Previously…
– Spencer’s live-in nurse, Sonja, continued to bond with Tim — while also receiving calls from a mysterious boss about completing a mission.
– Molly and Conrad separately confessed to others that they have feelings for one another but aren’t sure if or when it would be appropriate to act on them.
– Samantha officially broke things off with Tempest.
The green numerals on the microwave’s clock glow through the darkness of the kitchen. Molly Taylor sits at the table, beneath the low light of the copper lighting fixture that is on its dimmest setting. She swipes her finger over the screen of her tablet, using her design program to alter the hemline of an outfit that Objection Designs is about to put into production.

“Can you even see what you’re doing?” Conrad Halston asks as he enters, pushing his walker in front of him.

Molly looks up and takes off her fashionable, black-framed glasses. “I’m just making last-minute changes to some pieces.”

“I take it that means everyone has finally accepted your ideas?”

“Sort of. I can’t imagine any collection being as hard as this one.”

Molly lets out a sigh as Conrad goes to the cabinet and retrieves a glass.

“No matter what I present or say, everyone looks at me like I have two heads,” she says. “It’s as if going on trial for murder — a murder I didn’t even commit! — made me incapable of making the same decisions I’d been making for years.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“I know it. They don’t seem to!”

Conrad shuffles toward the refrigerator on his own and uses the built-in dispenser to fill his glass with water.

“It isn’t like I’m some seasoned convict,” Molly continues ranting. “I spent one night in jail after the arrest. And I was exonerated! They’re all acting like I spent half my life in the big house and haven’t seen anything but an orange jumpsuit in years.”

He chuckles into his water glass.

“What?” Molly asks.

“The big house?”

“That’s what people say, isn’t it?”

Conrad laughs again. “You know what I think? That you should try and channel that anger into your work. You’d make a killing.”

“Was that an intentional pun?”

“Possibly.”

Molly watches as he places his glass into the cup holder on his walker.

“You know, you’re moving pretty well,” she says. “Soon you won’t even need that walker.”

“That day cannot come quickly enough. I’ve been so tempted to leave it in my room–”

“You don’t want to have some kind of accident that would delay your recovery, though.”

“I know. Just like all the doctors and the physical therapist have told me. Being able to take that trip to Spokane for Bree’s competition, though…”

She nods, brightening with understanding. “I’m sure it meant the world to you to be there.”

“It did. I was so proud of her. And I felt like a real father again — an actual person out in the world.”

“You are a real father. I’ve seen you with Bree.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I guess I do. You must be happy to be getting back to your old self.”

“I am,” Conrad says. “In fact…”

“What?”

He braces him against the handles of his walker. “I think it’s about time that I stopped taking advantage of your generosity.”

“You aren’t taking advantage–”

“At the very least, I’ve imposed upon you and your family long enough,” he says. “Now that I’m doing better, it’s high time that I moved out.”

—–

“All good?” Tim Fisher asks as he removes the whistling kettle from the stove.

“He’s dog-tired,” Sonja Kahele says. “Very good physical therapy session tonight.”

“Every one gets him closer to being his old self.” Somewhat under his breath, he adds, “I hope that’s a good thing.”

Tim turns off the burner and pours some hot water into a mug with a teabag resting in it. His kitchen is still and calm, the light over the sink illuminating the bay window that looks out into the dark.

“I helped him into bed and turned on the white-noise app,” Sonja says. “He should be asleep in minutes, if he isn’t already.”

“He really seems to like that white-noise app.”

“It’s something that’s worked for a lot of my clients. The ambient noise is restful. It helps block out distractions.”

“Maybe I need one, too,” he says with a chuckle. “Do you want any tea, by the way? It’s that lemon-ginger bedtime one — but there are others if you want–”

“That sounds great.” She offers a smile and retrieves another mug from the cupboard. They stand beside one another as Tim adds a teabag to the mug and pours water over it.

“Thank you,” Sonja says as she accepts the tea. “I hope I’m not being invasive, but something you said just now…”

He looks up. “What was that?”

“That you hope it’s a good thing Spencer gets back to his old self. Why is that?”

He mulls over his answer for a few seconds. “We didn’t always have the closest relationship — as I’ve said.”

“Because of the way he was raised. Or the fact that you and Claire didn’t get to raise him, you mean.”

“Yeah. He hasn’t always had the easiest personality to get along with. Maybe it’s because of who raised him, or it’s just how he is, or because Claire and I tried too hard. I don’t know. But this accident has been– it’s like someone pushed a reset button.”

“And you worry that if he gets his memory back, things won’t be so simple anymore,” Sonja fills in.

“Exactly.” Tim stands with his palms planted on the counter, thinking. “I know that’s selfish of me.”

