Remember to Forget Page 4

  The truck bumped along the dusty road, and Trevor let the miles and the mellow tune on the radio work the kinks out of him. As promised, he’d gotten Wren’s electricity back on before he left. He didn’t tell her he’d probably have to turn it off for a couple of hours each evening for the next few nights. She would stew for nothing. Once he got the wiring finished, the remodeling job would move quickly. Though if he knew Wren, she’d have another project lined up for him before the paint was dry on this one.

  Ten minutes later he turned up the lane to the old farmhouse he rented. Every time he wrote out that check for seven hundred dollars, he swore he’d talk to a Realtor before the next month’s rent was due. With the carpentry skills his father had taught him, and the hours of spare time he seemed to have, he was a fool not to buy a little fixer-upper in town to turn a profit on. But then he’d see the saggy porch where he’d carried Amy over the threshold, he’d look out at the chicken coop where she’d kept her beloved hens. He’d walk up the creaky stairs to the room where Trev had been conceived, and smile up at the sparkles on the ceiling that Amy had pretended were stars while they snuggled under the quilts on cold winter nights, and he’d know he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

  If there was an ounce of comfort in losing them both on the same day, it was that they’d gone together. Sometimes a picture would come into his head—playing like a movie—his wife and son holding hands, laughing and skipping through a misty meadow. It comforted him. Amy had always lamented the Bible’s description of heaven as a city. She hated anything “city.” He’d barely been able to get her to Wichita for a day of shopping twice a year. The day he’d pointed out the green pastures and still waters of the psalms and told her he thought they would surely be a part of heaven for her, she cried and rewarded him with a kiss.

  Halfway up the long lane, the farmhouse came into full view. The sky blue paint was fading on the west side of the house, but the honey-suckle vines hid the evidence well. He rounded the curve of the drive and tapped the brakes when he saw the SUV sitting in front of the house.

  Shoot. Amy’s parents. Their Explorer sat empty, the windows rolled down a crack against the heat. He expelled a breath that puffed out his cheeks. He was in no mood for this. He wondered how long they’d been waiting for him. Long enough for Verna to tidy up the living room and clean out the refrigerator the way she had last time they’d come. Not that he minded. It was the lecture he’d get about eating right and not working so hard and letting a little air in the house, for heaven’s sake, that he wasn’t looking forward to.

  That, and the heavy coat of memories he could never shake off after a visit with Hank and Verna. He loved them both like his own parents, but he was grateful they lived in Kansas City and only dropped by a couple of times a year. He suspected the visits were as painful for Hank and Verna as they were for him.

  Steeling himself, he climbed out of the pickup and went in through the back door, depositing Wren’s cheesecake in the deep freeze in the mudroom before stepping into the kitchen.

  Hank was reading the Courier, Clayburn’s weekly newspaper that was printed at Trevor’s shop. Verna had her head in the refrigerator.

  “Hey there.”

  “Trevor!” Verna whirled and came at him like a cyclone.

  He took a step backward and held out his hands. “I’m covered with dust. Let me take a quick shower and change clothes, and you can hug me all you want.”

  She laughed as if he’d told a sidesplitting joke. He prayed her laughter wouldn’t dissolve into tears as it too often did.

  Hank slid his chair back from the table and rose to shake Trevor’s hand. “How’s it going, Son?”

  “Busy. Busier all the time.” It was a safe answer. But a true one too. He made sure of that. “How are you folks doing?”

  “Getting along . . . getting along. We had a funeral over in Coyote, and Verna wanted to stop by on the way back home. I told her you’d probably be working, but you know how she is.”

  Trevor smiled. He knew. Like mother, like daughter. Hank let Verna walk all over him just like he’d let Amy. And they were happy men for it.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  He opened the refrigerator. He was right. Verna had done a job on it. No more moldy leftovers, no more takeout boxes. She’d congregated an assortment of bottled fruit juice at the back of the top shelf, as if she thought he wouldn’t notice her contribution.

