“A toast, Jason.”
He lifted his glass and sunlight from the windows reflected on the rising bubbles. “On this wedding day, I welcome my guests to share in these ceremonies, to eat, to drink, to celebrate. I toast my bride, an admirable and beautiful woman who is far from her homeland, testing her wings, seeking a new life. I hope my home will be a comfort for her. My wish, for you, Maria, is everlasting peace and satisfaction.”
He held his glass toward her, and she tapped the crystal rim lightly before she took a sip.
The guests applauded.
“Maria?”
It was Alice, again. Didn’t the woman give up? Maria couldn’t imagine that there was yet another ritual.
“Maria, you must tell us what you wish for. Jason will translate.”
“No need.” Maria tilted her glass toward them, saluting them. In English she said, “I hope for memories...” Any memory, any chance of regaining her own past. “For fulfillment, for happiness, for freedom...and for truth.”
“For truth.”
She heard the voice of Chip Harrington as he repeated her words. In his eyes she saw a glimmer of recognition.
Chapter Three
The bedroom on the second floor was familiar. She’d been there last night. She’d slept in the bed. Maria stood in the middle of the room and tried to remember the details of the layout. The closet was to the right, and it was a walk-in closet with the racks cleaned and empty, waiting for clothing she did not own. She went to the closet door and opened it. Bare floors, barren racks with hangers. It smelled of cedar. There was a window that cast slanting light on the wood floors. It was exactly as she had remembered.
Relief flooded her mind. She had remembered! She clenched her fists, smiled in triumph. Though only slightly, her memory had begun to function again.
A full bathroom adjoined this room, and the tile around the sink was blue to match the flowered wallpaper. She hurried across the room and flung open the door. Right again! But she had to remember more. These were only details. Yet details would lead to full thoughts, then scenes, then a lifetime.
Returning to the bedroom, she stroked the quilted cotton of the green-and-white spread on the queen-size four-poster, then glanced toward the doorway where Jason was standing. Would he demand to sleep here tonight? To consummate their marriage?
Jason closed the door. With slow, tortured steps, he made his way to the green-curtained windows and lowered himself into a rocking chair. His injured leg stuck out straight in front of him. “Eddy Elliot was right,” he said. “You have no accent. You speak English fluently.”
“Eddy Elliot?” Had she met him?
“The senator.”
“Oh, yes. The man with the red face.” The man who had warned her. She remembered him very well.
Her mind was like a vast white canvas with one small corner filled in. She remembered last night and today. Other memories, from other times, appeared like dots in the distance. They would draw closer, she hoped, until the whole canvas was filled with the tapestry of her past.
“Maria!”
She turned toward him. What else would she recall about Jason? How much did she know about him?
He echoed her thoughts. “I don’t know much about you.”
“That’s the problem with a mail-order bride,” she said, masking her fear with flippancy. “You don’t have that nice, long courtship period to discover each other’s secrets.”
The returning memories had given her a sense of power. Ultimately she would recall everything and regain herself. Maria was sure of that. Maria? It wasn’t her name, but it would have to suffice until she heard the clear voice in her head telling her whether she was Danielle or Carolyn or Marta or Heather.
No, not Heather. She wasn’t a Heather or a Tiffany or a Mandy. Not perky. She’d never been bubbly and bouncy like a cheerleader. She had been studious, loved learning, got straight-A grades. She was an intelligent woman. An educated woman.
The thought pleased her. But if she’d been happy in her life, how had she come here?
“Maria, you must pay attention to what I am saying.”
“Why?” She sank down onto the edge of the bed. Her headache had faded, replaced by a dull pain in her upper back. She touched a tender area near her rib cage and winced.
“It’s dangerous,” he said. “You must know that. Just because you’ve left Guermina, you aren’t safe. There are people who don’t want you here in this country. There are people who want you dead.”
Why did he think she was from Guermina? That didn’t feel right, and yet she sensed that the rest of his statement was true. She was in danger.
My God, what had she done? She studied the chiseled planes of his handsome face. Her gaze lingered on the scar near his hairline. He had been injured, too.
Instinctively she wanted to trust him, to believe that they were on the same side. Why else would he be warning her? Her agile mind supplied a reason. It was possible that he was trying to frighten her to strengthen his hold on her, to make her dependent upon him. “Tell me what you know about me, Jason. Perhaps I can fill in the blanks.”
“How much do you know about yourself?” he asked sharply.
Did he know? Did he know how helpless she was? She tossed her head, masking her ignorance. “What do you mean?”
“Maria, I’m not a fool. It’s obvious that you have sustained some short-term memory loss. I don’t know how much or why. When I examined you yesterday, I found no physical evidence of head injury and—”
“You examined me?”
“Of course, I am trained as a physician and—”
“How much?” she interrupted him again. “How thorough was your examination?”
“Give me a break.” Abruptly he rose from the chair. “I might be crippled, but I haven’t stooped to the level of manhandling an unconscious woman. You were exhausted. You could barely make it from Elena to the house. There was no one else here. I wasn’t sure whether I should contact a doctor or not. I know nothing of your medical history.”
“What would you need to know?”
“Drugs,” he said. “Are you on any special medication?”
“No.” At least, she didn’t think so.
“Are you diabetic?”
“No.”
“This memory loss,” he said. “How far back does it extend?”
To birth, she thought. But she would not confide in him. He was clever and appealing, but she’d be crazy to trust him. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?” He matched her cold bravado with his own diffident arrogance. “Then tell me about yourself.”
“I do not wish to recite my life story. Tell me what you know,” she reiterated, “and I will fill in the blanks.”
“I don’t know much beyond your book. Truth. I have a photocopy of it. In Spanish. Not the translation.”
She had written a book titled Truth. Her recollection came into dim focus. The book was about Guermina, the corruption of power, the exploitation of her people, deals with American immigration officials, political scandal on a multitude of levels.
This book, she knew, was the key to everything. “Give me the copy,” she demanded.
“That would be unwise,” he said.
“Why?”