couldn’t help wondering if she as always this suspicious, or if her present situation had transformed her. “I’ll take you to Kate’s Kitchen and get you something to eat.”
“Kate’s Kitchen,” she repeated. The words meant nothing to her. “Is that like a homeless shelter, or someone’s house?”
“Neither. That’s my restaurant.”
Even within the context of this minor conversation, mentioning his restaurant filled him with pride. It always did. Having it, running it, had been his goal for a very long time.
She made what seemed to her a logical assumption. “You work in a restaurant?”
Trevor corrected her. “I own a restaurant.”
“Oh.” The single-syllable word was pregnant with meaning and respect—and she hadn’t a clue as to why.
Did she own anything? she wondered. It infuriated her that she didn’t know. This was going on too long, she silently raged. It was as if she were standing in front of a huge, white wall that was locking her out of everything. She couldn’t find the door, couldn’t find any way to enter. The worst was that she didn’t even know what was behind the wall, if anything.
Standing before the entrance to the public bathroom, she hesitated for a moment. She hated this vulnerable feeling. Hated giving in to it or even acknowledging its existence.
But a survival instinct told her that it was necessary. She turned to glance over her shoulder at the man who’d rescued her. The man she probably owed her life to. “You’ll be here when I come out?”
He nodded and she thought she saw a hint of a smile on his lips. Probably laughing at her, she thought. But she had no choice. She couldn’t just wander around on the beach at this time of night.
“I’ll be here,” he promised her.
She had no idea why, but she believed him.
Still, she hurried inside the building to one of the three stalls. None of the doors met and the floor was cold, with sand clinging to the stone here and there, rubbing off on her feet. Shivering as she entered the stall farthest from the doorway, she realized that she didn’t have any shoes on.
Had she lost them in the ocean? Or before?
Nothing came to her.
Within less than a minute, she was finished and standing before the sink closest to the door. She looked at her reflection in the badly cracked mirror. She didn’t recognize the woman with the plastered, chin-length red hair.
Oh, God, who was she? Was someone out there searching for her?
She looked down at her left hand. There was no ring, but she did notice a tan line encircling it. Had there been a ring there? Had she been mugged for that ring? Left for dead? Tossed overboard?
What? her mind screamed.
No answers came in response.
Blowing out a breath, she turned on the faucet. A rumbling noise preceded the emergence of lukewarm water. At least it was clear and not rust-colored. Cupping her hands together, she caught some and threw it on her face, wishing desperately that the simple action would be enough to make her remember.
It wasn’t.
“You okay in there?”
She jumped when she heard the man—Trevor, was it?—call out the question. Her heart hammered.
“Just peachy,” she heard herself respond.
Even to her own ears, it didn’t sound right. There was an angry edge in her voice, which shamed her. This guy, this restaurant owner, didn’t have to help her. Didn’t have to risk his life to rescue her from a watery grave. Why was she being so nasty to him?
“Sorry,” she called out. “I don’t mean to be taking this out on you. I just want to remember. I should remember,” she insisted.
Because she’d tendered a half apology, Trevor’s annoyance with her instantly abated. It took very little to get on his good side.
“You’re going through a lot,” he told her soothingly. She came out then, the expression on her flawless face just a shade contrite. It was all he needed. “C’mon,” he urged, “I’ll take you to the restaurant. It’s within walking distance.”
Rather than guide her toward the parking lot, he indicated that they were going to go in the opposite direction.
As he placed his hand to the small of her back, he felt her stiffen beneath his fingertips. Giving no indication that he’d noticed, he dropped his hand to his side.
“The restaurant’s right over here.”
She stopped and looked at the blue-and-gray stucco single-story building. Navy-blue trim outlined the door and windows. The building went on for half a city block. A terrace ran along the length of the back of the restaurant. The tables and chairs that usually occupied it during working hours were tucked just inside a wall of glass for the night.
It looked nice. Inviting, even in the darkness. “This is yours?”
Taking his key out, he unlocked the door and then held it open for her. “Mine and the bank’s.”
She walked in front of him. He hit a switch to the right of the door. Lights came on, illuminating the way.
It was homey, she thought, as she scanned the interior. Warm. She liked it.
“It’s nice,” she commented. Desperate to find something familiar to grasp, she continued her search over to the reception desk. Nothing around her nudged at any distant images. Still, she heard herself asking, “Have I ever been in here before?”
He turned on another series of lights, not wanting her to feel any more disoriented. “Not that I know of, but then, I’m usually in the kitchen.” He only came out on occasion, when someone he knew was in the dining area.
When he said he owned the restaurant, she’d thought of the financial end. She hadn’t thought of him in any other capacity. Cocking her head, she tried to picture him at a stove, surrounded with boiling pots.
“You’re a chef?”
Trevor smiled, thinking of the diploma from the culinary academy that hung on the wall of his tiny office in the back. “So I like to think.”
“Who’s Kate?” she asked suddenly, turning toward him. “Your wife?”
“My stepmother.”
“Oh.” Now that was odd. Most people thought of stepmothers as creatures to get away from, not immortalize. She had no idea where the thought came from, but it took root, planting itself firmly in her mind. Did she have a stepmother? Was that why she felt like that?
“That’s a little strange.” And then she realized that she’d said the words out loud. She didn’t want to offend him, not after he’d rescued her. “Sorry, none of my business.”
