Remember to Forget Read online

  He remembered that she’d planned to continue her job search this morning, and he hoped it would take her the better part of the day. But then she might be too tired to paint tonight.

  He couldn’t quit thinking about her. Wondering what her story was. He was certain now that she wasn’t being up front with him—or with anybody in Clayburn for that matter. But she’d been hurt. She’d admitted that much, and he was willing to give her an out while she healed. He’d spent the last two years in similar shoes. He knew all too well how painful the healing process could be. Yet, though Meg admitted to lying, he didn’t think of her as a liar. He sensed that Meg’s stories served to make her feel safe. To protect her from whatever it was that threatened her. He found himself fiercely protective whenever he thought about whoever or whatever had caused her to run away from wherever home was.

  Finally the clock in the front office ticked to four, and he extricated himself from the pressroom and drove across the street to park in front of Wren’s. He hauled his toolbox out of the back and headed inside.

  Meg was already on a ladder in the dining room. She was wearing his flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and her hair was tucked into a navy bandana he recognized as Bart’s. She had her back to him, and the wall she was painting was two-thirds finished.

  “Hey you. You’re making some serious progress there.”

  She twisted on the ladder to face him, and her pleased smile reminded him why he’d been looking forward to this job all day. “I hope you don’t mind if I took over your job.”

  “No problem.” He grabbed a paintbrush and started trimming in the corner of the wall adjacent to the one she was working on.

  Wren appeared in the doorway. “How’s it going in here? Do you two need to take a snack break? I baked cookies this morning.”

  “I just got here,” Trevor said. “But Meg’s apparently been here for a while. I guess, if forced, I could take a snack break for her sake.”

  Wren affected a chastening, motherly glare. “Watch it, buster.”

  He winked at Meg and dipped his paintbrush in the can, laughing with her.

  Wren steepled her hands beneath her chin and turned 360 degrees, surveying the room. “It’s looking great in here.”

  “Did Meg talk to you about the border, Wren?”

  Meg’s paint roller stilled. She looked from him to Wren and shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “What’s this?” Curiosity sparked in Wren’s eyes.

  “Meg suggested instead of wallpaper, you might like a hand-painted border—something similar to stenciling.”

  Wren’s eyes narrowed.

  “Who would do the painting?”

  Trevor studied the misgiving in her expression. Did she think he was suggesting Jack could do the painting? He hastened to put her mind at ease. “Meg worked for a graphic-arts firm. She’s done this type of thing before.”

  “Well, I’ve only tried stenciling once,” Meg demurred. “But I was thinking of doing this freehand. I did some sketches last night, and I think they turned out pretty nice.”

  Wren’s face softened. “Well, let’s see them.”

  “I don’t want you to feel obligated. They’re only sketches. Bart gave me some colored pens from the front desk, but they’re not exactly the colors I was thinking would look best in here, so you’ll have to use your imagination.”

  Trevor moved to take the paint roller from her hand. “Go get them. Let’s take a look.”

  She climbed down and practically ran through the lobby to her room.

  Wren eyed him. “You put her up to this, didn’t you, Mr. Ashlock? You never did like the idea of me putting up wallpaper.”

  He held up a hand in defense. “It was the idea of me putting up wallpaper that I wasn’t crazy about.”

  Wren chuckled.

  “But this was Meg’s idea . . . honest.” He gave a guilty shrug. “I might have encouraged her a little.”

  Meg returned with several sheets of copy paper. She spread them out on the lone table that remained in the room after they’d moved the others to the lobby for Saturday’s guests. Her face was lit up with joy. Her hands flew over the paper as she showed Wren what she had in mind.

  Trevor was relieved to see she had real talent. The simple, scrolled floral design she proposed fit the inn’s quaint architecture perfectly. And her craftsmanship was meticulous.

  Wren looked from the papers to the archway, squinting. “I like it. I like it a lot. How long do you think it would take to finish?”

