The Bride with No Name. Marie Ferrarella

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СКАЧАТЬ stepmother came to work for my dad as our nanny a little more than twenty years ago. She basically saved our lives—not the way I saved yours,” he qualified, “but in a sense, just as dramatically.” On the outside, they had seemed like a family, but inside, they’d all kept to themselves, at least as far as the pain was concerned. Losing their mother had been hard on all of them. “She brought a lot of happiness into our world and she’s been supportive of all of us from the first day, even when we gave her a hard time.”

      Trevor continued turning on lights as he went toward the rear of the restaurant, to where the walk-in refrigerator was located.

      She followed him, but she’d stopped listening right after Trevor had said the part about saving her life. It came home to her in letters ten feet high.

      He had saved her life.

      If not for this man, she would have quite possibly died in that ocean.

      By design?

      By accident?

      Damn it, why wasn’t anything coming back to her? she silently demanded. Why didn’t she even know her own name? At least the first name, if not the last.

      Lost in thought, she impotently clenched her hands into fists again and sighed, struggling to keep her frustration in check.

      He heard the loud sigh. Trevor doubted the woman was even aware of it. Opening the door to the refrigerator, he took a step in, then looked around at several racks containing covered pans.

      “Can you remember liking anything in particular?” he asked her. When there was no answer, he turned to glance at her over his shoulder. There was a puzzled expression on her face. “Food,” he specified. “Can you remember a favorite food?” She seemed to be trying to remember, but then shook her head. “Okay then,” he said philosophically. “Maybe this’ll be your new favorite food.”

      He took out a tray, placed a serving on a subdued Wedgwood blue plate and stuck it into the microwave. A minute and a half later, he took out a warm plate of chicken tetrazzini. It had been on this evening’s menu. While it was always a popular item, he’d had a few servings left when he closed his doors.

      Tomorrow, everything that hadn’t been consumed today would find its way to St. Anne’s Homeless Shelter. Luther, a man who had worked and lived at the shelter these last twelve years, came by every morning at eight to pick up the leftovers. Trevor made sure that there always were some, even if he had to prepare them that morning. Luther never left empty-handed.

      But this serving was for his mermaid, he thought, bringing it over to the table where, during business hours, the salads were prepared.

      She stood on ceremony for exactly half a minute, then ate with gusto.

      He liked seeing people enjoy his food like this, although, to be fair, the woman would have probably enjoyed anything at this point. She seemed to be as ravenous as she’d claimed.

      The entire serving was gone within less than ten minutes. He supposed that nearly drowning spiked a person’s appetite.

      “More?” he asked when she pushed the empty plate away from her.

      Smiling for the first time since he’d saved her, the woman shook her head. She had a nice smile, Trevor thought.

      “No, I’m full.” She resisted the urge to run her fingers over the plate and lick them. “And it was very good. You made this?”

      It was one of the first things he’d ever learned to prepare. He’d been seven and Kate had made him her assistant, tying one of her aprons around his waist. It had dragged on the floor, but he’d had the time of his life. He’d gotten hooked on cooking from the very start.

      “It’s an old stand-by,” he answered.

      “Well, it’s very good,” she repeated, her tone sounding a little awkward. “Thank you.”

      He saw concern slip over her face. “What?”

      She tried not to let the anxiety take her prisoner. “That’s it exactly. ‘What?’ What do I do now?”

      “Well, if you want my opinion,” he said, “I think you should be checked out at a hospital. Just in case.”

      She frowned. At the mention of the word hospital, she felt something tighten inside. Was she afraid of hospitals? Had she had a bad experience? Had someone she cared about died in a hospital? It was so terribly annoying, not having a single answer, a single clue to anything about herself.

      “I’m okay,” she answered.

      “You have amnesia,” Trevor pointed out to her. “That’s not okay.”

      She followed him out into the dining hall again. “But they can’t fix that in a hospital, can they?”

      “I don’t know, but this way, you find out if you have a concussion, or anything else wrong.” Although from where he sat, she looked damn near perfect, at least on the outside, he mused.

      He kept the thought to himself.

      “They’re going to want to know my name,” she said.

      “We’ll just tell them that you can’t remember it.”

      We. Did that mean he was coming with her? She had no idea why, but the thought brought her a sense of relief.

      “But I need a name,” she protested. She raised her eyes to his, silently asking him to christen her, if only for the time being.

      “Okay.” Fishing out his keys, he thought for a moment. “How about ‘Venus’?”

      “Venus?” she echoed. It was pretty. She liked it.

      He nodded as he locked the door behind them and then armed the security system. “Like the Botticelli painting. Venus rising out of the sea—”

      “On a giant half shell,” she completed.

      Her eyes widened.

       Chapter Three

      “I remember that,” she cried excitedly.

      Without thinking, she grabbed at his shirtfront. The jacket he’d put around her began to slip off, but he caught it in time and set it back on her shoulders. She was vaguely aware of an electrical charge dancing through her, but her excitement was focused on this tiny kernel of information that she’d stumbled across.

      She searched his face for an answer. “How do I remember that?”

      Very gently, he disengaged her hands from his shirt. “You’re an artist, you work in the art field, or maybe you just like Botticelli. Or clams,” he added, picking up on her description of the half shell. “Or maybe your memory’s coming back. Can you remember anything else?” he prodded.

      Like a child trying to recall a phrase she’d memorized, the woman slid her tongue along her lips, a faraway look in her eyes. Trevor watched her and could almost see her effort to summon a СКАЧАТЬ