Remember to Forget (12 page)

Bart cleared his throat, and Wren popped up and whirled to face
them. “Good gravy, Bart. You pert near scared me to death. Okay, miss, you should have everything you need until your luggage arrives. Are they sending it here?”

“My luggage?” Maggie groped for an answer. “No. I had them send it on . . . ahead.”

“Oh?” Wren planted plump hands on her hips. “And where are you headed from here?”

If she were in a New York hotel, she would have told the concierge it was taken care of, not to mention it was none of his business. But somehow she didn’t mind the question coming from this grandmotherly woman. Unfortunately, she didn’t have an answer.

“I’m not sure.” It was the first honest reply she’d given since Opal Sanchez had picked her up on that off-ramp Tuesday morning.

Wren cocked her head, waiting.

“I’m still considering some options.”

“I see. Well . . .” She grabbed a dust rag off the corner of the dresser and gave Bart a shove. “We’ll get out of your hair so you can get cleaned up and get some rest.” She motioned toward the door in the corner of the room where a dim light shone on a spotless tile floor. “I put a toothbrush and some other things you might be needing in the bathroom. And there’s a nightgown I never wear hanging in the closet. You holler if you need anything else, and we’ll try to rustle it up.”

“Is there anyplace around here to get something to eat this time of night?”

“Read?” Bart put a beefy hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Wren here has all kind of reading material. You just—”

Wren tugged on her husband’s sleeve. “She said
eat,
Bart.
Eat.
” She pantomimed shoveling food into her mouth.

“Oh . . .
eat
. Sorry. I thought you said
read
. I’m a little hard of hearing,” he said again. “You mean like a snack?”

“Well, I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Good land!” Wren clutched a hand to her breast. “Why didn’t you
say something, honey? Listen, you get out of those clothes and put them out in the hallway. I’ll get them washed up for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“Now you just go draw yourself a nice bath and get comfortable, and I’ll put a tray by your door. You probably noticed my kitchen is slightly out of commission, but I can whip up a sandwich. You like corned beef?”

“You don’t need to go to the trouble. Is there maybe a vending machine somewh—?”

“Nonsense! It’s no trouble at all.” The woman clicked out a
tsk-tsk
and gave Maggie a little push toward the bathroom. “You go hop in that tub. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Maggie was touched—and too tired to argue. She closed the door behind them and went into the tiny bathroom. An antique claw-foot tub sat in one corner, a pile of plush green towels stacked beside it. She popped the plug into the drain and turned on the hot water. It felt wonderful to slip out of her dust-crusted clothes. Wrapped in a towel, she went to slip them outside the door. She hoped the woman would pick them up before some prankster came down the hall and swiped them. She’d look pretty funny walking along the highway tomorrow in an old woman’s nightgown.

Back in the bathroom, she examined the assortment of products the woman—Wren—had left beside the sink. There were sample sizes of luxury shampoo and soap and lotions. She smiled when she noticed they were labeled for various well-known hotel chains. The lavender scent of a little bottle of bubble bath enticed her and she squirted some under the steaming stream of water. A mountain of suds billowed up, and Maggie climbed into their warmth.

Fifteen minutes later she drained the lukewarm water and rinsed the sludge out of the tub. Then she refilled it and soaked for another twenty minutes. She didn’t know when a bath had ever felt so heavenly.

The water was starting to cool when a sharp rap at the door startled
her. She sat up and smoothed her wet hair back from her face with fingertips that had turned to prunes. “Yes?”

“I’m putting a tray by the door, dear.” Wren’s voice drifted from the hallway.

“Thank you,” Maggie called back. She waited for a response, but hearing nothing, slipped back into the water. Finally the grumbling of her stomach urged her from the tub. She made a turban of one of the towels and slipped into the crisp cotton nightgown before opening the door.

She gave a little gasp at the feast she found sitting there on a little metal TV tray. She didn’t even wait until she’d brought it inside before tasting of its offerings. There was a thick corned beef sandwich with cheese and lettuce, a bowl of potato salad that would have fed three people, two giant oatmeal cookies wrapped in waxed paper, and a carton of chocolate milk.

Maggie ate every crumb and cleaned the last of the potato salad out of the bowl with her fingers. She felt like a slob, but right now she didn’t care. They would probably charge an arm and a leg for the room service, but right now she would have turned over every last dime in her pocket for the feast.

She was too exhausted to worry about a plan of action for tomorrow. Right now the clean sheets and plump feather pillows were chanting a siren song, and she left the empty tray by the door to heed their bidding.

Maggie sat bolt upright in bed, her heart hammering.

Chapter Fifteen

U
h . . . I think I jammed the printer again.” Mason Brunner stood in front of Trevor’s desk with a hangdog frown on his pimply face, kicking absently at a loose tile.

Trevor bit back a harsh word and marked his place in the galleys he’d been proofreading. Dana was home sick, but he’d promised Bob Swanson at Clayburn State Bank that their employee handbook would be printed in time to distribute at the company picnic.

