Ghost Ship

She hugged him again, this time holding on a little longer. They were roughly the same height. She was neither slim nor heavy. There was strength and muscle in her frame, but there was a softness to her, too. Her hair filled his nose with the scent of her shampoo, which was rich with exotic flowers. She finally pushed away, and took a seat on the sofa overlooking the ocean.

He swallowed, feeling the slight loss of an emotion when she stepped away from their embrace. Something about the sign of affection seemed familiar, as though it was teasing at some long ago and distant memories — no, not yet memories, but more feelings. It stirred once powerful feelings, emotions and desires.

He tried to blink away the haze in his memory. Frustration and loss teased at his heart, but he couldn’t put any of it together. He sat down next to her. She looked at him. Her face was wrapped up in empathy, patience, and regret… buried beneath the bewilderment was some sort of suppressed smile, a type of joy, and maybe, he hoped, some desire.

She blushed, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. “How did this happen?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. How would I? I’ve lost my memory.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I woke up in the middle of the night on a rowboat in the harbor — what harbor is this by the way?”

“Vernazza, Italy. Part of the five cities of Cinque Terra,” she informed him.

He thought about that, and somewhere in the back of his mind, the name and the scenery somehow matched up with the databanks buried deep in his brain. “I must have drifted into the harbor. I don’t know where I came from or why I was there in the first place. But ever since I reached the beach, someone’s been trying to kill me.”

“Someone’s trying to kill you?”

Sam nodded. “It would appear so.”

“Who?”

“To be honest, I think the question so far is, who isn’t trying to kill me? Let me see, I reached the beach and was stopped by a priest. When I looked up to reply to him, I was shot at by two separate people.”

“Two people? Maybe it was just the same person taking multiple shots?”

“No. It was two separate shooters. Snipers, positioned high up on opposing positions within the harbor. I could tell because of the way the .338 Lapua Magnum shot made a crisp report, distinct to the rimless, bottlenecked, centerfire rifle cartridges.”

She grinned. “You could tell all that by the echo of the shots?”

Sam paused, only just then realizing the oddity in knowing such complex information at the blink of an eye, or in this case, the snap of a sniper shot. “I guess so.”

“Can you normally tell things like that about weapons being fired?”

Sam bit his lower lip and smiled. “I don’t know. You’d better tell me. Am I the sort of person who knows enough about weapons to instinctively tell you what sort of weapon was fired?”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I mean, you weren’t the last time I saw you.”

“How long ago was that?” Sam asked.

She paused, thought about it for a moment, and said, “I’d say nearly fifteen years.”

“That’s nearly a lifetime ago. Almost half my life time…” Sam glanced at himself in the reflection of the window. “How old am I?”

“You’re thirty-eight.”

He mulled that over for a moment and decided he was doing okay. He didn’t look young for his age, but neither did he look older than that. There were some dark creases in his face that suggested he’d seen his share of difficulties, but overall, he’d had a good life, without any major stumbling blocks with vices. His face certainly wasn’t that of a heavy smoker, or drinker for that matter.

“I haven’t seen you since I was twenty-three?”

“No. Twenty-four. You were born in December.”

He nodded, taking it all in. “Can I ask you something?”

She squeezed his hand. There was a comfort there, a natural relationship that their bodies had that felt as though it had once been more than just a friendship. There was muscle memory in their hands, even though his brain couldn’t remember a thing about her. She said, “Sure. Anything.”

“What’s your name?”

She took a deep breath. “Wait. Are you telling me you don’t remember me at all?”

Sam winced. “I’m afraid not. Were we close?”

“Yeah, kinda…” she made a coy smile that looked like she was working hard to suppress something from her past.

Sam said, “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, squeezed his hand again in a subtle gesture of acceptance. “It’s okay. Not your fault. Let’s start again… Hi, I’m Catarina Marcello.”

Sam shook her hand, in mock formality, “Sam Reilly.”

She grinned. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, really it is, Mr. Reilly.”

“Catarina Marcello?” Sam said the name out loud, letting it sink into his own ears, hoping that it would jog his memory somewhere. “Can I call you, Cat?”

“You asked that the first time we met!”

“What did you say?”

“I said I didn’t like the name.”

“What did I end up calling you?”

“Cat.”

“Really?”

“Afraid so. It was a joke at first, but the name stuck.”

Sam said, “Sorry.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry about it. The name’s grown on me.”