  Meg rested her chin on her fist, thinking. “Probably three or four days. I’ll need to let the paint dry on a couple of different layers before I can finish. And it’ll depend on how many hours Mr. Linder can give me.”

  Wren gave Trevor a look that said, “Do something!”

  He cleared his throat. “You’re going to work for him for sure?”

  Meg smiled. “I talked to him after lunch, and he wants me to start first thing in the morning. It’s a good thing. I bombed out everywhere else I went. But that’s why I wanted to get as much done here as I could this afternoon.”

  Wren gathered Meg’s sketches and tamped them into a neat sheaf. “Why don’t you take these back to your room so they don’t get ruined? I love your idea, and I’d like to commission you to do the work.”

  Trevor tensed. Money was tight for the Johannsens, especially with business slower than it had been in years. He’d been hesitant to even accept the remodeling job until he realized Bart and Wren were determined to have it done. At least he could charge them a more reasonable rate than the exorbitant amount Buddy Rollenmeyer up at the lumberyard had quoted.

  Wren went on, her hand on Meg’s arm. “I don’t know what you charge for a job like this, but you’ll stay here for free until it’s finished.”

  Meg’s eyes grew round. “Really? Oh, that’s wonderful!” She gave Wren a spontaneous hug, then backed away, seeming embarrassed by the show of affection. “The room will be more than enough pay, Wren. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You already have. You tuck those drawings safely away now.”

  As soon as Meg was out of earshot, Wren turned to Trevor, her voice wobbly. “I feel like I need to say something to her, Trevor. Jack is . . . well, he’s just Jack. But for Bart’s sake, I don’t want to go into all the . . . well, you know. Still, I don’t feel right letting Meg get involved in that mess.” Wren nodded in the general direction of Jack’s gallery.

  “Have you said anything to Jack?”

  He was sorry the minute the words were out. Of course she hadn’t. As far as he knew, Jack hadn’t darkened Wren’s door for almost two years. Wren could have blamed him—Trevor—for that. Jack probably did blame him. But Trevor had made his peace with his place in Bart and Wren’s lives long ago, and he wouldn’t rehash that now.

  “I’m sorry, Wren. You do what you think is right. But maybe this will be a good thing. Meg seems rather worldly wise.”

  “She’s been hurt. She hasn’t talked to me about it, but I see the signs. I know she needs a job—heaven knows I wish Bart and I could give her one—but I don’t want her to be hurt again.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I know. I know.”

  He didn’t want to see Meg get hurt either. But there was enough trouble between Wren and Jack, and this situation wasn’t going to make it any better. And Jack—well, he’d been hurting for a long time, and he didn’t seem ready to find any relief for it.

  Trevor huffed out a sigh. He’d faulted Meg for being evasive about her past, for hiding behind what he suspected were flat-out lies. But the truth was, he and Wren harbored their own secrets. Innocently, each lovingly protecting the other—and Jack. But Meg would walk into a potential catastrophe if they didn’t clue her in and soon.

  An old heaviness invaded his heart. He was glad Amy would never know all the sorrow that had seeped into the world because her car had just happened to be on that particular stretch of highway at the wrong time.

  Had Wr
en and Trevor been wise to her lies all along?

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When Maggie walked back into the dining room, an awkward silence pervaded the room. Trevor was suddenly preoccupied with putting a third coat of paint on the corner he’d been trimming, and Wren darted over to the kitchenette and started swabbing already-spotless countertops.

  Maggie looked from one to the other, but both refused to make eye contact. They’d been talking about her, that much was obvious.

  Had she said something earlier that gave her away? Or had Wren and Trevor been wise to her lies all along? She suspected as much. She’d tripped up too many times. Even though, since Trevor had brought her back from the bus stop, she’d tried to make her lies ones of omission only, she’d become too practiced at the art of falsehood. Maybe Wren had decided she couldn’t trust her living and working under the inn’s roof.

