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.
Maggie noticed with dismay that there were four places set at the table. Trevor must have accepted the invitation after all.
“Everything looks beautiful, Wren. What can I do to help?”
Wren spun around, her face alight. “Meg! Good. I was hoping you’d come in time to help.” She went to the cabinets in the torn-up kitchenette, rummaged in a drawer, and came up with a book of matches. “Here. You can light the candles. And fill the glasses with ice. I made lemonade.”
Jasper lay curled up on a chair in the canted evening sunlight. Maggie picked up the cat and snuggled him for a minute before carrying him to the lobby and depositing him there.
When she returned to the kitchen, she lit the candles on the table, filled the glasses with ice, and came back to Wren for her next assignment. They worked together, turning do-si-dos around each other in the cramped space, Wren grumbling good-naturedly about the mess her kitchen was in. Maggie was happy to keep the talk off the subject of Meg Anders.
“Do you have many guests?” she asked, when a long minute of silence made her fear Wren would start prying.
A hint of a shadow passed over Wren’s face but disappeared with her smile. “Not as many as we did when we first opened—back in the eighties. It’s a little better on the weekends, but we’re hoping with some updating and a little advertising, we can get things back up to snuff again. I’ll send some of our cards with you, and you can tell all your California friends about us. We find big-city people appreciate us more than anyone.” She gave a soft chuckle. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard some city-slicker guest comment on how many stars there are in Kansas, I’d retire a rich woman.”
“I noticed that, too . . . the stars. That night when I walk—” She caught herself and back-pedaled. “When I first got here.”
Wren studied her, then put her hands on her hips. “Honey, God put the same sky over your California as He put over our Kansas. We just haven’t seen fit to block out the stars with skyscrapers and neon lights.”
Maggie cringed at Wren’s reference to “your California.” Why hadn’t she just told the truth? Nobody here was going to give away her secret. It hurt to admit it, but she wondered if Kevin Bryson was even looking for her anymore. He’d probably have one of the women he worked with—one of the many she’d suspected him of cheating on her with—ensconced in his apartment before the summer was over.
The thought caused a twinge of pain, until she remembered how free—how utterly unfettered—she’d felt since she first stepped onto that bus headed west.
Bart came into the dining room, whistling a song Maggie was pretty sure he was making up as he went. The meandering melody made her feel happy and at ease.
Bart kissed Wren on the cheek, slid out a chair, and sat. “Where’s Trevor?”
“Oh, I expect he’ll be here any minute.” Wren placed a steaming casserole dish in the middle of the table and paused to straighten the napkin under a fork. She gave Maggie a sidewise glance. “Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat, Meg? We won’t wait too long on him.”
Bart jumped up and pulled Maggie’s chair out for her. Just then the bells jingled on the front door. A few seconds later, Trevor Ashlock appeared in the doorway. He’d changed out of his work clothes into clean jeans and a cotton shirt. His hair was still wet from the shower, appearing darker than it had before. As Trevor approached the table, Maggie thought he smelled even better than the dinner on the table.
“You need any help, Wren?” he asked, his hand poised on the back of the chair adjacent to Maggie’s.
“You just sit. Everything’s ready.” Wren brought a basket of fragrant brown bread to the table and plopped into the chair Trevor held for her.
As he sat, he nodded a greeting to Maggie.
Without a word to each other, the three of them bowed their heads. Maggie bowed quickly, hoping they hadn’t caught her hesitation. But she couldn’t resist peeking around the table, fascinated with their easy expression of faith.
Bart’s voice boomed, as if he needed to crank up the volume to reach God. “Thank you, Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we receive with a grateful heart, a humble spirit . . . and a hungry belly.”
“Bart!” Wren pretended to be shocked, but Maggie caught the twinkle in her eyes.
Trevor hid a grin from the woman but winked at Maggie as he picked up the wicker basket in which Wren had placed the casserole dish. He held it while she spooned out the biggest serving she dared.
The food was as luscious on her tongue as it had been to her nose, and she had to restrain herself not to wolf it down like a starved dog.
“Well, Meg, did you get a ride worked out for tomorrow?” Wren asked when all the serving bowls and the breadbasket had gone around the table. “What time does your bus leave?”
“The bread is delicious,” she said over a mouthful, to no one in particular, hoping to divert the subject. “You must have a good deli in town?”
“Wren made that herself.” Bart puffed out the bib of his overalls, as though he’d had a hand in the bread making.
“It’s wonderful. As good as any we get in the kosher delis in New York.”
“New York?” Wren laid her fork down, all ears. “Is that where you’ve been visiting?”
Maggie fought to catch her breath without letting on. She’d blown it big time. Trevor had accused her earlier today of having a New York accent. She scrambled to remember how she’d explained that to him.
“Um . . . yeah. I was in New York for a few days.”
“Never had much desire to visit that city,” Bart offered.
“Were you there on business?” Wren asked.
“No. Just to see some friends.” She felt as if she was being chased on a treadmill.
