A Season To Believe. Elane OsbornЧитать онлайн книгу.
red circles of felt, along with a few knitted caps. Not one summery straw hat in the bunch.
Fighting off a shiver, the woman let her gaze fall on the round table several feet away. Pieces of silver and gold jewelry were nestled within open boxes decorated in a burgundy-and-green plaid.
She looked up, searching for the speaker responsible for the offending music, only to see a collection of glittery snowflakes dangling from the ceiling. As she stared at them, she heard a man behind her say, “This is Santa’s first day in the store, honey, so you’re going to have to be a good little girl if…”
As the voice faded in the distance, a blush heated the woman’s cheeks. The salesclerk must be right. It must be November, after all. And she must be—another shudder shook her shoulders—Christmas shopping. In some store in downtown…
Downtown where? The woman froze as she asked herself, What city am I in? When her mind came up blank, her heart thudded to a stop. The snowflakes began to spin, quickly forming a shimmering blizzard above her. The music grew louder, while she frantically asked herself, Where am I?
Then, Who am I?
Again there was no answer. Her heart began to race. Her fingers could no longer feel the glass counter she gripped so tightly. Her breath felt as if it was jammed in her chest, unable to escape. Blood pounded in her ears.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?”
The second sharp-edged address penetrated the dizzying vortex. She pulled her attention to the clerk, just as the girl said, “The security guard will be here in a moment. He’ll take you to our quiet lounge, where you can—”
“No. That won’t be necessary.” The woman added more firmly, “Really.”
With that she turned and began walking quickly away, ignoring the clerk’s cries of protest as she moved toward the wall of windows that she assumed, prayed, held the store entrance—and more importantly, its exit.
I just need some fresh air, she told herself. I just need to get my bearings, she thought as she wove past a series of clear plastic shoe displays. Once I figure out where I am, I’ll know who I am, and then I’ll be fine.
Desperate to escape the crowds, the decorations and the far-too-jolly notes now jangling in her ears, she practically ran up the shallow, wide staircase leading to the glass door and pushed it open. Moist, cool air hit her face as she exited, then moved to one side, away from the stream of people entering and departing the store.
She’d made it outside. Now, certainly, she would know where she was, she assured herself as she glanced around. Nothing looked the least bit familiar. Oh lord. Panic widened her eyes, sent her heart racing again. She had no idea where in the world she might be. Yes, you do, a voice in her mind insisted impatiently. You have to know where you are. Look around again. What do you see? Think. Breathe.
Obeying this last command first, she then slowly took in her surroundings. On the opposite side of the street, a series of brick planters stair-stepped up to an area bordered by a row of benches. Beyond these, perhaps a block away, she saw a tall ivory building emblazoned with the words Saks Fifth Avenue.
All right. There was a Saks Fifth Avenue in New York. She didn’t know how she knew this or, for that matter, why she felt so certain this was not New York. But it was somewhat comforting to feel certain about something.
The surrounding structures weren’t tall enough for New York. And—
Her thoughts stilled as she spied a car with a California license plate.
In a flash she knew this was San Francisco. The park in front of her was Union Square. The store she’d just stepped out of was Maxwell’s Department Store.
She turned to the wall of windows behind her. To one side, a calendar had been posted bearing the longer holiday hours, topped by a banner warning that there were only twenty-six more shopping days to Christmas.
So, it was indeed November. Not May.
She wondered how she could have made that mistake, then brushed the thought away. It didn’t matter how or why she’d fallen into this pit of amnesia. All that mattered was that she knew again. She was in San Francisco, at Maxwell’s, and her name was Jane. Jane Ashbury.
At least, that’s who she was now.
Reflected in the window, Jane saw a slender woman dressed in a red suit jacket over an ankle-length black skirt. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and was of medium height with light brown hair. This was layered into thick bangs to cover the scar on her forehead, and the sides fell just past her narrow jaw.
In the past year and a half, Jane had come to accept that the large, gray-brown eyes, the tiny scar at the right corner of her mouth and the not-quite-symmetrical features belonged to her, just as she’d learned to answer to the name Jane. What she had looked like before, or what her name had once been, were lost in a darkness far deeper than the one she’d experienced inside the store—a darkness she’d long since given up trying to penetrate.
Jane became aware of the jangling sound of a ringing bell just as a man jostled past behind her. She fought off a shiver.
She hated crowds. They made her want to escape to some open place where she could breathe. She turned to do just that. Before she could take a step, a hand closed over her arm, then tightened, and she gasped as a deep voice said, “Forget it, honey. You and that scarf you took are coming with me.”
In a small, gray room, Jane slumped in a hard chair, a slit of a window in the wall on her right, a closed door on her left. Too weary to do more than stare at the burgundy-and-tan pile of silk in the middle of the desk in front of her, she listened to the two men sitting on the other side.
“Thanks for calling me.”
Jane glanced at the speaker. With his short blond hair and linebacker’s body straining the shoulders of his blue sport coat, Detective Bruce Wilcox was an imposing figure, even sitting down. She didn’t feel any more comfortable with him today than she had the only other time they’d met, well over a year ago.
“Actually, it was her idea.”
The thin faced security guard, in his brown uniform and billed cap, was the person who had grabbed her arm and brought her up here, then refused to listen to her explanations. Mr. Jessup continued to speak to the detective.
“She gave me this cockamamy story about forgetting who she was, then told me to call the police and ask for the detectives who had been in charge of her case. When the officer I spoke with said that neither of those men were on the force now, she came up with your name. Until you showed up, I was sure she was lying.”
“Nope. She was telling you the truth. At least, the part about her being Jane Doe Number Thirteen. The scarf story we’ll have to check out.”
Jane barely heard the last words. Her mind was stuck on Jane Doe Number Thirteen. She hated that name, hated the memories it conjured up—waking to find she didn’t know where she was, who she was, why her jaw was frozen shut, why her face was bandaged, what was causing the deep ache in her pelvis. Even worse had been the cheery nurses smiling at her when she shook her head in response to their questions, doctors asking if this hurt, if that hurt.
Then the detectives had arrived, with more questions. But Manuel Mendosa and Matthew Sullivan hadn’t been anything like Wilcox. Patient and kind, they had never treated her like a suspect. Jane’s stomach twisted as she realized she’d somehow managed to forget that, of the two detectives who had worked on her case, one was now dead and the other—
The click of a key in the lock broke into Jane’s thoughts. She turned as the door swung open, then started. The man standing there was that second detective—Matthew Sullivan.
The man looked just as she remembered—black hair and dark green eyes; tall and athletically trim in his faded jeans and tan, open-neck shirt. But as he stepped into the room, Jane noticed that his face was more deeply lined, making him look older than his mid-thirties. And the expression