  Wren hurriedly gathered linens from pegs in the kitchen—towels Maggie knew were clean that morning—and backed from the room. “I have laundry to do,” she said. “You two holler if you need anything.”

  No mention of the snack she’d offered a few minutes ago.

  “So . . . what was that all about?” She felt brave because Trevor’s back was to her. “My ears were itching.”

  “Huh?”

  She shrugged. “Just an old wives’ tale. If your ears itch, someone must be talking about you.”

  “Oh.” He went on painting.

  “So were you?”

  He bent to balance the paintbrush across the rim of the can, then straightened to face her. His mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. “I need to talk to you about something.” He came a step closer.

  Uh-oh. Here it comes. She stood, waiting.

  “It’s about Jack Linder.”

  “Yeah, you told me. Believe me, Trevor, I know how to handle a drunk.”

  Trevor’s eyebrows shot up, but she was glad she’d said what she did. It was true. Maybe she could ease gradually into the truth. It would be less painful that way. “Is he like the town drunk or something? Wren was upset, too, when I told her I might start working at the gallery. Does she know about this guy’s problem?”

  He rubbed the space between his eyes, as if staving off a headache. “Wren knows.” Trevor lifted his head and studied her for a long minute.

  Maggie got the impression he was trying to decide how much to reveal to her.

  Finally he blew out a hard breath. “Wren knows better than most, Meg. Jack is her son.”

  “What?” Hadn’t she met Jackson Linder’s mother at the gallery that day?

  His expression grew somber.

  “But—I met his mother.”

  Trevor nodded again. “That’s Twila . . . Linder. It’s a long story, Meg, and it’s not all mine to tell.”

  Maggie waited, hoping he didn’t plan to stop there.

  He glanced past her to the lobby and craned his neck, listening, she knew, for Wren.

  The muffled tremor of the washing machine agitator apparently gave him license to continue. “John and Twila Linder adopted Jack as an infant. John died a few years ago, but they were a great couple. I spent a lot of time at their house when we were kids. Jack always knew he was adopted—it never seemed to be a big deal. But he had a girlfriend in high school who convinced him he should search for his birth mother. With Twila’s blessing, Jack did a search when he turned eighteen and . . . well . . .” Trevor eyed Maggie. “It turned out his birth mother had been living in Clayburn all along.”

  Maggie released the breath she’d been holding. “Wren?”

  “Yes. Wren was . . . well, let’s just say she wasn’t the Wren we know and love now. I don’t know all the details, but apparently Jack’s birth father wasn’t exactly”—he cleared his throat meaningfully—“available to marry Wren.”

  “But Bart?”

  “Bart and Wren just celebrated their tenth anniversary last summer.”

  Meg leaned back against the table, stunned, trying to wrap her mind around the things Trevor just revealed. The situation was so different than she’d imagined. She’d assumed Bart and Wren had been together forever. That they were nearing retirement after being high-school sweethearts. Of course she hadn’t bothered to ask Wren about her life. She’d been too immersed in her own problems. Problems that paled now, in the light of Trevor’s story. It seemed she wasn’t the only one with problems, with a past she was ashamed of.

  Her heart melted with tenderness toward Wren. It all started to make sense to her now. Wren’s odd reaction when she’d mentioned the gallery owner. Her concern about Maggie working there . . .

  She stared up at Trevor. “Do people in town know? Does Wren have a relationship with Jack?”

  He shook his head. “Not lately. People know—the newspaper ran a story years ago, when Jack first found Wren. For years they were close. Wren was careful not to try to take Twila’s place—not that she ever could—but it was good for both of them to know the truth. And they got along great.”

  Maggie wrinkled her nose. “So what changed that? Jack’s drinking?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Trevor’s tremulous sigh made Maggie wonder why he seemed to have a stake in Jack’s story. It seemed to be deeper than their high-school friendship.

  He glanced at his watch, then picked his paintbrush back up. “Let’s finish this last coat and grab some supper. Then I want to show you something.”