  “Some juice, maybe?” He winked at Verna and returned her sheepish smile with one of his own.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Hank said. “We grabbed something before we left Coyote.”

  “Verna?”

  “No, but let me get you something.”

  “I got it.” Trevor pulled out a bottle of some cranberry concoction and poured himself a tall glass. He downed it all at once, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s pretty good stuff.”

  “Amy drank it by the gallon . . . always said it kept her from getting bladder infections.” Verna’s voice faltered. “The girl should have been a doctor, as much as she knew about medical stuff.”

  Trevor took his cue and backed down the hall toward the bathroom. “I’m going to change. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “Don’t rush on our account,” Verna shouted after him, her voice composed again.

  In the shower, he let the stinging water pelt his skin while he tried to think of something he could talk to Hank and Verna about that wasn’t ripe with Amy’s memory. That was the trouble. Everything was ripe with Amy’s memory. Everything.

  He dried off and put on a pair of clean blue jeans and a T-shirt. Hair still wet, he padded barefoot back out to the kitchen.

  “Oh, much better,” Verna said when she saw him. She crossed the room with her arms outstretched.

  Trevor let her hold him and pat his back for a long minute, knowing that when she pulled away, her eyes would be wet and her face contorted. Sometimes he wondered why she and Hank tortured themselves by coming to see him. It would be easier for all of them if they just forgot about him. Went on with their lives. They had no connection to him now. Not really.

  But they’d played this polite game since the day of the funerals. Almost two years now. It seemed like an eternity ago.

  And it seemed like only yesterday.

  A stab of jealousy cut through her, but she quickly reminded herself of what she was escaping.

  Chapter Seven

  Maggie stood to the side while the clerk in the store waited on a man wearing cowboy boots and a wide, tooled leather belt with RICK burned into the back.

  When his transaction was finished, she stepped up to the counter. The young man behind the cash register eyed her. “Can I help you?”

  She tossed her head in the direction of the interstate. “I was supposed to be on that bus that just left.”

  The clerk rolled his eyes. “Sorry, miss, but those buses don’t wait for nobody. There should be another one through here in a couple of hours. Where you headed?”

  “Ohio. But I—”

  “Excuse me.” Behind her, the middle-aged cowboy who’d been in front of her in line cleared his throat loudly. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You’re goin’ to Ohio?”

  She nodded, wary.

  “Whereabouts in Ohio?”

  “I was supposed to be on that bus to Columbus.”

  The man’s shoulders sagged. “Oh. Well, my wife and I are headin’ to Cleveland, but that’s a sight north of Columbus.”

  A pretty brunette came to stand beside the man, putting a manicured hand possessively on his arm. But she gave Maggie a winsome smile. “You’d be more than welcome to ride along with us. Long as you don’t mind country music.” She extended her hand. “I’m Sandy.”

  Maggie shook hands and sized up the situation. The couple seemed harmless enough. That assessment almost made her giggle. After all she’d been through today, harmless was a relative term.

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t mind?�
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  The man pushed back his white Stetson and hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “Don’t take no more gas to carry three people than it does two. But like I said, we’re not goin’ that far south.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I can catch another bus or something once I get there.”

  “If that suits, come along. Oh, by the way, I’m Rick. Rick Henry.”

  Maggie shook his hand and flashed Sandy a smile of thanks. The couple stood there looking at her expectantly. “Oh. Sorry. I’m Mag—” She clamped her mouth shut, slicing off the last syllable of her name. For all she knew, Kevin might already have alerts out on local radio stations. In case they were broadcasting her name, she’d do well not to use it.

  She feigned a cough and prayed her fiery cheeks wouldn’t give her away. “Excuse me . . . sorry. My name is Meg. Meg Anders.” The amalgam of her real names rolled off her tongue before she had a chance to think it through. She’d always wanted to be called Meg, but she’d never convinced anyone to make the change. She only hoped Meg Anders sounded different enough from Maggie Anderson to conceal her secret.

