Husbands and Other Strangers. Marie Ferrarella

moving. If this man looking at her so intently really was who he said he was, well, he had to prove it to her, to make her remember him. He had all the cards. She had nothing to draw on. No special place to retreat to in order to start all over again, rebuilding memories.

      She had no memories, at least none of him. He had to do something that would change that, not her.

      It suddenly occurred to Gayle that she was lacking the most basic form of information. She tried to remember if one of her brothers had called out to her would-be husband and failed to come up with anything. “I don’t even know your name.”

      “Taylor. Taylor Conway.” He shoved his hands into his back pockets. This felt so stupid, introducing himself to his wife of eighteen months.

      “And I’m Gayle Conway?” She rolled the name over on her tongue, testing it out. Tasting it. Listening to the way it sounded. No sense of the familiar came washing over her, yet she did recognize the name as belonging to her.

      “Privately,” he told her. “Professionally you’re still Gayle Elliott. You work at—”

      “KTOC, yes, I know.” She had a very clear image of her small dressing room. Her section of the desk on the set, beneath glaring lights. She loved the life.

      He felt as if a paring knife had slipped in beneath his third rib. And he had to wait awhile before this stopped bothering him so much. Maybe they’d get lucky and she’d regain her memory by then. “You remember your job.”

      “I like referring to it as a career.”

      There were times when she thought it was somehow unethical, being paid for doing something she loved so much. She would have paid the station to allow her to mingle with professional athletes, follow certain teams when they went on the road to play in other cities, reporting it all back to hungry viewers who weren’t as lucky as she was.

      He felt as if something was about to snap inside of him. What if she never remembered him? Never remembered the past eighteen months?

      Taylor grasped her by the shoulders. “Damn it, Gayle, if you’re putting me on—”

      She watched him unflinchingly, the strength of his fingers registering as they pressed hard against her biceps. “Why would I put you on about that?”

      Belatedly he realized he must be holding her too tightly, that he was channeling his frustration through his fingers.

      Taylor dropped his hands to his sides. “You know what I mean.” Taking a breath, he got himself under control again and muttered, “Sorry.” It was the fear that had made him behave this way. Fear of losing what they’d had.

      “That wasn’t easy for you, was it?” When he gave her a slow, puzzled look, she said to clarify, “You don’t like apologizing.”

      Hope sprang up like toast out of an overly eager toaster. “You remembered that?”

      He’d looked so hopeful that she’d almost lied. But this was about getting down to the truth, not lying. “Sorry, no. Instinct,” she explained. “I’m pretty good at reading people.”

      He should have realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. Still, he couldn’t help being resentful. “So how come you erased me out of your book?”