Under the Mistletoe with John Doe (10 page)

“Need some help?” he'd asked, heading toward her.

“No, I've got it.”

She'd kissed him, then carried the groceries into the house. “I invited my folks to dinner tonight. I hope you're okay with that.”

“Of course.” He liked her parents. But he had to admit that he was a little uneasy about making any kind of
public statement about their relationship—at least, until he knew where it was going.

Or what might keep it from going anywhere.

“I thought we'd have tacos,” she'd said. “How does that sound to you?”

“Great.”

As she began to put away her purchases, she paused and looked him over. Really looked. “You've been awfully quiet the past few days. Is something wrong?”

“No,” he lied, not wanting to admit that he was burdened by guilt, which could really be for naught.

It was entirely possible that he was unattached. And if he learned that he had a wife or fiancée, he'd end their sexual relationship immediately.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I've just got Doc on my mind. I probably should have gone to see him today, but I got caught up with chores and the time just slipped away.”

Okay, so that wasn't entirely true. He was concerned about Doc, of course. And he'd been busy. But that wasn't the cause of his silence.

“Doc is actually doing better today,” she said.

“I'm glad to hear that.” He tossed her a smile, which seemed to put her mind at ease.

Why should they both be miserable and stressed?

“He's having some speech problems,” she added, “but he was able to communicate. And you were right. He definitely wants to sell the ranch.”

John nodded, his mind still on other concerns, like whether he should come right out and admit what he was struggling with.

“Doc asked if you would oversee things until it's all said and done,” she said.

“I'd be happy to. I owe him a lot for providing me with a job and a place to stay.”

She seemed pleased with his answer. But he hadn't been blowing smoke. He did feel an obligation to Doc, and he really enjoyed working outdoors.

Was that a contradiction to the theory he'd had about being a businessman?

There was also a part of him that didn't care whether he remembered his past life or not—the part of him that had fallen for Betsy, the part that didn't want to be with another woman, no matter who she was.

“I also stopped by the admission office at the Shady Glen Convalescent Hospital. When Doc is discharged from the medical center, he can transfer there. And once he recovers more fully, he can move into one of the apartments.”

“How soon do you think that'll be?”

“If he's lucky, in the next couple of weeks.”

John watched her fold up the bags and put them in the pantry.

For a moment she froze. “Oh, shoot.”

“What's the matter?”

“I forgot to get chips and salsa.”

“Do you want me to go back to the market and get that for you?”

“Would you mind?”

“No, not at all.” Maybe getting away from the house and the ranch would help him shake the blue funk he'd been in ever since that last memory had surfaced. He'd tried his best to make sense of every image that had
fluttered past him, but he hadn't gotten a very good handle on any of them, especially that partial, heated conversation between him and a woman.

Instead, he'd felt increasingly unsettled, as though he should be somewhere, as though he had a job to do, as though he might be failing someone. And that didn't sit well with him at all.

And now, here he was, turning off the ignition and heading into the small mom-and-pop-style grocery store to pick up chips and salsa.

As he made his way through the aisles, he found the Mexican food easily enough, but as he scanned the shelves, he spotted a display of Abuelita brand tortilla chips, which sent a good, hard jolt to his memory.

Several images, sights and sounds began to clamor in his mind and he froze in his tracks. As he realized what was happening, he lifted a bag of chips and studied the smiling old woman on the label, her cheeks flushed with pride. And as he did so, a spark of recognition struck. Rosa Alvarez.

The woman whose recipes and cooking skills had started a company.

A big company.

Jason…Alvarez?

Was that who he was?

He turned the bag over, reading the label. But he skipped over the nutrition facts, instead searching for the processing details: Packaged by Alvarez Industries, San Diego, California.

This was, he realized, the first significant clue he had received. Yet the images were still flickering in his mind like an old nickelodeon that skipped a few photos.

Find Pedro Salas.

Go to Texas.

But why?

He reached for a jar of salsa—another Abuelita product—and carried it as well as the chips to the checkout stand.

“That'll be eight dollars and forty-three cents,” the checker said.

John—no,
Jason
—pulled out a ten and waited for his change. Then he went out to the pickup. But instead of heading home, he searched the area for a pay phone.

He spotted one by the nearby Laundromat and crossed the parking lot to reach it, digging through his pocket for change.

Once inside the booth, he dropped in a quarter, dialed 4-1-1 and asked for the number for the Alvarez Industries corporate office in San Diego. Then, realizing he didn't have enough coins to handle the long-distance charges, he directed an automated operator to place a collect call.