  “You ready to leave now?” Sandy asked. “Don’t you have any luggage?”

  “It was”—she gestured toward the street—“on the bus.”

  “Oh, man. That’s a bummer. Well, come on. We’ll get you on down the road a ways. Over here.” Rick led the way through the parking lot to an ancient Volkswagen bus.

  “It’s kind of a pigsty in here. I apologize.” Sandy unlatched the door and started slinging clothing and wrinkled wildlife magazines over the middle seat into the back. “Didn’t exactly count on having company ridin’ along.”

  “I sure appreciate this.” Maggie climbed up and slid across the narrow bench, easing the rusted door shut behind her. She latched it, instantly feeling safer than she’d felt on the Greyhound bus. Never in a thousand eons would Kevin think to look for her in an old VW bus headed to Ohio.

  On the interstate again, the gentle rocking of the van and the drone of tires on the asphalt lulled her. She curled up on the bench seat and closed her eyes.

  She didn’t think she’d fallen asleep, but when she opened her eyes next and peered out the window, the half circle of the moon was perched above the highway.

  Sandy Henry, sandal-clad feet propped on the dashboard, dozed in the front seat beside her husband. Tim McGraw crooned a ballad over the crackle of the radio. Maggie sat up and ran her hands through the tangled mass of her hair.

  In the rearview mirror, Rick caught her eye. His fatherly smile warmed her. “You hungry? We could stop . . . get something to eat.”

  Sandy stirred but settled back against the seat again, her jaw slack.

  “I’m okay,” Maggie said. “Unless you want to stop.”

  “Could you make it another forty-five minutes? We’re almost to Aurora.”

  “Is that close to Cleveland?”

  “It’s another hour or so past Aurora.”

  “Wow. That was quick.”

  Rick chuckled. “You’ve been asleep for almost three hours.”

  That meant three hours farther away from Kevin. She couldn’t decide whether that thought excited or terrified her. She was in a frightening no man’s land—not far enough away to be out of his reach yet, but so far that he’d be mad enough to kill her when he found her.

  She wondered what he was doing right now. Was he searching for her, growing more angry and irrational by the hour? Or had he just gone to sleep? It probably wouldn’t take him long to replace her. He’d had other girlfriends before her and had never hidden that fact. Kevin’s good looks and ability to turn on the charm had captivated her too, for a while. It was the very thing that had reeled her in. A stab of jealousy cut through her, but she quickly reminded herself of what she was escaping. She felt sorry for the next woman he caught in his snare—and a little guilty that her freedom might put someone else in danger.

  Now that she’d broken loose, she had a hard time seeing why she hadn’t done it sooner. Of course, she had run away, more than once, after one of Kevin’s particularly brutal tongue-lashings. But even when she’d made it to a women’s shelter once, she’d always known deep inside that she’d end up back with Kevin. The only reason she’d taken refuge at the shelter was because she’d hoped it would finally make him realize what he was doing to her, make him appreciate what he had. In the end, it had accomplished none of that. If anything, it had made things worse. Made him worse.

  She wondered now if men like Kevin ever appreciated another person—any other person. No. The mental self-lecture began. Men like him lived only for themselves. Kevin was no different than her father. Though she barely remembered the man, she somehow knew her father was to blame for what had happened to Mom. Maggie herself should have learned that hard lesson long ago. Now she’d wasted two years of her life. This time she wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking Kevin had changed. This time she wouldn’t go back.

  She thought of her sister again, and her heart sank to her feet. She couldn’t call Jenn. At least not until she was sure Kevin had quit looking for her. She shot up a muddled prayer that Jenn would somehow know she was all right. With Mark seemingly out of a job every other week, Jenn had enough to worry about without wasting time fretting over a runaway sister.

  When she mouthed a silent amen, a shiver rippled through her. She leaned to gaze out at the heathery night sky. She’d tried to pray before, and it had seemed a superstitious exercise at best. But now she dared to hope her prayer for Jenn had reached the heavens.

