Remember to Forget (16 page)

But even without the haze of his tragedy hovering over everything, he didn’t exactly relish spending time with a stranger from California. He shook his head and took the stairs two at a time down to the children’s library.

But when he came back upstairs twenty minutes later, a stack of picture books in one arm, she was still at the computer.

His conscience wouldn’t leave him alone. He glanced up at the big clock above the doorway and sighed. It was closing time. Approaching the study carrels, he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

She looked up from the computer screen, her eyes glazed. It took a minute for recognition to light her face. “Oh . . . hi.”

“Hi. I’m Trevor.”

“I remember. From Wren’s.”

“Yeah. Actually, I run the print shop in town—that’s my real job. Wren’s is just on the side.”

He waited for her to respond. When she only stared up at him, an odd sensation filtered through him. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve pegged it as nervousness.

“Listen,” he went on. “I meant it this morning when I offered to take you to the bus station. We’re not real busy at the print shop this time of year, and I can get away pretty much anytime I need to, so I’d be glad to take you . . . whenever you decide to go.” His mouth was running, and he couldn’t seem to shut it off.

She blinked twice, her cornflower blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He read in them the same wariness he detected the first time they met. For whatever reason, this girl didn’t trust easily. His insides suddenly knotted tight, and his belly churned the way it had the first time he asked Amy for a date. The comparison sobered him.

He cleared his throat a second time. “When you find out your bus schedule, just get in touch with me.”

Meg tipped her head to one side, studying him. “Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

Her eyes drew him in, and he couldn’t seem to break his gaze. “The library’s closed, you know. Do you want a ride back to the inn?”

She looked past him toward the checkout desk. “What do you mean, closed?”

He pointed over his shoulder at the schoolhouse clock on the wall behind him. “They close at five.”

“Then how come we’re still in here?” Those blue eyes held skepticism.

He grinned, hoping to win her trust. “They’re not going to kick us out. You watch. If we don’t leave in a couple of minutes, Mrs. Harms will start flipping off lights.”

She wasn’t warming to him, and he was starting to feel a little foolish. “Do you want a ride or not?”

She shook her head. “I can walk. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

“It’s still pretty hot out there. I could deliver you to the front door in the comfort of air conditioning.” He shot up a prayer that his air conditioner would work today. “It’s the closest you’ll find to a taxi cab in Clayburn.” He almost turned around to see who’d said that. It was as if he had no control over the words that came out of his mouth.

The girl does not want a ride, Ashlock. Leave it alone.

She glanced at the clock. “You’re going back to the inn anyway?”

He nodded. “Wren’ll kill me if I don’t get her kitchen put back together in the next couple of days.”

She looked dubious. “You really think you can finish it in two days?”

He laughed. “Well, by ‘put back together,’ I don’t necessarily mean finished. She just wants to be able to plug in the oven each evening. It’ll take me a couple of months to finish the whole project.” He started for the door.

At the squeak of her tennis shoes on the tiled floor behind him, he curbed a smile.

“That your pickup?” She pointed to the truck parked in front.

“That’s it. Here, let me get that.” He switched the stack of books to his other arm and opened the door for her.

She stood by the open door and eyed the books. “
The Cat in the Hat
? You have kids?”

He winced to himself but managed to smile and shake his head. “I read for the day-care kids.”

“Really? You doing community service or something?”

Where had
that
come from? He laughed and started to open his mouth, but how did a guy answer a question like that?

“No, I mean, that’s cool,” she said, obviously back-pedaling. “You don’t find a lot of macho guys checking out kids’ books—at least not in broad daylight.”

“Toto, I don’t think you’re in California anymore,” he said, trying to deflect her “macho” comment.

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Sorry. I’m still trying to figure this place out.”

He opened the door wider, hinting for her to get in.

She climbed up and settled into the seat, then reached out for the books. “Here, I can hold those.”

“Thanks.” He handed them to her and walked around the truck to the driver’s side.

“Your name was Meg?” he asked as he got behind the wheel.

She grinned. “Still is.”

He acknowledged her correction with a self-deprecating roll of his eyes. “You have a last name?”

“Anders.”

“Oh? Any relation to the Anders families around here?”

“No,” she said a bit too quickly. “My family is all in California.”

“So how long have you lived out there?”

“California?” She stared out the windshield. “A couple of years.”

“I wondered. Your accent
sound
s more like New York.”

Her head jerked up, and he caught a spark of surprise in her eyes. But then she smiled. “Yours is more like Texas.”

“Really? Texas? Never been farther south than Oklahoma City.”

She eyed the keys in his hand pointedly. “Were you headed back to the inn?”

He followed her gaze. After fumbling to put the keys in the ignition, he backed out of the parking space, trying to avoid her eyes as he checked the oncoming traffic.

