“Do we really have to talk about all this stuff?” Cissy demanded, and Marla cringed inwardly. “I mean, all this memory stuff, it’s all so weird.”
Eugenia tossed Marla an I-tried-to-warn-you look.
“Cissy’s right, this isn’t the place,” Alex said, a note of warning evident in his voice.
“Then after dinner,” Marla insisted.
Carmen appeared as if on cue.
“But, really, there’s no reason,” Eugenia said, shaking her head and scooting her chair back. “I think I’ll have my coffee in the sitting room,” she said to Carmen who quickly disappeared again.
Nick leaned forward. “If Marla wants to discuss this, she should,” he said. “It’s her memory.”
“Oh, God,” Cissy mumbled.
Marla plowed on, grateful for some support, even if it came from Nick. “And I want to go to the ranch and see you ride,” she said to her daughter.
Cissy rolled her eyes. “Oh, pulleeez, when have you ever cared about riding?”
“I told you before,” Marla insisted and all eyes turned her direction. “I remember riding. It’s just a hazy little image, but I know I used to ride horseback. I thought maybe you and I . . . at the ranch . . .” her voice nearly failed her at the censure in Cissy’s gaze. “Maybe we used to ride together.”
“Are you kidding?” Cissy shook her head and she almost laughed. “Now you’re really jumping off the deep end! Mom, you’re afraid of horses. Something about being thrown off as a kid. Right?” Cissy implored her father with a searching look.
“That’s right honey,” he agreed, and her heart sank. “A nasty spill. No broken bones, but you’ve been deathly afraid of horses ever since.”
Could she have been so wrong about herself? Were those flashes of memory nothing but . . . what? Dreams? False images? No! She was certain. “I can’t explain it, but I feel like . . .” Her voice fell away as everyone had stopped eating and was staring at her, as if expecting her to say something. “I think . . . I think I liked to ride.” She looked at her daughter. “With you.”
“Give me a break. Don’t you even remember your phobias? God, Mom, this is really pathetic and weird and—”
“Cissy, that’s enough!” Alex interjected angrily, his voice commanding and harsh over the quiet strains of classical music.
“No, she’s right.” Marla met her daughter’s worried gaze. “It is weird and pathetic and scary and I wish it would just go away. But it’s going to take some time, so please, just be patient with me, okay?”
“May I be excused?” Cissy asked, tears forming in her eyes, then without waiting for an answer shoved her chair back so hard the legs scraped against the floor. She was up in an instant, her napkin falling as she dashed from the room.
“You’ve upset her,” Alex charged, staring at his wife.
“And you’ve upset me,” Marla flung back, her fingers curling in frustration. “I can’t stand this anymore. This not knowing. I’m not going to hide up in my room until I look presentable enough to go out and I’m damned well not going to shun my friends who want to see me, nor am I going to ignore my father and brother or Cherise and her preacher of a husband or anyone else. I’m going to get well,
come hell or high water.”
“You’ll have to be patient,” Eugenia said.
“I’m sick of being patient, okay? Now, I think I will start remembering if I get out of this house and start doing some of the things I did before the accident.”
“I think she’s right,” Nick agreed.
“Won’t you be embarrassed?” Eugenia asked. “I mean your friends are . . . well, socially prominent women and—”
“And they must be snobs or idiots or a bunch of phonies if they can’t accept me for what I am. Joanna Lindquist didn’t run away and cower at the sight of me, did she?”
“This is ridiculous,” Eugenia muttered, standing, yet lingering at the table.
Alex was staring at Marla. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. Maybe you should get out. I . . . I’ve just been worried about you.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “You know we always host a party the week after Thanksgiving at Cahill House. This year I figured you’d want to pass, but maybe that’s not such a good idea. We still have what two, nearly three weeks? Maybe you and Mother can see to it.”
Some of Marla’s bravado slipped. Her stomach soured at the thought of dozens of guests, all expecting her to be hostess. And yet, she had a staff to help her, surely she could do something. “I’m not sure that I’m up for a huge party.”
“Of course you aren’t,” Eugenia said, glaring at her first-born. “That’s way too much for you. You can skip it this year. Everyone will understand.”