The Caretaker (Infidelity #3), page 1
The Caretaker (Infidelity #3)
Copyright © 2024, by C.P. Harris
All rights reserved.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Photographer: Rafagcatala
Developmental Editing & Proofreading by Anette King
Editing by Shauna Stevenson at Ink Machine Editing
Proofreading by Lori Parks & Teresa Smith
Formatting by Allusion Publishing
Beta Readers: Mihaela Zollinger, Vikki Elliott, and Irish T Hill.
Author's Note
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Other Works
Find C.P. Harris
Acknowledgements
The Caretaker is book 3 in the Infidelity series. Themes include amnesia, cheating (not between the MCs), second chances, and hurt/comfort. The Caretaker deals with the death of a spouse, the off-page death of a child, and grief. All of which are addressed throughout the story. There are also brief mentions of fertility issues. As always, I encourage readers to put their safety above their curiosity.
“It is what the heart remembers that matters most.”
~H Pierre
Noon
“HALEY COVE TAVERN.” I read the sign above the stone facade multiple times but it meant nothing to me. I waited for a memory to come barreling through my brain, because between the receipt in my pocket and the way my body hummed with anxious energy, this place—this quaint town—should mean something to me. But…nothing.
“Fuck!” I bashed the heels of my palms against the steering wheel repeatedly before gripping and jerking it in an attempt to rip it from the dashboard. To provide some semblance of control, even if it was only an illusion; even if the only thing I could control was the destruction of something.
My phone chirped with an incoming text, snapping me out of my daily rage ritual. Rage. I was consumed with it.
Heaving out a breath, I continued to stare beyond the manic swishing of the windshield wipers doing little to combat the heavy snowfall. I drowned out the sound of the whirring engine, of the heat blasting through the air vents, of the oxygen pumping at a fast clip in and out of my lungs. It all faded away as I concentrated on remembering—to no avail.
The phone rang this time, and I screamed until my voice gave out, until a couple stumbling arm-in-arm to their Uber were startled out of their drunken stupors. I hadn’t realized I’d begun thrashing in my seat, or that the truck now rocked with my movements. This had been my last hope, and it was slipping away from me.
I yanked my hat off, my shaggy hair falling to my shoulders as I dragged aching hands down my overgrown beard. I was a wreck, and I didn’t care. I’d lost my wife, the only person who my love still burned bright for, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my life back on track. I was beginning to not care, beginning to entertain no longer being here, no longer existing, and that scared me the most.
Sometimes I wished I didn’t remember Stacey so vividly, if only so I could have a moment of peace from the pain of missing her. Not even in my sleep did I get a break. Her love haunted me there too. In some ways I was grateful for the unending dream. It conjured up this overwhelming feeling of love that saw me gasping awake in a cold sweat, and helped to keep that love front and center during the long months of rehabilitation and grief.
The scene never changed. She and I passionately entangled, our bodies writhing on top of an unkempt bed. The lovemaking was untamed, almost violent, sweat licking down her spine as I wrapped her long hair around my fist.
I could never quite make out her face, but the wild emotion that filled my heart and soul during those sleeping hours made one thing pretty clear: I would forever love my wife, with all of me. So I clung to that one dream with every useless scrap of my life.
Another chirp, and I knew without looking that it was Leland doing his weekly check-in. If I didn’t reply, he’d keep trying to reach me. He used to be my best friend. Insisted he still was. Claimed we’d reconnected after having grown apart nearly a decade prior when I left Seattle for New York. The reconnecting years were gone for me, though. Lost amongst the two most recent years of memories that the accident had wiped away from me. Our history was incomplete on my end, which left me less enthusiastic about him than he was about me since the accident.
Not even Stacey had escaped what I couldn’t recall from that time period. Those years were completely gone. Not a hint of them remained.
I desperately wanted that time back, wanted every moment I’d spent loving her during those years back. It was what brought me to Haley Cove. I refused to believe I’d driven hours to the tip of New York state for nothing.
Cutting the heat off, I pressed my sweaty forehead to the steering wheel and focused on my breathing, like my therapist said I should whenever I sensed a panic attack on the horizon. It was the only good tip she’d given me before I fired her. None of them knew how to help me. Not her, and not the others before her.
Only once I’d calmed, could I check my text messages.
Leland: Are you okay?
Leland: Hello?
Leland: Dammit, Noon. Just let me know you’re okay.
Me: I’m fine. Stop treating me like a fucking child.
I hit send, and his response came in immediately, as if he’d been watching the screen for my reply.
Leland: I’m sorry. Just worried about you.
