HADES Page 5

  And with that, he simply hangs up.

  Tess didn’t know much about Galen Fairgood. An internet search had returned nothing but a slew of real estate holdings and exactly one picture of him and Stephanie attending some fancy ball in New Orleans. Other than that, nothing. He didn’t even have a Facebook page. And to be fair, knowing Daphne’s whereabouts isn’t the hugest red flag in the world.

  Still, the situation refuses to sit right in Tess’s stomach. Especially the following Monday when she checks the donations account for the shelter and finds it a whole six figures heftier with the promise of a recurring $50,000 monthly donation from the Amy Fairgood Foundation.

  She doesn’t bother to look up the nonprofit. The last name alone tells her who is behind this. There is zero chance this isn’t connected to Stephanie’s surprise husband.

  This is enough to keep the shelter comfortably in the black for….well, however long the donations keep on coming.

  Under any other circumstances, she would be grateful. She killed herself writing away for grants that would give her the same amount of money Galen Fairgood had just given the shelter she’d founded, no questions asked.

  Why does this money feel more like a bribe than a donation? She doesn’t see any strings attached, but that “too good to be true” Spidey sense she developed sixteen years ago tells her they are there.

  And lo and behold, a text asking if she’d like to come to his house in some place called Carnation Estates to visit any day that week follows less than an hour later.

  CHAPTER 6

  STEPHANIE

  Galen warns me he isn’t perfect. He invites me to choose between him and some aunt I can’t even remember meeting after assuring me he was a horrible husband who I had every right to leave behind in Louisiana.

  Then, when I choose him, he immediately starts disproving the horrible husband deserving of abandonment part.

  He shows up bright and early on discharge day with clothes that aren’t a blue-and-white patterned hospital gown. But my immense gratitude gives way to alarm when he proceeds to start dressing me himself.

  “I’m not a baby,” I remind him as he pulls a T-shirt down over my head. “Nothing’s broken other than my memories. I can put on my own clothes.”

  “I like taking care of you,” he informs me with a devastating smile. “Can you indulge me on this one, ma belle?”

  Maybe there is a heterosexual woman on earth who could have still insisted on dressing herself after he put it that way and called her “my beauty” in Cajun French, but I am not one of them. I relax and feel strangely cherished as he pulls a pair of sweatshorts up my legs before picking up a tee with the words “Columbus Community Theatre” etched across the front.

  It’s the kind of outfit my mother would’ve frowned upon, even if I was only walking around the house.

  “You’re a Perreault,” she reminded me the few times I dared to come downstairs dressed in any outfit that didn’t include buttons or zippers. “You must be presentable at all times. You never know who might stop by.”

  Well, Mom is definitely turning over in her grave right now and probably telling all the other ghosts in her city of the dead that she doesn’t know me.

  Galen pauses abruptly after he unties my hospital gown. And, instead of putting on the tee right away, he runs a hand down my back, causing me to shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the huge bruises all over my skin.

  “How bad is the bruising back there?” I ask nonetheless to play off my body’s reaction to his touch.

  It takes him several moments to answer for some reason.

  “Not too bad. Your back is smooth as the day you were born,” he says before replacing the hospital gown with the Columbus Community Theatre tee. “There, all done.”

  My face heats with embarrassment when Galen steps back to scan his handiwork. I know I look a hot mess. And not just because of the T-shirt and shorts.

  I glanced at myself in the mirror the first time I was allowed to go to the bathroom on my own. And what I saw did not make me eager to clock any more time with my own reflection.

  The blonde extensions I’d started wearing my first year at Tulane were missing in action, replaced by a partially shaved-off nest of tangled curls. After a short search for tracks, I realized —gasp—this must be my natural hair in its—double gasp—natural curly state.

  Maybe they took out the weave when they did whatever they did to relieve the swelling on my brain. It looked a straight mess. And my skin was not only sallow but also dotted with the acne I’d been diligently keeping at bay with the biweekly facial and half-hour nighttime routine regimen since the age of twelve. What the heck?

  Of course, I couldn’t ask Galen about my less-than-presentable state. Remaining a cosmetic mystery was one of my mother’s first rules of Being a Proper Southern Lady.

  But sitting in a hospital bed—in front of one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen—in sweats and the natural hair I hadn’t seen since the third grade, I felt strangely vulnerable.

  Not going to lie. I miss my designer wardrobe armor—also the army of behind-the-scenes beauty experts who kept my hair ruthlessly straight and my skin without so much as a visible pore, much less adult acne.

  Ma belle, my behind.

  I dip my chin and try to push the tangled curls over the bald patch at the side of my head. “I’m sorry. I can only imagine how crazy I must look right now.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Galen jerks his chin back. Like he’s thinking of calling in the doctor for one more brain check before we leave. “Non, cher, you’re still the most beautiful woman on earth. I could wheel you out this here hospital in a potato sack, and every man from Ohio to Louisiana would be telling you that.”

  He can’t be serious. I raise my eyes to glare at him for teasing me.

  But his silver gaze…it isn’t playful or even slightly merry. He’s staring at me in the same hot way he did at the pool. As if only twelve seconds, not twelve years, have passed since that moment.

