Remember to Forget (13 page)

But where were her clothes? This old-lady nightgown with its puffy sleeves and perky-daisies-and-watering-cans pattern made her look like a clown. She opened the door a crack and checked the hallway outside.

Nothing.

There was a brief list of local numbers posted beside the phone on
her nightstand, but nothing about how to call the front desk.

She went into the bathroom and did the best she could with her hair. At least it was clean. That was a huge improvement. She would ask for a bag to put the toiletries in before she left. The items would help get her through another night or two on the road. Sooner or later she was going to have to break down and buy a few things—socks and underwear for sure.

And a new pair of shoes if she was going to put fifteen miles a day on them. She wouldn’t mind a bit of makeup too, though the Kansas sun had painted a natural blush on her cheeks yesterday.

She peeked out the door again and down both ends of the hallway. The hall was empty, and she couldn’t see the front desk. Propping the door open against the safety latch, she crept to the lobby.

Empty. No one behind the desk either.

She heard a commotion coming from the dining room across from the hallway. “Mrs.—?” She searched her brain for the woman’s last name. “Wren?” she called, finally, hoping the woman wouldn’t think her rude.

There was no answer, but louder rumblings came from the dining area—what sounded like furniture being moved. “Is anyone here?”

A man in jeans and T-shirt, wearing a carpenter’s apron and a backward baseball cap, appeared in the arched doorway. “I’m the only one here.” He ducked through the doorway, a smile on his face. One look at her in Wren’s nightgown, and he quickly averted his eyes, his smile following suit.

The gown covered more than most of her shorts outfits did, but she suddenly felt exposed. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you know where Wren is? Or her husband?”

He doffed his cap, revealing neatly clipped hair the color of sand. Thick-lashed blue eyes met hers briefly before he focused on the doorjamb, running his hand along the painted wood. “Wren went for a few groceries. Should be back any time now. I don’t know where Bart is.”

“Oh. Okay. Wren did my laundry last night. I was wondering where my clothes were.”

He cleared his throat, still inspecting the intricacies of the arched doorway. “Yeah. She told me.”

“She did?” What kind of place left the carpenters in charge and filled the guy in on all the details of a guest’s situation?

He nodded and chanced a look back, his gaze not straying below her face. “I don’t know where your clothes are, but the laundry room would be a pretty good first guess.” He gave her a crooked smile and headed back into the dining room.

Maggie followed him, hugging her arms tighter around her midsection. The fragrance of coffee and cinnamon mingled with the scents of pine and sawdust. Silvery motes danced on the rays of sunlight that spilled through the windows. “Excuse me, but . . . the laundry room? Where would that be?”

He tugged his cap back on, picked up a ladder, and moved it a few feet. When he set it down, a pathetic yowl split the air, and a huge cat shot across the room and out into the lobby. Maggie’s heart swelled. The striped tabby was an oversized version of her Buttons back in New York.

“Fool cat,” the carpenter muttered under his breath.

Maggie started after the animal. “What’s her name?”

“It’s a he, and his name is Jasper.”

She found the cat in the lobby, huddled beneath a low bench by the front door. “Come here, Jasper. Here, kitty.”

The cat sniffed her outstretched hand, and after a minute, crept out, keeping low to the ground. Maggie scooped him into her arms. He outweighed Buttons by a good five pounds, but holding him made her ache for Buttons something fierce. She rubbed her face against his soft fur.

The carpenter shouted something over an eruption of hammering.

She walked over to the doorway. “Were you talking to me?”

He looked up, hammer midswing. “I said the laundry room is behind the check-in desk.” He indicated with a nod. “First door on the right.”

“Oh, thanks.” She’d almost forgotten why she came out here.
She let the cat down with one last, longing stroke and went to the door he’d indicated. Feeling like an intruder, she knocked softly, then pushed the door open. Sure enough, neatly folded on the edge of one of two washing machines were her khaki slacks and the rest of her things. The woman had even managed to get the grass stains out of her white blouse.

She grabbed the stack of clothes and headed for her room. It would be almost three by the time she got dressed and out of here. At least if Wren wasn’t here, she might be able to leave before they charged her for an extra night. A ghost of guilt hung over that last thought, but she pushed it away, knowing she needed to stretch her cash.

She sat on the bed and let her eyes wander over the furnishings. She’d been too tired to notice last night, but it was a pretty room. The sun streamed through pale wooden venetian blinds and lay in thick slices across the blue and white quilt. The dresser and a little table and chairs in the corner by the windows were painted white, and the walls were covered with a cheery blue and white toile print.