One ring later, a woman answered, “Alvarez Industries. How can I direct your call?”

“I have a collect call from Mr. Jason Alvarez. Will you accept charges?”

“Yes, we will.” When the call went through, she said, “Please hold, Mr. Alvarez. I'll get your brother's office.”

Too bad Jason hadn't known he had a brother. He blinked a couple of times, hoping it would all come back to him before his brother answered.

“Michael Alvarez's office,” another woman said.

Here goes nothing, he thought, as he said, “This is Jason. Can I speak to Michael?”

The woman sucked in her breath. “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine.”

“Michael isn't in right now. And his cell won't do you any good. The corporate jet was tied up, and he had to take a commercial flight to Denver. He's not due to land for another…” She paused, apparently checking the clock or Michael's itinerary. “Well, he just took off, so it'll be at least two hours. Are you sure you're okay, Jason?”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” At least he hoped that he would be—now, anyway.

“David's playing golf at Torrey Pines today with a couple of execs from the J.R. Stein Group. He never takes his cell on the course, so he's not available, either. Can you leave a number so one of them can call you back as soon as they check in with me?”

“Sure.” He gave her the number at the ranch.

“Are you sure you're all right?” she asked. “They're going to ask. All they knew was that you went to Texas. But you never checked in.”

Was that because of the accident and the amnesia? Or did he have another reason for being away?

Jason didn't want to admit to the woman that he'd been involved in a mugging, that most of his memory was still lost to him. After all, he wasn't sure what kind of relationship he had with his family or why he was in Brighton Valley in the first place.

After the police had questioned the patrons of the Stagecoach Inn, they'd said he was looking for someone
named Pedro Salas. But he had no idea why. And because the secretary hadn't mentioned the man or hinted at his quest, he decided to keep that information to himself for the time being.

“I'm fine,” he repeated. Hopefully, he'd get more clues after he talked to one of his brothers. “Will you just have one of them call me?”

“Yes, Jason. Of course.”

When the line disconnected, he stood outside the market for the longest time, trying to sort through the facts he'd just learned.

But when push came to shove, he still didn't know much more than his name.

B
etsy brought her parents home from Shady Glen around four that afternoon. Because her father was a football fan, she left him in the living room watching the Cowboys and Redskins game while she and her mother went into the kitchen.

She waited for her mom to maneuver the walker into the room, then she had her sit at the kitchen table. Whenever possible, she tried to give her mom a job to do, allowing her to feel as though she'd taken part in the food preparation.

Working together had always been a special time between them, whether it was baking cookies as a child or learning how to fix one of her mom's favorite recipes.

Betsy had cooked the hamburger earlier, so all she needed to do was add the seasonings and the tomato sauce, then let it simmer on the stove.

“Will John be eating with us, too?” Barbara asked.

“Yes, he went to pick up some chips and salsa at the market, but he'll be home soon.”

If her mother had thought it odd that Betsy had referred to John coming “home,” she didn't mention anything, which was a relief.

It's not that she meant to keep any secrets about the two of them becoming lovers, but they really hadn't talked about what the future held for them. How could they when John's past was still in question?

They'd probably get around to it soon, but he'd been a little introspective the past couple of days. And she wasn't sure what was going on with that. Of course, she might be reading something into nothing. And it might be the upcoming holiday that had him pensive.

It was a struggle not to compare him to Doug, though. And she realized that whenever she did so, it was a result of her own past and baggage coming to light.

And speaking of the past, her biological mother's attorney had contacted her again, asking if she'd be interested in a meeting before Christmas. “It would mean so much to her,” the man had said.

But Betsy had put it off again. “Maybe after New Year's,” she'd said. Then she'd taken the man's number and said she'd call him after Christmas.

“What can I do to help?” her mother asked.

“Do you want to chop tomatoes and lettuce? Or would you rather grate the cheese?”

“It doesn't matter. You choose.”

Betsy placed a couple of small serving bowls, a paring knife, the cutting board and the previously washed produce in front of her mother. Then she grabbed the cheese from the fridge and a grater from the drawer.

Dinner would be ready soon. So where was John?

She glanced at the clock on the microwave. He'd left for the market at the same time she'd gone to get her parents.

“Have you decided on a menu for Christmas dinner?” her mom asked. “Turkey might be nice again, even though we had it for Thanksgiving. And I can make that cranberry Jell-O salad again.”

Christmas was only a week away, and Betsy had been thinking a lot about the holiday, although she hadn't gotten a tree yet.

