A Season To Believe. Elane OsbornЧитать онлайн книгу.
step at a time. I tell them what I will tell you now. Life tests you only when you have enough strength to rise to the challenge.”
The sound of a car engine drew Jane’s attention to the window. In the driveway below, she saw Matt get out of his black Jeep. Her heart began to pound as he started up the stairs. She turned to Zoe.
“How do you know if you have that strength?”
The corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled. “When life tests you, of course.”
Jane surprised herself by laughing. “Dabbling in Zen, are you?”
“Whatever works,” Zoe replied with a shrug.
At the solid knock on the door, Jane pivoted and pulled it open, then froze—just as she had when she’d seen Matt yesterday, framed in the doorway leading to Maxwell’s security office.
He was, as the saying went, larger than life. Not just because his height topped six feet by several inches, that his shoulders were broad, or that his nearly black hair intensified the sea-green of his eyes. Those physical attributes were formidable, certainly, but the element that sent her heart racing had more to do with the quiet power in his stance, the undeniable cocky tilt to his mouth, and the sudden light of appreciation that swept her form, washing her body with heat.
“Looks like you’ve decided to rise to the challenge,” he said.
“Challenge?”
Jane cringed inwardly at the breathless way the word came out, but Matt’s simple nod suggested he hadn’t noticed.
“You appear to be dressed for a day outside. I assume that means you’ve decided to accompany me and see if we can’t track down the source of that memory of yours, and perhaps scare up some more.”
Although Jane felt a shiver coming on, she found herself giving him a wry smile. “I guess so. Scare being the operative word.”
Matt stepped forward and took her hand in one swift motion. As Jane looked into his eyes, she was aware of the strength of his grip, the warmth of his skin on hers and the reassuring determination in his gaze.
“No matter what happens today,” he said quietly. “I have no doubt that you’ll rise to the occasion.”
“Have you and Zoe been comparing notes on how to handle me?”
When Matt looked quizzical, Jane explained. “She was just bolstering my courage with very similar words. So—” she drew a quick breath “—yes, I’m ready to see if we can find the gate leading to memory lane.”
“All right. Get your jacket and we’ll be off.”
“A jacket? It’s beautiful out.”
“Sun or no sun, the wind on the coast can be quite chilly. You need a jacket.”
With a nod, Jane turned. Matt watched her cross the foyer and start up the stairs, then noticed the way her sneaker-clad feet bounced off each step as she lightly ran up. It seemed like yesterday that he and Manny had escorted Jane, enveloped in a navy sweat suit that only served to emphasize her extreme thinness, to the hospital’s physical therapy department.
Lying in bed for a month, comatose, had given the pelvic fracture she’d suffered in the accident time to heal, but the inactivity had left her as weak as a baby—she was going to have to learn to walk all over again. He and Manny had watched like proud parents as she gripped waist-high parallel bars, then wobbled like a newborn colt as she slowly made her way down the length of the track.
There was nothing spindly or wobbly about Jane now, Matt noticed as she neared the landing. The cut of her faded jeans hugged slender but shapely legs, and her hips had rounded into decidedly womanly curves.
“She has grown much in the past year.”
Zoe’s words made Matt realize where his thoughts had been leading. He turned to the older woman, aware his face had grown uncomfortably warm.
“It seems she has done exactly what she said she would,” he said. “Created a life for herself, on her terms.”
“Yes, she has. She has turned her lack of memory from a handicap to a strength.”
“How so?”
“With no preconceived concept of what she could or could not do, she approaches each challenge with an open mind, along with the assumption that she can succeed.”
Matt mulled this over. “After her accident, one of Jane’s doctors told a reporter that the bruising her brain took may have resulted in permanent memory loss. Do you agree with that assessment?”
Zoe shook her head. “No.”
“Well, Jane mentioned that you haven’t been pushing her to regain her memory. Do you think it’s wrong for me to encourage Jane to remember her past?”
“Not at all. Jane was disheartened when the hypnosis sessions in the hospital were unsuccessful. It would have been cruelty on my part to force her repeatedly to search her memory, only to encounter emptiness. But yesterday’s incident indicates that her mind, and perhaps her spirit as well, has recovered to the point that she can access and, more importantly, accept whatever she remembers.”
Hearing the sound of feet on the stairs above, Matt asked quickly, “Do you have any suggestions about how to handle this? Do I get her to relax, like you did yesterday? Or should I try to push her into remembering?”
Zoe seemed to consider his question for several seconds before she shrugged her shoulders and replied, “Try one first. If that doesn’t work, try the other.”
“All right, now,” Matt said. “I want you to close your eyes and keep them that way until I tell you differently.”
It had taken Matt and Jane over an hour to cross the Golden Gate Bridge and drive up Highway One. After turning on a road leading west, Matt had pulled onto the side of the road, then turned to face Jane before issuing his order.
“Close my eyes?” she repeated.
“Yes. And keep them shut.”
“I thought we came here so I could identify the beach I saw in my memory. I can hardly do that with my eyes closed.”
“No, the prime objective here is to provoke further memories. Although your description was pretty sketchy, I’m fairly certain I have the right place. Remember, I grew up surfing these beaches.”
“So, you think it will be more effective to lead me to the area, then spring it on me all at once.”
“Exactly. Ready? Close your eyes.”
Once Jane had obeyed his order, Matt put the Jeep in drive. Several minutes later, he turned onto the road that would lead them to Limantour Beach. It took him beneath a canopy of cypress trees, then wound down through a sea of golden grass and a crescent of sand that arched to the right, ending at the foot of a sheer cliff that jutted out to the sea.
“Tell me,” he said, “just how do you create these magical dolls of yours.”
“Well, I sculpt the faces, hands and feet from a polymer clay, which hardens in the oven. The bodies are made of wire and stuffing, held together with fabric bodies. But they aren’t meant to be played with, like dolls. They’re collectibles.”
Matt glanced at her. “People collect elves?”
“People collect all sorts of things, it seems. Zoe’s cousin Clara in Maine makes very realistic little men, women and children. She creates three or four new characters each year, and collectors from all over the country buy her numbered pieces.”
“Nice of her to teach you to do this.”
“Well, actually, she’s published a book on her technique. I used it as a jumping-off point to create my own little world, and I assume others do that, too.”
Matt