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

evening. If they felt hungry later, Barnstable was bursting with great places where they could grab lunch, and whatever they did, she urged them to explore the village, where they would find lots of little art galleries.

They hopped in the convertible and headed straight for it, strolling down the narrow winding streets and popping in and out of art galleries of varying standards.

Their wanderings took them down to the port, and Simon suggested they walk down the jetty, where a vendor had set up his cart. He could do with a coffee and muffin.

“Last night was brave of you,” Simon said.

A street performer was strumming a few chords on his guitar to the delight of the passersby. And just as Melly walked past, he began to hum. “And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson . . .”

“I enjoyed our performance,” she said, bringing her attention back to the moment. “It was a good night, and I really like Pia.”

“I meant our pillow talk. I was really touched by how you decided to open up to me. It was brave of you to tell me everything. You took the plunge.”

Melly had started feeling strange as soon as they had stepped onto the jetty. She turned suddenly to Simon and stared deep into his eyes.

“Kiss me,” she whispered. “I know you don’t like women, but please. Just kiss me.”

And Simon did. It was a delicate kiss, and before she knew it, a face formed in her mind’s eye, too hazy and fleeting for her to grasp. Other lips came to her, a man’s fragrance, the smell of skin.

More important, Melly remembered. She remembered having loved. Now she was sure of it.

When they pulled away from one another, Simon stared at her, surprised despite himself.

“I’m so confused,” she mumbled. “I don’t know what got into me.”

“It was surprising,” Simon replied. “But not bad. Not bad at all. You’re the first woman I’ve ever kissed.”

Embarrassed, Melly raised a hand to his lips to prevent him from saying any more, but Simon pushed her away playfully.

“And the last,” he laughed.

They drank a coffee at the end of the jetty.

That night, back in the bedroom after dinner, Melly asked Simon the questions she had been dying to pose.

“Have you ever known me to be in a serious relationship?”

“No.”

“I never told you about anyone special?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but you were always very secretive about your personal life. To the extent that the other musicians wondered if you even had one. It was like the piano was your only lover. You were tuned out to all the rest, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

“Seriously? I never had any lovers when we were on tour?”

“Nope. Or if you did, they were remarkably discreet too. What?” He frowned. “What did I say?”

“Nothing. I just had this weird feeling when you said ‘remarkably.’”

“Maybe that’s a good sign. A magic password to unlock your memory.”

Simon repeated the word over and over again, but nothing remarkable happened.

That night, Melly started dreaming again.

This time, she was in a small seaside hotel room. The bedsheets were twisted, and a pair of jeans was laid over a chair near the window where she sat. The sea breeze whipped her face. Her feet were covered in sand, and a wave was rushing toward her, but she didn’t struggle to escape. A series of strange images came to her, the kind of images that dreams often bring. But stranger still was that she didn’t recognize the face staring back at her from the mirror over the bed.

She woke, drenched in sweat. Dawn was breaking, and try as she might, she couldn’t get back to sleep.

Simon took her home early in the afternoon. He wanted to avoid the Sunday traffic jams as he was heading off on tour that same night.

He regretted mentioning the tour, but Melly reassured him. She felt no pang of nostalgia over the concerts. In fact, she wasn’t nostalgic for anything at all. That was one of the few benefits of amnesia.

When they pulled up outside the front steps of the Barnett home, Simon promised he would write her regularly because she didn’t know how to use voice messages.

“And you get that email isn’t delivered by hand, right?” he laughed.

“And you get that you’re heading for a smack, right?”

Melly made to lean in for a kiss, but turned her face at the last minute, her lips landing on his cheek.

“I scared you, didn’t I?”

“No. I could get into the habit with you.”

“I don’t believe you for a second, but I like how gentlemanly you are. Thank you for the weekend. I had a wonderful time. Except that now, I want to go home just about as much as I’d like to hang myself from a piano string.”

“You know that at your age, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get your own place?”

“I’ve been obsessed with that idea since yesterday. I should never have given up the apartment I had when we started that tour. Having said that, I was going to be on the road for a year . . . And apparently, I wanted to move to Tuscany, anyway. According to my interview with an Italian journalist.”

“And if the journalist had been German, you would probably have said you were fantasizing about moving to Berlin. I won’t be back for a few weeks, so if you start feeling suffocated in this mansion, feel free to go to my place. It’s small, though,” he added. “I’ll let the doorman know. Just ask him for a set of keys, and make yourself right at home.”

Melly thanked Simon and felt a pang at the idea of his going away for so long.

As the car pulled off, she climbed the stairs and stepped into the house.

Betsy, waiting for her in the hall, flung her arms around her.

“Well?” she whispered triumphantly into her daughter’s ear. “Who was right?”

“You, of course,” Melly sighed.

She went into the kitchen to hug Dolores, and remembered it was Sunday.

Betsy had