“Do you mind celebrating twice?” she asked her mom.

“What do you mean?”

“I'd like to do something special for Doc. And because he probably won't be able to leave the convalescent hospital, we'll have to do it there. But I'd like to have something special at home, too.”

John didn't have a family with whom he could celebrate, so she wanted to go out of her way to make it nice for him—and to make him feel as though he was a part of her family.

Who knew? Maybe someday he would be.

Her mother placed the chopped tomatoes into one of the bowls. Then she focused on the lettuce. “Will John be joining us for Christmas?”

“I'm sure he will be.” They hadn't actually talked about it, but where else would he go?

“It will be nice to have him with us on the holiday,” her mom said. “He seems like a very personable young man.”

Personable wasn't the half of it, and the thought put a smile on her face.

As her mother sliced into the lettuce, she asked, “Do you like him?”

Betsy knew she wasn't just talking in terms of friendship. And while she and her mom didn't keep many secrets from each other, her relationship with John was too new and tenuous to make any announcements just yet.

“For what it's worth,” Betsy did admit, “John and I have gotten pretty close lately.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Barbara said. “Your father and I have been worried about you spending too much time alone.”

“I'm pretty busy.”

“We love you, honey. And we're enormously proud of the woman and the physician you've become. But you've been
too
busy if you ask us. There have to be other doctors who can cover some of the shifts you've been taking.”

Deciding to let that comment slide, Betsy finished grating the cheese and then transferred it into a serving dish that matched those holding the lettuce and tomatoes.

“Are you going to start frying the tacos shells now?” Barbara asked.

“No, I'll wait to do that until right before we eat. In fact, why don't we take some iced tea to Dad and watch the game with him until John arrives?”

“All right.” Her mother pulled the walker close to her chair, then slowly got to her feet.

Betsy had no more than prepared four glasses and
carried them into the living room on a tray when she heard Doc's pickup drive into the yard.

“Oh, good,” she told her parents. “He's back.”

Moments later, John entered the living room with a grocery bag, his expression guarded, his eyes lacking the spark Betsy had grown used to seeing.

Her father stood and extended his arm in greeting, and while John smiled and took the older man's hand, Betsy couldn't help sensing that something was wrong.

“John,” she said, as she placed the tray of drinks on the coffee table, “will you please help me in the kitchen?”

“Sure.”

When they were out of earshot and alone, she asked, “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

She crossed her arms, not at all convinced. “You've been pretty quiet lately. And right now, I'm picking up some serious vibes.”

“I'm sorry, honey.” He blew out a sigh, then brushed a kiss on her brow. “I've had a couple of things come back to me, but not enough to know anything for sure. I think my name is Jason, though. And I'm from California.”

“That's it?”

“For the most part.”

Something didn't quite jive. Did he remember more than he was telling her?

She didn't know why she thought he was holding back. Something in his eyes, maybe.

“Do you have a last name?” she asked.

“It might be Alvarez. I'm not sure. So far, my thoughts
are pretty scattered. And I'm not ready to talk about any of it yet.”

She could understand that—and she could sympathize with it. So, feeling just a bit better, she offered him a smile and gave him a hug. “I'm glad to hear that. I can't imagine how difficult the amnesia is for you.”

“Hopefully, it'll soon be a thing of the past.”

She sure hoped so. She was just about to suggest that they open the chips and salsa and take it out to the living room when she stole another glance at him, saw his furrowed brow.

He was looking down at the floor, but it clearly wasn't just his boots or the tile pattern that had caught his attention.

Was it something—or
someone
—in California?

Her heart sunk at the thought, yet she didn't think it was fair to quiz him.

When he looked up, he caught her gaze, twisting her heart into a tight little knot. “I'm not going to stay, Betsy. I want to go back to Doc's and be alone for a while. I need to do some thinking.”

She could understand that.
Really,
she could. But she sensed him pulling away, just as Doug had once done. And it left her uneasy, her emotions a little too frantic for comfort.

“All right,” she said, calling on her professionalism and everything that made her a good doctor. “I'll get dinner on the table. You can eat with us, then take off.”

“No.” He took a step back. “I'm not in the mood to socialize tonight at all.”

Why was that? Was he remembering things that didn't concern her? Things he didn't want her to know?

A chill settled over her as she realized he was shutting her out, just as Doug had seemed to do when their marriage was falling apart.

“Are you coming back later?” she asked. “After I take my parents home?”

