This Reminds Me of Us Page 9

  She smiled slyly at him. “You arranged this, didn’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.” Inwardly, he breathed a tiny sigh of relief. “I remembered how much you liked it.”

  “And I remember how much you hate champagne.”

  “For you, I’ll drink it.” To prove his point, he lifted the flute to his lips and swallowed half the drink in one gulp. “I’d drink anything.” And he would. He’d eat bugs like people on those television shows do, slay monsters, run a thousand miles—anything to keep Serena in his life.

  Battle your own doubts?

  I’m working on it.

  “We should go back to Hawaii someday,” she said.

  Her smile lit up his heart. Hell, everything about his wife lit up his heart. That curly hair his fingers were itching to get to right now. Those soft lips. The womanly body beneath that pink blouse and dark grey pants. Her slightly chubby toes that he had once spent a leisurely hour painting bright red polish on. Before the boys were born. He had tried to match the kitchen walls to that polish, as best as he could remember it. I should do that again. He’d made a complete mess of it—the nails, not the kitchen—but she had simply laughed it off. That was back when neither of them could do any wrong in each other’s eyes.

  He took another quick sip of champagne to help mask what he knew was a stupidly sappy expression on his face. “Just the two of us, or with the boys?” he asked.

  She pretended to think for a moment. “They would have a blast there, wouldn’t they? Though I’m not sure we could get Cam into a helicopter. Mason, no problem, but Cam?” She shook her head lovingly.

  She remembered the helicopter ride from their honeymoon. A rush of heat blanketed his heart.

  Things are going to be fine.

  He had to just keep reminding himself of that.

  Patience, Oliver.

  He was about to reach across the table and take her hand in his when the waitress showed up with menus and a recitation of the evening’s specials. Creole pasta, a roasted prime rib, and a double thick pork chop. Oliver let his eyes scan the menu, though he knew what he wanted already.

  You always get that.

  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

  “What are you getting?” she asked, not lifting her eyes from the menu.

  “The New York strip.” He waited for her to mention that he always ordered the New York strip, joke about what on earth a cut of beef had to do with the Big Apple. He’d looked it up once online. The name began at a restaurant in New York.

  But tonight, all of that seemed to sail right over her head.

  “Mmm. I’m leaning toward the mushroom stroganoff,” she mused.

  Mushroom stroganoff? She hated mushrooms. It was a vegetarian dish, too. Was his wife now a vegetarian? How was that going to work? He and the boys were committed carnivores.

  Let her figure it out.

  “That sounds good, too,” he pretended to agree. What she ate for dinner wasn’t important.

  After the waitress returned and took their orders, he asked, “Do you remember this place?”

  Serena looked around at the exposed brick walls and the weathered pine floors. The restaurant was in one of the oldest buildings in St. Caroline. Local lore maintained that George Washington had slept there. Oliver wasn’t sure that was true, but neither did it seem out of the realm of possibility.

  “Maybe? I’m not sure. How many times have we been here?”

  “Lots.” He tried to tamp down the disappointment in his chest. “It was our go-to place for birthdays and anniversaries.”

  He followed her gaze as she scanned the dining room. Most of the tables were for two, filled with couples.

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Ollie. I’m sorry that I don’t remember it. That’s why you made reservations here?”

  “It’s okay, babe. I just thought that if we went someplace we’d been before, it might spur some memories.”

  “Haven’t we been to most places in St. Caroline?”

  “Yeah, true.” He ran a finger around the rim of his water glass. “But I wanted to take you to a nice place tonight.”

  “Well, this is nice.” She smiled at him. “And I’ll definitely remember it now.”

  Their meals arrived and they ate quietly for a few minutes before she added, “You know, we might have to settle for just making new memories. The doctor said he can’t promise how much I’ll recover.”

  “I know. But it’s worth a try, isn’t it?” We had so many good memories. He swallowed those words with his steak.

