Owen's Touch Page 9

  She stood in the hospital foyer, waiting for Owen, who’d promised to drive her back to northern Virginia. Everyone was hoping that familiar surroundings and escape from the hospital atmosphere would facilitate her recovery. Maybe she’d see something that would jog her memory...and then...presumably...everything would be just fine again.

  She tried not to put all her hopes on that. The doctors wouldn’t predict how long it would take her to regain her memory, although all of them felt that most of her memories probably would return. Eventually.

  Eventually. She sighed. What in the devil could she do until then? If her friends and family didn’t find her, she’d be on her own. Penniless. Without a roof over her head. The social worker had volunteered to help her find a place to stay and some sort of employment...although the lack of a social security number would be something of a problem. Without that, she wouldn’t be able to apply for most jobs, even if they could figure out what kind of work she was capable of doing. Still, the social worker had assured her that anytime she came back to town, social services would try to help her get on her feet.

  Mary Ann appreciated that. It seemed odd being on the receiving end of charity, she thought. She wondered if that was a clue to her past. Maybe she had been self-supporting. She liked that idea.

  So, maybe people involved with her work would be missing her soon and begin searching for her. Owen had suggested once that she might have been on vacation or something. Perhaps that was why her picture hadn’t been circulated on police missing-persons announcements. If so, then maybe that would be changing soon. And someone would see her and recognize her face and show her the poster and tell her who she was and where she belonged.

  Owen, as usual, was punctual. When she saw him walk through the revolving doors and into the hospital, she hurried over to him. smiling happily. It felt good to have a friend, even if he was brand-new.

  “You look like a new woman,” he observed with a slow-dawning grin. He gave her a careful visual examination. “These clothes are fine, but I kind of liked that hospital gown,” he confessed. His grin widened, and the gleam in his eye reflected undiluted male amusement.

  “Oh, sure!” she teased. “I was drop-dead gorgeous in that pale, shapeless print, with tubes in my arm and bruises and cuts all over.” She brushed her hair away from her face reflexively. The sarcasm was a good defense for the uneasy feelings swirling just beneath the surface. Owen Blackhart made her feel glad to be alive.

  He reached out and touched a healing line of puckered red flesh. Her skin felt warm and smooth beneath his hand.

  “You’re healing well,” he noted.

  “You’re seeing the wonders of modern medicine...aided mightily by modern cosmetics.”

  “Do you have anything else to do here?” he asked, glancing at the paper bag and the envelope she was holding.

  “Nope. Cleary and I have said our goodbyes. And I told them I’d give them a forwarding address as soon as I had one.” She grimaced at the reminder that she had no home to return to for now.

  “Let’s see if we can find some familiar-looking places and come up with an address for you, Madame X,” he suggested. “My car’s just outside.” He waved his arm in front of them. “Shall we go?”

  “As fast as possible!”

  They left through the same revolving doors that Owen had entered just moments before.

  If she was nervous about riding in a car after the accident, she hid it well, he thought. She fastened her seat belt and looked around with curiosity as Owen turned the car out onto the nearest main road.

  “Gosh...it’s pretty in the daylight,” she murmured.

  “Just keep looking,” he said. “Yell if you want me to slow down or stop for anything...to take a closer look at something.”

  She nodded.

  Owen pulled out onto the interstate and headed eastward, toward northern Virginia and Washington, D.C. And, hopefully, toward something memorable.

  It was dusk when they finally gave up.

  She was discouraged. She’d tried to keep her expectations low, but apparently, they hadn’t been modest enough.

  “I wish I could have sensed that something...anything...was familiar,” she said dejectedly.

  He parked at a family-style restaurant on the edge of the town.

  “How about dinner?” he suggested evenly. “My treat,” he added, grinning.

  “Well, we certainly wouldn’t eat much if it’s my treat,” she said wryly. She looked at him awkwardly. “I...didn’t mean to become an appendage,” she said apologetically. “Maybe I should go back and take up the offer of help that social worker made.”

  He got out of the car and came around to her side. She had already gotten out by the time he reached her, but she wore an air of ambivalence.

  “Look...I want to keep track of how much this is costing you,” she announced firmly. “Later...I’d like to pay you back.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said, lips forming a stubborn, straight line.

  “It is for me,” she argued passionately. “I don’t want to be a charity case. Besides...”

  “Besides?”

  “Well, people will start to talk.”

  He laughed and opened the restaurant door for her.

  “Let ’em talk,” he said with a shrug. “Who the hell cares?”

  She frowned.

  “I’m a gentleman,” he explained. “And you’re a lady.”

  “Well, how do we know that?” she said, worrying.

  “That I’m a gentleman or that you’re a lady?” he asked, a little irritably.

  The hostess, who had been staring at them in surprise, cleared her throat.

  “Two for dinner?” the hostess inquired diffidently.

  “Yes,” Owen said.

  “No,” she interjected, stubbornly standing her ground instead of following the hostess, who was already moving toward the dining room with Owen sailing along in her wake.

  Owen turned and stared at her, eyes narrowing. The hostess stopped in midstride, eyebrows raised in delicate question.

