Hope, Levy, Marc [good summer reads TXT] 📗

walked across the restaurant and pushed open the door to the restroom. He found her staring at her pale face in the mirror.

“I think this is the ladies’ room,” she said shyly.

“It depends on the circumstances.” Simon walked toward her and turned off the faucet she had left running. He sat down by the sink.

“Are we alone?” he whispered.

“I didn’t hear anyone, but you can check under the doors if you like.” Melly smiled.

“Let’s risk it. I’m sorry. I had no idea this brunch would be an ambush. If I’d known . . .”

“That’s very tactful of you,” she interrupted. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“That’s a nice word. I’ve never heard you say it before.”

“What word?”

“Tactful.”

“It’s the first that sprang to mind.”

“How are you feeling?” Simon asked.

“Lost.” She didn’t need to search for the word; it came instantly to her lips.

“Look, I’m not exactly the most . . . tactful of people when it comes to expressing myself, but I want you to know I’m so glad you made it through. I came to see you at the hospital at the start, but you won’t remember. You were in a coma.”

“If that were the only thing I didn’t remember, life would be pretty good.”

Melly had no idea why she suddenly wanted to pour her heart out to Simon. Maybe it was the unprompted way he had disrupted her father’s plans that inspired her to trust him. Or maybe she just needed to share with somebody else the fact that she was living a lie, a lie that was suffocating her to the point where it had made her dizzy earlier. How could she possibly consider going back onstage when the only way she had been able to feel certain that she had ever played in public had been to watch a video of one of her last concerts? The worst thing had been that she hadn’t even recognized herself.

“You’re a miracle. You need to give yourself time. Get out and about, see people. Relax, learn to enjoy life again, and the rest will fall into place.”

“See what people? I can’t remember anyone.”

“Not even us?”

“Us . . . ?”

“Us!” Simon’s eyes were sparkling.

“There was an us?”

“Sure there was!”

“You mean we . . . ?”

“Every time we went on tour. It was a hell of a good time.”

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously,” Simon laughed. “I’m sorry; I was only kidding around. I love women, just not in bed. But that’s a secret, okay? You’re the only one in the orchestra to know it. You and Sammy, the makeup artist. Anyway, it might seem retrograde, but my family is extremely conservative, and somehow I haven’t gotten around to having that particular conversation with them.”

“Did my dad tell you about what he calls my ‘hazy moments’?”

“Nothing at all, I swear. He just said you were still shaky.”

“Okay, then I’ll swap your secret for one of my own. It’s a big one. And nobody knows, apart from the doctors,” Melly added. “I don’t remember a thing. Nothing about my life, our concerts, not George. I don’t even remember anything about my parents. My IQ is still fine; I’m not a child or anything. At least, I don’t think I am. I remember all my words, all the little everyday movements of life come back to me without any trouble. I can play music like a dream without knowing how, but everything that ever existed before the accident is a void to me. Just a sweeping nothingness. I wanted to be a good girl and keep everybody happy, so I’m cheating. Everything I know, I learned by heart. When I walk around the house, sometimes I get this sense of déjà vu and a few fragmented glimpses of being a teenager. But are they real memories? Or did I make them up? Basically, I’m an imposter, just like my old nanny said.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, and don’t let your dad be hard on you, either. There’s a good chance this amnesia is temporary. And if you need to pretend to feel like yourself, then go for it. I know how it works. I’ve been pretending to be someone else since I was fourteen. Oh, I’ve had lovers who accused me of not accepting myself for who I am.” Simon shrugged. “But they were wrong. What you are doesn’t matter. It’s who you are that’s important. Now, on those profound thoughts that I’ll probably regret later, we need to get back to the table. They’re going to start wondering if we’re getting up to something uncatholic.”

“Who cares? Harold’s a Protestant, and Betsy is Buddhist,” Melly quipped.

Simon stared at her before bursting into laughter.

“Well, I guess we just learned something about you that even I didn’t know,” he said as they left the restroom. “You have a great sense of humor.”

Harold had predicted a storm. It turned out to be a tornado. Betsy’s anger was relentless. After brunch, when Melly and Simon disappeared for a walk along the Charles River, Harold found himself head-to-head with his wife in the car. Luckily, Walt had driven them home faster than usual, and that was the only reason Harold was still standing.

As soon as they arrived at the estate, Betsy grabbed her husband by the shoulder and frog-marched him into the living room. He had wanted a woman taller than he was, and he had learned to live with the consequences.

The head housekeeper decided not to ask whether they wanted coffee, and stayed away behind the door with the butler’s assistant. This time, there was no need to press an ear to the door; the voices carried through the wall into the kitchen.

“How could you do such a thing . . . You never give up, do you? You don’t own her . . . You’re obsessed . . . You should be ashamed of yourself . . . You need to apologize, no ifs, ands, or buts!”

Harold kept his cool. He knew that any attempt to refute her accusations would be in vain and would only make things worse.

He took her verbal blows in