  My face heats again, but this time for a much different reason.

  How many men can make you feel desirable, even when you’re suffering from a memory-obliterating traumatic brain injury and wearing what my mother used to refer to as “clothing for poor people who have given up” in acid tones?

  Now, my mom definitely wouldn’t have approved. But as Galen helps me into a wheelchair, I don’t regret my choice. As far as I can see, the husband I woke up to is nothing short of perfect in every way.

  And, as it turns out, the perfect husband comes with the perfect house.

  The ultramodern stone-and-glass home Galen leads me into from his Jaguar XF is even bigger and arguably more resplendent than the impeccably preserved antebellum mansion I grew up in back in Baton Rouge.

  I was raised in an old house, then attended college on an old campus, while living in an old sorority house. It hadn’t occurred to me how much I would love getting to take up residence in a thoroughly modern building until Galen gives me a full tour of his seven-bedroom home.

  “How long have you been living here?” I ask, sniffing at the air, which smells faintly of paint and sawdust.

  “Just a few months,” he answers. “I acquired this new-build subdivision from the developer shortly after I decided to follow you up here.”

  I stop short at the bottom of the stairs in the open foyer and hold up a hand. “Wait, you acquired a whole subdivision, even though we were estranged?”

  Galen rubs a hand over the back of his neck and gives me an embarrassed wince. “I suppose you could say I had high hopes. Worst-case scenario, I’d have to add this house to the sell pile. Best-case scenario, you would take me back and we could fill it with babies.”

  Babies…

  That was something else I hadn’t thought much about while pursuing my degree at Tulane. I was more consumed with finding a husband my mother would approve of before she died than what I would do with him afterward.

&
nbsp; But in my completely unexpected present, my heart tugs at the thought of making babies with this beautiful man.

  “Maybe we can still make that best-case scenario come true,” I say softly with a shy smile. “This house is way too big for just two people.”

  Both my words and tone are hopeful. But Galen flinches as if I’ve hurt him somehow.

  And instead of playing along with the fantasy, he says, “Let’s go upstairs.”

  At the top of the steps, he escorts me into a bedroom featuring a tasteful minimum of sleek wood furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of a small lake, along with the backs of several other yet-to-be-sold houses.

  The bedroom’s even bigger than the frilly one I had back in Baton Rouge. But I fret my lip as I look out the windowed wall.

  “You don’t have to worry about all those other neighbors looking in,” Galen says, coming over to stand beside me. “This here is a special kind of glass. We can see everything beyond it, but nobody standing on the outside can see anything on the inside.”

  “No, I’m not worried about the neighbors…”

  I trail off, my cheeks heating. And Galen’s face creases with worry.

  “What is it, ma belle?” he asks. “Whatever it is, tell me, so I can fix it.

  I release my bottom lip from my teeth and admit, “This room isn’t the main bedroom.”

  “Oh, it’s not big enough for you?” He actually looks around, as if he’s trying to figure out how to fix that—like he’d start knocking down walls just to please me.

  Seriously, how did I manage to stay mad at this guy for three whole years of estrangement?

  “No, this room is more than big enough,” I assure him. “It’s so beautiful and nice. It’s just that…”

  God, I can barely say it. Like many rich Southern girls, I was thoroughly trained in the art of catching a man. Actually communicating with my husband, though? Not so much.

  But I’m a wife now—even if I don’t remember getting married. Time to put on my big married-girl panties and say what’s on my mind.

  I take a deep breath and lift my gaze to his. “Shouldn’t I be staying with you? You know, in your room?”

  Heat flares in his eyes again, and we’re right back at that swimming pool. But only for a few seconds.

  “That’s not a good idea just yet.” He lowers his head and looks away from me. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me? I understand being concerned about my TBI, but it’s not as bad as it looks. Even the headache went away after they gave me a couple of Advil—”

  Galen moves past me, farther down the hallway, before I can finish that thought. “Speaking of bedrooms, I’ve got a surprise for you right next door. Come on.”

  He throws open the second door on the landing, and all my confused thoughts are replaced by pure and utter delight when I see what’s behind it.

  “Are you serious?”

  He’s turned one of the many extra bedrooms into a craft room, complete with a sewing machine, baskets filled with colorful skeins of yarn, and a large glass jar containing crochet needles of various sizes.

  “I can’t believe you would do something so thoughtful for me.” I walk farther into the room with both hands covering my cheeks. “Or that you know I like to crochet!”

  I peep over my shoulder and give him an embarrassed wince of my own. “My old-lady habit was something I generally kept secret. I never even told my sorority sisters, much less anyone I dated.”

  Galen regards me, and it feels like there’s a whole conversation taking place in his head that I can’t hear before he answers, “I know a lot of things about you that other people don’t.”

  “Apparently!” I answer with a big laugh.

  The craft room is a wonderful gift, but the room he shows me to next is even more surprising.

  An upstairs home office with a glass desk to match the windowed wall and a large, sleek desktop computer sitting right on top of it.

  “Oh my gosh, is that the latest iMac Pro?” I ask excitedly.

