This Reminds Me of Us Page 7

  She stopped her own giggles by pressing her lips into the crook of his neck, then began working her way up to his jaw. This too, she remembered. Ollie’s body and all the things it was to her.

  Comfort. Refuge. Exhilaration.

  She slowly slid her hand down his bare chest to the point of his hipbone, where it encountered the flannel of his pajama pants.

  “We used to sleep in the nude,” she murmured.

  “Mmmm, then we had kids. Who have the alarming habit of strolling into our room unannounced in the middle of the night.”

  She felt his hip press up into her palm. “Did you speak to the doctor about when we could resume marital relations?” She ran her thumb along the edge of the waistband.

  “I forgot.”

  “The Oliver Wolfe I remember would never have forgotten marital relations.”

  His chest bounced with a silent chuckle. “Okay, so I didn’t forget. But I’m a man. I can’t ask another man when I’m allowed to make love to my wife.”

  “Guess we’ll have to play it by ear.” Her hand moved a few inches over and down.

  Oliver groaned. “That’s not my ear.”

  She stretched her body toward his head, ignoring the sharp pain in her right leg. She kissed the curve of his ear, then took the lobe gently between her teeth.

  “Remember that first night? How I made you come when I bit your ear?” she whispered.

  “Baby, I remember everything about that night.”

  “Do you remember how you made me babble incoherently?”

  “I do remember exactly how I pulled that off.” He turned his face toward hers. Just before capturing her lips in a kiss, he added, “You were quite the vixen.”

  The kiss was by turns hard and soft, desperate and loving. She had always been able to lose herself in Ollie this way. No matter what else happened, she had Oliver Wolfe at the center. Loving him was enough.

  She was exhausted tonight but she wanted to be his vixen again. Her greatest fear was that he would “stray,” as her father had many times. Too many times for her mother to even keep track of. She had vowed never to put herself into her mother’s position—trapped inside a man’s life without even the benefit of his love and affection to compensate.

  She told Oliver that she would understand if he had been with someone else while she was in the hospital. She hadn’t meant that. Not at all. She’d been fishing for a confession or a clue. In reality, she’d be devastated to learn that Oliver was unfaithful.

  He gently broke the kiss and cupped her face in his wide hands. She met his eyes with her own and their gazes sparred, each trying to draw out the other’s immediate intentions. She knew what he wanted, this first night home together. She also knew he was too good a guy to press for it.

  She was exhausted from the day and the boys and Oliver’s family coming over. Sleep would feel so good right now. Instead, she whispered in his ear.

  “Make love to me, Oliver.”

  Chapter 12

  “Miss Ashley!” Cam drew out the final syllable of Ashley’s name into a long squeal. The front door was barely closed when he launched himself at her.

  Serena watched as the other woman picked up Cam in one smooth movement and hugged him to her chest. Even in a winter coat, Ashley Wardman looked too thin and frail to pick up a five-year-old boy, especially one who was a little tall for his age to begin with.

  Mason, on the other hand, approached Ashley more cautiously. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. Clearly, someone had rehearsed that line with him—that someone being Oliver, she assumed. Or maybe Matt. He seemed to have spent considerable time with the boys over the past several months. Or Becca Trevor? She, too, was now a fixture in their lives.

  “Thank you, Mason.” Ashley set Cam back down on the floor. Just as quickly as he’d arrived, Cam scampered off to the living room and the boys’ sea of Legos. Mason gave his mother and her guest one last look before turning to follow his brother.

  “He’s an old soul, that Mason.” Ashley unbuttoned her coat and hung it up in the coat closet, before following Serena into the kitchen. It was the afternoon of New Year’s Eve and she’d come to visit.

  “He is,” Serena agreed. “Seven going on fifty sometimes. Coffee or tea?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “I was thinking about tea.” She pulled open the pantry door. “We have quite the collection and I’m guessing it’s not Ollie who’s the tea drinker.” She gave Ashley a rueful glance before plucking out a box of orange pekoe. Joking about her memory loss helped put other people at ease around her, she’d found.

  “I can confirm that it’s you.” Ashley pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down, while Serena put a kettle of water on to boil.

  “I’m sorry about Ben, too.” She unwrapped two tea bags and dropped them into stoneware mugs. They were nice mugs. At least my old self had good taste. “I know I said that over the phone. You went out of town for Christmas?”

  Ashley nodded. “I went home to Minnesota for a few days. I needed to get out of town.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Serena wracked her brain for something to say next. Everyone said that she and Ashley Wardman were close. Best friends, even. Since the morning she remembered Ben, she had pieced together a few other bits about the Wardmans. She remembered Ashley being a photographer. The upstairs hallway was lined with portraits Ashley had done of the boys over the years. She also had a sense that the house Ashley had lived in with Ben was very small. And filled with lots of books. Every once in awhile, another memory would flash through her mind—quickly, as though someone turned on the light and then immediately switched it back off.

  But looking at her right now, it was hard to pull up anything else. Ashley was on the shorter side, like Serena. Her hair was medium brown and cut into a blunt shoulder-length bob. Diamond studs twinkled from her earlobes. Her makeup was tastefully done—a little eyeliner and mascara, a swipe of blush.

