“Oh, no,” Maggie said quickly. “I just overslept. I guess I should have set the alarm.”
“Are you going to make your connection?”
Maggie consulted the oversized clock above the mantel, as if she had a schedule to keep. “I should be fine.”
With her free hand, Wren motioned to the grocery bags Maggie still carried. “Follow me. If Trevor will let us through, I’ll show you where to put those. Have you met Trevor?”
“The carpenter?”
Wren laughed. “Trevor is a man of many talents, a true jack of all trades. He owns the print shop in town. But yes, he’s our carpenter.” Wrinkles creased her forehead. “He saved you some of those cinnamon rolls, I hope.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. And thanks so much for dinner last night. It was delicious.”
Wren waved her away. “Goodness, sweetie, it was a sandwich . . . the least I could do after your ordeal.” Wren led the way through the arched doorway into the small dining room where the carpenter—Trevor—was still hammering away. “Hey, keep it down, would you?”
He turned, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t noticed their presence. But then a light came to his eyes and that grin from before spread across his face, and he was fully with them.
“Hey, Wren. She’s awake now.” He winked at Maggie, then nodded in Wren’s direction. “Please inform this woman that I was nice and quiet while you were sleeping.”
Maggie looked from him to Wren and back. They’d obviously had words about this. “Well,” she said, trying to decide which one of them to side with, happy to be in on their playful dispute, “I couldn’t say for sure it was hammering, but something woke me up at the crack of . . . well, two thirty.”
Wren laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
Maggie winced. If the woman only knew.
“Here, honey”—Wren reached for the grocery bags Maggie still held—“I’ll get these put in the cupboards. You’re probably wanting to be on your way. I didn’t see a car out front. Where did you park?”
“Oh, I got a ride . . . from Salina.” She didn’t mention that she’d walked fifteen miles first.
Wren and the carpenter exchanged glances. “Where are you headed?” Wren asked.
“California.” Her well-rehearsed answer came a hair too swiftly.
“Back home, huh?”
Maggie had to think for a minute why the woman would assume that was home. Oh. The hotel bill her husband filled out last night. “Yes, home. Eventually.”
“You weren’t expecting the bus to come through Clayburn, were you? Closest place to get on again is back in Salina.”
Maggie calculated the miles. If she’d walked fifteen miles and hitched a ride for a dozen more, cab fare to Salina would probably eat up the rest of her cash. Then what would she do? But what choice did she have? She could walk back to town or she could take her chances and accept a ride with one of the farmers who was sure to stop. “I guess I’d better call a cab,” she said, thinking aloud.
Again Wren and Trevor exchanged looks, then burst out laughing.
“Honey, the day Clayburn has cab service is the day I retire. And it’d cost a small fortune to have a cab come from Salina.”
When Trevor stopped laughing, he turned to her with a kind expression. “When does your bus leave?”
“I don’t know,” she hedged. “I mean, I don’t exactly have a ticket yet. This stop was sort of a detour . . . after I lost my luggage.”
“Where are they sending your bags?” Trevor asked.
“Back home.” She was starting to believe her own lies.
Wren opened her mouth to say something, then clamped it shut. But Maggie saw doubt flit in her eyes. Or was it suspicion?
Trevor scraped the toe of his work boot in the sawdust on the tile floor. “I guess I could run you to Salina. You find out about the bus and let me know what time you need to be there.”
She wasn’t sure what this guy had up his sleeve, but in that moment, Maggie made up her mind. “I think . . . maybe I will stay here another night if that’s okay. Until I decide what to do.”
Trevor shrugged and went back to work, bowing out of the conversation. Wren still wore a skeptical expression.
“Do you have a vacancy tonight? I can pay ahead like I did before. At least part of it.” Remembering the comment of the young mother who’d given her a ride, she added, “If I run a little short, I’d be glad to work it off . . . wash dishes or cook or something. I’m a pretty good cook.”
Wren reached out and put a warm hand on Maggie’s arm. “I know you’re good for it. You just hang on to your money. I’ll address an envelope for you, and when you get home you can mail me a check. In the meantime, I best get your room ready for tonight.”
Guilt seized Maggie. “Oh, no, please. It’s fine the way it was. I have everything I need.”
“Well, I won’t change the sheets, but made beds are part of the package, sweetie. Hey!” Wren’s eyes lit up. She snapped her fingers. “I bet I know where we can get you an extra set of clothes.” She doffed her bibbed apron and beckoned Maggie. “Follow me.”
Maggie tagged after her up a narrow stairway across from the laundry room. The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a cozy upstairs suite that apparently served as Bart and Wren’s apartment. “This is nice,” she said, panning the sunny rooms that opened onto each other accordion-style—a kitchenette, a small dining area, and a sitting room beyond that.
Wren gave a grunt. “Well, we don’t get to spend much time up here, but we like it when we do. Here . . . come on back.”
In a small bedroom off the sitting area, Wren lugged a grocery bag from the closet. “Our church is collecting clothes for the fall rummage sale, and I bet there’s something your size in this bag of stuff Clara Berger sent over. Her granddaughters are about your size.” She dumped the contents on the bed and started weeding through the jumble of clothing. “What size do you wear?”