He cared, and that triggered my guilt, because all I seemed to do was make him pay for giving a damn about me. Sometimes my guilt weighed just as much as my grief. In moments like this it overshadowed it. I didn’t know whether to be thankful for the reprieve or to be upset by the momentary distraction from my sorrow.
Leland stubbornly refused to give up on me, though, no matter how much I pushed him away. There were enough photos taken of us together to prove he wasn’t lying about any of it, but the truth didn’t matter if I couldn’t feel it, if I couldn’t see it in my mind’s eye. The man standing beside him in those photos wasn’t me. Not the version of me I’d been living for the past nine months, if what I’d been doing could even be called living.
Tucking my phone into my pocket and grabbing my satchel, I exited the truck and headed inside the tavern.
The interior of the building was reminiscent of an earlier time, much like what I’d gleaned so far from the town. I had my pick of seats at the bar—business looked slow tonight—but opted for one of the creaky leather and wood booths near the back instead.
Pulling my camera from my bag, I snapped a few photos of the place to look over later if nothing jogged my memory now.
“What can I get for you?” a bubbly waitress asked, withdrawing a notepad and pen from the apron tied at her waist. Her name tag read Liz.
“I’ll take whatever you have on tap,” I said, my voice scratchy from all the screaming I’d done.
“Anything to eat?”
I lowered my camera to the table and quickly scanned the menu slotted between the condiments and napkin holder. “Burger and fries. Medium well,” I answered, waiting for her to scribble it down. “Can I ask you how long you’ve worked here?”
“It’s been two years today,” she said with pride.
“Have you seen me here before? Would’ve been nine months ago to be exact. Actually, hang on a sec.” I pulled the folder I’d brought with me from my satchel, flipping past Stacey’s photos and withdrawing one of me. “This is how I look on a good day.” I hadn’t had a good day in a while. “Do you recognize this man?” I surely didn’t. That man had a fresh shave and wore a smile that said he was ready to take on the world.
She gave me an odd look, probably not getting why it mattered whether or not she’d seen me in there before or why I couldn’t confirm that information for myself.
“I was in a car accident. I’m having trouble recalling things that happened in the past, but I recently came across this receipt in some of my things that were salvaged from the crash.” I fished the tattered piece of paper from my pocket and held it out to her. “It proves I was here the night be
“I’ve never seen you before,” she said, studying both the photo and the receipt, “but we’re the closest restaurant off the highway and tend to get a lot of foot traffic in here because of it. Especially on weekends. Kind of makes it hard to remember faces.”
“Thanks,” I said, slumping in my seat.
“Maybe Trisha remembers,” she said, pity in her eyes. She called Trisha over, but she’d barely glanced at the image before confirming that she’d never seen me before either.
I showed them both a photo of Stacey, feeling desperate now. “Do you recognize this woman? She wouldn’t have been here with me that day, but maybe we visited Haley Cove together some other time.”
Liz’s brows furrowed in concentration. Trisha didn’t even try to hide her boredom. I withdrew another photo. This one was a close-up of her.
“Here’s a better one,” I said, but Liz shook her head. Trisha shrugged.
“Maybe she came in before I started working here,” Trisha drawled, grinding away at her bubble gum.
“Maybe,” I replied, feeling drained of energy and hope. “Thanks anyway.”
“Yeah, sure,” she said flatly, leaving me alone with Liz.
“I’ll get your order in,” Liz said, tapping her pen against the pad of paper before sauntering off.
Frustrated, I shoved the photos and the receipt into my bag, then closed my eyes and focused on my breathing again. Once centered, I picked up the camera, preparing to take a few more pictures but deciding to review what I’d taken of the tavern so far first.
Zooming in on the woodwork along the bar top, and the exit sign above the back door, I meticulously went through each shot. Studies showed that the most innocuous things could trigger an amnesiac’s memory. Maybe I tripped and fell under the restroom sign when I was here last. Maybe I banged my knee under the bar top. Willing to do anything to regain what I’d lost, I refused to take anything for granted.
I scrolled to the last photo I’d taken and nearly fumbled the camera. My pulse quickened in unison with my spine straightening, and I swung my head up to find the booth on the other side of the tavern now empty. I frantically scanned the place, but the man who’d been sitting there was gone, only an empty wine glass and cash for the bill remained.
My breaths came in harsh, shallow puffs as I re-examined the photo with building hysteria. A blinding pain shot through my skull as I fought to latch on to…to something. I scooted out of the booth, turning in place, eyes flickering everywhere in desperate search of him.
I rushed for the entrance, almost knocking a server down in the process. “Sorry,” I said absently, ignoring the cautious stares everyone now aimed at me.
“Sir?” my waitress called. I vaguely registered her holding my drink as I tore through the door, coatless, the air billowing from my parted lips forming tiny clouds. The blustering wind cut through my shirt, and the icy snow pelted my face and neck as I searched the parking lot.