  “This is awkward. I’m sorry.” The kettle began to whistle and Serena busied herself with pouring water over the tea, carrying the mugs to the kitchen table.

  “No apology needed.” The conversation fell silent again, until Ashley spoke again. “If you need any help—you know, with the boys or around the house or you need a ride somewhere, just ask.”

  Oh, I couldn’t. You’ve got enough going on—”

  “I have absolutely nothing going on. This is the slow time of year for weddings at the Inn. It’s not good for me to have so much time on my hands. I need to keep busy.”

  Serena watched as Ashley swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “Thank you, then. The boys do seem very comfortable with you.”

  “I adore Mason and Cam. I’ll babysit any time. You and Oliver probably need some quality time alone together.”

  Serena nodded. They did need some time alone. Now that Oliver was back full time at the fire department, some days they passed like ships in the night. And when he was home, it seemed like he didn’t know how to act around her.

  Ashley looked around the kitchen as she sipped her tea. “Oliver’s done a lot of work on the house.”

  Serena followed the other woman’s gaze. Ashley knew her entire life better than she did. Her children. Her house. Hell, probably even her husband.

  “Did the house need a lot of work?” she asked quietly.

  Ashley laughed, and Serena felt the sound catch on something in her own chest. If only she could reach in and grab onto it, hold it long enough for it to reveal its secrets. Ashley Wardman’s laugh … it had to be familiar to her. As familiar as Serena’s house was to Ashley.

  “No, your house has always been lovely.”

  A thought occurred to Serena, and she was momentarily surprised that it hadn’t occurred to her earlier. In addition to her house and family, Ashley knew her better than she knew herself.

  Or maybe not. After all, who was she if she couldn’t remember her old life?

  “
I’d be surprised if you liked this color, though,” Ashley added, gesturing at one of the red kitchen walls.

  Serena began to laugh. “I don’t, actually. What color was it before?”

  “It was a very pale grey. The whole downstairs was painted in the same shade.”

  Serena tried to envision the white kitchen cabinets and black granite countertops against a backdrop of light grey. “I think that was probably more ‘me.’ I think I like a house that’s decorated in a soothing way.” Yes, she really did believe that. “I like neutrals.”

  Ashley smiled. “You do like neutrals.”

  “This is so weird. I’m sorry. I feel like I have to begin every sentence with ‘I think’ because I don’t really know what I would have liked.”

  “You’ll get your memory back, Serena. I know you will.” She stood and rinsed out her mug in the sink, then carefully set it in the dishwasher. “You know, one of the things that we had in common was that both of us moved to St. Caroline for a man. You, because Oliver lived here, and me, because Ben took a teaching job here. You befriended me right away, even though you were busy with a new baby.”

  “I feel like I’m having to befriend everyone all over again. It’s just … unsettling, having everyone else know things about me that I no longer know about myself. And when I do remember something, it’s so random and never what I need to know at the moment.”

  Ashley pulled her chair right next to Serena’s and sat down again. “I know you don’t remember our friendship, but after Ben you were the person I was closest to. Now he’s gone and I really need a friend to get me through this.”

  Serena reached out and touched Ashley’s hand, then wrapped hers around it.

  “And knowing Oliver,” Ashley continued, “you’re going to need one, too.”

  “Who has sewn before?” Becca Trevor looked out over the motley group of women assembled in the upstairs classroom at Quilt Therapy. “Anything. Even if it’s just something small.”

  Next to Serena, Ashley cautiously raised her hand. “I’ve made some throw pillows for around the house.”

  “Okay, good. Anyone else?”

  Serena watched as several other women called out their sewing histories. A table runner. A tote bag. An apron. Her own hands stayed right where they were, firmly planted on the long white table. She had no sewing history whatsoever. Her mother was never the artsy-craftsy type. Not even in that rich, Martha Stewart why-yes-I-have-the-time-to-make-my-own-drapes way.

  Her parents’ house in New York was professionally decorated. She much preferred the house she lived in now. It wasn’t fancy, but it was comfortable and neat—and it reflected the people who lived there. Well, except for the newly red kitchen. Her mother would probably cringe were she to ever set foot in it, which Serena doubted would happen only when hell froze over. And maybe not even then.

  She and Oliver weren’t rich. They could have been, if her parents hadn’t revoked her trust fund. Ollie had always said he didn’t care about that. She wondered, though, if that was really true. He’s marrying you for your money. Those were her father’s words when she announced her engagement to a handsome, responsible, kindhearted small town firefighter. You can have your trust fund when you come to your senses and marry someone more appropriate.

  She had yet to come to her senses.

  “Well, this class requires no sewing experience,” Becca continued.

  Serena refocused her attention on the present. Michelle Trevor had talked both Serena and Ashley into taking a quilting class with Becca. So here they were. Serena looked doubtfully at the small stack of fabric before her on the table. The class was so beginner level, the students didn’t even have to pick out the fabric. She’d gotten a mix of blues and greens, while Ashley’s luck of the draw had netted her reds and purples.