Trevor caught her eye. He seemed to sense her discomfort with the topic at hand. “The offer still stands,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll be glad to take you to the bus station.”
“Thanks. I don’t know the schedule, but if you could just get me to the station, I’ll take care of the ticket when I get there.”
“Oh, you don’t want to do that, honey.” Wren frowned. “You might get there and find out there’s not a bus leaving until the middle of the night. I’d feel a lot better if you had a ticket lined up before you go. We can call after dinner.”
“Wren’s right,” Bart said. “You don’t want to be hanging around the bus depot any longer than you have to.” He turned to Trevor. “You’ll make sure she’s safely on that bus before you head back.”
It wasn’t a question.
Trevor gave a single decisive nod, and Maggie did a mental scramble for something to change the subject. She wanted to get out of this town before she showed herself to be the liar she was to these people who had shown her nothing but kindness. Somehow she would pay the Johannsens what she still owed them for her stay. She didn’t need that guilt on her conscience.
But how was she going to avoid going back to Salina with Trevor tomorrow? Maybe she could just leave—start walking and pray one of those Kansas cowboys picked her up on the highway.
The crazy thing was, she’d barely been in Clayburn twenty-four hours, yet she’d started to feel at home here.
“What if I decided to stay one more day?”
The surprise on the faces of her dining partners couldn’t have been more pronounced than her own. Until her words registered in her own ears, she hadn’t realized she’d blurted out her thoughts. Her temples pounded, and she would have sworn the walls of the room were closing in around her.
Wren put down her fork. “Well, of course you’re more than welcome to stay as long as you please, Me
g. But don’t you have people at home wondering where you are?”
“I-I’ll let them know.” She pushed back her chair. It scraped the tiled floor, echoing in the curtainless room. “If you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go to my room now. Thank you for the wonderful dinner, Wren.”
Bart threw up his hands. “You can’t go without a slice of Wren’s strawberry pie.”
But Maggie was already halfway across the room. In the mirror that hung at a tilt beside the door, she caught Wren’s reflection as she flew past. The woman was motioning frantically for Trevor to go after her.
Fearing just that, Maggie quickened her pace through the lobby and into the hallway. She fumbled in her pocket for the key to her room.
“Wait!” Trevor’s voice behind her sounded uncertain. “Meg, wait a minute.”
She slowed. She couldn’t run out on him again. With one hand on the doorknob to her room, she turned to face him.
“Is everything all right?”
Her shoulders slumped against the door. Tears threatened. “No,” she whispered. All the fight had left her. “Everything is not all right.”
“You . . . you want to talk about it?” His voice cracked like an adolescent boy’s.
The poor man had been roped into coming after her. Wren meant well, but Trevor shouldn’t have to play psychologist to her. “You don’t even know me.”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, but I do, Meg Anders from California who wears a size six-maybe-eight and loves tabby cats and Wren’s homemade rye bread.” He was close enough for her to catch the citrus tang of his aftershave. Maggie took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. She couldn’t help but smile, even though she suspected he was flirting with her. And though he had a few of the details wrong—thanks to her lies—he’d memorized more about her than Kevin Bryson had managed to learn in two years of living with her.
It would be easy to love a man like this.
She recoiled at the thought. What was her problem? The whole reason she was standing here while Bart and Wren enjoyed strawberry pie was because she didn’t want to get involved. Besides, Trevor had only come after her at Wren’s bidding.
Still, his nearness unnerved her. She tried to back up, but she was already pressed against the door like a sock with static cling. She reached behind her for the doorknob. “Listen . . . you think you know me, but you don’t.”
“Maybe I’d like to.”
She barked out a sarcastic laugh. “Maybe you’re crazy.”
He drew back slightly. “Why would you say that?”
“Are you serious? I’m only passing through. You’ll never see me again after tomorrow. Why would you want to . . . invest the time?”
He took two steps backward into the dim light of the hallway. “You let me know what time your bus leaves tomorrow, Meg, and I’ll see that you get there. Wren can give you my number at the print shop.” He turned and strode into the lobby.
She unlocked the door to her room and opened it. But before going in, she stood under the lintel for a long minute, waiting to hear his voice mingle with the Johannsens’.
Instead she heard the distinct clatter of bells on the front door.
Maggie studied Wren’s expression. Was there more that the older woman wasn’t telling?
Chapter Twenty
Trevor practically gouged dents in the pavement walking to his pickup. Stomping was more like it. He wanted to be mad at Meg Anders. She had managed to deflect every ounce of friendship he’d tried to offer her.
Why did he care so much? She was here for a day—two at most. Then she’d be off to California and he’d never see her again. But something about her drew him. Made him long to see her happy. She was hiding something—that was for sure. He had a feeling Bart and Wren sensed that as well.
So why could he not quit thinking about her? Why had she been on his mind since the minute he’d laid eyes on her? How vulnerable she’d looked standing there in the dining room wearing Wren’s oversized nightgown.
Sure, Meg was pretty as all get out. But that wasn’t the main thing that drew him. In spite of her reticence to share much about her life, there was something about her fresh-faced innocence that captivated him. Then it hit him.
