LITMIR.BIZ

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absently twisted the gold band on her left hand as she tried yet again to conjure up a memory of Carl that preceded waking up in the hospital. Nothing. But the truth was, it felt funny to think of Carl as her husband. He was good-looking enough, with longish blond hair and an aristocratic face, but there was absolutely nothing about him that spoke to her on any level. He was older than she was, forty-one to her twenty-eight, or so their drivers’ licenses revealed. His manner toward her was one of indulgent fondness, she guessed, though it seemed as though he might be a little on the controlling side.

      For instance, on the drive from the hospital she’d begged him to drive her home—wherever that might be; no place sounded familiar to her. He’d told her they were going to continue their long-planned road trip, that the doctors had suggested traveling until she regained her memory. They would go back to Blue Mountain when she remembered who she was. It didn’t matter that she wanted to go now; the doctors knew best.

      Who was she to argue with the doctors? Except this plan seemed backward to her. Wouldn’t her own space and belongings trigger a memory or two? And what about her parents or brothers or sisters?

      All dead, Carl had told her, and then he’d folded her in his arms as though comforting her, but how was she supposed to mourn people she couldn’t even remember?

      Her sweater wasn’t warm enough for the wind and she fought her reluctance to go inside. She needed better clothes if they were going to stay on the coast. A Windbreaker, for instance. She apparently wasn’t much of a packer or maybe her suitcase had been lost in the accident.

      She could remember absolutely nothing about the crash. It was as though her head was the inside of a pumpkin: mushy, stringy. The irony of being able to recall the look and smell and taste of a squash but not have a sense of self seemed absurd, and she thought more kindly of Carl. It couldn’t be very pleasant to be saddled with a wife in such a befuddled state. She should be grateful to him for standing by her.

      But why wouldn’t he help her out a little? Why wouldn’t he show her pictures or tell her stories about her past or explain what she did for a living, what she liked, what she didn’t like?

      The doctors. That’s why. He was following their orders.

      The door opened behind her. Carl stood half in, half out, the wind whipping his hair. Her own short brown locks barely stirred.

      “Time to come inside,” he said, standing aside to allow her to pass him.

      He didn’t try to touch her, and for this she was grateful. As she heard the door slide closed behind her, she paused in front of the TV. An announcer was offering details of a homicide, the cameras scanning a weeded lot as a gurney topped with a body bag was wheeled toward a waiting ambulance.

      The picture disappeared as Carl clicked the remote. “I was watching that,” she said as she turned to face him.

      “It happened a long way from here, Eleanor.”

      “But—”

      “I don’t want you to watch upsetting, unpleasant things.”

      She took a deep breath. Was the man always this calculating or had her new vulnerable state aroused his protective instincts? “How long are we staying here?”

      “Through Thursday,” he said, moving toward her. He put a hand around her arm and, leaning forward, gently kissed her forehead. “You can rest tomorrow. Then the next morning we’ll continue on our trip.”

      “Where exactly are we going?”

      “Wherever we want,” he said with a smile.

      “I want to go home,” she said.

      “We’ve been through this a dozen times today,” he said.

      “Then let’s get the map and choose somewhere else to go. I don’t like the beach.”

      “We’re staying through tomorrow,” he snapped, his eyes flashing even as he resurrected a smile. “Why don’t you let me do the planning? You just rest and get better. Are you hungry?”

      “Not really. I think I’d like to take a bath.”

      “You got chilled staying outside so long, didn’t you? Well, don’t get the bandage on your forehead wet, okay? I’ll order dinner from room service.”

      She resisted nodding, knowing from experience the motion would make her nauseated, then escaped into the bathroom, where she quickly flicked the lock.

      Chapter Two

      Simon knew he was looking for a blue car with chrome hubcaps, two years old. He knew the license plate number and the fact that it had a green rental sticker in the left corner of the rear window.

      Thankfully, Rocky Point wasn’t a big town, but it relied heavily on tourists, and as Simon drove into the city, he saw more motels and hotels than he could count. Before the light disappeared altogether, he wanted to cruise parking lots looking for the blue two-door coupe. If the car was parked underground or in a controlled parking lot, he’d be out of luck.

      Not for the first time, he wondered if he shouldn’t ask for police help. Or maybe he could march up to every front desk in town and demand to know if there was a Carl and Eleanor Baxter registered. But all of that came with official ramifications, and for now he didn’t want anyone else involved. He knew if he started waving his badge around in a town this small, it wouldn’t be long before the local cops came looking for him—no, thanks.

      The beginning letters on the plate he sought were YSL. He pulled into a motel on the beach and drove each row as though looking for a parking place, slowing down at every blue car. Who knew there were so damn many of them?

      An hour passed, then two. He drove through a fast food restaurant and ordered a hamburger and black coffee, then went back to his task, gradually working his way north through town.

      The task seemed impossible and more than once he was on the brink of taking a room, getting some sleep and heading home in the morning. But he kept at it, more out of perverse determination than because he thought his plan held merit.

      A dozen lots later, his eyes burning like red-hot embers, his headlights picked up the letters YSL attached to a blue coupe. He pulled into a spot a few cars away and walked back. The rest of the plate checked out, too; the green sticker was right where it belonged. He used his pocket flashlight to briefly scan the interior. There was nothing in the car he could see except a road map.

      He grabbed his overnight bag from his truck and walked into the hotel. It was eleven o’clock by now and the place was all but deserted. He toyed around with asking the clerk who gave him a room if they had a couple named Baxter registered, but held off—he didn’t want Baxter alerted to his presence until he got a feeling for what was going on.

      A few minutes later, he let himself into his room with the intent of taking a shower and then casing the hotel. He sat on the bed and pulled off his shoes.

      If Ella was the woman in the car, then she was here, in the same building as he. Was her memory completely gone? Before that had happened to her, had she really left clues in the hope he would figure out she needed him, or had he jumped to a bunch of conclusions?

      No. She might have lent her car to someone else, but she certainly hadn’t willingly lent her identity. So who was the man acting as her husband and why had he brought an amnesic woman on a vacation instead of taking her home?

      He took the snow globe out of his overnight bag and turned it in his hands, remembering the day a few months before when he and Ella had bought it at a gift store less than a mile from here.

      Back when they’d been a couple.

      Rubbing his eyes, he fell back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She was here. He could almost feel her presence. When he’d walked out on their argument just days before, he’d intended it to be permanent, but here he was and so was she.

      Which added complicated dimensions to the question burning in the back of

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