“I'm not sure. I've been getting a lot of fleeting thoughts and images, but I can't quite make sense of them. And I think it's better if I just go home where it's quiet.”

Go
home?
Just days ago he'd started referring to her house as home. And now he was talking about Doc's.

Or did he mean California?

She couldn't explain just how she knew it, but he was leaving her. And he hadn't even taken a step.

 

Jason headed back to Doc's place to await a call from California. He'd hated the fact that he'd cut out early on Betsy's dinner party, knowing that it was rude. But he wasn't sure when one of his brothers would call back. And he wanted to be there when it happened.

Fortunately, while he was making a bologna sandwich for dinner, the telephone rang.

He waited a beat before answering so that he didn't appear to be too anxious. “Hello?”

“Jason? Where the hell have you been? We've been worried sick. You flew to Houston to find Pedro, and then that's all we heard.”

“I…uh…haven't found him yet.”

“But where are you? After not hearing from you for a couple of days, we filed a missing person report. We
also sent a private investigator to Texas, and he tracked you to a rental-car company in Houston, but he didn't turn up anything. You never returned the car, and it was reported stolen.”

“It
was
stolen.”

“By whom?”

“Whoever mugged me and stole my wallet, I suspect.”

“Damn. Slow down, little brother. Are you okay?”

“I'm all in one piece, but I suffered a head injury and had amnesia for a while.” Actually, he still had it, he supposed. “I seem to be getting my memory back in pieces, so you're going to have to help me out with a few reminders.”

“Okay. I'll help any way I can. Have you been able to find Pedro?”

“I don't think so. The problem is, I'm not sure why I was looking for him.”

“Damn,” his brother said again. “Where are you? I'm going to come out there and take you to the hospital. I want you to have a full evaluation by specialists.”

“I've already had one. And I've been under a doctor's care.” His thoughts drifted to Betsy, to the hands that touched him in so many different ways. A healer's hands. A lover's hands.

“I'm still going to fly out there,” his brother said. “The corporate jet has been getting serviced, but I'll take a commercial flight. Where, exactly, are you?”

“I'm in a small town in Texas. But you don't need to come out here.”

“You sure about that?”

Jason wasn't sure about anything, but something told
him he didn't want his brother to come to his rescue. That he'd never needed him to.

“Yeah,” he said, repeating himself. “I'm doing just fine. But I have a question for you.”

“What's that?”

“Which brother are you?”

The silence over the line was almost deafening. “Are you kidding me? This is Mike. Your oldest brother.”

“Oldest of how many?”

“Oh, for cripes's sake. What the hell town are you in? Where's the closest airport?”

“Settle down. I'm fine.
Really.
It's all coming back to me. I'm just trying to piece things together. Can you catch me up to speed?”

Another pause. Then Mike blew out a ragged breath. “Cheryl Westlake filed a sexual harassment lawsuit against me. And a couple of her friends have corroborated her story.”

“Is it true?”

“What are you implying?” his brother asked, his tone short, clipped. Annoyed.

“Oh, hell,” Jason snapped back, as if used to sparring with the guy. “The lawsuit alone implies that. I just asked whether her charges are true.”

“You questioned me about that already, before you flew to Houston. And I'll tell you the same thing I told you then. I didn't fire Cheryl because she wouldn't put out. She wasn't doing her job. She came in late nearly every day, and she couldn't cut it as an HR director.”

“So tell me about Pedro Salas.”

“He's an alcoholic, and we fired him for coming to
work three sheets to the wind. You don't remember that, either?”

Was that why Jason had been looking for Pedro at the Stagecoach Inn? Had he expected to find the guy crying in his beer?

“It's all coming back to me,” he lied.

“Well, if you don't find Pedro, that's fine. It was a long shot anyway. We'll call the attorneys and tell them it didn't pan out. They'll just have to take another approach for our defense.”

Our
defense?

Apparently, Mike's problem had become a family issue, and Jason wondered how he felt about that. Or rather, how the old Jason felt about it. Was he bothered by the inconvenience? Was he ready to battle anyone who attacked the family?

A sense of irritation washed over him. He wasn't sure if it was due to frustration over the fact that his amnesia wasn't lifting as quickly as he wanted it to or if it had something to do with his brother and the dynamics of their relationship.

Time would tell, he supposed. He just hoped he had the patience to wait it out.

“When are you coming home?” Mike asked.

“I'd fly back to San Diego tomorrow, but I'm short of funds. My wallet, my ID and all my cash were stolen.”

“Did you cancel your credit cards?”