She reminded him of Amy.
The thought brought him up short.
With her fair hair and complexion, her willowy figure, and those blue eyes, Meg was Amy’s polar opposite physically. But she had that same wide-eyed amazement with the world that Amy had possessed. He saw how Meg took everything in—delighting in Bart and Wren’s repartee, loving on Jasper. Even the way she inhaled the yeasty scent of Wren’s rye bread somehow reminded him of the way his Amy had seen the world.
His Amy.
That all-too-familiar ache lodged in his chest.
He climbed into the pickup and revved the engine. Why was he letting himself get tangled up in this woman’s life? Dusk was setting in. He flipped on his headlights and closed his eyes. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something special—precious, even—about Meg Anders. Some connection they shared.
But how could that be? Meg would be gone tomorrow.
A cloud of dust followed Trevor’s pickup westward. Maggie stopped running and stood in the street, watching the dust settle. Against her better judgment she’d tried to catch him before he drove away from the inn. But either Trevor hadn’t seen her in his rearview mirror, or he’d decided he wanted nothing more to do with her. A heavy melancholy settled over her. Something even deeper than the sadness and hurt she’d felt when Kevin gashed her with critical, bitter words or that too-familiar look of disdain. Why did she care so much what this stranger thought of her? Why was there such an emptiness in her chest watching him drive away?
“Meg?”
She turned to see Wren standing in the doorway.
“Is everything all right? Where did Trevor go?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Did something happen between you two?”
Did something? Maggie didn’t know. It was crazy. She barely knew him, yet she felt the rift between them as if they’d once belonged to each other and something had torn them apart.
“I was kind of rude to him. I think he was just trying to be friendly and—” She shook her head, not able to understand it herself, let alone explain it to Wren.
Wren came out on the sidewalk and put a hand on Maggie’s back, rubbing feather-light circles in the space between her shoulder blades. The simple act offered a comfort and warmth Maggie hadn’t felt since she was a little girl being coaxed to sleep by her mother’s tender hand.
“Why don’t you come inside? Eat some pie. We’ll talk.”
Maggie smiled. Pie seemed to be Wren’s solution to everything. Well, it couldn’t hurt, could it?
Bart had disappeared, but the dirty dishes were stacked on the panel of plywood that served as a temporary countertop during the remodeling. Wren poured coffee and dished up generous slices of strawberry pie. They carried their plates to the table and sat across from each other, eating and sipping in silence for a few minutes.
“I don’t know what happened between you and Trevor at dinner, honey, but whatever it was, don’t let your feelings be hurt. Trevor . . . well, he’s hurting and sometimes doesn’t quite know what to do with his pain. Once in a while it spills out on other people. He doesn’t mean it to be that way. It just is.”
Wren’s words took Maggie by surprise. “I didn’t realize—”
“Of course not. He doesn’t talk about it. Keeps it locked up inside. It’d be better if he’d let someone share his pain.”
“What happened . . . if it’s all right for me to ask?”
“He lost his wife and little boy a couple of years ago—in a car accident.”
A little gasp escaped Maggie’s throat at the horror of it. She rested her fork on the edge of her plate, her appetite gone.
“I know.” Wren’s head bobbed in sympathy. “It’s been tough. Real tough.”
“No. He lost his only child—his son. He lost everything that day.” Wren stared past Maggie, her eyes glazed with old sorrow.
Maggie tried to remember what she’d said to him at the library. Some stupid joke about doing community service. She winced.
“I think reading to the day-care kids is Trevor’s way of working out his grief. I sometimes wonder if it’s the wisest thing.” Wren set her cup in the saucer, and the tinkling filled the quiet room. “It can’t be easy being around kids who are just the age his little boy would have been. But maybe it helps.”
Wren didn’t really seem to be fishing, but it was hard to miss the woman’s motherly affection for Trevor. Perhaps an explanation would set Wren’s mind at ease.
“He offered to take me to the bus station tomorrow. I-I didn’t know about—you know.” She hung her head. “I thought he was flirting with me or something. I was pretty rude to him.”
“Trevor was flirting with you?”
Maggie shook her head. “I probably imagined it. I’m so stupid—”
“Oh, honey, I hope he was flirting with you. That would make me one happy woman.”
Maggie took another sip of her now lukewarm coffee, not knowing how to respond.
Wren didn’t seem to notice. She went on, her words gathering steam. “It’s about time he came out of mourning. Maybe it just took a pretty girl like you to bring him around. Nothing would make me happier than for Trevor Ashlock to find a sweet girl like you and fall head over heels.” That faraway look came to her eyes again.
Maggie studied Wren’s expression. Was there more that the older woman wasn’t telling?
Feeling suddenly uneasy with the conversation, Maggie pushed away from the table. Leaving her coffee and the last bite of pie, she murmured an excuse and practically sprinted down the hall to her room.
She closed the door behind her, her breath coming in uneven gasps. She had to get out of this place. Everything was getting too confusing.
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