“Usually a six or an eight.”
Wren inspected a tag in a pair of capris. “Do you see anything here that looks like it would fit?”
Maggie started to pick up a lime green blouse, then hesitated. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
Wren waved off her question as if swatting at a pesky gnat. “If it’ll make you feel better, you can pay a quarter for each piece. That’s about what we’d get for it at the sale. But I’m sure Clara would be delighted to have someone get some wear out of these.”
Maggie held up the lime-colored blouse.
Wren clapped her hands. “Oh, Meg! That’s such a nice color on you with your blond hair. You take that. And what about these pants? I don’t know much about fashion, but wouldn’t those go cute together?”
They came back downstairs with two different outfits. “I’ll get these washed up tonight,” Wren said. “Then at least you’ll have something to change into on your trip home. I’ll send some toiletries with you too. Wouldn’t mind cleaning some of those out of our cupboards.”
For some silly reason, Maggie felt a lump lodge in her throat and tears burn behind her eyelids. “Thank you. I-I really appreciate that.” Embarrassed, she mumbled an excuse and bolted to her room.
In her rush to be free of Kevin, had she abandoned Jenn in the same way her mother had abandoned them both?
Chapter Seventeen
Huddled on the unmade bed, Maggie let the tears fall. She couldn’t have told anyone what her tears were about, much less explain them to herself.
The sobs came almost violently now. Why couldn’t she stop crying? Was she losing her mind? Was this how it had been for her mother—before she’d been committed?
Terror struck at Maggie, and she fought to rein in her emotions. She had always wondered what it had been like for her mother. Whether Mom had even been aware of what was happening when they moved her from the hospital to the institution. The asylum, as Maggie’s fifth-grade teacher had called it.
Would she end up like Mom? How many times had Kev
in accused her of being there already? How quickly he’d used it against her . . . not two days after she’d first confided in him about what had happened to her mother. “You’re crazy! A regular loony tune, just like your mother,” he’d shouted. And he used it against her again and again. Anytime she tried to persuade him that she had a right to a different opinion than his, he declared her nuts.
She tossed her head, forcing the memories away. She wouldn’t be like her mother. Giving up on life, abandoning her daughters, causing them to be separated from each other until they were almost teenagers.
Jennifer. The thought of her sister brought the tears raging back. In her rush to be free of Kevin, had she abandoned Jenn in the same way her mother had abandoned them both? The possibility made her sick to her stomach. Surely Kevin had phoned Jennifer in Baltimore by now. Had he told her that she’d called from that convenience store in Jersey . . . or Pennsylvania . . . or wherever they’d been? Had he told the police about her call?
The questions were sobering. Steeling herself, she slid off the bed and went into the bathroom. The mirror over the sink reflected back her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. She reached up to touch her straggly dishwater-blond hair. Kevin would have had a fit if he’d seen her like this. She could hear him barking now: “Go do something with your hair. You look like—”
Stop! She pressed the fluffy towel against her face and held it there, as if that would silence Kevin’s voice in her head.
She ran her comb through her hair and straightened her clothes. She needed to find out if Jenn was okay. Maybe she could get online at the library—if Clayburn, Kansas, even had a library.
She tiptoed to the door and peered out into the hallway. On the carpet beside the door was a small plastic grocery bag containing the clothes Wren had helped her pick out. She grabbed the bag and tossed it on the dresser, then checked the hallway again. Not seeing anyone, she tiptoed out to the lobby. The hammering had stopped, but dishes clanked in the dining room. She let their noise cover the clanging of the bells as she slipped out the front door, relieved not to have to face Wren or Trevor.
Clayburn’s Main Street was abuzz with activity, in vast contrast to the ghost town of the night before. She paced in front of the inn, then strolled to the corner where a candy-striped barber’s pole advertised seven-dollar haircuts. Down the side street, on Elm, she spotted a flag flying over the post office. A library would probably have a flag flying too. At the north end of Main, about four blocks ahead, she could make out another flagpole rising above the trees in front of an old, square brick building. She headed that direction, taking in the layout of the downtown area as she walked.
In the next block, a little art gallery stopped her in her tracks. The elegant, eclectic décor said anything but small-town Kansas and drew Maggie inside. A man with a ponytail sat behind a counter in the back of the gallery reading a newspaper. He glanced up and acknowledged her with a smile and a nod before burying his head in his newspaper again.
The artwork displayed throughout represented a variety of artists. Mediocre described most of it, but several of the watercolors were beautifully done. Not that she was an expert, but she knew what she liked.
She thought with longing of her secret stash of paints and brushes back at the apartment in New York and wondered if Kevin had discovered it yet. When she got wherever she was going, got settled and found a job, she would go without food if she had to, so her first paycheck could be spent replacing her art supplies. She looked down at her hand and realized her fingers were posed as if they cradled a paintbrush.
