4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Spending the day dress shopping was an absolute disaster. I'd rather have my toes waxed—Fiona, my sister, had an appointment today.

This sounds dreary, but there are some things I wish I could forget. Spending any amount of time with Fifi. Others that I'd like to remember. Namely, living in Palisade Shores.

According to my records, we moved there during middle school. My parents had long been divorced. Dad was on wife number three: Sharon. She made a great French toast casserole.

But Mom and I moved into one of the mansions on Sand Dollar Strand, courtesy of the alimony payments. Previously, we'd had some pretty opulent houses, but this one came with a game room.

I know that because of photographs. But they only tell part of the story—a smile but not the sound of the laughter. The setting but nothing beyond the frame. The moment but nothing that came before or after.

According to Fifi, Imperial Enterprises is negotiating the purchase of a prime section of the Promenade, aka El Camino, aka the main street.

I click through some of the notes on my computer. It looks like that would mean the demolition of the coffee shop on one corner all the way to the candy shop on the other end, including the bridal shop and several other businesses in between. The sale contains all the land behind it, abutting Tropicalia Way. I zoom in on the GIS survey. Houses, the town library, and the middle school would be leveled in the multi-acre buyout. Of course, the landowners and town would be compensated and be able to rebuild elsewhere, but a tug inside tells me this is a bad idea.

Scratching my temple, maybe it's because I feel like a lost part of me is somewhere in that town. Yet, this is exactly what Imperial has always done and has paid my living expenses, college tuition, and everything from my Porsche to my Putoni Italian leather shoes. My father insists on the best even when neither feels quite like they fit.

The funny thing about losing memories is that I find myself clinging to all the new ones, storing them up in case I forget more. The doctors assured me that won't happen, yet I can't help but tuck away Bea's big brown eyes safely inside a pocket of my mind.

I click through some of the preliminary zoning and architecture documents and learn more about the construction of one of our premier properties with beachfront access right across the street. Dad would never pass that up. When I get to the bottom of the document, I see my name next to the title: Project Lead.

My stomach swims with uncertainty. He's passing me the reins. But do I want them?

Bea floats back into my thoughts. Strangely, I felt like I recognized her. However, we were at her shop long enough had that been the case, she would've said as much. I feel like the whole world knows about my accident even though we did our best to keep it under wraps.

Dad wanted to protect me from sharks sensing blood in the water, detecting vulnerability, and doubting my capacity to helm Imperial. I feel like I have to prove to my family that I'm better. "Poor tortured billionaire boy."

Bea...I wonder if it's a nickname. She's beautiful. Her name is in the word. Bea utiful.

"Finn," a sharp female voice repeats and then snaps her fingers to get my attention.

Looking up from the laptop, my sister Fiona stands in the doorway. Well, half-sister. She's Sharon's daughter and did not inherit the French toast casserole baking ability. There are five of us Barton siblings, one from each marriage. I can only imagine the terror Fifi will spawn.

We all have F starting names. It's our father's rule. No doubt the future baby will be named something like Fred or Faye.

"Poor tortured billionaire boy," Fiona repeats.

Uncertain how long she'd been standing there, her comment must have floated into my consciousness while I was thinking about Bea.

"Are you going to get ready or what?" Her tone is more of a demand than a question.

"Yeah. Of course," I say dully, not quite registering what I'm getting ready for.

"I'm doing you a favor. I think you and Linnea are going to hit it off. Help you get out of this funk."

"I'm not in a funk."

She mutters, "Well, you don't know how to have fun , which puts you in the funk category."

"That sounds like Frank-speak." But she's not wrong. "Did it occur to you that I forgot? Like literally."

On the narcissist scale, Fiona registers at about a six so my comment hardly registers in her mind. "Don't be late for your blind date, Finn. It'll make me look bad," she grinds out.

Two hours later, I'm back in Palisade Shores. I've been living in Beacon Bank Harbor—Beacon Bank for short, about fifteen minutes north. Fiona arranged for Linnea and me to meet at Panache, a farm-to-table style restaurant with handmade pottery, carved wooden spoons, and edible centerpieces.

Linnea tells me all about her work as an entomologist, with a focus on the Bolivian Boring Beetle. Even with my limited first-hand knowledge of garden pests—correction, an under-celebrated invasive species—I'm not sure this would be described as fun. More like boring. I'd much rather talk about the band, the Beatles. Frank says they were my favorite.

