Remember to Forget (21 page)

Mason turned the backward bill on his cap around and hid beneath its shadow. They both laughed.

But Trevor’s smile faded as soon as he closed the door to his office. He turned on his computer and pulled up the documents for a printing project that was due Monday. The four-color job required some photo retouching before he could put it on the press, and he hadn’t quite mastered the Photoshop program. He was grateful for the concentration the task required. He wasn’t in the mood to think too hard.

He glanced at the clock before settling in with the job. Why he’d offered to take that woman from the inn—Meg—to lunch, he didn’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. She was in a bad spot. But now that it was almost time to pick her up at the inn, he wondered what he was going to tell people about her. Trevor Ashlock couldn’t just show up at the Clayburn Café with a pretty girl in tow and not explain her to people.

Maybe he’d pick up sandwiches at the grocery store and they could do a quiet picnic in the park. He’d make it short and sweet. Feed the girl and take her back to the inn. He needed to knock off work early anyway so he could get in a few hours on Wren’s kitchen tonight.

Meg would understand that even though it was Saturday, he had work to do. He was a business owner. And he’d already taken off half the morning on a wild-goose chase to Salina on her account.

He kneaded the bridge of his nose. What had he gotten himself into? Meg Anders seemed like a nice enough woman, but she was hiding something. Something besides the fact that she was running from some jerk who had treated her badly. He was certain of it.

M
aggie surveyed her reflection in the full-length mirror. She’d paired the maroon print blouse from Wren’s rummage-sale bag with her khaki pants. It wasn’t exactly what she would have chosen for a job interview, but it would have to do. By the looks of things, she didn’t think Clayburn was too concerned with formality.

She ran the comb through her hair one last time, took a deep breath, and stepped into the hallway.

“Well, don’t you look nice,” Wren said when Maggie walked through the lobby.

“Wish me luck. I’m going to see if I can find a job.”

“Already?”

Maggie nodded. She didn’t want to tell Wren how little money she had left.

The wrinkles in Wren’s forehead grew pronounced. “You might have better luck if you wait until Monday, honey. A lot of the shops close early on Saturday.”

“Oh.” Maggie hadn’t thought about that. In some ways, it seemed as though it had been one long day since her adventure began in the early hours of Tuesday morning.

“Well, you never know.” Wren brightened. “It sure can’t hurt to try. But you come back in time to eat lunch with us, okay?”

“Oh . . . thank you, Wren, but Trevor invited me to have lunch with him.”

A slow smile tipped Wren’s mouth. “He did, did he? Well, I’d invite you to have supper with us, but Bart’s taking me out to dinner and a movie. The sweet man thinks I need a break.”

“That
is
sweet.”

Wren chuckled. “Well, Bart’s idea of dinner out is Taco Bell, but it’s the thought that counts, right?” She turned back to the papers she was
sorting. “But listen, Meg, you feel free to raid the refrigerator. If you can get it open in that crazy wreck of a kitchen.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m not used to eating that much anyway. Besides, I still have the sandwiches you made for me.”

“Well, good luck with your job search. You just smile that pretty smile and you’ll get hired in a flash. I’d hire you myself if we had the money.”

Well, that answered that question. Trevor had said as much, but she’d held out hope. But there was no sense getting discouraged before she’d even made one inquiry. Her heart fluttered a little, but it was more with excitement than with nerves. She hadn’t figured out what to do yet about her lack of identification, let alone the fact that she hadn’t held a job in two years.

Breathing in deeply, she shook off the thought. She had to think positive. If she did find a job, it meant the opportunity to stay here in Clayburn. And start a new life.

She was beginning to like that idea very much.

Maggie faced the moment she’d hoped for—and dreaded.

Chapter Twenty-Four

W
ith one hand on the door, Maggie checked her reflection in the window of the children’s clothing shop. She sighed, pasted on a smile, and tried to straighten her sagging shoulders. How much rejection could one woman handle in the space of a morning? She’d gotten a firm “sorry, we’re not hiring” at every other shop on this side of Main Street’s business district—such as it was in Clayburn.

She took in a deep breath, opened the door, and went to give her now well-rehearsed spiel to the woman behind the counter.

Before she even finished, the woman frowned. “I’m sorry, but I barely have enough work to keep myself busy.”

“Do you know
anyone
in town who’s looking for help?” She hoped the proprietor didn’t detect the desperation in her voice.

“Have you tried the Dairy Barn out on the highway?”

Maggie shook her head. “I don’t really have any experience with animals.”

The woman looked askance at her, then a spark of realization came to her eyes and she started laughing. “It’s not that kind of dairy barn, hon. It’s an ice-cream place—like a Dairy Queen.”

“Oh.” Heat crept up Maggie’s neck, but she smiled past her embarrassment. “I’m new in town.”