  She shrugged. “I just don’t want to get your hopes up.” She swirled a mushroom in the sauce on her plate. “I feel like the more I try to remember things, the harder it becomes.”

  He reached across the table and touched her wrist. “So let’s talk about new memories, then. How is your quilting class going?”

  “Good. Though Becca might have a different take on that.” She laughed. “I don’t think I’ll ever be any good at it—certainly not as good as your mom was—but it’s kind of fun. It’s growing on me.”

  She spent a few minutes describing the string quilt she was making in class. The waitress brought dessert menus. While they considered apple crumb cake, Tahitian vanilla creme brulee, and blackberry sorbet, Serena spoke again.

  “I’m going to volunteer in Cam’s classroom, starting next week.”

  He looked up. “Oh? You are?” He set down the menu. “Are you sure you feel up to it? There’s no rush to jump back into things.”

  “The teacher asked. She needs someone.”

  “How will you get to the school?” She wasn’t cleared to drive yet. According to the doctor, it would be a few months.

  “Ash said she’d drive me. This is the slow season for wedding photography. At least around here.”

  “Oh. You’ve already discussed this with her?” Why not me?

  Why hadn’t she consulted with him before deciding to do this? He was about to voice his complaint, but her shining face stopped him. She was excited about this.

  That’s a good thing, Ollie.

  He bit back the complaint. “Well, Cam will love that. Mason always did.”

  Right now, Oliver was exactly where he wanted to be. At home, flat on his back in bed, his wife’s nearly naked body on top of his. Skin on skin. He had missed that almost more than anything—the feel of her bare skin on his. The warmth, the scent, the taste. With the boys at his dad’s house for the night, it felt like they were on a date from long ago. They could make love until dawn if they wanted to.

  He wanted to.

  He also wanted her to continue doing exactly what she was doing right now, leisurely kissing and licking his neck … his jawline … his cheek. He knew exactly where her soft lips were headed, and a certain part of his anatomy stiffened in sweet anticipation.

  When her lips brushed the curve of his ear, his eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Mmm,” she whispered. “If you get any harder, we’ll need to call 911.”

  Her warm breath filled his ear and flowed straight down to his groin, taking more blood flow from his brain with it. “Please don’t do that. Matt’s on duty tonight.”

  She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, her lips parted in a smile that was equal parts sexy and mischievous. He reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. It was lacy and black. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen this one before.

  “Is this new?” He slid the wisp of fabric down her arms as she sat back up. “I like it,” he added. He liked lingerie best when it was lying on the floor next to their bed.

  He let his hands slide slowly down her ribs until he reached the matching bottoms. Her hips were rocking back and forth, scrambling his thoughts. He slipped a finger beneath the elastic. “You’re still a little overdressed, love.”

  She leaned forward, resting her hands on either side of his shoulders as he slid the sheer black fabric down her legs. She kicked them off her ankles and settled her hips back down, her eyes closing. He
was content to just watch her move her body above his, against his, her arousal and pleasure washing over her face in waves.

  He wondered what she was thinking right now.

  He knew it was a bad place to go. A bad, dark place. A place he knew he’d regret exploring. Normal Oliver had hitchhiked home and waited for them in bed. Now he was whispering in Oliver’s ear again.

  It’s not what she’s thinking about. It’s who.

  Was she fantasizing about Ben Wardman?

  He wasn’t better looking than me. Sure, he was a runner and a soccer coach. But Oliver was a firefighter. He ran. He lifted weights.

  You’ve put on a little weight recently.

  Well, okay. He had. He and the boys had relied on takeout and fast food a little too much when Serena was in the hospital. Oliver could cook, some, but all three of them had tired of his rather limited cooking repertoire pretty quickly.

  Maybe she bought the lingerie for Ben and that was why it looked new to him. Granted, her lingerie never managed to stay on for very long, so it wasn’t something Oliver had ever paid a ton of attention to. He was more interested in what was beneath the sexy pieces of fabric.

