Under the Mistletoe with John Doe (5 page)

He nodded, and she left his room, eager to escape all the what-ifs that seemed to crop up whenever she was around him.

Minutes later, she sat in her idling car outside the lobby entrance to the medical center, waiting for someone to bring John out to the curb. But she didn't have to wait long. The automatic door soon swung open, and
Stan Thompson, one of the hospital volunteers, pushed John's wheelchair outside.

Betsy waved, letting the men know that she was in the white Civic. And when John smiled in return, her heart spun in her chest.

She hoped it wasn't a big mistake to take him to Doc's ranch. But the plan had already been set in motion, and there wasn't much she could do about it now.

As John climbed from the chair and slid into the passenger seat of her car, they both thanked Stan, and then they were on their way.

“It was nice of Dr. Graham to let me stay with him,” John said, breaking the silence.

“He's a great guy. And he's got a heart as big as they make them.”

“Apparently so.” John peered out the passenger window at the passing scenery, the cattle in the fields, the pale green water tower with the name
Brighton Valley
painted across it in bold black letters.

She'd studied the same sights when she'd first come to town, and she wondered if he liked what he saw, if he felt as though he'd come home, too.

“It's peaceful out here,” he finally said.

“I think so.” It was one reason she liked living outside of town and didn't mind the extra time it took to drive to work.

“How far is the ranch from here?” he asked.

“About twenty minutes.”

“Is it a bad commute?”

There it went again—another hunch based upon something as simple as a word choice. Did John live
in a large city? One in which people talked about their commutes to work?

Rather than continue to make those kinds of leaps, she answered his question. “No, it's not bad. Although I do wish I lived a little closer to town. My parents live at the Shady Glen Retirement Home, so it would mean a lot less driving time.”

“Are your parents elderly?” he asked.

She nodded. “My mom and dad were married for twenty years before they adopted me.”

“Are you an only child?”

“Yes.”

John stared out the windshield, watching the road ahead. He seemed to ponder her statement for a while, then he turned to her and added, “They must be very proud of you.”

“They are.” She thought about her mom and dad, about how they'd cheered each of her successes, how they'd shared all they had with her. A warm smile stretched across her face. “I'm proud of them, too.”

“Oh, yeah? Why's that?”

“Because they fell in love and made a lifetime commitment to each other. A lot of people aren't that lucky—or that dedicated to each other. I certainly wasn't.”

“So you're divorced?”

She hadn't meant to share any personal details with him, especially about Doug and their split, but it was a little late to backpedal now. John had already picked up on it. “Yes, I was married right after I got out of med school. But it didn't work out.”

“Why? Because you weren't lucky or dedicated?”

“
I
wasn't lucky, and
he
wasn't dedicated.”

He let it go for a moment, as if trying to make sense of what she'd said—and what she hadn't. Then he asked, “So how did luck play into it?”

“I think people who meet the perfect partner and fall in love are incredibly fortunate.” She shrugged. “And I wasn't.”

“I take it your ex wasn't in it for the long haul,” John said, filling in the blanks.

He might have been an attorney or a police detective in his real life. Or else he was good at probing for answers.

If anyone else had been quizzing her, she might have considered them rude. But for some reason, she didn't think John was overstepping his bounds. He knew so little about himself that a conversation like this might trigger his own memories.

“All the time I spent at the hospital took a toll on our relationship,” she said, still holding back.

She could have told him that Doug had cheated, but there was a part of her that didn't want to admit that her love hadn't been enough for him.

“Does he—your ex-husband—live around here?”

“He's from Houston. When we split, I wanted to put some distance between us. That's when I bought Doc's practice and moved to Brighton Valley.”

“And your parents came with you?”

“I couldn't imagine my life without them or not being able to visit them at a moment's notice. On top of that, my mom's having a few health issues, and I can monitor them easier if she's nearby.”

“I'm sorry. Are those ‘issues' serious?”

