Mysterious Vows

“Why?” She sank down onto the edge of the bed. Her headache had faded, replaced by a dull pain in her upper back. She touched a tender area near her rib cage and winced.

“It’s dangerous,” he said. “You must know that. Just because you’ve left Guermina, you aren’t safe. There are people who don’t want you here in this country. There are people who want you dead.”

Why did he think she was from Guermina? That didn’t feel right, and yet she sensed that the rest of his statement was true. She was in danger.

My God, what had she done? She studied the chiseled planes of his handsome face. Her gaze lingered on the scar near his hairline. He had been injured, too.

Instinctively she wanted to trust him, to believe that they were on the same side. Why else would he be warning her? Her agile mind supplied a reason. It was possible that he was trying to frighten her to strengthen his hold on her, to make her dependent upon him. “Tell me what you know about me, Jason. Perhaps I can fill in the blanks.”

“How much do you know about yourself?” he asked sharply.

Did he know? Did he know how helpless she was? She tossed her head, masking her ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“Maria, I’m not a fool. It’s obvious that you have sustained some short-term memory loss. I don’t know how much or why. When I examined you yesterday, I found no physical evidence of head injury and—”

“You examined me?”

“Of course, I am trained as a physician and—”

“How much?” she interrupted him again. “How thorough was your examination?”

“Give me a break.” Abruptly he rose from the chair. “I might be crippled, but I haven’t stooped to the level of manhandling an unconscious woman. You were exhausted. You could barely make it from Elena to the house. There was no one else here. I wasn’t sure whether I should contact a doctor or not. I know nothing of your medical history.”

“What would you need to know?”

“Drugs,” he said. “Are you on any special medication?”

“No.” At least, she didn’t think so.

“Are you diabetic?”

“No.”

“This memory loss,” he said. “How far back does it extend?”

To birth, she thought. But she would not confide in him. He was clever and appealing, but she’d be crazy to trust him. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” He matched her cold bravado with his own diffident arrogance. “Then tell me about yourself.”

“I do not wish to recite my life story. Tell me what you know,” she reiterated, “and I will fill in the blanks.”

“I don’t know much beyond your book. Truth. I have a photocopy of it. In Spanish. Not the translation.”

She had written a book titled Truth. Her recollection came into dim focus. The book was about Guermina, the corruption of power, the exploitation of her people, deals with American immigration officials, political scandal on a multitude of levels.

This book, she knew, was the key to everything. “Give me the copy,” she demanded.

“That would be unwise,” he said.

“Why?”

“You know the answer to that question. I have the book locked away in a safe place. The location is indicated on a paper that will be opened in the event of my death. Even if you and I are assassinated...the book will survive.”

Assassinated? “I must have this book. Where is it?”

“How did you learn English?” he countered. “You speak like an American.”

“Then I must have learned from an American.” She had no idea of how she’d gained her knowledge of language. Spanish or English. But it seemed right to add, “I have an ear for languages.”

“What others do you know?”

In flawless French, she said, “I am well acquainted with French though I have only visited that nation briefly. And, of course, Portuguese, because I spent some time in Brazil.”

Images flooded her mind. In memory, she observed herself laughing in an outdoor café. Utterly carefree, she tossed her hair and sipped at strong, rich espresso. Then she was joined by a woman whose dark eyes bespoke a depth of suffering. The woman didn’t belong there. The memory was painful! A physical ache tightened Maria’s chest. She felt as though she were choking, drowning.

When she spoke again, she used English.

“Tired,” she murmured. “I’m so tired.”

She lay back on the pillows, knowing that she must not allow her memory of that woman to become completed in detail. She had to fight it. If she remembered, she would sink back into the pain, the dire sense of helplessness.

But she heard the woman’s voice echoing in her mind, repeating a name: Jason Wakefield Walker. And there were directions: the marina near Boothbay Harbor. The Elena, a sailboat. Slip number eighty-six.

Her gaze snapped back to the present and she turned her head to stare at him. Had the dark-eyed woman been warning her against this handsome man?

Beneath the pillow, covered in fabric that matched the bedspread, she heard a crumpling sound. She reached underneath the pillow and touched a balled-up scrap of paper. A note.

Her fingers closed around it.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Slowly he came toward her. “Maria? What’s wrong?”

“Keep away from me.”

“I won’t hurt you.” He braced himself on his cane and gestured with his free hand. “I married you, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She sat up on the bed to face him. “Yes. We are husband and wife.”

“And tonight is our honeymoon.” Sardonically he added, “I guess that makes me the luckiest man in the world.”

“Does my bedroom door have a lock?”

“Do you think that would stop me?”

“I would think that—if you’re a gentleman—you’ll respect my wish to be left alone.”

“I don’t believe you, Maria. You’re afraid of your real wishes. When you kissed me at the altar, your body responded to mine.”

“That meant nothing. It was a show.”