Page 113 of The Image of You

The bird was a common theme on all the pieces. A nightingale.

I stroked over the gold, wondering when I had collected all these pieces. They looked foreign. They were exotic, as if they had come from somewhere other than Canada. I had never been off this continent.

I looked at the pieces again. My gaze drifted to the small painted tile I kept on my bedside table. It had been tossed into one of my boxes and the frame was damaged, but I still loved it. I had no idea where it came from either, but I looked at it every day, even bringing it with me, and I would trace the small frame and look at the pretty image of the bird, wondering why it meant so much to me.

Never thinking of the type of bird it was—or why I had it.

Until now.

Nightingale.

An old-fashioned term often used for a nurse. And Adam had said he called me that as well as Ally.

I gasped out loud, the necklace slipping from my fingers as the earth stopped spinning on its axis.

Time stopped.

Images came, hard and fast.

A patient with warm, golden-brown eyes. Eyes that saw me.

A tender, melodic voice that wrapped around a new name…a name given only to me.

His Nightingale. His Ally.

Packages arriving from faraway places.

Sweet words of love on small notes.

Wait for me, my Nightingale.

Wear this and think of me, Ally. I think of you every day.

Days of laughter, nights of passion, filled my head. Memories of his laugh, his smile, his love, ran through my mind, playing over and again, once more becoming real and solid.

The feel of his mouth against mine as we kissed—gentle and loving, hard and demanding. His warm touch and strong arms that protected and soothed, loved, and caressed. His whispered promises echoed, drenching my parched soul with the truth behind the sweet words.

“You’re mine, Nightingale. Nothing will ever change that fact. We belong together.”

I shut my eyes as a sob burst out of my chest and the missing months of my life returned. One incredible and affecting image at a time.

All those months summed up in one beautiful, frightening word.

Adam.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ADAM

The coffee machine gurgled on the counter. My gaze was fixed on the windows—the foggy darkness deeper than usual due to the ongoing storm. I rubbed my tired eyes; another night of restless slumber was catching up with me.

I couldn’t sleep, no matter how hard I tried, so I gave up, made coffee, and started sorting through some of the pictures I’d taken the past days I’d spent with Ally. All I could see when I closed my eyes was the expression on her face when she pulled away and ran from me. All I could feel was the fullness of her lips as they pressed to mine. Her scent and taste lingered—no longer distant memories, but sharper—clearer.

They were even more painful than they had been. It made me even more determined to make her mine again.

I tried calling her, but all I got was voice mail. I went by her parents’ building, but the lights on the top floor were out, and I knew I wouldn’t be welcomed by the doorman.

I grabbed my mug from the cupboard, filling it with the fragrant liquid. I added some cream, shaking my head. Another habit I got from Ally. Before I met her, I drank it black, but she so often sipped from my cup, I started adding it so she could drink it anytime she wanted. I liked knowing her lips had lingered where my mouth touched. I got used to the taste, and now I liked it.