Forget Me Not by Marliss Melton Read Free Book Online Page B

didn't know how to love.
    Was he any different now than he'd been before? Yes ... maybe. His imprisonment, though he couldn't remember it, had changed something inside him, something he couldn't put a name to. It was a feeling, really, just a quiet, patient something inside him.
    He wanted to be a SEAL again, the best that he could be. But more than that, he wanted to be a husband to Helen and a father to Mallory. That would be his strategy, he decided, to nurture them both and prove he was someone in their lives worth keeping.

Chapter Four
    H e slept until late in the afternoon. Gold filaments of sunlight shot through the back windows of the house as Gabe ventured from the study, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Hello?" His voice bounced off the high ceiling as he called for his family.
    No one was home. Not even the dog came running.
    He shivered, chilled by the unexpected isolation. Pausing in the kitchen, he poured himself a drink. Silence wrapped itself around him, giving him an eerie sense of déjà vu. He gazed out at the ocean, seeking comfort, but even the deep sapphire waves seemed far away.
    Yet he belonged here, he assured himself. Other than Helen's ultimatum ringing in his ears, there wasn't any need to feel so adrift, so apart. So vulnerable.
    He let his gaze wander, touching on the built-in bookshelves and furniture, seeking some hint of himself in this place. There were lots of books and school pictures of Mallory, but no pictures of himself.
    He emptied his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He wanted to find proof that this was home, evidence that Helen once loved him, that a future for them wasn't impossible.
    He'd found nothing in the study where he'd slept, save his college diploma hanging on the wall next to Helen's. The place to look, he decided, was the master bedroom.
    He moved purposefully past the study and Mallory's room, The door to Helen's bedroom was partially ajar. He pushed it open wider, wondering if he'd recognize it. Her flowery fragrance floated out to greet him. It was the only thing familiar.
    The room was practical, which pleased him. A king-sized bed dominated the right wall. The quilt and curtains were a collage of earth tones and canyon colors, and the four walls had been painted a dusky peach. There were more books here—romance novels—stuffed into oak bookcases, left on the bedside table. But most of them were old and worn, covered with a light film of dust. She hadn't read any lately.
    He eyed the bed, his chest growing tight as he pictured Helen sprawled across it. The oak headboard, with its knotted rope design, matched the bureau and mirror. He realized his dresser, which was now in the study, completed the suite. It had gone in the empty space against the wall, here.
    Surely there were traces of him in this room. But as he scanned the bookshelves and tabletops, he realized that other than a collection of Tom Clancy novels, there was no evidence that a male had ever lived here. There was nothing that he could claim as his own.
    He probed deeper, desperate now. Surely Helen hadn't obliterated all of him—because if she had, men she'd already expunged him from her life; there was no way to win her back, despite what Mallory said.
    He wandered into the walk-in closet and found some clothing—a couple of dress shirts and slacks painstakingly wrapped in plastic, with matching shoes lined up beneath.
    Was this him? The clothing struck him as vaguely familiar. Yes, now he remembered. He'd had himself fitted by the most expensive men's clothier in Coronado. He'd liked dressing up on his off hours. It had made him feel important.
    Reaching under the plastic, Gabe rubbed a suit sleeve between his thumb and finger. The quality in the fabric did nothing for him. He doubted he'd wear it again, except maybe to a wedding or a funeral.
    He turned away, dismayed to find so little of himself. He must have spent as much time away as Helen and Mallory had suggested.