  “Yes?” the hostess repeated cautiously. “Or no?”

  Owen took Mary Ann firmly by the elbow.

  “If you want to pay me back for everything I spend on you, go right ahead,” he said, more amused than angry at her independence. “But right now, I’m very hungry. I don’t handle frustration well when I’m hungry. I suggest we follow this nice lady to a table and feed me before we argue any more.”

  “Oh. Well, of course, I wouldn’t want to fight with a man weakened from starvation,” Mary Ann conceded with a distinct air of innocence.

  The hostess looked from Owen to Mary Ann, took a breath and turned toward the table she’d had prepared for them.

  “This way, then,” the hostess said cheerily, as if these little tiffs were the norm at her restaurant. After she’d seated them, she handed them their menus and then indicated the drink list.

  “Perhaps you’d like a cocktail? A glass of wine? Or beer?” she suggested hopefully.

  “Yes,” Mary Ann said, without thinking about it. Then she caught Owen’s gaze on hers and she remembered what Kelton had said. “No. An iced tea would be nice. With lemon.”

  “Ginger ale with a twist of lemon.”

  “Certainly. Your waiter will be here to take your order in a few minutes. Please enjoy your meal,” the hostess said, her tone almost tentative.

  Mary Ann leaned across the table and whispered to Owen, “Remember...I’m paying you back...every penny.”

  He didn’t look up from the menu.

  “Fine,” he growled. “Now...what do you like to eat?”

  She looked at the selections, and her mouth began to water in anticipation.

  “Everything,” she replied.

  “Good. I hate women who pick at their food.”

  She definitely did not do that. An hour and a half later, she was finishing the last
of her tea as Owen watched her, impressed with her robust appetite.

  “Didn’t they feed you at that hospital?”

  “Pudding, steamed vegetables, broiled chicken and skim milk just doesn’t stick to the ribs.”

  “Check that hospital bill and make sure they didn’t overcharge you for the food,” he suggested, grinning wryly.

  She laughed. “Good idea!” She sighed contentedly. “Steak.”

  “What?”

  “Sizzling steak smothered in onions with corn chips and salsa.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You’re not still hungry, are you?”

  “No. I just...was thinking this was great, but my favorite foods are spiced with salsas and sautéed on a grill or a griddle...I can smell the garlic and the Worcestershire sauce...taste the fresh peppers...green and red and orange.” She snapped out of the reverie and stared at Owen. “I remember them. Eating them. In a restaurant. With a fountain and soft music. Mexican.” She pressed her hands against her cheeks. “It must have been in the Southwest someplace...there’s cactus and sandy landscapes, and some arid mountains.”

  “Where?”

  She frowned and shook her head. “That’s all. Just a glimpse...with the sounds and scents and flavors. It was so real,” she said, biting her lip against the disappointment. “I could almost touch it all. Why couldn’t the rest come back with it? Why remember that and not my address or phone number or...anyone I knew?” -

  For a moment they sat in anguished silence together.

  “Well, maybe eating’s a key. Perhaps every time you eat, you’ll awaken some memory.”

  “Eating in the hospital didn’t stir any memories,” she answered dubiously.

  “Yeah, well, maybe the hospital atmosphere—not to mention their cooking—couldn’t awaken a bear in spring. I think there’s a café in this town that’s got a Hispanic chef. Maybe if he fixes you some of your favorite foods, your senses will reconnect—and your memory along with them.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, unpersuaded by the unorthodox theory of stimulating the memory via the stomach. “It sounds ridiculous.”

  He laughed. “That’s what people have said about all the great ideas down through the centuries,” he argued. “Now, unless you’re still hungry...”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Let’s go then.”

  Owen paid the bill, and they went outside to the car. Owen had just unlocked the passenger’s-side door when a familiar station wagon pulled up beside them.

  It was Averson Hemphill.

  He waved excitedly at Owen, turned off the engine and hopped out of his car.

  “I’ve been trying to find you, Owen,” he exclaimed. “Ah, and this must be Jane D—”

  “Mary Ann,” Owen interjected firmly. As the two smiled and nodded to each other in greeting, Owen asked, “Is something wrong, Averson?”

  “Uh, not yet.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” Owen asked, cynically lifting a brow.

  “It, uh, means that you may have a somewhat more protracted battle over the house than we’d originally hoped,” he said.

  The lawyer’s demeanor of mild euphoria was deflating into an impending sense of doom.

  “Why’s that?” Owen asked pointedly.

  Averson cleared his throat and glanced at the redheaded woman standing beside Owen.

  “Perhaps you could excuse us, ma’am?” Averson said apologetically. He attempted to draw Owen away for a private explanation, but Owen stood his ground.

  “Don’t worry about her, Averson. She can hear whatever you have to say.”

  Mary Ann glanced at Owen. He appeared braced for unwelcome news. In spite of that, there was still a faint hint of dark amusement glittering in his eyes. She wanted to thank him for letting her stay, for making her feel included. Being included in his life, even in this unexpected twist of irritating fate, made her feel more normal, oddly enough. He looked down at her, and for a split second, she thought he understood exactly how she felt.

  “Thanks.” she said softly.

