Lost Identity. Leona Karr
sure how to handle this unexpected houseguest. Should he suggest that she take a warm shower and put on some clothing of his? In her distraught condition, she might take offense. Obviously she had been traumatized by what had happened to her. How did she get on his beach? He’d been watching the storm develop all day, and hadn’t seen any boats on this stretch of ocean. Weird, he thought.
He gave her a few moments to sip the drink, and then he said, “I’m Andrew Davis.” When she didn’t make the usual response, he waited for a long moment and then asked gently, “And your name is—?”
She lowered the cup, stared at it, and then said in a choked voice, “Trish.” Even as she said it, there was no real familiarity with the name or any firm recognition that it belonged to her. Her stomach curled with tension. Trish? Where did that name come from?
“Should I call someone, Trish, and let them know that you’re safe?”
Call who? A subtle warning lay somewhere in the devastating disorientation that she was experiencing. She lifted her head. “No, there’s no one,” she said as evenly as she could. Why am I so frightened that someone will come for me?
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press her. She was obviously in a state of shock. Whatever had brought her to a deserted beach at the height of a lashing storm must have been catastrophic. Every time there was a clap of vibrating thunder, sparked by forks of summer lightning, she cringed as if she feared the fierce winds would whip the small cottage into the greedy ocean.
“This little house is storm-proof,” he reassured her. “It’s firmly anchored and has weathered gales a lot worse than this one.” She nodded, but her sea-blue eyes remained glazed and rounded.
“Can I stay here…until…until the storm’s over?” she asked, silently adding with a sense of helplessness, until I remember where to go?
“The welcome mat is always out for unexpected visitors,” he lied. In truth, Andrew valued his privacy above everything else, and only an emergency like this one would compel him to share his roof with a stranger. “I’m curious how you found your way to my beach…well, not exactly mine,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “But I claim it.”
She didn’t respond, but the warmth of the fire and the stimulation of the hot drink began to ease her bone-deep chill. There was something reassuring about her rescuer’s gentleness, his clean-cut looks, wavy blond hair bleached by the sun and his nicely tanned face. I feel safe here, she thought with a spurt of surprise. She stammered, “Maybe…maybe, I got lost.”
“Lost?” Andrew waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. What did she mean—maybe she got lost? Did she or didn’t she? “You’re not from around here, then?” he prodded.
Her hands tightened on her cup and she stared at it without answering.
Andrew decided to back off from any more questioning for the moment. He could tell that she was fighting for self-control, and whatever had happened to her had left her in a state of shock. No telling how long she would have to stay before the weather cleared and he could drive her somewhere. He decided that he’d have to take charge whether he wanted to or not.
“Would you like to take a hot shower, Trish, and get into some dry clothes? One of my long sweatshirts and bathrobes will keep you warm while we put your things through the washer and dryer.”
She hesitated for a long moment and he could see uncertainty stamped on her face. Then she raised her head and nodded.
Like a child who is grateful for some adult direction, she followed him into the small bedroom. Quickly, he laid out the clothes he’d mentioned, and then directed her to a small bathroom that adjoined his bedroom and the other small room, which he’d taken for his office.
“Here are some towels. Shampoo and soap are on the shelf. Make use of whatever is there, and if you need anything else, just holler.”
After he had closed the door, she just stood there for a long moment, staring at herself in a mirror. Then she whispered, “Trish…Trish.” Was that really the name of the strange woman with wide frightened blue eyes staring back at her? What happened to me that I’m even afraid to remember who I am? She shivered, and fought a weakness that went bone-deep.
She dropped her clothes, and searched her body for some familiar signs of recognition. There was an appendix scar, so she must have had it taken out at some time. Her toenails were polished in the same rosy hue as her fingernails. A bruise was forming on her right forearm and there was a tender spot on the back of her head. Had she fallen? Or had someone hit her? Had she suffered a blow to her head that had caused a momentary loss of memory? Momentary. She clung to that word as if it were a life preserver. Yes, she reassured herself, at any second, everything could come rushing back. Then she would know who she was, and why fear was coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach.
AS ANDREW WAITED for her to join him again, this sudden intrusion into his contented and solitary life was creating some deep mixed feelings. Of course, he was glad that he’d been able to go to the woman’s rescue, and would do it again in a minute, but at the same time, he sensed he was being drawn into something that was not to his liking.
As a developer of software for a major computer company, he worked at his beach cottage, and only commuted to the Manhattan office a couple of days a week. His life was ordered in a way that allowed almost complete privacy. He knew that his background as a foster child who had been constantly moved from one family to another had created this need to get away from the demands of other people. A couple of brief romantic relationships had not filled the empty void in his life, but had only resulted in more disappointments and a vow not to open himself up to that kind of pain again. He loved living alone, being accountable to no one, and having control over every aspect of his life. Just the sound of water running in his bathroom was a strange kind of intrusion. He wished that the storm would let up and he could drive the lady back to wherever she belonged.
Her vague answer about being lost was obviously a lie. Was she running away from someone? No sign of a wedding or engagement ring on her finger. He had noticed that her water-resistant watch was an expensive one, and her clothes certainly weren’t bargain-basement. Who in the devil was she? And what was she doing on an isolated beach at the height of a storm?
When she came back into the living room a few minutes later, he was startled by the sudden change in her appearance. Her face was slightly pink from the warm shower, and fringed eyelashes and crescent eyebrows matched her clean, dark brown hair. There was a lift to her head that had not been there before, and he was strangely aware of a feminine loveliness about her that couldn’t be disguised in his old plaid bathrobe, and faded argyle socks.
“I think I used up all your hot water,” she apologized, giving him a weak smile.
“No problem. It heats fast. You look much better.”
“I feel much better. Almost like myself.” Whoever that might be, she thought with a touch of painful irony.
“Good. I was about to put together some fish chowder for supper, would you like to join me in the kitchen and watch?” he asked, hoping she’d be more talkative if he maintained some kind of normalcy in the situation.
“Sounds good,” she said, pleased that she felt an honest reaction to his suggestion. Maybe she could rely on her gut feelings until she had something more tangible to give her insight. She followed him into the compact kitchen and sat down in one of the chairs beside a small round table.
As he reached into the refrigerator for the makings of his chowder, he asked. “Do you like to cook?”
She looked around the kitchen, her thoughtful eyes studied the counter canisters, spice rack and kitchen appliances. With a strange sense of certainty, she said firmly, “No, I don’t. I’m not a good cook.”
Her expression puzzled him. Why did she look so pleased with herself? His suspicion that she was someone with money deepened. No doubt, she had hired help to do all the things that didn’t appeal to her, like cooking.
“What