Also, Linnea is the slowest eater on the planet. Not like Fifi who doesn't eat. More like she chews and chews and chews...all while talking.

Thankfully, my table manners memory remained intact. Though perhaps this is something I'd rather not have to register as being unpleasant.

When we leave Panache, I walk Linnea to her car parked on the street by the library. Believe it or not, she's still talking about beetles. Then, for the first time in ninety-three minutes—I timed it on my watch—she interrupts herself. "People say I talk too much, but I do love to read. Looks like there's a protest at the library."

"Who'd protest a library?"

Linnea's eyes widen and she hastily gets into her car. "Thanks for dinner. Byeeee."

I frown, wondering why the speedy exit. It's not like Linnea could object to anything about me since I hardly said a word. Meanwhile, she taught me everything I didn't need to know about the lifecycle of the Bolivian Boring Beetle. You do not want to know where they lay their eggs.

Then I understand. Dozens of people stand with vigil candles and others hold signs to save the library. One says Send Imperial Out to Sea . Another Imperial is no Paradise .

The people gathered are relatively quiet, likely observing the silence customary in a library, then someone shouts, "There he is! The enemy."

It takes me a moment to register who they mean.

That would be me. I represent Imperial. I'm the library's enemy.

Parked on the other end of the block, I turn on my heel. As I pass the bridal boutique where I was earlier, a hand grasps my sleeve. With a surprisingly strong grip, someone pulls me through the door.

It's dark inside and a soft floral scent and candle wax floats to my nose. It's familiar, yet distant like on a breeze.

"Shh. Don't say a word. I'm doing this for your own good," whispers a female voice.

I expect to be blindfolded or knocked out like in the thriller movies my brother Frank likes to watch, but I recognize Bea's big brown eyes in the dim light filtering through the slatted blinds.

The stomping of feet fades as the crowd of peaceful protesters passes.

I sag against the wall. "Thanks for coming to my rescue."

"I was on my way to the protest and saw you at the same time they did. I quickly unlocked the shop and here we are," Bea says, breathless.

"Two visits to your bridal shop in one day and I'm not even getting married," I say lightly.

"You're not getting married. Then why didn't you say something?" She slaps her splayed hand to her chest.

"About what?" I ask, a little lost.

"About not being Fifi's fiancé." Bea's voice shrinks.

"I didn't know it was significant."

"You really don't remember me?" Sadness laces her voice.

I'm so tired of having to explain what happened and the de facto reminder of the accident, but I give my five-sentence spiel. "Last year I was on a ski trip. The conditions worsened rapidly due to an incoming storm. I couldn't see and hit a tree, hard. One of my buddies saw where I disappeared and called in rescue. I had a pretty bad head injury but am fine now except some of my memories are hazy." Or non-existent, but I don't need to tell her that.

The light is dim, but I see her throat bob with a swallow. Her eyes are wide with horror as if she suddenly realizes life isn't safe. But why would she care what happened to me? My heartbeat slows as I try to answer that question, but nothing comes.

She reaches for me and then quickly retracts her arm. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." I'm used to the words of consolation and apology, but they've gone from soft to sandpaper, scraping me like I'm fragile, broken.

"I am sorry that you don't remember that this stretch of Palisade Shores is worth not tearing down and replacing with a big box resort."

"It's a premier resort."

There's a plea in her voice when she says, "You loved this town."

"I'm not leveling the entire place."

She jerks her head in my direction. "Half of the street side of the Promenade."

"I looked at the survey, that's hardly true."

Bea's hand flies into the air. "Including the very building we're standing in."

"I'm the enemy and yet you came to my rescue. Explain that," I say, turning on my father's cool, calculating demeanor.

"I was thinking of you more as a traitor, but if you truly don't remember..." She shuffles back.

Then I belatedly trip over something she said. "You said I loved Palisade Shores, suggesting we knew each other."

She nods and the corner of her mouth tips toward a hesitant smile.

The curve of it and her eyes filling mine winks with déjà vu, but when it feels like I'm about to snatch the memory, it pops like a soap bubble. This hasn't happened too many times, but when it does, I usually have a breakthrough.

"What was I like?" My voice turns soft.

"You weren't the kind of guy who'd bulldoze El Camino."