  Owen smiled slightly and turned his attention back to Hemphill.

  Averson hesitated, obviously uncomfortable discussing his client’s potential legal problem in front of a woman neither of them knew well.

  Owen’s brows straightened. “Well, Averson?” he prompted.

  Averson got the message, even if he didn’t agree with it.

  “All right,” he said, injecting a note of forced optimism into his voice. “Portia’s nephew is contesting her will. He believes that he by law should have inherited the house and grounds that you are now moving into. He has retained an attorney who is trying to bar you from living in the old house until a court determines whether a significant portion of her estate...including the house and grounds on Algonquin Road...should legally belong to Portia’s nephew instead of to you.”

  “I see.” Owen frowned thoughtfully. “Does he have a case?” Owen asked.

  Averson hesitated, gathering his words with care.

  “I think they can provide sufficient documentation regarding the nephew’s relationship to Portia to get a court to consider the evidence. However, I think that eventually we should win.”

  “But?”

  Averson sighed and patted Owen on the arm. “But you never know for sure until you’ve tried the case and the judge has ruled...or a jury hands down their verdict.”

  “How would you rate the odds, Averson?” Owen asked dryly.

  “I, uh, I’d rather not put a percentage on it,” Averson demurred.

  Owen laughed. “That’s not very encouraging,” Owen observed. He shrugged. “I guess it’s just as well that I haven’t gotten everything unpacked and moved in yet.”

  Owen looked at Mary Ann. “It looks like you may not be the only person looking for a home,” he remarked dryly.

  “Then maybe we should keep looking for mine,” she suggested hopefully. “Whoever gets a roof first can share with the other.”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “Deal?” She held out her hand.

  Owen grinned. “I assume you’ve now decided that I’m a gentleman and that you’re a lady?”

  She blinked. “Well...I’ll still be keeping track of how much I owe you,” she said hastily.

  Owen closed his hand over hers just as she began to have second thoughts and withdraw hers.

  “Deal,” he declared firmly.

  Owen briskly released her hand and turned back toward Averson, who was staring at them in surprise.

  “You’re taking this all, uh, very well,” he said.

  “Mary Ann doesn’t have a whole lot of options. And this isn’t the first time that I’ve had to hustle to put a roof over my head,” Owen noted.

  “You’ve had to hustle?” she said faintly.

  “Just a figure of speech,” Owen explained with an easy grin. “Portia will be so furious with her nephew for thwarting her will that she’ll probably come back and haunt him. He may run out of town faster than his lawyer can withdraw the court papers, after Portia’s ghost is finished harassing him.”

  Averson raised his eyebrows, but he couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

  “Yes,” Averson murmured. “She’d have hated having her will overturned. She was a woman who liked to be in charge of her own life.”

  A woman after her own heart, Mary Ann thought. She wondered exactly what kind of relationship Portia Willowbrook had had with Owen. She must have been older than he was. Still...it could have been a romantic relationship, she supposed.

  “What’s the matter?” Owen demanded, seeing her expression.

  “Nothing!”

  “You’re frowning.”

  “Just...indigestion.”

  Owen obviously didn’t accept her excuse, but before he could pursue the matter, Averson spoke.

  “Let’s discuss the situation the day after tomorrow at my office. I think we can develop an effective strategy for handling this problem. We might even find
a way to settle the dispute before it gets before a judge.”

  Owen agreed.

  Averson glanced at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to pick up the kids!” he exclaimed in agitation. “My wife took them to her mother’s house, but I promised I’d pick them up and get them back home by bedtime! That’s right now!”

  Averson hurriedly said goodbye while hopping into his car. Within moments, he was peeling out of the parking lot and driving away from them, looking much more harried than when he’d arrived a short while earlier.

  “I can get you a room in a local motel, or I can take you back to my house and give you a guest room for the night,” Owen said.

  “I’ve run up enough bills!” she exclaimed. She laughed nervously. Being practical about the situation, she reasoned, “Why pay for a motel room when I can sleep for free in a guest room?”

  “Why indeed?” he murmured. “Well...let’s get back to my house, then, while I still have one.”

  She was awestruck when she saw it.

  “No wonder her nephew’s fighting you for the house!”

  Owen walked inside, with Mary Ann close on his heels, her green eyes wide and glowing with admiration.

  “This stone must be part of the original building,” she said, running her hand over the whitewashed wall.

  “Yes.”

  “This must have been built in the early 1800s,” she guessed.

  “Close—1796. These four walls were the original house. Now they’re the living room. The other rooms were added in 1890 and 1925. Portia remodeled and added an addition in the last twenty years.”

  “She had the workmanship done in a style that nearly duplicates the original.”

  Owen looked at her curiously. “You seem very familiar with architectural styles,” he said.

  “Do I?” She looked startled. Didn’t everybody notice these kinds of things? she wondered. Apparently not. She looked around the room, littered with large unopened boxes of furniture.

  “Are you sure you don’t need to unpack anything?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I’m sure,” he said dryly. “Why unpack before the court decides whether the property is legally mine?”

  “What about that old saying...possession being nine-tenths of the law?” she said hopefully.