“They could be, but medication is helping. And she's got a great outlook on life.”

“Even living in a rest home?”

“Shady Glen isn't a convalescent hospital. The residents are all free to come and go as they please. And my parents are pretty active. In fact, they left yesterday on a trip to Galveston with some of the other residents.” Betsy let the subject ride for a couple of minutes, then glanced across the seat at her passenger, a handsome stranger who now knew a lot more information about her than he did about himself.

Before he could comment or quiz her any further, she added, “And for what it's worth, I'd planned to buy a house in town and have them live with me, but they insisted upon moving into Shady Glen. It's worked out well, though. And it was the right decision for them to make. They've been able to maintain their independence while living in a safe environment, which is important. And they've made friends with their neighbors.”

“That's great.”

She let his words and the subject trail off, as she focused on the road ahead. She wasn't going to share any more intimate details with John, even if there seemed to be a friendship brewing between them.

But they couldn't possibly become friends—or anything else. Not until she learned more about him.

As the car neared the county road that would take them to Doc's ranch, she tossed another casual glance John's way, only to find him looking at her, too.

Their gazes locked, holding her with some kind of invisible grip, and she realized her resolve to keep an emotional distance wasn't holding up.

And even if his identity and his past were still a mystery, she'd certainly settle for knowing what was going on in his mind.

Was she the only one feeling a sexual charge whenever their eyes met?

 

John tore his gaze away from Betsy's and tried to get his thoughts on an even keel.

He had no business getting involved with anyone until his memory returned. Trouble was, there was something about the beautiful E.R. doctor that made it impossible for him to keep his distance.

Sure, there'd been an instant attraction, which wasn't surprising. She was a beautiful woman—bright, successful and caring. And she was the only person in this world who seemed to have his back.

But damn. His attraction was growing by leaps and bounds. And he couldn't believe that he was the only one feeling it.

After all, she must have set up the deal between him and Doc Graham, a man who'd never even met him.

As they neared the ranch, John found himself studying the grassy pastures, the grazing cattle and an occasional windmill. None of it looked familiar, yet it brought on a strange sense of comfort, as if he was really going home and not just to a temporary job and place to sleep while he was stuck in Brighton Valley.

Either way, he had a feeling that this might be just what the doctor ordered.

And speaking of doctors…

He stole another peek at Betsy, who was wearing a pair of black jeans and a cream-colored sweater today.
Her hair was still held back in a clip in her usual businesslike manner. But she was prettier than she'd been in the hospital, more approachable and down-to-earth. She'd put on some lipstick and mascara, and he wondered if she'd done it for him.

“Here it is,” she said as she drove down a narrow but paved road to a pale blue clapboard house with a veranda-style front porch, an old barn and several outbuildings.

“Which one is the guesthouse?” he asked.

She pointed toward a grassy knoll, where a white stucco building sat off by itself. It had a pale green door and was adorned with matching window boxes. “Doc built it for his wife's sister about ten years ago. She'd just lost her husband and had a heart condition. But she died before she was able to move in.”

“Doc must be a generous and kindhearted man.”

“He's the best.”

As they got out of the car, an elderly man with a head of thick white hair stood up from where he'd been seated on the porch and started toward them.

John met him halfway and extended his hand. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your offer to let me stay here. Dr. Kelso said I've got to take it easy for another week or so, but as soon as I'm able, I'll do whatever I can to help you out.”

Dr. Graham took his hand and gave it a gentleman's shake. “It'll be a win-win for both of us. Come on. I'll show you to your room.”

John looked at Betsy. “Are you coming, too?”

She didn't answer right away, and he wondered if she
was going to make up some excuse and bow out. But instead, she smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

Why not, indeed.

Betsy Nielson intrigued him more each time he saw her, each time he talked to her and she uncovered another layer of her past. Too bad it wasn't his past that was unfolding, but he couldn't stew about that now. He was stuck in Brighton Valley and had to make the best of it.