The woman grinned back at her. “I guessed that. Unfortunately they probably don’t need anyone now. They hire on a lot of high-school kids in the summer. But they’re usually looking for people as soon as school starts.”

Maggie’s hopes flagged. She couldn’t wait a week, let alone two months. Besides, even if they would hire her today, how would she get to work?

The next two shops on Main Street gave her the same story—and the same suggestion to try the Dairy Barn.

She started across the street. Lunch customers were already lined up at the café, so she decided it would be best to wait until later to inquire there. She knew beggars couldn’t be choosers, but she’d worked as a waitress for a few months while she was in college, and waitressing held no appeal whatsoever. But if they were hiring, she’d be game.

At a tiny flower and gift shop beside the café, Maggie faced the moment she’d hoped for—and dreaded. The florist handed her a two-page job application. She slid it to the end of the counter and started to fill it out. She printed Meg Anders and her Social Security number, but as she’d feared, the application asked for information she didn’t have access to, nor did she feel safe including the address of her former employer at the graphics firm in New York. Not yet.

She completed every part of the form she could, then paused. She would have to admit to the florist that she didn’t have the birth certificate they required for tax purposes, then pray he wouldn’t ask her to
get more specific about her job history.

She cleared her throat, trying to get the man’s attention. “I’m staying across the street at Wren’s Nest for a few days. Would it be okay if I use that address and phone number until I find a permanent place?”

The man scratched his head and seemed to consider her request. Then his smile turned to an apologetic grimace. “It might be better for you to come back when you have a more . . . permanent address. To tell you the truth, we’re not really looking for anybody right now.”

Deflated, she left the shop and crossed the street to the art gallery down the street from Wren’s. She’d saved the best for last, but now she was afraid to have her hopes dashed once again. She steeled herself and opened the door.
Here goes
.

Entering the shop, she paused to breathe in the pungent oil and turpentine. Standing on the oak floor, surrounded by walls of canvases and prints, she felt a sense of excitement. What a dream come true it would be to work in an art gallery—even a small one like this. Maybe the owner would have a space where she could work in her spare time. Approaching the front counter, she forced herself to shake off the fantasy. She dared not allow herself to dream that big.

Jackson Linder wasn’t behind the counter today, but she heard someone whistling in the back room.

She gave the old-fashioned bell on the countertop a tentative tap. She rang a second and third time before a middle-aged woman walked from the back room. The woman swept back a hank of salt-and-pepper hair and considered Maggie over reading glasses looped to a chain around her neck. “May I help you?”

“I was in here the other day, talking to Mr. Linder. I wondered if you might have any openings?”

“Oh, I’ll let you talk to Jack.” The woman disappeared through the narrow doorway behind the counter.

Seconds later, the artist himself emerged from the same door, drying his hands on a paint-splotched rag. As he came around the counter, he
tripped over something Maggie couldn’t see but quickly steadied himself and came toward her.

“Can I help—Oh! It’s you! Still in town, huh?”

For an instant Maggie thought she detected whiskey on his breath. For one terrifying heartbeat, the man’s face morphed into Kevin’s. It took every ounce of will power she had not to turn around and run for the door.

But then Jackson Linder’s kind, suntanned face came back in focus. She offered her hand. “Yes. I’m . . . well, I’m
back
in town, actually. I’ve decided to stay in the area. I’m Meg Anders.” It still felt strange to introduce herself that way. “I wondered if you had any openings here in the gallery?”

He scratched the short stubble on his chin. “I’d be happy to take a look at your work, but I’ll be honest. Business is slow. Even if I could hang your stuff tomorrow, I couldn’t guarantee—”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I’m looking for a job—as a receptionist or framing paintings, cleaning up, whatever. I’m not picky. I just need a job.”

“Ah, I misunderstood. Unfortunately, I’m not sure I can help you there either. I—”

He looked past her out the windows at the front of the shop, and she turned to follow his gaze. But he seemed to be staring at nothing. His eyes glazed over almost as if he’d forgotten she was even in the room.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate your help.”

His eyes came back into focus, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if coming out of a trance. He reached out and braced a hand on the counter. “Yes,” he said. “Well . . . good luck. You have a good day now.”

Maggie had the impression that he was merely going through the motions. She wondered if he was even aware of the conversation they’d just had. She shuddered. Kevin had done that sometimes. Spaced out. Not losing consciousness or giving any physical sign that his brain was
malfunctioning, but suddenly he wouldn’t be there mentally.

She couldn’t get out of the gallery fast enough. On the sidewalk outside, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. She wasn’t sure what had happened in there, but she hated the thoughts of Kevin Bryson that were so close to the surface.

Still, she was disappointed. Her hopes of landing a job at the gallery—perhaps having access to a studio, and maybe even a mentor—had been dashed. And she was fast running out of options.