Remember to Forget

by Deborah Raney

  He narrowed his eyes and glared at her, as if her hayseed comment had deeply offended, but almost instantly the grin was back. He popped the top on the Coke can, took a swig, and blew out an overlong sigh of satisfaction. “We call this here stuff pop,” he drawled.

  She laughed. “Pop, huh?”

  He winked. “Or if we wanna be real formal-like, we call it sody pop.”

  “Ah, that would be soda pop. Hence, soda.” As soon as the words were out, she bit her lip. Did Californians call it soda? She was weary with having to analyze every word in even the most innocent exchange.

  She concentrated on her lunch, and they ate in silence for a few minutes. Yet it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. The birds twittered in the treetops overhead, the leaves whispered in the breeze, and Maggie reveled in this world that was so different from the prison of Kevin’s apartment in New York.

  Trevor unwrapped the grapes, tore off a sprig, and handed them to her. He popped two in his mouth. “So, do you want to talk about—” He shrugged. “You know, the whole thing with . . . California.”

  Maggie bowed her head, embarrassed and a little bit frightened. She’d never thought about how much of her life was a lie. At the Mannings, where she’d spent most of her growing-up years, she’d been taught that lying was wrong. But with Kevin, she’d learned that it saved a lot of arguments and kept his temper at bay. So it had become a bad habit. Mostly what she told were little white lies.

  No, Kevin, nobody called today.

  Yes, I’m happy here with you.

  Sorry, I forgot to stop by the liquor store.

  Her fibs were nothing that really hurt anyone.

  But it had escalated, of necessity, when the gift of escape had been handed to her Tuesday morning on the streets of New York. She’d been living a lie since that morning. For almost five days she’d pretended to be someone she wasn’t—inventing her past, making her life up as she went along.

  Trouble was, she liked where it had gotten her. Were it not for the lies she’d told, she wouldn’t be sitting here in this idyllic setting—safe with this kind, generous man and the hope of a fresh start in this little town. But when would she crash back to reality?

  “Meg? Are you okay?”

  His voice nudged her from her reverie. Trevor was leaning across the table, his palm inches from her cheek, as if he wanted to touch her. Or maybe slap her?

  But one look into his eyes and she knew it wasn’t the anger she was so accustomed to seeing in a man’s eyes. It was concern—and something more.

  “I really don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay. I understand.” He snatched back his hand and held it palm up, as if he were apologizing for even asking. Or was he apologizing for wanting to touch her?

  “What about you?” She tried to deflect his question.

  “What about me?”

  “Wren said you . . . were married.”

  His expression—like she was accusing him of having a wife at home while he romanced another woman in the park—made her rush to explain. “She told me your wife died in an accident. And your little boy.”

  When the muscles in his jaw tensed, Maggie instantly regretted bringing it up. She’d wanted to get it out in the open. To not have to pretend that she didn’t know when she did. The irony wasn’t lost on her when she was still pretending about so many things.

  He nodded. “Amy. Her name was Amy . . . and our son, Trev. It was two years ago.” He took sudden interest in the rough-hewn top of the picnic table. “On a Saturday morning.”

  Saturday. Maggie wondered if he was still counting anniversaries. If so, today was one.

  A far-off look paled his blue irises. “They were on their way to Salina. He was only three, but Amy was going to buy him his first bicycle. One of those little ones with training wheels.” He inhaled a deep breath. “Someone . . . a car pulled out in front of them out on Old Highway 40. They never had a chance.”

  His hands were palms down on the splintered top of the picnic table . . . like he was ready to push off and escape at a moment’s notice.

  Maggie placed her hand over his, for one brief moment, but it was long enough to feel the warmth and strength there. “I’m so sorry, Trevor.”

  He worked his jaw. “Thanks.”

  She hesitated, nervous about where their conversation might go. But she truly wanted to know. “Tell me about her.”

  “Amy?”

  She nodded, waiting.

  A soft smile curved his mouth. “Amy was sunshine. Always laughing, always being silly. Everybody adored her. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body. And open . . . like a book. You always knew what she was thinking. She was honest to a fault.”