  From her perch in the passenger seat of Trevor’s pickup, Maggie watched the telephone poles sail by on Old Highway 40—the highway she’d walked into town on. She’d spent four days in Clayburn now. By some strange trick of her mind, this place—this tiny, humble town on an ancient prairie—felt more like home than anywhere she’d lived before.

  She was curious where Trevor was taking her now. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d cleaned up their painting mess and climbed into his pickup.

  The chill of the air conditioner blew across her bare arms, and she wished she’d left Trevor’s flannel paint shirt on. She glanced at him across the truck’s cab. She had known him such a short time, but she didn’t feel an ounce of fear toward the gentle man who sat with tanned wrists lopped over the steering wheel, eyes on the road ahead, Vivaldi on the CD player.

  The sun balanced atop a hedgerow that stretched across the horizon behind them in the distance, and a band of puffy purplish clouds lined up for what promised to be a spectacular sunset. Ten minutes east of town, where the road crossed the Smoky Hill River, Trevor slowed the truck and turned onto a gravel road just past the bridge. He made a U-turn on the side road, pointing the pickup back toward Clayburn. He shifted the truck into park and switched off the radio.

  The intersection seemed vaguely familiar, but Maggie didn’t understand why he’d brought her here.

  Trevor cut the engine and opened his door, leaving the keys dangling in the ignition. “Careful climbing down. The ditch is steep on that side. Here. Hang on.” He ran around to her side and gave her a hand down.

  The ditch was lush with tangled weeds and tall grasses. Clumps of sunflowers were scattered at haphazard intervals. The air was musky with damp soil.

  She followed him along the edge of the dirt road, their shoes crunching on the ridge of fine sand the passage of rural traffic had created. A few yards behind the truck, Trevor stopped and stared off across the pastureland. She paused beside him, following his gaze, but the low buttes and the copse of gnarled trees beyond the stone post fence gave her no clue as to why they were here. A mourning dove cooed somewhere behind them. A pair of the doves had a nest under the eaves of the inn, and Bart had identified their call for Maggie one evening. It was the loneliest sound she’d ever heard.

  And now the haunting birdsong seemed to reflect Trevor’s demeanor.

  He stood straight and somber, seeming someplace far away. Maggie stood a step behind him, respecting his silence with her own. After a minute, Trevor bowed his head, as if trying to compose himself. She waited, growing ste
adily more uncomfortable.

  But then he turned to her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “This is where my family died . . . Amy and Trev.” He swallowed hard, looking away. “The accident happened right here.”

  She inhaled a shuddering breath, finally understanding. “Oh, Trevor.” Her voice rushed out in a whisper. This made it all seem so real. She tried to imagine this peaceful spot swarming with emergency vehicles, paramedics, shattered glass. A chill went through her. “I’m so sorry.”

  Staring at the dirt beneath his feet, he nodded a silent acknowledgment. A long minute passed. “Come over here.” He walked around the pickup to the other side of the ditch. He climbed down the grassy embankment and held out his hand to help her down behind him.

  When she was on solid footing in the ditch, she looked around her. Trevor was bent, wading through the high grasses as if searching for something. And then she knew why this intersection seemed familiar.

  He parted a tall curtain of plumed grass to reveal the hewn crosses she’d seen in the ditch the day she’d walked from the bus station. A deep sadness came over her as the meaning of the crosses became clear. She swallowed the lump in her throat and waited for Trevor to explain.

  He knelt on one knee in the ditch, a hand resting on the larger cross as he yanked out some of the grasses and tossed them aside, clearing the space. She waited, not knowing what to say, aching for this man and all he’d been through.

  Finally he rose. The sun had fallen below the hedgerow, casting his face in shadow. “These crosses . . . Jack made them. For Amy and Trev. For a year—maybe longer—he put fresh flowers on them every single Saturday. It’s been awhile now.” He bowed his head again.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Jack pulled out in front of Amy. Plowed into her car, probably going about fifty. The police said chances are . . . she never knew what hit her.”