He turns abruptly, just as Sonja is saying, “I don’t think–”

His arms strikes the mug in her hands. Sonja jumps backward, and the mug jostles — spraying hot tea all over Tim’s t-shirt.

“Oh my goodness!” she yelps, immediately setting down the tea and reaching for a dishtowel. Tim hisses at the splash of hot water against his skin through the shirt’s thin material.

“That was my fault,” he says as he pulls the wet fabric away from his body.

“I’m so sorry,” Sonja says as she dabs at his shirt with the towel. “I shouldn’t have been standing so close.”

“No, I’m the klutz,” he insists — and when she looks up at him, they both freeze, their bodies nearly pressed together, the towel in her hand brushing against his shirt as her other hand steadies herself against his firm chest.

—–

“You’re a life-saver,” Claire Fisher says as she surveys the expanse of Thai takeout containers before her.

She and Brent Taylor sit at the dining table in her apartment, having just enjoyed a late, casual dinner after both working long shifts. A bare Christmas tree stands across from them in the corner of the living room; boxes containing lights and ornaments rest on the red skirt below, waiting to be unpacked.

“Hey, it was a little self-serving of me,” Brent responds with a grin. “You get takeout for two people, it’s way more acceptable to order this many different items…”

Claire laughs. “Then I’m happy to have been your cover.”

Just as they lean toward one another for a kiss, the jingle of keys in the door causes them to pull back. A hand fumbles with the lock for a moment before pushing the door open with a little too much force. Tempest Banks appears, wearing her heavy winter coat, and stands in the doorway, surveying the scene.

“There you are,” Claire says, rising from her chair. “I texted you. Did you not get it? I thought you were going to be home tonight.”

“Sorry. I missed it.” The edges of Tempest’s words are a bit blurry as she closes the door behind herself.

“I thought we could decorate the tree tonight,” Claire adds. “If you’re too tired, we can do it tomorrow.”

“Whatever.”

Tempest struggles to balance as she pulls off one shoe and then the other. She nearly topples over before steadying herself on the wall.

“Are you okay?” Claire asks.

“I’m fine.” But when Tempest looks up, the glassiness in her eyes is evident.

“Where have you been?” Claire prods as gently as she can. “Out with friends?”

“Just went to 322 for a little. Wanted some drinks. Don’t worry. I took an Uber.”

Claire watches with concern as Tempest wriggles out of her coat.

“Are you okay?” Claire asks.

Tempest’s silent response is an expression so despondent and lost that it strikes panic into Claire.

“You know what? I’ve got to return this call from the station,” Brent says as he stands, his cell phone in hand. “I’m going to head outside for a minute.”

“Good idea,” Claire says, mouthing “Thank you” as he slips out of the apartment. She waits until she and Tempest are alone before speaking again.

“What happened tonight? It isn’t like you to go out and get drunk on a weeknight like this.”

“Take a guess.”

Claire already has a pretty strong sense of the underlying reason for Tempest’s condition, but she hesitates to say it aloud. “Samantha?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“What happened?”

Tempest simply stands there, shaking her head.

“Tempest. Come here.” Claire moves to the sofa and sits down. She pats the cushion beside herself. “Come on. Talk to me about it.”

After thinking it over for a moment, Tempest moves to the sofa slowly, as if her feet have been replaced with cement blocks.

“She broke up with me,” she says, her speech thick and messy. “For good.”

“Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”

“I knew she was gonna. I knew it. But she waited so long — made me think she might be changing her mind, or not want to, or…”

Claire wraps an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. Uncharacteristically, Tempest leans right into her; she is normally much more reserved and cautious about physical closeness.

“I blew it,” Tempest rattles on. “‘Cuz of my mom. And her mom. It didn’t even have anything to do with us. It was our moms. I wish my mom never came here. Chase wouldn’t be here, then. But I still wish she never came. Now I’ve got no one.”

Claire listens patiently to Tempest’s speech, not incoherent, but a bit like Tempest herself since entering the apartment, staggering from point to point.

“You have me,” Claire says. “You have Travis. You have a baby brother who needs you. You have a job you love. And, someday, you’ll have someone special again.”

“I want Sam.”

“I know you do.” Claire softly rubs Tempest’s shoulder. “I know.”

They sit there quietly for a very long, thoughtful stretch.

“Are you hungry?” Claire asks. “If you’ve been drinking–”

“Nah. I ate at the bar.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to get you before bed: a big glass of water and some ibuprofen.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re drunk. You feel fine now. But getting up for work in the morning is going to be rough without those.” Claire shifts. “I’ll go get them for you.”

