Wrong Twin, Right Man

“All right, then. Thanks,” she murmured, and he felt a rush of relief shoot through his veins. “For the next six weeks, Rafe, I’ll come stay with you.”

Rafe was as thoughtful a host as anyone could possibly want, Anne decided after he’d left her alone to “settle in” to the guest room Beth had reportedly decorated with her in mind. The room wasn’t quite as cozy or relaxing as she might have liked, but surely her sister had known her tastes.

Which meant, she realized while rearranging the bewildering jumble of faxes on the desk, this room was just one more example of how the accident had changed her character.

It was nothing to worry about, Dr. Sibley had assured her. People always changed after some kind of trauma, and the changes seldom lasted.

So this feeling of being slightly off balance, of not recognizing clients and names she had apparently known for years, was sure to disappear soon.

As if he’d sensed her disquiet, Rafe called from the hallway outside her door, “Anne, you all right? Can I get you anything?”

“I’m okay,” she called back, then realized he must be deliberately keeping out of her room. “Come in…I was just looking at all these faxes.”

He frowned when he saw her hunched over the desk, but refrained from comment. Instead he said, “I’m going to make some coffee, if you want any.”

Coffee sounded surprisingly good, although she hated to have him waiting on her after he’d already disrupted his entire day to bring her home from the hospital, past the physical therapy clinic for a first meeting with Cindy, and finally here.

“I’ll do it,” Anne offered, and he stopped her with a quick gesture.

“You’ll be on your own tomorrow morning, remember? Don’t push it.”

She had insisted that he maintain his usual schedule at the legal clinic, even though it meant taking a cab to her therapy session, and Rafe had reluctantly agreed to keep his early-morning appointment with a pregnant teenager. This man lived for the street kids he served, Anne suspected, and her rueful awareness of such devotion meant that Beth must have complained about it.

As a third party, though, she couldn’t help admiring his heartfelt dedication to the job.

After all, from the tone of the messages on her desk, she apparently shared it herself. Which made it all the more disturbing that none of these faxes made sense.

“I’d better save the coffee break for when I get caught up,” she admitted, and Rafe hesitated in the doorway.

“Take it easy, okay?” he cautioned her, evidently viewing the warning as even more vital than the coffee. “Give yourself time to get back on your feet.”

Good advice, she knew, but that didn’t make it any easier to ignore the pile of papers on her desk. She picked up the stack again, wincing at the thought of all those decisions to be made. “I just feel bad thinking about everyone in Chicago, waiting for me to get back—”

“Anne,” he interrupted, crossing the room to pull the papers away from her and jamming them into a drawer. “Stop it. They’re lucky to have you alive, period, and they can wait another couple months to have you back.”

She should probably take offense at such high-handed behavior, but for some reason all she could feel right now was gratitude. Because this man, however dictatorial, was right. What mattered was being alive.

And everything else could wait.

“Thanks,” she murmured, then saw the wreath of straw flowers in the drawer he’d left open. That Southwestern cluster of turquoise and coral blossoms mingled with twigs was part of the guest room decor, and its absence had puzzled her. “Oh, the desert wreath! I was wondering what happened to—”

But that didn’t make sense, she realized with a sudden jolt of shock, and saw the same incredulity on Rafe’s face before his expression grew softer.

“Beth must have told you a lot about the house,” he observed.

That did make sense. Far more sense than feeling as if she and Beth had somehow traded places.

“That has to be why I know where everything goes,” Anne agreed. And why she felt so very much at home here, as if she belonged in this house. It was the same sense of belonging she had felt when Rafe brought her Beth’s clothes to wear home from the hospital—their luggage from the train was still lost somewhere—and she’d been overwhelmed with a sense of familiar comfort. “We must’ve spent so much time talking, it’s like…well, kind of like she’s still with me.”

He regarded her curiously for a moment, but she saw no hint of doubt in his dark, watchful eyes. “Yeah?”

“I know that sounds weird, but—”

“No,” he said gently, “not for twin sisters. And you two were pretty close. You talked every week.”

They must have, because otherwise she couldn’t possibly have known that Beth kept pencils in the file cabinet.

But how could she be so clear on pencils, on how to jiggle the bedside lamp switch, on the names of her sister’s closest friends, and so vague on the details of her own life in Chicago?

“I wish I could remember more,” Anne told him. “I know it’ll all come back, but so far almost everything I remember is from when we were little.”

“Give yourself time,” he repeated, then sat down on the foot of the copper-varnished bed, facing her with a mingled look of resolve and entreaty. “Meanwhile, is there anything I can do?”

He’d done so much already that she hated to ask for more, but seeing her sister’s wreath had reminded her of the need for a traditional farewell. She would never say goodbye to the memories of her twin, which seemed even stronger here in Beth’s home, but after missing the funeral she needed to make some kind of gesture.

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind…I’d really like to take Beth some flowers.”

Rafe hesitated, and she saw his neck muscles tighten.

“It’s okay,” she said hastily. The man didn’t need any more reminders of what he’d lost. “I can do that later.”

“No.” He stood up, squaring his shoulders. “No, you need to say goodbye.” Then he glanced at his watch. “Let me just—”

“Rafe, not now!” Surely he didn’t think she meant him to drop everything and escort her to the cemetery this very minute. “I just meant, when you get time.”

But apparently he was already recovered from that moment of hesitation, because he asked, “How about tomorrow?”

After more than two weeks since her sister’s death, there couldn’t be any rush about saying goodbye. And yet visiting Beth’s grave might let her start working through the grief, accepting the loss and moving on.

“Well,” she said softly, “if that’s all right with you.”

“Yeah, it’s okay. It’s fine.” He walked back to the door, then turned to face her again, as if he needed to explain himself. “I haven’t been there since the funeral.”

“You don’t have to—” she began, and he cut off her protest.

“No, I do. How about, I pick you up from your session with Cindy and we’ll stop for flowers on the way.”

Suddenly the man was sounding more like an attorney than she’d ever imagined him—more decisive and also more determined—yet somehow she had the impression that his take-charge demeanor was only a facade.

“Is that all right?” she faltered. “I don’t want to put you through—”

“Anne, come on.” Even his posture had changed; he was standing with an attitude of confidence that bordered on defiance. “I can handle it.”

“Well, it’s just…”

“I can handle it!”

“Because you’re Mr. Tough Guy,” she offered, and he responded with a startled expression.