There was an upside, though. A powerful attraction appeared to be brewing between the two of them.

And if a romance developed?

He'd be hard-pressed to try to stop it.

J
ohn was surprised to see that Betsy had picked up some of the toiletries he would need, as well as boxer shorts, socks and a couple of outfits.

“I don't know what to say.” He studied the clothing purchases, which had been laid out on the double bed in Doc's guest room. Then he caught her eye and smiled. “Thanks for doing this for me.”

“You're welcome.”

She turned away, as if the intimacy made her uneasy, and pointed to the shaving gear and toiletries she'd placed on the bureau. “If you need anything else, let me know. I can pick it up for you the next time I'm in town.”

“This ought to do it. Thanks again.”

She nodded, then left the room.

John might have forgotten a lot of things, like his name and occupation, but he somehow knew that people
weren't always that kind to strangers. And that Betsy was showing her true character, that she was more than a pretty face and a skilled physician.

Thanks to Dr. Graham's prodding, she stayed long enough to join them for lunch, a simple fare of grilled cheese sandwiches, chips and fruit. They made small talk while they ate, then she excused herself and went home.

John was sorry to see her go, although he knew she needed some rest. It might be her day off, but working nights had to be rough. He figured she could stand to catch a little shut-eye whenever she had a chance.

A nap wouldn't hurt him, either. He might be feeling better and getting stronger each day, but his body was still recuperating from the beating and he didn't want to push it. Not when he needed his brain to heal as quickly as possible. He was eager to get on with his life—wherever that might be.

After Betsy left, Doc said he was going to sit on the porch and read a bit.

“Do you want to join me?” he asked. “I've got a good-size collection of books you can choose from in my den.”

“Maybe later, thanks. I think I'd rather lie down for a while. It's been a few days since I've gotten this active.”

John followed Doc into the living room, where the old man stopped by the lamp table closest to an easy chair and picked up a hardbound Dean Koontz novel.

Before slipping off to the bedroom John had been given, he scanned the cozy living area, noting the stone
fireplace and hand-carved mantel, where several framed photographs were displayed.

Figuring Doc had meant for his guests to check out the photos of his friends and family, John eased closer to the mantel and took a look at them.

There was a black-and-white snapshot of a young Dr. Graham wearing a military uniform and standing next to an attractive blonde. John assumed the woman was his wife, and as he found an older picture of the couple near the Eiffel Tower, he decided his assumption was correct.

There was a photograph of Betsy with a smiling gray-haired couple seated by a decorated Christmas tree. John guessed they were with her parents, even though he didn't notice a resemblance. Then he remembered that she was adopted, so that would explain it.

He wondered if she'd ever looked for her biological family. Some people felt compelled to do that. And if she were one of them, then maybe that's why she'd taken him under her wing. She understood how lost he felt without having a sense of his roots.

As he thought of Betsy and their commonalities, he glanced at the door she'd walked out of earlier, wishing she was still here.

But there was no need to stew about that. So he replaced the frame on the mantel, then walked to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

As he slipped into the privacy of his room, which was simply decorated with a dresser and a double bed, his eye was drawn to a picture hanging on the wall. It was just a print of two curly-haired cherubs, nothing
remarkable or expensive. He'd glossed over it before, yet he was drawn to it now.

It looked oddly familiar, as if he'd seen it before.

For a moment, a vision flashed before him of a silver-haired woman wearing a floral-print apron and a warm smile.

The scent of tomatoes, cilantro and spice.

Children's laughter.

The sound of a screen door slamming.

But the wisp of a memory faded before he could wrap his mind around it, leaving him grasping for mental straws.

What did it mean? Was his life coming back to him?

God, he sure hoped so.

As if he could hurry it along, he kicked off his shoes and climbed on top of the bed, which was covered with a calico quilt. The old-fashioned box springs squeaked from his weight as he settled into the comfort of the mattress.