She shook her head and gave a little snort. She had no business thinking about job applications. What did she have to put on a résumé? It had been two years since she’d quit the job she loved—working as a designer in a graphic-arts firm.
Kevin had persuaded her to quit her job a week after he’d talked her into moving in with him. “Taking care of me is a full-time job, babe,” he told her. “I’ll take care of you if you’ll take care of me.” She cringed to think how romantic she found that at the time.
In spite of his love of the bottle, Kevin had managed to hold down his engineering job. He made a decent living. She couldn’t say he hadn’t held up his end of the bargain. They lived in a nice apartment, he bought her nice clothes, let her get her hair done whenever she wanted, and even sometimes treated her to spa days. Of course, he threw all those things back in her face if she ever dared to question why he dictated her activities, why he alone chose their friends—what few friends they had.
“See anything you like?”
A voice behind her startled her from the disturbing thoughts. “Oh. I was just . . . admiring these watercolors.”
The man beamed. “Thank you. Those happen to be mine.”
“You’re the artist?”
“Jackson Linder.”
He put out a hand, and she shook it.
“They’re beautiful.”
“You paint.” It wasn’t a question.
She eyed him. How would he have known that?
His telling nod said he must have seen the question in her eyes. “I can usually recognize another artist. Something about the way you look at a piece—the tilt of your head and the way you examine every brush stroke.”
“Well, I dabble a little. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m better with pen and ink . . . design work. But I like to paint.” She pointed to a luminous, pale landscape. “How did you keep the colors so soft without losing the depth?”
The artist launched into a long explanation, and Maggie listened with rapt attention, wishing she could experiment with his advice.
“Listen,” he said finally. “I teach watercolor classes every spring and fall. We’ll probably start up early in September. We meet on Tuesday nights here at the gallery. Had a good group this past spring. Almost a dozen of us. You saw some of the better work that came from that class hanging over there.” He indicated a wall of paintings adjacent to the counter.
“Oh, I don’t live here. I’m just staying at the inn. On my way through . . .” She was having trouble concentrating for the fantasy that danced in her head. She imagined herself sitting at an easel in this gallery, painting a fanciful watercolor as sunlight slanted across the wooden floor.
She massaged her temples, trying to get her head out of the clouds. She barely had a dime to her name, and no way of even applying for a job since all her identification was lost. And if she applied for new documents, Kevin would be in town before she knew what hit her.
She gave a cynical laugh at the phrase. Before she knew what hit her. It threatened to be true in the most literal sense of the words.
She certainly had no business daydreaming about putting down roots and living the bohemian life of an artist in a Podunk Kansas town.
“At the inn, huh? It’s a nice place.”
“Oh, it is. It’s a little torn up right now, but they’ve taken good care of me. Wren has. She’s such a sweet woman.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it as if he’d thought better of whatever he started to say. “Yep. She’s a good woman. Salt of the earth.”
They made small talk for a few minutes before Maggie eased toward the door. “Well, thank you. I enjoyed your gallery.”
“Thanks for stopping in.” He followed her to the door. “Come back whenever you’re in town.”
“Thank you. Oh, hey, is there a library here in Clayburn?”
“Not a very big one, but it’s just a couple of blocks up the street.” He pointed north up Main Street.
She thanked him and headed that way.
The library was dark and quiet. Except for the librarian and a middle-aged woman browsing through a rack of free paperbacks, Maggie appeared to be the only person in the building.
The librarian showed her to one side of the stacks where a study carrel held four computers. She hadn’t worked on a computer much since Kevin made her quit her job, but the mouse felt instantly familiar in her hand. The librarian helped
her open a browser, and Maggie logged on to the New York Times and skimmed the news. Carjackings were a dime a dozen in the city, and a search of the past two days’ issues of the Times didn’t turn up anything.
She was about to log off the site when she scrolled past an ad for a free online e-mail account. Jennifer had an e-mail address, though Maggie couldn’t remember what it was. If she could find out, maybe she could contact her sister without giving away where she was.
She clicked on the link to sign up for the account. She started to type in her name as Meg Anders, then decided against it in case it might show up in a search. She played with the letters of her new name, rearranging them until she came up with “gemsander.” Gem Sander. She smiled to herself at the image it evoked. A diamond in the rough, just in need of a little sanding, a little polishing. Kevin would never figure that one out.
Now if she could only remember Jenn’s address . . .
On a whim, she did a search for the Realtor her sister worked for. There was a contact link. The e-mail addresses of several principals in the company were listed, and they all followed the same pattern. First initial, last name, and the company’s Web address. Using that, she composed a message to her sister, choosing her words carefully.
Dear Jenn,
I don’t know if he has tried to contact you yet or if you even know what’s happened, but I wanted to tell you that I’m fine. Things were scary for a while, but I’m okay. I’m someplace safe for now, and I’ll never have to go back.
Please don’t say anything to anybody about this (except Mark, of course). No matter what certain people might have told you, I promise you I haven’t done anything wrong. I just had to get out. An opportunity came, and I took it. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I can, but I’m sure you understand why I can’t say anything yet.
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