They drove the few blocks to the inn in silence. As soon as he parked, she jumped out of the truck. “Thanks for the ride.” Her words were cut off by the slam of the door.

Trevor rested his forearms on the steering wheel and watched her hurry in the front door. “Yeah, sure . . . you’re welcome. Anytime,” he told the empty air.

Why hadn’t she just told the truth? Nobody here was going to give away her secret.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he inn’s lobby was empty. Maggie hurried down the hall to her room, not wanting to face Trevor again, yet sorry at the same time that she’d ruined the pleasant conversation they’d begun.

She closed her door and leaned against it, regret swelling her throat. She’d been terse and rude when all he’d done was show an interest in her life. But he was getting too chummy, and it made her nervous. It took too much energy to keep up her charade.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t had anything to eat since the cinnamon rolls when she first woke up. She emptied the pockets of her khakis onto the dresser top. She had less than sixty dollars left. And that was without paying for tonight’s stay at the inn, thanks to Wren’s offer to let her send a check later. Where she’d get a check, she hadn’t a clue.

And where was she going tomorrow? If she let Trevor take her to the bus station, what line would she ask for? Having known him for only a few hours, she suspected he would insist on going into the station with her. On making sure she got on the right bus. Funny thing was, she didn’t suspect his motives for an instant. Once upon a time—before Kevin Bryson—she’d known men like Trevor. Donald Tarkan at the first foster home she and Jenn had been sent to. And Pastor Fred at the Tarkans’ church. The memories were coming back now, of good men who treated women as though they had worth, and whose motives were pure.

She thought of Rick Henry and Ted Blakely. In her desperation for a way of escape, she’d trusted these men. And they’d proven to be kind men who only wanted to help her. She watched the way they treated their wives and caught a glimpse of what a loving relationship should be.

Shoving the cash back in her pocket, Maggie went into the bathroom to comb her hair. In the mirror, she looked over her shoulder with longing at the reflection of the deep tub. It would be nice to have one more soak before she left tomorrow. But first she had to find something cheap for dinner. She turned out the bathroom light and went to the hall.

Wren’s voice warbled from the lobby. “That you, Meg?”

Maggie locked the door to her room behind her and tucked the key into her pocket.

“Yes. I was just going to find someplace to eat.”

“I wonder if this is yours?” Wren held out a small folded slip of paper.

Maggie reached for it and unfolded it.

“I found it in the washing machine with your clothes. It must have been in your pocket.”

Maggie turned over the paper. There was a brief note, but it was smudged and faded, and Maggie could only decipher a few words. It looked like “All things work . . .” and something about a call. But there was no number to call.

Aware of Wren’s eyes on her, Maggie refolded the paper and put it in her left pocket. “Thanks.”

“Now if that’s important, don’t you be sending it back with your laundry tonight,” Wren teased.

“Oh, you don’t have to do my laundry again.”

“Might as well. I’ve got a load to run anyway. Did those clothes fit you?”

“I haven’t tried them on yet. But thanks so much for leaving them for me. I’ll try them on after dinner.”

“You’re welcome to eat with me and Bart,” Wren said. “Nothing fancy—just my tuna noodle casserole. And we’ll have to eat in amongst that mess.” She raised her voice and called over Maggie’s shoulder into the dining room, “I haven’t cooked an honest-to-goodness meal since Trevor Ashlock tore up my kitchen.”

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Wren Johannsen.” His deep voice came from beyond the arched doorway. The words were gruff, but Maggie heard the smile behind them.

She hadn’t heard him working in there. Why did it unsettle her to know Trevor was just on the other side of that wall?

“You’re welcome to stay for tuna casserole, too, Mr. Ashlock,” Wren hollered.

No answer.

“It’s one of Bart’s favorites,” Wren told Maggie. “At least that’s what he’s been telling me ever since we were newlyweds.”

“Thank you, but I couldn’t impose.”

“Nonsense. It doesn’t make good leftovers—noodles get too sticky, you know. Help us eat it up. I insist. We’ll sit down around six.”

Maggie looked into the dining room, wishing Trevor would decline the invitation so she could accept. But either he hadn’t heard, or he was waiting to see if she would decline.

In the end her stomach—and the thinness of the wad of bills in her pocket—won out. “Thank you, Wren. I’d love to have dinner with you and Bart.”

T
he entire inn seemed to carry the savory aroma of onions and garlic. Maggie’s mouth watered as she walked through the lobby to the dining room.

Wren was flitting around the room like a bee in full pollination mode. The ladders and a toolbox stood in the corner on a tarp, but Wren had pulled one of the tables away from the Sheetrock walls and spread it with a cheerful red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Tapers in candlesticks waited to be lit, and a tiny milk pitcher held a fuchsia geranium blossom and a sprig of asparagus fern.