He closed his eyes and tried to recall the disjointed recollection—the sight, the scents and the sounds that had disappeared as quickly as they'd formed. But the vague memory was lost to him, along with his past.

 

The clock on the dresser ticktocked, lulling him to sleep. He awoke hours later to the sound of a knock at his door and the aroma of chicken baking in the oven.

“Dinner's ready,” Doc said.

“I'll be right there.” John climbed out of bed, straightened the quilt he'd been laying on and the pillow he'd
been using. Then he went into the bathroom and washed his face and hands.

When he finished, he joined Doc at the kitchen table. “It sure smells good.”

“Doesn't it? It's a chicken-and-rice casserole. Betsy came by earlier and put it in the oven for us.”

“Does she cook for you often?”

“Whenever she gets the chance. She thinks I need someone to fuss over me.”

“And you don't agree?”

“Who doesn't like a little TLC?” the old man said with a wink.

John agreed, especially if Betsy was the one providing it. “Is she going to eat with us?”

“No, not this evening.”

John wondered why, but he didn't ask. There wasn't any need for Dr. Graham to think he was hoping for a little tender loving care himself. Or for him to think John was crushing on the pretty redhead who lived only a few footsteps away.

While they ate, Doc chatted about his life as the only physician in the valley, about some of the miracles and mishaps he'd been a witness to.

John found the man and his stories more than a little interesting, and each time Doc grew quiet, John asked him a question, just as he'd done with Betsy earlier. He'd spent too many lonely days in the hospital with only the television to keep him company. And because he had nothing to offer in terms of his own past, he enjoyed getting to know the new people in his life.

Of course, the one he wanted to know the most about was Betsy.

“Why doesn't she work days? Is she a night owl by nature?”

“Actually, she's a real team player and steps in whenever the hospital is shorthanded. And that means she's got the worst of both worlds. Sometimes she works nights, then she's back on days. And changing shifts like that is really tough.”

“Sounds like she's a good employee.”

“And loyal to a fault,” Doc said as he stood and began to gather the empty plates.

John scooted his chair back and got to his feet. “Let me help.”

“Nope,” Doc said, “not tonight. You need to take it easy for the next day or two. And then, at that point, I'll let you start doing some of the easier chores. We'll slowly build up from there.”

John wouldn't argue with the man because this was his first day out of the hospital. But he wasn't ready for bed, either. So he asked, “Do you mind if I sit out on the porch for a while?”

“Not at all,” the old man said. “It's not too cold tonight, but you might want a jacket. I've got one hanging on the coat tree in the living room. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.”

John made his way to the front of the house. Then he took the black corduroy jacket from the hook, slipped it on and went out on the porch where two wicker rockers sat.

Once outside in the winter evening, he couldn't help wishing that the crisp air would clear his mind. He'd been disappointed that no one in the medical field had been able to tell him when his memory would return,
but the brief vision he'd had earlier today suggested it was coming—one piece at a time.

He took a seat in one of the rockers and tried to find comfort in the beautiful winter night. But all he could seem to think about was how insignificant he and his amnesia were in the scheme of things.

As he glanced at the empty chair beside him, he wondered if Doc ever sat out here with Betsy.

Just the thought of the attractive woman caused him to seek out her house, to notice the lamp on inside her living-room window. Did that mean she was awake?

And if so, would she like company?

What would she think if he showed up unannounced?

The idea was still in the thinking stage when her porch light went on, her front door swung open and she stepped outside.

He watched as she made her way across the yard and approached Doc's house.

Did she know John was out here? Would his presence startle her?

“Hey,” he said, wanting to let her know he was on the porch. “What are you doing?”

“Just coming over to check on Doc. What's he up to this evening?”

“Reading, I suspect. He's really gotten into that novel.”

She continued to approach the porch, as if Doc wasn't the only one she'd come to see about. And it pleased him to think that she cared about how he was faring.