  “We’re going to be making a string quilt in a wall hanging size. It has only four blocks, so if you mess one up it’ll be easy to just make another.”

  Becca looked and sounded like a different person here than when Serena saw her at Oliver’s dad’s house. She looked older today in her skinny blue jeans and oversized black turtleneck. Authoritative, too. She was more in her element here, Serena thought, than at the Wolfe house, surrounded by all that testosterone. The absence of Angie Wolfe was palpable when the entire family got together.

  That was why she had agreed to take this quilting class—in honor of her late mother-in-law.

  “This is what your finished quilts will look like.”

  Becca held up a square that looked to be roughly three feet by three feet. From this distance in the back row of the classroom, it looked impossibly complicated despite Becca’s assertion that the project was for beginners.

  Within minutes, both Serena and Ashley were standing at the long cutting table that ran the length of the room’s side wall. They busied themselves with cutting long strips, slicing through the fabric with the store-provided rotary cutters. She had to admit, there was a certain sort of zen peacefulness to it, a rhythm to the slicing and stacking. It was a relief to focus her mind on something relatively mindless, instead of her struggles to remember who she was. Now that the holidays were over and the boys were back in school, the house was quiet and still for six hours a day.

  Too quiet. Too still.

  Her empty mind was always too ready to fill the silence with worry.

  Becca was walking down the line of women, peering over hunched shoulders at their handiwork. “How’s it going?” she asked as she reached Serena and Ashley.

  “Still have all my digits.” Ashley wiggled her fingers.

  “Digits are good.” Becca laughed, then turned back to the class. “Okay, when you have all your strips cut, head back to the sewing tables. Spread out your strips and line them up next to each other. Think about the order you might want them in.”

  Serena carried a handful of dangling strips back to her seat, where she proceeded to shuffle them around, trying to decide on the most pleasing combination. She glanced over at Ashley, who had expertly combined hers into what looked like a perfect arrangement.

  “You’re good at this,” Serena said.

  “I was an art history and photography major. I learned a few things about color and compositional balance.”

  “Pretty sure mine isn’t going to have that.”

  “Here.” Ashley leaned over and moved a few of Serena’s strips around. “What do you think?”

  All of a sudden, Serena was hit with a blast of déjà vu so intense that it took her breath away. She closed her eyes to try and hold on to it. Memories snuck up on her, but they could sneak away just as quickly.

  “Are you okay?” Ashley asked.

  She opened her eyes. “Yeah. I get these flashes of … something. Like something is trying to break through in my brain. But then it’s gone as quick as it comes.”

  “What triggers it?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It seems to just happen randomly.”

  “Mom? I forgot to tell you something.”

  Cam was sitting in the bathtub, rubbing shampoo through his dark, wet hair. Serena watched him from her perch on the toilet seat.

  “Oh yeah? What did you forget?”

  Cam forgetting something was not a surprise. He and his older brother were like night and day. Where Mason was buttoned down, Cam was like a rubber ball bouncing off every available surface. Mason sized up his surroundings, even if that was just the dining room table. Cam was more apt to notice what was in a room about five minutes after he entered it.

  “The teacher gave me a note for you. It’s in my backpack.”

  “Oh. And what’s the note about?”

  Oliver had said he was worried that Cam might not be adjusting to school as easily as Mason did. She wondered whether that was really the case, or whether that was Oliver making assumptions based solely on the differences between the boys—and on the fact that Mason shared a temperament and outlook with his dad.

  Cam is
definitely more like me. Even though he looked more like Oliver—tall and loose-limbed with dark hair that was on the straighter side. Mason, on the other hand, favored Serena in appearance. Shorter, more compact, curly black hair he would take scissors to if it got longer than he liked.

  “I don’t know. It’s in an envelope.” He gave his head one final rub. “I’m ready to rinse now.”

  A note in an envelope. That sounded rather ominous, she thought, as she kneeled next to the tub and began to rinse the shampoo from Cam’s hair. “Did you get in trouble today?”

  “No.” The note of indignation in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Okay. I’ll read the note when you’re out of the tub.” She ran her fingers through his dripping hair. “I think you’re all rinsed.”

  While Cam toweled off and put on his flannel pajamas, Serena called downstairs to Mason, who was picking up Legos. “Anyone interested in a bedtime story?” There was a beat of silence before she heard his footsteps heading toward the stairs.

  “Are we waiting for dad?” Mason’s head appeared over the risers.

  She peered into the boys’ bedroom, at the clock on the wall. “He’s supposed to be home any minute now but it’s getting late.”

  As if on cue, the fire station’s siren began its slow, high-pitched whine.

  “Yeah. He won’t be home now,” Mason said dejectedly as he trudged into the bedroom. Serena followed and climbed up onto the bed with him.

  Was this normal? Oliver was hardly ever home, at least not when the boys were awake. Or me. Ashley was right. She and Oliver did need some alone time. But she needed time with the boys, too—that was her number one priority. And all four of them needed time together as a family.

  And when he was home, he could barely contain his frustration sometimes. Not with her, but with the whole situation. He’d been expecting that when she woke up, she’d have to catch up on four months of life. Instead, she was scrambling to catch up on seven years.