Chapter 13

Bob went back to his apartment. The bed was still unmade and the wrinkled linens held the imprint of a bed that had been slept in by a couple. The pillow she'd used was lying against his own, like her head had lain close to his. On impulse, he bent to sniff the sheets where she had lain. They smelled like ... her.

He hadn't missed the verbal slip that the doctor had made. She'd been about to say that as much as she would have liked to get naked with him, right there in the office, it wasn't the right thing to do.

Going from having no real sex life at all to having two beautiful women lusting after him was monumental, at least in this situation. He knew Claire was no problem. He was sure she'd talk it over with him at some point if it was causing HER problems. He had no designs on her, though she was pure joy to look at and be around.

Lacey, though, was a different proposition. He couldn't talk to her about the problem ... not without possibly reawakening horrible memories that would destroy her again. It wasn't just the rape he was worried about. If she remembered killing her rapist, he knew it would torment her for the rest of her life. She was just that kind of person. At the same time, he couldn't live a lie with her. If he did that, and THEN she remembered her past ... it would destroy them both.

By the time he picked her up for dinner, he'd thought about it most of the day. He had to get her to talk to Claire. It was the only thing he could do. At least then, if she remembered, she'd be with a professional, who could deal with the trauma.

She met him with a kiss and the loin rubbing she was so good at, which made him erect almost instantaneously.

"Mmmmm," she said into his lips. "You DID miss me."

"I always miss you," he said.

"Why haven't we gotten married?" she asked him.

It was questions like that that brought his world crashing down around him ... and deflated his erection as quickly as it had appeared.

"Sit down," he said. "We have to talk."

"I can think of things I'd rather do than talk," she said, pressing her breasts against his chest.

"That's part of what we have to talk about," he said.

"Uh oh," she said, backing up. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

He had practiced for hours, but it all fled his mind like smoke in the wind.

"First off, I want to tell you that I love you," he said. Then he wasn't sure he should have said that. Claire saw things he couldn't quite lay out for himself. He was a little gun-shy about telling any woman that he loved her, but he knew that whatever it was he felt for Lacey, it was much stronger than anything he'd felt for any other woman.

"Of course you do," she said, frowning.

"Would you please let me finish?" he moaned. "This is hard enough as it is."

"It sounds like there's a 'but' at the end of that confession of love," said Lacey, her face going stiff.

"Lacey, please," he begged.

"All right," she said, folding her arms in a defensive posture.

"A lot has happened to you recently," he said. "Some of that has caused you to have some memory problems."

"I know that," she said impatiently.

"Lacey!" he barked.

"OK, OK," she said. "Go on."

"There are things that you don't remember ... things that happened to you, and things about us, and things about your past. Some of those things are very important to me, because they affect who you are. I love who you are ... who you were before ... and now..."

He tapered off. This wasn't going well at all. Thankfully, she sat, listening.

"I want you to remember some things," he said, trying again. "I think you'd want to remember them too ... I think they'd be important to you ... to us ... but at the same time, I DON'T want you to remember some of the really painful things."

She sat, still, stiff. When he didn't go on, she spoke.

"Can I say something now?"

"Yes," he said weakly.

"Do these painful things that I can't remember ... do they involve you?"

"In a way," he hedged.

"Did you hurt me?" she asked.

"No! I'd never do anything to hurt you!"

"Then how could they possibly affect you and me?" she asked.

"Some of what you've forgotten could very well affect how you think about me," he said. "It could ruin your life."

"What in the world could be so terrible that it could ruin my life?" she asked. "Did I murder somebody or something?"

She didn't see him go stiff, frozen by her comment, and went on.

"That can't be. I'd be in prison if I did something like that. Bob, why can't you just tell me what I've forgotten?"

"It's complicated," he said. "If you remember the wrong things, at the wrong time, it could drive you crazy. I'm walking around on tiptoes, afraid to tell you things, for fear that it would devastate your life."

"Well what are we supposed to do?" she moaned.

"There's a woman I know. I met her in my work. She's interested in talking to you about all this, and might be able to help you remember, in a way that won't be harmful. She's a psychiatrist."

"A psychiatrist," repeated Lacey.

"Yes," said Bob softly.

"And you want me to talk to her."

"Yes," said Bob, again softly.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" she asked.

"No."

"And you think this will help ... us?"

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