"It's not really up to me. I'm my father's successor, tagged to take over Imperial Enterprises. This is my first solo project."

She snorts an exhale. "So you're just following the boss's orders?"

I shift uncomfortably because the way she says those words suggests that wasn't typical of the guy she knew. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Maybe I can persuade you to change your mind." Parting the wooden slats on the door's window blind, Bea peeks outside. "Let's go."

The protestors must've returned to the library. We walk in the other direction. When I turn to head toward my car, once again, Bea grabs my arm, dragging me down a side street.

"I did you a solid. You owe me and I promise you won't be sorry. I happen to know this for a fact," she says with twice the confidence she had when facing down Fifi.

We walk a couple blocks inland and stop at a single-story stucco house with a tile roof. A hammock hangs on the front porch along with a wind chime. The small yard is trim with a bird bath in the center.

"Have I been here before?" I ask.

"Not likely. We were Strand people back then."

"Is that a play on Sand People like in Star Wars? My brother, Frank, had me watch all the movies I'd forgotten."

"Including a dozen Kung Fu flicks? Godzilla too? Solid recovery plan."

I like that we're joking about my memory loss and she's not treating me like a fragile piece of porcelain or with impatience like everyone else when I draw a blank. Well, except Frank. He's excited to be able to re-introduce me to movies, video games, and food fads that flew from my mind.

Bea flips on a soft light over a round wooden table that looks like it belongs in the break room at the bridal boutique. In fact, the entire house reminds me of the place with its relaxed elegance and a few personal touches like family photos and flowers. Unlike in what Fifi calls her thirty-million-dollar temple, aka the remodel, if something spilled here, there'd be an apology, laughter, and a damp towel rather than an afternoon in a dark room with a cold compress.

Living with her and my father has been a lesson in patience.

Bea sets two plates and forks on the table, then pulls a glass dome off a ceramic stand. In the center is a moist chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and curly chocolate shavings. She cuts us each a slice and then invites me to sit down.

I hesitate because I sense a boardroom-esque deal will be brokered in this kitchen.

She takes a bite and chews with her mouth closed, unlike Linnea, and at a normal pace, but Bea' eyes dip closed as if she's tasting a little bit of heaven. I cannot resist and help myself.

Oh. The cake is good. In fact, I'd dare say it's my favorite. Until now, I didn't know I was a fan of chocolate. "So far this is better than the blind date I went on earlier."

"Thanks." Bea's reply is short and she droops a little.

"My sister set it up, claiming that I forgot how to have fun."

She brightens. "I can help with that. On one condition. You put off the deal for the Camino property until the end of the summer. Give me a chance—" She cuts off her ramble.

"A chance to—?" I echo, waiting for her to finish her sentence.

A pretty blush dusts her cheeks. "To help you remember."

My father says to be decisive, to close swiftly with confidence, and not leave room for uncertainty. "It's a deal."

"You don't want to know the terms?"

"No, maybe, for once, not knowing will make it more fun." This goes against everything I've been told while in recovery, but perhaps that's the point.

I hold out my hand. Bea slides her fingers against mine. The connection is warm and is a snug fit when we shake. I've studied and relearned most social cues, but wonder what it means that both our palms are slightly sweaty. I know why mine are along with the increase in my pulse and how I cannot stop thinking about Bea's lips.

Bubbly and full of enthusiasm, she goes on to tell me about how this will be a great addition to her hot girl summer plans with her friend, Shelly.

Her expression goes serious, brows flat, when she adds, "But I'm not trying to trick you. You look a lot like the cause of all my problems and the road back to the lifestyle I once knew. I don't want either of those things. Just to help you remember."

I sense there's more to that thought and bookmark it for later.

She stacks our plates and says, "Lessons start tomorrow at three thirty. Meet me in the senior class parking lot at Palisade Shores High School."

After we say goodnight, I cautiously return to where I parked my car. As I leave town with the main strip lit up with shops, visitors strolling with late-night scoops of ice cream, and the long line of dark coast to my left, my thoughts repeatedly return to Bea. There's something I like about her.

She doesn't put on airs. She doesn't seem to want anything from me. She just gives.

The only problem with that is my father claims everyone is a taker even if they don't seem so at first, especially women. His terms were no relationships until after the turnover paperwork for Imperial is in the can.

It looks like I'll be postponing putting my signature on anything until the end of the summer.