“It's a nice night,” he said. “Are you up for some stargazing?”

“Sure.” She took a seat in the rocker next to his and set hers into motion, the chair squeaking and creaking against the wood flooring.

They didn't talk right away, didn't really need to. The evening sky, with its nearly full moon and massive splatter of twinkling stars, was providing them with an amazing celestial display.

John easily found the Big and Little Dippers, as well as Polaris, which had played a big role in helping the people traveling on the underground railroad. In fact, there'd been a coded song called “Follow the Drinking Gourd” that had helped the escaped slaves find their way to freedom in the north.

How weird was that? he wondered. The basic knowledge he'd accrued over the years didn't seem to be affected by his amnesia, yet he couldn't remember the people, the places or the things that had been a part of his life before he'd set foot in Brighton Valley.

As he pondered the injustice of it all, Betsy said, “The stars are prettier than usual tonight.”

“I was thinking the same thing. Being out in the country like this makes a big difference. You don't get the full effect of the night sky in the city.”

She turned to him. “That's the second thing you've said to lead me to believe that you're a city boy.”

He considered her comment, but other than the words that had slipped out of his mouth, he couldn't say one way or the other. So he shrugged. “I'm not sure where that came from.”

“So you're still drawing a blank?”

“Pretty much. I do know that I drink my coffee black and I'm not too fond of vegetables.”

“The rest will come.”

He didn't see any reason to agree or to argue, so he let it go and stole a look at his pretty companion as she sat in the rocker, her hands perched on the armrests.

She was seated close enough to touch, close enough for him to take hold of her hand and give it a warm and gentle squeeze. But he knew better than to overstep his boundaries, no matter how much he'd like to. So instead of boldly touching her, he continued to take in the starlit sky and the smell of night-blooming jasmine, the sounds of a cow lowing in the distance.

He wasn't sure how long they'd sat here, together in pensive silence and appreciation.

A few minutes, he supposed.

When he turned to offer her a smile, he saw that her eyes were closed and her head was resting against the back of the chair.

Hadn't she gotten any rest this afternoon? He had a feeling that she hadn't. No wonder Doc had been worried about her.

He let her rest for a while longer, then decided to wake her so she could go to bed, where she'd be more comfortable. So he reached over and placed his hand over hers, felt the softness of her skin, the warmth.

While he knew he should give her hand a little nudge and jar her awake, he held back for a moment and basked in the intimacy of their touch, in the connection they shared for one moment in time.

In a way, it made him feel less alone. Less isolated. Less cornered into a reality that wasn't of his own making.

Finally, he stroked the top her hand, his fingers sliding over her knuckles. “Betsy?”

Her eyes fluttered opened and she turned to face him. “Yes?”

With reluctance, he withdrew his hand. “It's time for bed.”

She blinked several times and yawned. Then she slowly got to her feet. “I'm sorry for dozing off.”

“Don't be. But I hope you're going to start working the day shift soon.”

“I'm off this weekend.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her knit jacket. “And on Monday, I'm back to working days until the medical center needs me again.”

“Good. I'm not sure how healthy it is for you to be bouncing back and forth between shifts.”

She smiled. “Have you been talking to Doc? He's been worried about me, but I know when to slow down and when to take it easy.”

John hoped so and tossed her an I'm-glad-to-hear-it smile.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” she said, as she started down the steps and headed for the guesthouse.

As she left him on the porch, he rubbed his thumb over his fingertips, which were still warm and charged from their brief physical contact.

Touching Betsy had been much nicer than he'd expected it to be. And for a moment, in spite of the vastness of the sky and the innumerable celestial lights shining throughout the universe, he didn't feel the least bit insignificant.

 

For the next five days, John didn't get to see nearly as much of Betsy as he would have liked. Her work schedule hadn't allowed for more than a few occasional visits, which was too bad.