“Wait. Just a minute. Just another minute.” Tempest sounds childlike as she rests there.

“Another minute is good,” Claire says, relaxing back into the cushions and wishing that there were something more helpful than water and ibuprofen that she could get for the hurting girl.

—–

“Move out?” Molly asks with surprise.

Conrad grins. “What? Did you expect me to stay forever?”

Flustered, she grasps for any response that sounds coherent. “No. Of course not. But you aren’t imposing. I wish you’d stop saying that. You’re a guest. And a friend.”

“Thank you. But you’ve been overly generous, and I do have to get on with my life eventually.”

“Right. True.” She fiddles with her glasses, which have been resting on the table. “Where will you go? What do you have planned?”

“Truth be told,” he says, “I’m hoping to stay in King’s Bay.”

“Really? That’s great.”

“My practice has been quiet for so long that I’d essentially be restarting it anyway, and I’ve gotten attached to being so close to Bree all the time. I don’t think I could go backward in that regard, especially not when college is only a few years away for her.”

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Molly says, nodding.

He pauses for a sip of his water. “I hope so. At any rate, I’ve started looking for a place to live. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

“It’s the holidays. You don’t have to be in a rush to go.”

“Again, I’ve imposed long enough.” He catches himself. “Not imposed. Liberally accepted your generosity.”

“That’s better. But please, feel free to stay as long as you want. We don’t mind.”

“Thank you.” He replaces the water in the walker’s cup holder. “I’m going to call it a night. Will you be up working much longer?”

She shrugs. “I’ll go to bed soon. My brain can only handle so much more of this.”

“Good luck,” Conrad says as he leaves the kitchen, “and goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Molly puts her glasses back on and attempts to focus on her tablet, but it is no use. Her conversation with Conrad keeps looping back through her mind. He seems so set on moving out as soon as possible — but, then again, maybe that’s because he also feels it would be awkward to initiate anything while he’s still living under her roof. She wonders if, by saying that he can remain a guest for as long as he likes, she gave the message that she only seems him as a friend and roommate. Did she accidentally just tell him that she isn’t interested in anything more?

With a sigh, she closes the cover of her tablet, realizing that she understands this situation no better than she did before their talk.

—–

An electric current buzzes between Tim and Sonja, and for an instant that is impossible to measure, neither moves even a muscle fiber.

“I’m really sorry,” Sonja says, pulling her hand from his chest as though suddenly discovering it to be hot as a stove.

“It’s okay. Really.” He offers a reassuring smile. “I’m the one who turned around and rammed into you.”

“You aren’t burned, are you?”

“No. Just wet.”

“You should take that off– I can put it into the washer. I mean, you should go change, and then I’ll…”

“I can wash it myself. You don’t have to do that,” he says, still holding the wet, hot spot of fabric away from his skin.

“I feel bad.”

“Don’t. Truly. I’ll go up and change, and then I’ll come back down and finish my tea and we can chat like normal people who aren’t at risk of burning their flesh.”

“Deal.”

She smiles, and Tim takes notice. He has to force himself to slip out of the kitchen and go up the stairs to his room. It has taken a while, perhaps because of how humbly and plainly she usually presents herself, but she really is pretty. And charming.

Back in the kitchen, Sonja is wiping up the rest of the spill when she feels her phone vibrating urgently in her pocket. Seeing the number on the screen, she knows that she needs to answer it.

“Hello?” she says as she peers out of the kitchen to be sure that she will not be overheard.

“Time for an update,” the voice says.

“Everything is going according to plan.”

“Then it’s working? You’re putting on the white noise? He isn’t remembering anything?”

Sonja continues to stand guard in the doorway as she half-whispers into her phone. “Not at all. Are you sure this is all necessary, though?”

“I’ve told you to stop asking questions. Do you want your money or not?”

“Yes. I do.” Sonja sighs. “Tell Mrs. Ragan that everything is being taken care of.”

“Good.” Without any sort of parting, the line goes dead.

Sonja folds the wet dishtowel and hangs it on the front of the oven. She hates that she can share such genuine moments with Tim and yet be lying about her true intentions in being here. Then again, she isn’t lying; she is helping Spencer recover — at least physically. And if Tim fears that Spencer regaining his memory might hurt their relationship… well, maybe this is somehow going to work out for the best. Spencer will get better, Tim will have a relationship with his son, and Sonja will have the money she so desperately needs.

“It’s all going to be fine,” she says to herself, though the affirmation does little to calm the burning nugget of guilt in her stomach.

END OF EPISODE 902

Can Sonja continue to have dueling allegiances?
Should Molly tell Conrad how she feels?
Is Tempest going to be able to move forward?
Talk about it all in the comments below!

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