She gazed with longing toward the bathroom. The thought of another long soak in that tub was enticing. Shaking off the thought, she slipped into her clean clothes, then scooped up the money from the dresser, counting it twice.

She started for the door but halted halfway there. She wasn’t anxious to hit the road again. She plopped back onto the plump bed pillows. She didn’t have enough cash to pay for another night. She remembered what the woman who’d picked her up outside Clayburn had said about Wren letting her work it off washing pots and pans. It was tempting. But she needed to get on the road. With a sigh, she stuffed the cash deep in the pocket of her clean khakis.

In the bathroom she gathered up all the little soaps and shampoos and put them in a plastic bag marked
Laundry
that she’d found hanging in the small closet. She tied the sack in a knot and slung it over her shoulder. She was officially a hobo now.

Through her sun–induced stupor, an odd feeling came over her again—the feeling that something was about to happen...

Chapter Sixteen

M
aggie closed the door to her room behind her and crept down the hallway. She peered around the corner to the lobby. Still empty. No sign of Wren or her husband.

The carpenter was whistling in the dining room. She poked her head through the doorway. “I’m leaving now. I’m already checked out. I checked out last night,” she explained.

He studied her over a sheet of drywall. “I see you found your clothes.”

She looked down at her clean outfit. “Oh. Yes. Would you tell the owners thanks for me? I’m Meg, by the way. I really appreciate everything they did.”

“Meg.” He bobbed his head. “Sure. I’ll tell them.” He carried the unwieldy drywall toward a torn-up kitchen, apparently dismissing her.

After a moment, she turned to leave.

“Oh, hey! Meg!”

His shout brought her back around.

“I almost forgot. Wren wanted me to be sure you got some of the cinnamon rolls she fixed for breakfast. I’ll be in a whale of trouble with her if you don’t eat something before you leave.” That lopsided smile again. “You’d be doing me a personal favor.”

Maggie chuckled at the thought of him being in trouble with the elderly proprietor. “Well, I guess I did miss breakfast.”

He glanced at his watch. “Only by four or five hours.” The crinkles around his eyes deepened. “But Wren saved some rolls back especially for you.”

“That sounds really good right now,” she admitted.

“They’re in the oven, wrapped in foil. I tested them. Wren didn’t make them from scratch like she usually does, but they’re edible.” He grinned.

He had a nice grin.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said.

“Here.” He propped the slab of Sheetrock against the bare studs and squeezed through the labyrinth formed by the refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher. He opened the oven door as far as the maze would allow and pulled out a packet of foil. “There are plates and forks on that little table out in the lobby. There might even be a cup of coffee you could nuke. Or you could make a new pot. Everything you need is out there.”

“Thanks.” She took the rolls from him and went back to the lobby.

An overstuffed chair facing the window invited her to sit. She rested her head against the upholstered back, relishing the sun on her face. Outside, the village street was picturesque, with geraniums and petunias blooming in flower boxes in the middle of the street and every store decked out in a colorful awning.

The passersby appeared to be in no hurry to get anywhere. She watched as people stopped on the street to greet one another like old
friends. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and their smiles were contagious. Did people really live like this? She felt as if she’d fallen into an old rerun of
Mayberry RFD
 . . . or
The Twilight Zone.
Come to think of it, Wren
did
favor Aunt Bee.

She unwrapped the foil and tore off a bite of cinnamon-crusted roll. She’d taste one bite and save the rest for later, when she was on the road. After the feast Wren had fixed for her last night, she shouldn’t have been hungry, but the cinnamon was sweet on her tongue. Before she knew it, she’d polished off both rolls and licked the last bits of icing from the wrapper.

She curled up in the chair, growing drowsy with the sun and the rhythmic pounding going on in the dining room. What would it be like to live in a town like this? To have friends like Bart and Wren?

She gazed out the window and imagined what it would be like to live in this sleepy little town. She could almost feel a muddy riverbank beneath her bare feet, cool water lapping at her toes. Overhead, the full moon. And silhouetted in its golden light, ancient trees seemed to whisper her name. She had crossed that river last night, seen that full moon overhead. Through her sun–induced stupor, an odd feeling came over her again—the feeling that something was about to happen . . .

The jangle of bells on the front door brought her upright in the chair. Wren flounced in, wearing the handles of half a dozen plastic grocery bags like bracelets up and down her arms.

Maggie jumped up. “Oh, here, let me help.” She cleared the bags from one of Wren’s plump arms.

“Whew.” Wren wiped her brow with her free hand and tucked a wayward snowy tress behind her ear. “Thank you, honey. I thought I was only going to the store for milk and bread.” She studied Maggie. “Did you decide to spend another night with us?”

“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.”