  Maggie squirmed on the hard wooden bench, feeling rightly chided, even though she doubted Trevor meant anything by it. If he was trying to make her feel guilty, trying to make her come up short by comparison, he was doing a pretty fine job. She put the thought aside and tipped her head, waiting for him to go on.

  His eyes misted over. He swallowed hard. Maggie felt his pain as though it were her own.

  At that moment the sun slipped from beneath a cumulus cloud, and its rays streamed below the canopy of trees that had shaded them. Trevor squinted and turned his head, so that Maggie saw him in profile. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

  Again Maggie wished she hadn’t brought the painful subject up. “I’m so sorry . . . about your wife. It sounds like she was a wonderful person.”

  He looked up at her. “Thank you. She was a wonderful person. Trev too.”

  “He was named after you?”

  Trevor nodded. “He would have started school this year.”

  “Is that why you read to the kids . . . at the day care?”

  A spark of mischief lit his eyes. “Actually, it’s to fulfill my community-service requirement.”

  At the arch of her brows, he burst into laughter. It was contagious.

  She joined in once she realized he was teasing her again.

  But the seriousness returned to his face an instant later. “It’s mostly because of Trev. But my mother loved books, too—still does.”

  “Oh? Do your parents live close?”

  “They used to. I grew up in Clayburn. I inherited the print shop from my dad. My folks retired to Florida a couple years ago. The cold winters here really messed with Mom’s arthritis. They considered California, but Florida won out over the land of fruits and nuts.”

  Maggie tensed. Please change the subject. Please change the subject. She chanted it to herself like a mantra. She was too weary to make up any more stories.

  Trevor nudged her arm across the table, a tentative grin on his face. “Hey, that was a joke, okay? Just something stupid my dad used to say. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “It’s okay.” She forced a smile, her mind racing. What would she say if she really were from California? “It’s just . . . I get that all the time.”

  His grin turned sheepish. “Sorry. Bad joke. I won’t bring it up again.” The spark returned to his eyes. “If you’ll promise never to call me a hayseed again.”

  That made her laugh . . . then wonder if he was serious. But one look at his face told her he was anything but. Teasing seemed to be the way of people here. It took some getting used to. Kevin had never teased her—at least not like this. If he made a joke, it was cruel . . . or vulgar. And she was usually the butt of it.

  But Trevor’s good-natured banter made her feel . . .

  She shook herself back to the present, afraid to allow the thought to fruition. But then something let loose inside her and she gave it full rein.

  Being here like this, with Trevor, made her feel something she’d never felt before. And she didn’t ever want that feeling to end.

  How far could she go trying to get into Kevin’s account before she set off a red flag somewhere?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Thanks for lunch. I enjoyed everything.” Maggie felt suddenly shy. She reac
hed for the door handle.

  Trevor wrestled the pickup’s gearshift into park but stayed put behind the wheel. “Do you mind if I don’t walk you to the door?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t expect . . . I’m fine.” Pushing the heavy door open, Maggie climbed down from the high seat and started to close the door behind her.

  Trevor reached across the bench seat. “I’ve got it. Maybe I’ll see you this afternoon. I’m coming back to work on the remodel later.”

  “Oh. I’m not sure I’ll be here. I thought I’d visit some more stores, fill out some more applications.”

  “Uh-oh. You’re not going to find very many places open. Clayburn closes up tighter than a clam after lunch on Saturday.”

  “Really? Wren mentioned that, but I thought she was exaggerating. But why on Saturday afternoon? That’s one of the biggest shopping days.”

  He shrugged. “I guess I never thought about it. I suppose people are just too busy. Getting ready for church, doing family stuff. A lot of people head to Salina to go shopping or to the movies. A small town like Clayburn can’t supply everything.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “I suppose that means nothing’s open on Sunday either?”

  “’Fraid not. But bright and early Monday morning things will be hopping. You might as well take advantage of the quiet and relax this weekend.”

  She resisted the urge to inform him that she’d have no place to relax if she didn’t get a job soon.