He couldn’t have driven off that fast. How many cars were here when I arrived? I didn’t know, hadn’t thought to count. Why hadn’t I counted? I counted now, but the total of four cars, three vans, and my truck meant nothing to me when I didn’t know how many there were to begin with. How many were here? I spun in place, gripping the sides of my pounding head. How many? How many!?
Sprinting back inside, I grabbed Trisha by the elbow as she passed. “Th-the guy who was sitting over there. D-did you see him leave?” I stammered, too far gone to care about the flash of fear in her eyes.
The restrooms. I hadn’t checked the restrooms. I released her before she could answer, hurrying to the rear of the tavern where the flashing restroom sign taunted me. Turning the corner, I collided with the man from the photo, and my headache escalated to a teeth-grinding migraine.
Cornflower-blue eyes that were already too wide for his smooth, angular face, widened farther. They glistened, like maybe he’d been crying, and suddenly my problems became secondary to his.
“Are you alright?” I asked, forcing my panting breaths to slow while looking him over for signs of injury. He no longer wore his hair in a topknot, like he had in the picture. It now flowed down his back and shoulders, as though he’d yanked the blond tendrils free of their restraints.
“No. I’m not.” His voice was gentle and a tad breathless.
“No. I’m not.”
Those three words set off an alarm in me, and my blood rocketed through my veins as I tried to make sense of it. He slid his hands from mine. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding them. Shit. I had to get myself under control.
He stood there waiting as I did, his own control seeming to hang in the balance while he continued to stare at me. He appeared more stable than I did. He was a deer caught in headlights, frozen by the moment, while my mind flailed with my confusion.
“Have we…have we met before?” I asked, once able to speak. I tracked his every twitch, his lazy blinks, the rosy color rising in his cheeks. I followed the motion of his tongue swiping across his wine-stained lips. He was androgynous, beautiful, meek in a way that somehow complemented him, and the screeching in my brain grew louder.
“No,” he whispered, almost as if it pained him too. “I’d remember someone like you.”
My shoulders sagged. Maybe the familiarity I’d felt came from his pain, which shot from those watery eyes to connect with mine. He was hurting, possibly even as much as I was, and perhaps that was what I’d recognized in the photo.
His gaze swept all the way to my feet before rising again, and I became painfully aware of my disheveled state. At nearly seven feet tall and broader than most men, the wild hair and beard only made me more intimidating, gruesome even. And while he was taller than the average male height, I still loomed over him and was at least twice his size. I’d unintentionally cornered him, so I backed up a bit, fighting to form a smile I didn’t feel to put him at ease.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You just seem familiar to me.”
He tucked his hair behind his ears, pulling himself together. “Familiar?” His delicate but husky tone was inquisitive. “How so?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, roughly combing my fingers through my hair until my hands intertwined at my nape. “None of this makes sense,” I said under my breath.
“What doesn’t?” he asked, his irises swimming within an ocean. I wondered if those were actual tears or if he always looked like he was on the verge of them. I wanted to hold him, to assure him that everything would be okay. The strange urge to do so baffled me.
“This place, life, you,” I replied sharply, my agitation directed inward.
“What about it doesn’t make sense?” He genuinely seemed to care about my answer. He’d taken a few cautious steps forward, eliminating the space I’d given him.
“Nothing.” I shook my head to clear it. “It’s not your problem. Again, I’m sorry for barreling down on you.”
We were supposed to go our separate ways now, but neither of us moved, and when I tried to move my feet they wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. It appeared as though he was struggling to do the same, and for the first time since waking up in a hospital bed to the news that I’d lost my wife, I felt something other than sorrow and fury.
I felt seen and understood, like whatever pained me pained him, but that couldn’t be. Unless what we were feeling wasn’t as complicated as I was making it out to be. He didn’t need to have lost years of his life to a brain injury. He didn’t need to have lost the love of his life either. Maybe what connected us was something universal, an emotion brought on by any number of life’s various atrocities. Despair.
“Are you alone?” I asked. I knew the answer. I’d seen from the picture, and the solitary drink on his table, that he’d been here by himself. What I really wanted to know was if he was alone in general, alone in this world, or if there was someone he could turn to once he left here. According to his own words and the crushing look on his face, he wasn’t okay, and I wanted him to be.
“Yes,” he said, almost gut-wrenchingly so. “I’m alone.”
“Me too.” Amnesia was lonely and isolating, especially when surrounded by people eager for you to remember. The pressure made it worse. But this beautiful stranger didn’t know me, didn’t have anything to gain from me remembering. I felt a need to hang on to that for a while longer.