  “Yes, it is,” Galen answers, but there’s a confused note in his voice. “You remember what this kind of desktop is called? They went to market during the years you lost.”

  I frown and realize that I do recognize the computer. But the how is behind a thick wall of mental fog. “It’s like everything’s there,” I tell Galen. “But inside files I’m not allowed to fully access.”

  Which brings me to my next awkward question: “Um, what exactly do I do here in Ohio? Like, what kind of job do I have that would require an at-home office? Does this have something to do with the pandemic you told me about?”

  “Not exactly,” Galen answers before admitting, “I wasn’t exactly clear on what you did up here in Ohio. From what I can tell, you mostly helped your aunt out at the shelter she runs for teenage mothers. You also made costumes for a local community theater troupe….”

  He trails off with a leading tone, as if he’s hoping I’ll fill in the rest. But I’m just as bewildered as him.

  “I made costumes?” I repeat. “And I worked with teenage mothers?”

  Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always loved the theater, and not to be funny, most rich girls from my kind of background go into nonprofit work.

  But Lady despised teenage mothers. She noisily refused to give money to any cause associated with them. And when it came to charities like Habitat for Humanity—well, the one time I asked my mother about going on a God’s Work Youth Mission trip with a few of my Catholic high school friends, she blanched and answered, “Perreaults give generously. We do not do handiwork.”

  “I always figured I’d sit on the board of some boring Historical Preservation Society,” I say to Galen. “Like my mother and my father’s mother before her.”

  Galen grimaces a little. “Yeah, well, I guess you decided to go down a different path. Even back in Louisiana, you spent most of your free time crocheting.”

  “That’s it?” I ask. “Nothing else? I just sat around all day?”

  “Just sitting around was all you had to do,” he answers tersely.

  Hmm, I’m getting the sense this might’ve been a point of contention in our marriage, so I turn the conversation to another subject.

  “How about babies?” I ask. “I’m surprised we didn’t get started on the family right away with all that free time on my hands.”

  I’m trying to tread into smoother waters, but an even darker cloud passes over his face. “It wasn’t our time. I needed to establish myself first. I wasn’t worthy of you. I wasn’t worthy of being a father to your children….”

  He breaks off and abruptly replaces the dark cloud with a reassuring smile. “At least, that’s what I thought back then. But I used our time apart on self-improvement and to get my business to a place where it can practically run itself so I could concentrate on you, give you the attention you deserve.”

  Just like that, my heart melts all over again.

  And sure, he’s probably right about it being too soon for us to share a bed. I doubt all the doctors who came to see me at the hospital would clear us for…um, relations. But that tugging ache is still there below my belly. I suspect it never left.

  He looks away again. “Anyway, going back to your original question. I was thinking, now that we’re living together in Ohio, you might want to keep on working. You once suggested to me that I should start a foundation in my mother’s name. So, that’s what I did. The only thing is, I need somebody to run it. And I can’t think of anyone better to do that than you.”

  My heart drops. “You want me to run a foundation? Like a whole foundation in Mama Fairgood’s name?”

  “Well, it’s called the Amy Fairgood Foundation,” Galen admits with a sheepish grin. It’s almost as devastating as his “indulge me” smile. “I hope that doesn’t put you off running it.”

  “Put me off? Are you kidding? This is a dream come true.” I close the distance between us and throw my arms around his neck. “Th
ank you. I would love to give lots of money away in your mother’s name. Mama Fairgood would be so proud of you!”

  It’s the perfect job, and I’m so grateful. But instead of hugging me back, Galen stiffens and pulls away.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “Thank you for saying that. I want her to be proud of me.” He works his jaw. “Even more than that, I want to be a good husband to you. You have no idea how much I want that.”

  He takes my hands in his and kisses my knuckles. “Thank you, ma belle. Thank you for giving me another chance to be the man you deserve.”

  Like I said, the choice was easy. But for some reason, this moment feels way more significant than it is.

  I have to swallow down a huge lump in my throat to answer. “I don’t know what happened in the past, but I tell you what. This is a really good start.

  It’s just a silly play on words. But a huge smile breaks across his face, and this time, he’s the one who pulls me in for a big hug.

  Yes, a really good start.

  Being inside his arms feels even better than I imagined. All sorts of warm sensations rush through me. I feel safe, appreciated, and here’s a new one—totally and unconditionally loved.

  A new kind of hope fills me from top to bottom as he holds me in his arms. I meant every word I said. And no, I don’t know what happened before I woke up in that hospital bed. But our future’s wide open.

  CHAPTER 7

  STEPHANIE

  So, the perfect husband comes with the perfect house and the perfect job. Not going to lie. I spend the first week of my new-to-me life just pinching myself. I can hardly believe my luck.

  Dream house. Dream job. Some dealership guy even drops off a red Porsche 911, and it’ll be mine-all-mine once I’m cleared for driving—and pass a driver’s test.

  I let my license lapse, for some reason. Maybe that was why I was riding a bike the night I got hit by that car. But other than my lack of a current license, I’m basically Black Barbie with a way hotter dream husband than that pasty ol’ Ken.