  Their simple touches seemed deeply intimate—something she had no right to witness, but something she longed to know.

  Chapter Eight

  Maggie yawned and stretched on the seat of the VW bus as Rick Henry pulled into the parking lot of a small diner and cut the engine. The clock on the dashboard flipped from 3:59 to four o’clock. Was it only yesterday—twenty-four hours ago—that she’d left the apartment in New York? It seemed like an eternity.

  Rick reached across the seat and brushed the hair from Sandy’s forehead. “Hey, Sleepin’ Beauty. How about some breakfast?” He pointed with his fingers laced over the steering wheel. “Place up ahead open twenty-four hours.”

  Sandy’s eyes flew open and a drowsy smile grew. “Mmm . . . sounds good.” She patted her husband’s cheek. “What time is it anyway?”

  “It’s only four, but I gotta have some coffee if I’m gonna stay on the road.”

  “You want me to drive, babe?”

  The couple’s affectionate exchange warmed Maggie even as it made her squirm. Their simple touches seemed deeply intimate—something she had no right to witness, but something she longed to know.

  As if Sandy had just remembered they had a passenger, she turned in her seat and gave a little wave. “Mornin’. Did you get some sleep?”

  Maggie nodded, feeling very much a fifth wheel. Sandy climbed out and opened Maggie’s door. She eased her achy legs to the curb, stretched, and followed the couple into the diner.

  The clock over the bar counter reminded her that it was now Wednesday morning. She could barely believe she’d lived for one day without Kevin. And he without her. Did he feel as liberated from her as she did from him right now?

  Rick ordered the short stack with bacon and eggs for the three of them, waiting while Maggie told the waitress how she wanted her eggs.

  Rick shook out his napkin and tucked it in the neck of his shirt. “So, Meg, what takes you to Ohio?”

  She took a long drink from her water glass, stalling. “I’m just visiting.”

  “Oh?” Sandy smiled. “You have family there?”

  “No . . . friends.” She gave a quick smile, then glanced away.

  “That’s nice.” Sandy ran her fingers over the Formica tabletop. “What part of Columbus do they live in?”

  Maggie cast about for an answer that wouldn’t give her away. “I’m not sure. I-I don’t really know the town that well.”

  “Yo
u have an address though,” Rick said, more a statement than a question.

  Sandy’s voice took on a motherly timbre. “Did you find out where to meet the bus for your luggage?”

  “My luggage?” For a minute, she’d forgotten the story she’d told them about her bags being on the bus. “Oh, yeah. I have a number to call.”

  Sandy rummaged in a huge leather purse. She came up with a cell phone and handed it across the table to Maggie. “Here, you can use my phone.”

  “No . . . I mean, I already called.” Lies were rolling off her tongue like buses out of Port Authority.

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  Maggie nodded and looked past Sandy to see the waitress approaching with a loaded tray. She prayed it was their order. Again she had that odd sensation that heaven was suddenly hearing her prayers, for the waitress stopped at their table and slid overflowing plates in front of each of them.

  At the fragrant steam of pancakes and maple syrup Rick and Sandy seemed to forget their interrogation.

  They ate their food in silence, Rick and Sandy engrossed in the morning newspaper they’d picked up in the lobby, and Maggie concentrating on each morsel she lifted to her mouth. She didn’t know when a meal had tasted so good. They hadn’t even looked at menus, but a cardboard tent propped between the salt and pepper listed the short stack at $3.99. She calculated what the meal would be with a tip. After their waitress refilled their coffee cups, Maggie excused herself and followed the woman to the register.

  “Can I get the check for our table?”

  “Sure.” The woman scrounged in the pocket of her uniform until she came up with the right ticket. She rang it up while Maggie peeled a ten and a five from the wad of bills in her pocket. It would deplete her cash seriously, but it was the least she could do for the couple who’d helped her get almost five hours farther down the road—away from Kevin.