I tell him briefly about the strong, visceral way Elizabeth reacted to the name. “She may not remember, but her instincts aren’t dead.”
“I agree.” He clears his throat, then again. “Is her memory coming back at all?”
“No.” Frustration and relief take up space in my heart in equal proportion.
“Are you sure you don’t need to take her to a specialist?”
“Positive.”
He sighs roughly. “All right. How’s the island getaway?”
“Could be better.” If I can make it up to her… If she can forgive me… If we can find a way to move forward…
Because at the end of the day, I know…
My love for her has never died. It’s been in my heart all this time, even when I raged about how much I hated her.
“Sorry,” Antoine says. “I was a dick on St. Cecilia. I didn’t want you to get screwed or suffer because of her. Whether she meant to or not, she caused you a lot of problems before. I don’t have any good feelings about her being back in your life.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I know you care about her, but I don’t trust her. She’s no open book. She has more secrets than the NSA.”
“I’m not some poor, helpless kid, Antoine. I can take care of myself.”
“She isn’t some helpless kid, either. She’s more powerful than you think. She not only knows everyone who matters, but people like her and want to do things for her whether she asks or not. That’s a powerful currency.”
That brings up the memory of Nate Sterling kissing the back of her neck and whispering, “Marry me,” making my hackles rise.
“I understand you’re worried, but you know what would be worse for me?” I ask.
“What?”
“Regretting that I never gave it a second shot.”
Antoine curses, then huffs. “I’ll look into her social calendar and see if I can find anybody named Andy. I swear it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“I hear they have metal detectors now.”
He snorts a laugh. “Make me an Andy detector, then you can talk.” He hangs up.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and exhale more easily. I hated having argued with my best friend. There aren’t many people I trust one hundred percent, and he is one of the few people who knows Elizabeth’s and my past. Having him watch my back feels good again, gives me a measure of security.
I check the time. It’s a little after one. No matter how upset Elizabeth is, she needs to eat.
I put together a couple of simple sandwiches. She used to love turkey, cheese, tomato and lettuce on rye with two pickle spears. So I make her that, while I make myself a roast beef with mustard.
After setting the table outside, I go knock at the studio door. The only response is a soft “uh-huh,” so I take that as “come in” and walk inside.
The studio smells like thinner, although the windows are open to let the sea breeze in. I had no idea what kind of supplies she needed, so I had my property manager handle everything. His wife apparently paints, so she got all the items needed for an art studio.
Elizabeth’s in the same silvery-gray wrap dress. A few splatters of blue and white dot the bodice and sections of her hair, and yellow streaks her right cheek, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her gaze is intent on the canvas in front of her. It’s the smallest of the three I set out, but still sizable. She dexterously moves her right hand, placing more brush strokes in black, but I’m not sure exactly what she’s trying for. All I see are a bunch of colors.
“Making good progress?” I ask, keeping my voice low so as to not shatter her focus too much.
“Uh-huh.” She makes another dot on the canvas, then puts her brush and palette down.
“What’s it supposed to be?” I ask, doing my best to make sense of what I’m seeing.