  Above him, her breasts rose and fell with her breathing. She slowed the movement of her hips. He knew what she was doing. She was pulling herself back from the brink, letting her body calm down for a moment so she could savor the sensations longer.

  Did Ben know she liked to do that? He’d been a smart guy, after all. A teacher, college-educated. Oliver had gone straight from high school to the fire department. Ben could probably talk about a wide range of subjects. What did Oliver know? St. Caroline. Fires and how to fight them.

  He traced the tip of his finger around the soft indentation of her navel. The sound of her sudden, sharp inhale was satisfying to his ears. I know how to please her in bed. She didn’t seem to have forgotten how she liked to be touched.

  It was always a fool’s dream to think we could hold onto a woman like Serena.

  He felt Normal Oliver’s presence hovering above the bed. You always knew that. I told you she was out of your league.

  The pace of her rocking picked up again, and Oliver settled his hands on the points of her hip bones. He lifted her gently and then lowered her back down. There was a moment’s resistance and then he was deep inside her. Heaven. He mentally elbowed Normal Oliver out of the way. Serena was biting her lower lip, a sign that she was close to her orgasm. He pulled her down until they were pressed together, chest to chest.

  It was terrible to think ill of the dead. He knew that. But all the same, he wasn’t entirely sad that Ben Wardman was gone. He had enough things on his plate these days. Last thing I need is competition.

  Serena began making those little mewing sounds he loved so much. He pressed his hands against her back, holding her tight as her body began to convulse with wave after wave of pleasure. Before she could come down from the orgasm, he flipped her over onto her back.

  Take that. He mentally shoved Normal Oliver out of the way. Ben Wardman isn’t here anymore.

  Chapter 14

  Serena stopped in the open doorway of the classroom, and discreetly scanned the walls and clusters of tiny desks. She did that everywhere she went these days, looking for something she might remember, a face or some small object that might look familiar. Once in awhile, it happened—that vague sense of I know that person. Every time, she had to fight the impulse to call up Oliver and tell him. It got him too excited—and sometimes agitated—as he tried to puzzle out why that thing instead of another, more logical thing. Why this person and not someone else. It was a question she didn’t have the answer to.

  The doctor was fond of saying that the human brain was one of life’s most enduring mysteries. If a medical professional didn’t understand her brain, she certainly couldn’t.

  The classroom wasn’t giving her that vague sense, though. It looked familiar, in the way that all classrooms sort of look the same. Desks and chairs, winter coats on hooks, brightly colored posters and handmade decorations on the walls, the low-grade hum of young kids concentrating. She was about to step through the doorway when the noisy hush was split by a “There’s Cam’s mom!”

  Twenty heads spun around to look at her. Cam’s smile was so wide she feared his face might crack.

  “Mrs. Wolfe is here!” the teacher exclaimed, a beaming smile on her own face.

  After the note Cam brought home, Serena had run into Chelsea O’Connor in the produce aisle at the supermarket. She didn’t recognize Cam’s teacher, though maybe she would have if the other woman had been in context—in a classroom, in other words. Dressed in sweatpants and a winter parka, she had looked like any other weekend shopper.

  Today Chelsea looked like a kindergarten teacher in a brightly patterned dress over black leggings and funky short boots. Serena imagined she couldn’t be too much older than she and Oliver were.

  She stepped into the room, noticing another mother standing by the large white board. Serena smiled and nodded at her. The nod was returned but not the smile, and Serena wondered whether she knew the other woman. It was disconcerting to run into people and not know whether she was supposed to know them. Or what they might know about her.

  “Who’s ready for some word study?” Ms. O’Connor asked rhetorically.

  The classroom response was a little mixed. Cam seemed unaware that a question had even been asked. His eager eyes were glued to his mother.

  Serena was impressed by how quickly Chelsea O’Connor herded the kids into three groups. Differentiated instruction. The phrase popped into her head.

