he could convince her she was who he said she was, Andrew had retreated. He’d left the mother of his children with the novel, a copy of Gone with the Wind, and his phone number in case things began coming back to her.
He’d hoped that she would have called him by now, but she hadn’t. Maybe if he went, tried to persuade her a little, that might do the trick….
Something caught his attention. Andrew stopped and cocked his head.
Was that the doorbell?
Telling himself he was probably hearing things, he nonetheless stopped rinsing the dishes before stacking them in the dishwasher and shut off the tap water. He walked a little closer to the front of the house.
The soft peal of the doorbell again disturbed the atmosphere. He grabbed a towel and dried his hands as he made his way to the front door. Slinging the towel over his right shoulder, Andrew reached for the doorknob and swung the door open. “What did you forget?”
The words hung in the air, mocking him, as he looked into the face of the woman who called herself Claire—the woman his heart knew was Rose.
The soft-spoken blonde on his doorstep looked nervous, vulnerable and more than a little wary. It took her a moment before she responded.
“Everything, apparently.”
It took Andrew longer to recover. He’d lived the last fifteen years imagining this very scenario from every possible angle. He’d envisioned Rose tired, jubilant, even contrite, but he’d never once thought there would be a vacant, confused look in her eyes.
He heard himself whisper the words in grateful awe. “You came.”
“I had to,” she confessed. When he went to take her arm to usher her in, Claire shrank back a little, then offered him a rueful look as she walked into the house unassisted. She hadn’t meant to flinch. Reflexes were responsible for that, reflexes that had been there when she’d woken up, not knowing who or where she was. “I had to see if there was some truth to this story you told me. If I really was this Rose Gallagher Cavanaugh you said I was.”
Even as she said the name, it meant nothing to her, created no spark, shed no light. Evoked no feeling of a connection, however distant, existing between her and this woman she was supposed to have been.
But there was something about this man’s eyes, something about the way he looked at her, that stirred a faraway, vague feeling, like a breeze blowing along a feather, moving it, but letting it remain where it was.
She wanted—no, needed—the feather to become airborne. She was tired of not knowing. Tired of being afraid.
“Not was,” Andrew corrected gently. “Are.”
Claire nodded, though not in agreement. She nodded in acknowledgment of his words. A sigh escaped her lips before she could stop it. For just the slightest moment, her guard was down.
“I’m so tired of not knowing.”
Andrew’s mind began to race, making plans. “Can you stay the day?”
He didn’t dare hope for more. But even in that short amount of time, he could gather the clan together. Maybe seeing them in person, hearing their voices, might jar something loose for her, might make her start to remember. He knew nothing about amnesia except for what he’d read on the subject in the past few days. This was all virgin territory for him, but he meant to conquer it. Meant to have his Rose back in mind, not just in body.
“I can stay longer than that.”
Claire looked around slowly, taking in everything, searching for a memory that wasn’t there. From what she could see, it was a comfortable house, warm, inviting, so much larger than what she was accustomed to.
But there was no feeling of homecoming, no subtle suggestion to her subconscious that this was the journey’s end. That her questions were finally going to have answers she could accept.
Nothing.
She looked at him again, this man with his blue-gray, hopeful eyes. “I told Lucy I’m taking that vacation I was always putting off,” she said, referring to the woman who was both her boss and her best friend, the woman who had given her shelter when she’d wandered in off the road, frightened and lost, all those years ago. “She told me to take as long as I liked, seeing as how I had over two months coming to me.”
Two months. He had two months, Andrew thought. That should be enough time to make her remember. He’d make it be enough time.
“You can stay in Callie’s old room,” he told her, pointing out the way.
Claire merely nodded and followed him.
“You have any idea what this is about?” Detective Shaw Cavanaugh asked his partner Detective Steven Reese as they walked to the office of the chief of detectives.
A half head shorter than his partner, Reese ran a hand along the two-day-old stubble on his chin. It never ceased to amaze Shaw that Reese always seemed to be sporting two days’ worth of stubble—no more, no less. Reese claimed it was sexy. Shaw saw it as an excuse not to shave on a regular basis.
Reese’s broad shoulders rose and fell beneath a jacket that was a tad less than fashionable. “Hey, Chief Cavanaugh’s your uncle, not mine.”
Shaw shook his head. If this was remotely personal, Uncle Brian would have called him up at home, or even dropped by his apartment. In his family, they all enjoyed that kind of an easy relationship with one another, feeling free to pop up on each other’s doorstep whenever the need arose. This was something different, something work related.
“I don’t think his being my uncle has anything to do with this.”
At the precinct, personal family structure was forgotten. They were all brothers and sisters under the uniform. The fact that nine of them, not counting the chief, were related by blood just made them a shade closer, that was all. But at the moment, their closeness didn’t help shed any light for Shaw on what was going on.
“Maybe the chief is going to ask how come you haven’t succumbed to Cupid’s arrows like the rest of your family.” Reese smirked. “And he’s invited me along to throw your suspicions off.”
Shaw rolled his eyes even though he knew that scenario wasn’t even remotely possible. “Shut up. I get enough of that from my father.”
It was all well-meaning, Shaw knew. His father worried about him. Worried that while Callie, Teri and Rayne, not to mention Clay, had all found their soul mates, Shaw’s own love life had been on the low-key.
So low-key that at times it didn’t even register a pulse. But then, he’d always been the serious one in his family. He didn’t believe in partying, or in wasting someone’s time if he had no intentions of becoming serious with that person. And he had no intentions of ever getting serious because being a policeman meant maintaining a tenuous partnership with death. It rode in your squad car with you every day and could claim you at any time, without warning. Coming to terms with one’s mortality was hard enough; asking someone else to accept it was out of the question. He didn’t want a wife to make that sacrifice with him.
His uncle Mike had died while on the job and he’d seen his best friend killed in the line of duty. To