  Distracted, she thanked him again and turned to the inn’s front door.

  At the bell’s jangle, Wren came from the dining room. “Meg! How did it go?”

  Maggie laughed at the woman’s wide-eyed eagerness. “It was nice. You were right. Trevor is a very nice man.”

  “Oh, that he is. I’ve never met a—” Wren threw her hands up mid-sentence. “My sauce!” She waddled back to the kitchen as fast as her short legs would allow.

  Maggie followed. Fragrant steam rose from a huge stockpot on the back burner of the old range, spicing the air. She inhaled. Spaghetti sauce. The stove was parked out in the middle of the floor, a heavy-duty extension cord connecting it to the kitchen wall. Wren turned down the fire and grabbed the pot handles with the corners of her apron.

  “I thought you were going out for dinner.”

  “This is for tomorrow, after church. I prefer not to cook on Sundays.” Wren stirred the bubbling sauce for a minute before plopping into a chair and wiping her forehead with the same apron corners. “You’re invited, of course,” Wren added.

  “Oh, I still have the sandwiches you made for the bus. They’re in the fridge in my room. Don’t worry about me.”

  “No, no, those sandwiches will keep another day. You’ll have spaghetti with us tomorrow.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to protest. She’d developed a conscience over the last few days, and she didn’t want to mooch from the Johannsens. But Wren cut her off before she could make a squeak.

  “You’ll eat with us tomorrow, and I don’t want any arguments.” Her face brightened. “That is, unless you’ve already made plans with Trevor.”

  “Oh, no. But I think he’s coming to work on the kitchen later.”

  “Well, that news is music to my ears.”

  The bells jangled in the lobby, and Wren and Maggie both turned toward the door.

  “Is that you, Bart?” Wren hollered.

  No response. Wren’s brow knit, and she frowned at Maggie. “That man is deafer than a post. Bart? Bart!” The bells jangled again, and Wren started for the lobby, but her scolding changed to a musical greeting as she disappeared through the arch. “Good afternoon, folks. Welcome to Wren’s. How can I help you?”

  Maggie listened from the kitchen as Wren checked guests in. From the conversations, she gathered it was a rather large family group. They’d planned to stay in Salina, but a youth basketball tournament had filled the hotels there and someone had recommended Wren’s Nest.

  “Well,” Wren said, “we’re glad they did. We’ll get you squared away in no time.” “Give that sauce a stir, Meg, would you?” she yelled into the kitchen.

  Maggie went to stir the sauce but tuned one ear to the lobby as Wren explained the situation with the kitchen to the guests. “We apologize for the inconvenience, folks, but don’t worry. You’ll be served a lovely breakfast right here in the lobby.”

  Maggie inched to where she could see the noisy party of seven as they followed Wren down the hall to their rooms. She returned to her post at the range and watched over the spaghetti sauce.

  When Wren returned a few minutes later, she looked worn out but happy. “Well, how about that? We rented four rooms tonight!”

  The unspoken message in Wren’s words struck fear in Maggie’s heart. For the first time, she realized there might come a night very soon when there would be no room in the inn for Meg Anders from California. She dared not dwell too long on the possibility.

  “But now I’ve got to put a breakfast together for them! Acck!”

  Wren’s comical shriek made Maggie forget her dark thoughts.

  “I could help. I’d be glad to. I’m a pretty good cook.”

  Wren eyed her, as if considering her offer. But then she brushed her hands together. “You know what? I’ve got some homemade cinnamon rolls in the freezer. I can heat those up in the morning and frost them. Whip up an egg casserole. I’ll need to get some bacon and some fruit juice, but I think we’ve got it covered. There’s no need to get in a tizzy.” She waved a hand. “Never mind me. I’m just talking to myself.”

  “Well, tell me what time to get up in the morning. I’d be glad to help.”

  Wren patted Maggie’s hand. “Thanks, sweetie. I just might take you up on that. Bless you.” She untied her apron and hung it up on a magnetic hook on the side of the refrigerator. “For now, I’m going to go take a little nap. You ought to do the same. You’ve had a big day, and it’s barely afternoon.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I thought I’d go to the library for a little while and then walk over to the park.”

