped away. “I don’t know what you lads do wherever you’re from, but here we don’t manhandle waitresses and make them cry.”
Thomas spun around on him. “And what about hiding someone’s wife from him? Are they okay with that here?”
He waited as McKringle’s bushy brows pulled together. “Did you say ‘your wife’?”
“Rosalind Collier.” Where was his phone? Looking around, he found it on the floor by his chair where he snatched it up and quickly began scrolling through its photo collection. “Here,” he said, finding the photo they’d used for the missing person poster. He held the phone so McKringle could see. His hand was shaking. “She went missing this summer when her car went off a bridge near Fort William.”
Wordlessly, McKringle slipped the phone from his hand and held it closer. Thomas could feel his body tensing with each second of silence. Surely, the man knew what he was talking about. Her disappearance had been all over the news, for crying out loud. They weren’t so isolated out here that he couldn’t have seen at least one headline.
“She had a car accident?” the man finally said.
“Yes. Her car plunged into the river.” Thomas didn’t have time for this. His wife was in the other room. He needed to see her. Find out what happened. How she’d ended up out here and why she was pretending he was some kind of stranger. “Please,” he said. Desperation cracked his voice. “They told us she was dead. I have to talk to her. Need to know what happened. She... We have a daughter who needs her.” His control was starting to slip. Six months of pain rose back to the surface in a groan.
“It’s all right, lad. I think you need to sit down.”
McKringle tried to lead him back to the table, but again Thomas broke from the contact. “Dammit, why is everyone trying to keep me from seeing my wife?”
“We don’t know if it is Rosalind,” Linus said. “I think we should hear him out.”
“I promise you she’s not going anywhere,” McKringle said. “But there’re a few things I think you ought to know. Please, Mr Collier. Take a seat. I’ll get you a drink.”
Thomas didn’t want a drink. He wanted his wife, but he allowed himself to be led back to his chair. Something in McKringle’s eyes said he needed to do as the man said.
“Let me ask you a question,” the old man said once they’d all settled in their seats. “Have you ever heard of the term dissociative fugue?”
She couldn’t stop shaking. Hunched over the bathroom sink, her fingers clutching the vanity edge for support, she could feel her legs trembling beneath her.
Rosie. He’d called her Rosie.
She’d always thought that when she met someone from her past, she would know. Instinct would kick loose whatever it was wrapping her brain in blackness and the memories would be set free. But when this man—this stranger—called her Rosie, she’d felt nothing.
Well, not completely nothing. Her heart had practically beat itself out of her chest when he hugged her. But he could have called her Jane or Susan or Philetta for all the name meant.
Maybe he had her confused with someone else. That must be the answer. What woman could forget a man that devastatingly handsome? Those eyes, blue-gray like the northern sea. If she closed her eyes, she saw them clear as day. Surely, such an indelible couldn’t be wiped from her mind.
She looked in the mirror and studied the heart-shaped face that was familiar yet foreign. Dissociative fugue, the doctor at the hospital called it. A type of amnesia brought on by trauma. All she knew was...nothing. Her mind was a void of memories older than a few months.