He pushed out of his chair. He’d been hoping to take off early today and help Bart finish hanging drywall in the kitchen at the inn. He didn’t have time for some wet-behind-the-ears college kid mucking things up in the pressroom. “Let’s go take a look.”

Ducking his head, Mason stepped
back and waited for Trevor to come around from behind his desk.

The two of them worked together to free a jammed sheet of paper. Ten minutes later the press was
kachunking
out posters again. Trevor wadded up the mangled sheet that had caused all the trouble and sent it arcing across the room. The wad of paper landed crisply in the center of the waste barrel—nothin’ but net. He gave a self-satisfied smile. Still had the touch.

Brushing off his hands, he returned to the handbook proofs, and half an hour later he left the finished pages on the front desk for Bob.

Trevor stopped back in the pressroom to check on Mason before heading across the street to Wren’s.

At the inn, he pushed open the front door and let it close with a slam and a jingling of bells. The lobby was empty and the place eerily silent. “Anybody home?” he hollered.

In answer, Wren came flying out of the laundry room, arms flapping like wings. “Quiet! We’ve got guests.” She pointed down the hall.

“Sorry.” He tried to look appropriately apologetic but caught a glimpse of the clock over the check-in desk and wondered why she was walking on tiptoe at two o’clock in the afternoon. “I didn’t see any cars out front. Glad you’ve got guests though.” He glanced over his shoulder to the empty street outside the front window.

Again Wren shushed him. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Well, it’s just one. A young girl. Came into Salina on the bus. Stupid Greyhound lost the poor thing’s luggage. She looked like something the dogs dragged in when she got here last night. Hadn’t had supper, so I fixed her a tray. She said she was checking out this morning, but we haven’t heard a peep out of her since.”

“Are you sure she didn’t climb out a window and skip town without paying her bill?”

Wren apparently didn’t see his wink. She scowled at him. “She’s a nice girl,” she said defensively. “She wouldn’t do a thing like that. Besides, if she did, she’s headed down the highway in my nightgown.”

He raised a brow in surprise, making Wren giggle.

“The girl didn’t have so much as a pocketbook on her. Only the clothes on her back. I did up her laundry last night and loaned her something to sleep in.”

“That was nice, Wren. But you’d better be careful. You’ll have every beggar from five counties away knocking on your door if word gets out that the inn offers free laundry service. Wait—don’t tell me—this girl didn’t have a credit card on her, did she?”

Wren had a heart as big as the prairie. Bart too. It was no wonder they could barely keep their heads above water when it came to the inn.

“Oh, stop.” Wren cuffed him playfully. “And that’s where you’re wrong. This one paid when she checked in. Cash. That’s why I didn’t mind her staying past checkout time.”

“Oh, like you would’ve kicked her out otherwise,” he teased.

“Shush.” She leaned over the desk and looked into the dining room. “You’re not going to be making a racket in there, are you? Hammering?”

He sighed. “A man can’t win for losing with you, Wren. Seems to me just yesterday you were griping because I wasn’t hammering fast enough. Now which will it be? Keep the noise down or get the kitchen done?”

She folded her arms across her chest and bobbed her head. “Both.”

Shaking his head, he tiptoed across to the dining room with exaggerated steps.

Wren harrumphed. “By the way, Mister Smarty-Pants, I need to run to the IGA. Do you think you could hold down the fort here for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” He tipped an invisible hat and gave her a grin.

“If our girl wakes up, I saved some cinnamon rolls from breakfast. You can have one, too, but be sure and save a couple for our guest.”

“Got it. Thanks, Wren.” He grabbed a tape measure and pencil and headed for the kitchen. He could get some nice quiet measuring done while he waited for Sleeping Beauty to wake up.

M
aggie sat bolt upright in bed, her heart hammering. For a minute she’d thought she heard someone beating the door down.

Kevin.

She blinked and looked around the sunny room.

It took a minute for her to remember where she was. A little Podunk hotel somewhere in Kansas. Safe, and far from Kevin’s reach.

She slid back under the quilt, but her pulse accelerated again when she heard pounding again . . . somewhere down the hall. She threw off the covers and eased her legs over the side of the bed, bending to inspect the roman numerals on the windup alarm clock perched on the nightstand. It was ticking like a time bomb, but it couldn’t be right. Surely it wasn’t two thirty in the afternoon.

She stretched her hands over her head but gave a little gasp of pain when she went up on tiptoes. Every muscle in her body was in knots from her marathon walk yesterday. She massaged her calves in vain, then padded barefoot to the window and pushed back the frothy white curtains.

The little town had come to life since last night. Cars and trucks lined the curb, and traffic puttered up and down the street.

She turned and saw the TV tray by the door. If it was really two thirty, she’d missed breakfast. Her stomach growled at the thought, but at least maybe they wouldn’t charge her for last night’s spread. She glanced at the clock again. She’d be paying an extra night if she didn’t hurry up and get dressed and out of here.