  “I gave you group three,” Chelsea said quietly to Serena, handing her a stack of worksheets. “You were always so good with the kids who are struggling a bit.”

  Serena took a deep breath as she watched the teacher sit down with the largest group, group two. I hope so. At least I didn’t forget how to read. She took one more glance at Cam, who was evidently in the group of kids working above grade level.

  She scanned the worksheet, which was photocopied on bright yellow paper and contained three columns of words. “Hat, hot, and hit,” she said as she passed them out. “Those are the sorts for today.” Sorts. It was coming back to her, and her heart skipped a beat. She knew what to do here. Pass out the safety scissors from the plastic basket. Have the kids snip and cut their worksheets into individual words.

  “Can anyone read today’s words for us?”

  Sat. Cat. Bat. Cot. Got. Spot. Fit. Kit. Lit. Pat. Rat. Lot. Tot.

  The kids quietly cut and sorted the words into columns, their tiny faces stern with concentration. Strolling around the cluster of desks, she peered over their hunched shoulders as they moved words around, considering and reconsidering their choices, quietly whispering the vowel sounds. When she glanced over at Cam’s group, she found him looking at her, his words already neatly sorted.

  “Cam is such a bright boy,” Chelsea O’Connor had said to her in the supermarket. “Has a wicked sense of humor, too.” That remark surprised Serena. Cam nearly always played second fiddle to his older brother at home—partly because he looked up to Mason, despite their daily squabbles. She couldn’t remember deferring to her older brother that way. She’d always felt perfectly equal to Peter, despite their three-year age difference. Maybe because they had always gone to different schools, it felt as though they led different lives.

  Come to think of it, her entire family had seemed to live separate lives. Once she and Peter were teenagers and off at their boarding schools in Connecticut, their lives diverged entirely from that of their parents.

  “Mrs. Wolfe?”

  She looked down at the little girl who’d just spoken her name. The girl’s word sort showed some confusion between the “a” and “o” sounds. Serena was about to slide a few of the words around when the girl spoke again.

  “Can Cam come over to my house again to play?”

  Just like that, Serena was thrown out of her momentary triumph of confidence.
She had no idea who this little girl was. But “again” would seem to indicate that she was a friend of Cam’s.

  “Umm, sure. If your mom is okay with that.”

  “I’m sure she will be.” The little girl was coated in confidence. “Do I have these right?”

  As Serena leaned over to help her, two pieces clicked together in her brain. That inexplicable sense of déjà vu she experienced while arranging her fabric strips in Becca’s quilting class? Her brain had been remembering this—helping kids sort their words in an elementary school classroom.

  “I’m just going to brush my teeth, then I’ll be right back. Okay, dad?”

  “Sure thing, bud.” Oliver watched as his oldest son marched off to the bathroom in his pajamas. The maturity in Mason’s voice these days broke his heart. No one ever tells you that about having kids. That being a parent will break your heart all the time. And always at a moment when you’re not expecting it.

  I told you that. At least a hundred times.

  Okay, so his mother had probably said that to him at least a hundred times when Serena was pregnant the first time. But just because something was a cliché didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

  “Dad? Can you help me?” Cam stood in front of his chest of drawers, wearing a pajama top and underwear, his long legs skinny and winter-pale. He held up a pair of pajama bottoms, the legs somehow twisted and tied up. Cam shook the pants, clearly frustrated.

  Oliver was lying on Cam’s bed, the night’s chosen bedtime story on the quilt next to him. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “Let’s see ‘em.” He took the twisted pajama pants from his youngest son’s hands. “Looks like they weren’t folded up properly before someone put them in the drawer.”

  Cam let out a giant exhale. “I know. I was in a hurry.”

  Oliver fought back a smile. Cam and Mason were like night and day, yet it was a difference that increasingly worried Oliver. Mason just seemed way too old for a seven-year-old sometimes. Even a seven-going-on-eight-year-old. He knew he hadn’t been that mature at that age.