  “You don’t need my permission, honey. But if you’re going, you’d better hurry. And you might want to go to the library first. They close at three on Saturday afternoons. Going to get something to read, huh?” Wren brightened. “Oh, hey, would you mind returning some books for me when you go?”

  “Sure. I’d be glad to.” Maggie didn’t tell Wren that her real reason had nothing to do with the library. She wanted to see if Jenn had replied to her e-mail yet. Maybe she could find out what Kevin knew. Whether he was looking for her.

  Wren searched through the bottom cupboards. “Now where did I put the lid to that pot?” She finally found it in a drawer and waved it in the air, huffing out a breath of frustration. “This remodeling project is going to be the death of me.”

  Maggie put a hand on Wren’s shoulder. “Your kitchen will be done before you know it. And I bet it’ll be so beautiful it will make you forget all about what a hassle it’s been.”

  Wren looked contrite. “Oh, I’ve been a big baby about it. I’m sorry, honey. I should be counting my blessings, and instead I’ve been a crabby old crank.”

  “No you haven’t.”

  Wren laughed. “Trust me, sweetie. I have. And if you don’t believe me, just go ask Bart.” She put down the wooden spoon. “Let me go get those library books so you can get going.”

  Zigzagging her way to the library and searching for patches of shade on the sidewalk, Maggie composed a new letter to Jenn in her head. By the time she got inside, perspiration was rolling down her face, and the cool, dank air was a sweet relief. She put Wren’s books in the drop and walked back to the carrels where the computers were located.

  All four of the machines were in use, so she browsed the nearby stacks, keeping an eye out for one of the desks to open up.

  When she finally got online, she accessed the e-mail account she’d set up. Immediately thirteen e-mails poured into her box. A chill of alarm snaked up her back unt
il she saw that all but two of the messages were spam. One was a welcome to Hotmail and the other was from Jenn.

  Maggie opened it and leaned in to the screen.

  Maggie,

  Where are you??? I’ve been worried sick. K called Tuesday night and told Mark the police found his car by the side of the road somewhere in Connecticut. He said he didn’t know why you’d gone out in the middle of the night, but that you called him, so he knows you’re alive.

  Why didn’t you tell me you were trying to leave him again? I’m sure it’s no surprise to you that K is furious. Mark won’t let me out of his sight. He’s afraid K will try to come after you through us.

  I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m worried about you and wondering why you haven’t e-mailed again since I got this. Please answer this e-mail and tell me where you are. And be careful! I know you always said he wouldn’t hurt you, but I’m afraid of what he’s capable of when he’s angry.

  Please let me know what’s going on! It’s not safe for you to stay here, but if you need someplace to go, we’ll help you find a place. Mark lost his job again, so money’s a little tight, but we’ll do what we can to help.

  I love you, Maggie.

  Jenn

  Maggie placed her fingers on the keyboard, longing to put her sister’s mind at ease. But what could she say? Finally she settled on a brief reassurance—and a warning.

  I’m fine, Jenn. Please don’t worry. I’ll let you know more the minute I can. But please listen to Mark. Until things blow over and K realizes I’m not coming back, you need to watch your back. Do not trust him. No matter what he says.

  She was surprised to find tears close to the surface. She missed her sister. Baltimore had always seemed a thousand miles away because Kevin never wanted her to go visit Jenn, but now that Jenn truly was halfway across the country, the ache of missing her grew deeper.

  It had taken over two days of traveling almost constantly to end up here in this tiny Kansas town. That meant it was at least two days back to Jenn.

  Maggie sighed and closed her eyes. The ache in her heart was more than mere homesickness for Jenn. In a strange way she missed Kevin too. Not the Kevin she’d run away from, but the man she once thought Kevin to be—the attentive charmer she’d bumped into at the gym after work one night. He’d given up his spot on the treadmill for her and asked her out to dinner the next night. She’d accepted, and their courtship had been like something out of the movies for the first two weeks. How desperately she’d wanted him to remain the man she thought he was that night.