The Bride with No Name. Marie Ferrarella
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than guide her toward the parking lot, he indicated that they were going to go in the opposite direction.
As he placed his hand to the small of her back, he felt her stiffen beneath his fingertips. Giving no indication that he’d noticed, he dropped his hand to his side.
“The restaurant’s right over here.”
She stopped and looked at the blue-and-gray stucco single-story building. Navy-blue trim outlined the door and windows. The building went on for half a city block. A terrace ran along the length of the back of the restaurant. The tables and chairs that usually occupied it during working hours were tucked just inside a wall of glass for the night.
It looked nice. Inviting, even in the darkness. “This is yours?”
Taking his key out, he unlocked the door and then held it open for her. “Mine and the bank’s.”
She walked in front of him. He hit a switch to the right of the door. Lights came on, illuminating the way.
It was homey, she thought, as she scanned the interior. Warm. She liked it.
“It’s nice,” she commented. Desperate to find something familiar to grasp, she continued her search over to the reception desk. Nothing around her nudged at any distant images. Still, she heard herself asking, “Have I ever been in here before?”
He turned on another series of lights, not wanting her to feel any more disoriented. “Not that I know of, but then, I’m usually in the kitchen.” He only came out on occasion, when someone he knew was in the dining area.
When he said he owned the restaurant, she’d thought of the financial end. She hadn’t thought of him in any other capacity. Cocking her head, she tried to picture him at a stove, surrounded with boiling pots.
“You’re a chef?”
Trevor smiled, thinking of the diploma from the culinary academy that hung on the wall of his tiny office in the back. “So I like to think.”
“Who’s Kate?” she asked suddenly, turning toward him. “Your wife?”
“My stepmother.”
“Oh.” Now that was odd. Most people thought of stepmothers as creatures to get away from, not immortalize. She had no idea where the thought came from, but it took root, planting itself firmly in her mind. Did she have a stepmother? Was that why she felt like that?
“That’s a little strange.” And then she realized that she’d said the words out loud. She didn’t want to offend him, not after he’d rescued her. “Sorry, none of my business.”
He couldn’t help wondering what sort of unsavory scenario she’d just conjured up in her mind. Something from her past? Was she remembering?
“My stepmother came to work for my dad as our nanny a little more than twenty years ago. She basically saved our lives—not the way I saved yours,” he qualified, “but in a sense, just as dramatically.” On the outside, they had seemed like a family, but inside, they’d all kept to themselves, at least as far as the pain was concerned. Losing their mother had been hard on all of them. “She brought a lot of happiness into our world and she’s been supportive of all of us from the first day, even when we gave her a hard time.”
Trevor continued turning on lights as he went toward the rear of the restaurant, to where the walk-in refrigerator was located.
She followed him, but she’d stopped listening right after Trevor had said the part about saving her life. It came home to her in letters ten feet high.
He had saved her life.
If not for this man, she would have quite possibly died in that ocean.
By design?
By accident?
Damn it, why wasn’t anything coming back to her? she silently demanded. Why didn’t she even know her own name? At least the first name, if not the last.
Lost in thought, she impotently clenched her hands into fists again and sighed, struggling to keep her frustration in check.
He heard the loud sigh. Trevor doubted the woman was even aware of it. Opening the door to the refrigerator, he took a step in, then looked around at several racks containing covered pans.
“Can you remember liking anything in particular?” he asked her. When there was no answer, he turned to glance at her over his shoulder. There was a puzzled expression on her face. “Food,” he specified. “Can you remember a favorite food?” She seemed to be trying to remember, but then shook her head. “Okay then,” he said philosophically. “Maybe this’ll be your new favorite food.”
He took out a tray, placed a serving on a subdued Wedgwood blue plate and stuck it into the microwave. A minute and a half later, he took out a warm plate of chicken tetrazzini. It had been on this evening’s menu. While it was always a popular item, he’d had a few servings left when he closed his doors.
Tomorrow, everything that hadn’t been consumed today would find its way to St. Anne’s Homeless Shelter. Luther, a man who had worked and lived at the shelter these last twelve years, came by every morning at eight to pick up the leftovers. Trevor made sure that there always were some, even if he had to prepare them that morning. Luther never left empty-handed.
But this serving was for his mermaid, he thought, bringing it over to the table where, during business hours, the salads were prepared.
She stood on ceremony for exactly half a minute, then ate with gusto.
He liked seeing people enjoy his food like this, although, to be fair, the woman would have probably enjoyed anything at this point. She seemed to be as ravenous as she’d claimed.
The entire serving was gone within less than ten minutes. He supposed that nearly drowning spiked a person’s appetite.
“More?” he asked when she pushed the empty plate away from her.
Smiling for the first time since he’d saved her, the woman shook her head. She had a nice smile, Trevor thought.
“No, I’m full.” She resisted the urge to run her fingers over the plate and lick them. “And it was very good. You made this?”
It was one of the first things he’d ever learned to prepare. He’d been seven and Kate had made him her assistant, tying one of her aprons around his waist. It had dragged on the floor, but he’d had the time of his life. He’d gotten hooked on cooking from the very start.
“It’s an old stand-by,” he answered.
“Well, it’s very good,” she repeated, her tone sounding a little awkward. “Thank you.”
He saw concern slip over her face. “What?”
She tried not to let the anxiety take her prisoner. “That’s it exactly. ‘What?’ What do I do now?”
“Well, if you want my opinion,” he said, “I think you should be checked out at a hospital. Just in case.”
She frowned. At the mention of the word hospital, she felt something tighten inside. Was she afraid of hospitals? Had she had a bad experience? Had someone she cared about died in a hospital? It was so terribly annoying, not having a single answer, a single clue to anything about herself.
“I’m okay,” she answered.
“You have amnesia,” Trevor pointed out to her. “That’s not okay.”
She followed him out into the dining hall again. “But they can’t fix that in a hospital, can they?”
“I don’t know, but this way, you find out if you have a concussion, or anything else wrong.” Although from where he sat, she looked damn near perfect, at least on the outside, he mused.
He kept the thought to himself.
“They’re going to want to know