Remember to Forget (15 page)

“Listen,” he said finally. “I teach watercolor classes every spring and fall. We’ll probably start up early in September. We meet on Tuesday nights here at the gallery. Had a good group this past spring. Almost a
dozen of us. You saw some of the better work that came from that class hanging over there.” He indicated a wall of paintings adjacent to the counter.

“Oh, I don’t live here. I’m just staying at the inn. On my way through . . .” She was having trouble concentrating for the fantasy that danced in her head. She imagined herself sitting at an easel in this gallery, painting a fanciful watercolor as sunlight slanted across the wooden floor.

She massaged her temples, trying to get her head out of the clouds. She barely had a dime to her name, and no way of even applying for a job since all her identification was lost. And if she applied for new documents, Kevin would be in town before she knew what hit her.

She gave a cynical laugh at the phrase.
Before she knew what hit her.
It threatened to be true in the most literal sense of the words.

She certainly had no business daydreaming about putting down roots and living the bohemian life of an artist in a Podunk Kansas town.

“At the inn, huh? It’s a nice place.”

“Oh, it is. It’s a little torn up right now, but they’ve taken good care of me. Wren has. She’s such a sweet woman.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it as if he’d thought better of whatever he started to say. “Yep. She’s a good woman. Salt of the earth.”

They made small talk for a few minutes before Maggie eased toward the door. “Well, thank you. I enjoyed your gallery.”

“Thanks for stopping in.” He followed her to the door. “Come back whenever you’re in town.”

“Thank you. Oh, hey, is there a library here in Clayburn?”

“Not a very big one, but it’s just a couple of blocks up the street.” He pointed north up Main Street.

She thanked him and headed that way.

T
he library was dark and quiet. Except for the librarian and a middle-aged woman browsing through a rack of free paperbacks, Maggie appeared to be the only person in the building.

The librarian showed her to one side of the stacks where a study carrel held four computers. She hadn’t worked on a computer much since Kevin made her quit her job, but the mouse felt instantly familiar in her hand. The librarian helped her open a browser, and Maggie logged on to the
New York Times
and skimmed the news. Carjackings were a dime a dozen in the city, and a search of the past two days’ issues of the
Times
didn’t turn up anything.

She was about to log off the site when she scrolled past an ad for a free online e-mail account. Jennifer had an e-mail address, though Maggie couldn’t remember what it was. If she could find out, maybe she could contact her sister without giving away where she was.

She clicked on the link to sign up for the account. She started to type in her name as Meg Anders, then decided against it in case it might show up in a search. She played with the letters of her new name, rearranging them until she came up with “gemsander.” Gem Sander. She smiled to herself at the image it evoked. A diamond in the rough, just in need of a little sanding, a little polishing. Kevin would never figure that one out.

Now if she could only remember Jenn’s address . . .

On a whim, she did a search for the Realtor her sister worked for. There was a contact link. The e-mail addresses of several principals in the company were listed, and they all followed the same pattern. First initial, last name, and the company’s Web address. Using that, she composed a message to her sister, choosing her words carefully.

Dear Jenn,

I don’t know if he has tried to contact you yet or if you even know what’s happened, but I wanted to tell you that I’m fine. Things were scary for a while, but I’m okay. I’m someplace safe for
now, and I’ll never have to go back.

Please don’t say anything to anybody about this (except Mark, of course). No matter what certain people might have told you, I promise you I haven’t done anything wrong. I just had to get out. An opportunity came, and I took it. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I can, but I’m sure you understand why I can’t say anything yet.

I love you and will try to post again when I can. You can write back to this e-mail address. I’m not sure when I can check it again, but I’ll be anxious to know you got this and that he hasn’t bothered you.

Love,

M

She read her note again, looking for anything that might give her away if Kevin somehow got hold of it. She hesitated, her hand poised over the keyboard. Finally satisfied that it was safe, she clicked Send.

He felt as though he were hiding some deep, black secret.

Chapter Eighteen

T
revor sucked in a breath, steeling himself before he opened the door to the day-care center.

He stepped inside, books in hand, and was immediately swarmed by half a dozen four-year-olds. Gleeful whispers of “Story time! Story time!” rippled through the room.

At her desk, Mickey Valdez spotted him and rolled her eyes. “You’re a tough act to compete with, mister, you know that?”

He laughed. “Sorry . . . do I need to come back later?”

“No, no, it’s too late now. I’ve lost ’em completely.” Her tone was cynical, but her wide smile told him she was teasing.

He returned it with a grateful one of his own. Mickey knew how hard it was for him to be here. But it was supposed to be good therapy. Face your fears. Don’t
crawl in a hole and lick your wounds. The voices of many concerned counselors—from Amy’s parents to his best buddies to Wren—echoed in his head. And, in truth, it did get a little easier each time.

At least while he was with the kids.

It was leaving that tore him up. Walking out those doors alone, with no tiny hand tucked in his. Going to a car that was glaringly empty of a car seat or a mommy waiting in the passenger seat.

Well, he was here now. No use worrying about leaving until it was time to leave.

One day at a time. One day at a time.

He gently extricated himself from the octopus of preschoolers and led the way to the story pit.

He held up one of the picture books he’d brought. “So what do you think our story is about today?”

“Dinosaurs!” eighteen preschoolers shouted in unison.

“That’s right.” He opened the book, holding it so the children could see the colorful illustrations. From the moment he read the first line, he was caught up in the fantastical world the author had created. For a few minutes he was able to escape his sorrow and soak up the delight on the faces of the eager children in front of him.

The counselors had been right. It had been good for him to get involved with children, to find a place he could give of himself and think of others’ happiness, rather than wallow in his grief. He knew that tonight at home he would once again wrestle with the specter of all he’d lost. But for now, he felt uplifted and almost whole again.

He turned the page and winked at Seth on the front row. The boy’s eyes were wide and his mouth open in anticipation of the next silly rhyme of the book. Trev’s eyes had been that same rich shade of brown. Eyes like his mother’s. Trevor thrust the comparisons out of his thoughts and read the next page in a singsong voice.

Later, with the children out for recess, Trevor perused the bookshelves
trying to come up with something for the following week’s story time. He’d donated most of Trev’s books to the day-care center, and they were lined up on a special shelf with a memorial plaque that read, In Loving Memory of Trev Ashlock. Trevor usually avoided them when he selected books to read. There were too many memories wrapped up in some of those titles.

“Finding what you need?”

He looked over his shoulder to find Mickey Valdez leaning against her desk, watching him.

“I’ve about exhausted the selection here. Maybe I’ll go over to the public library and see what I can find there. Or better yet, next time I’m in Salina I’ll pick up some new ones. You have a list of books you’ve been wanting?”

“I’d be more than happy to go with you sometime,” Mickey offered. He recognized the too-eager gleam in her eyes. She’d been hinting for him to ask her out ever since he’d started spending his Friday afternoons at the day care. Mickey was a sweet girl. Pretty, too, with her olive skin and curly black hair. But he couldn’t lead her on. He wasn’t interested. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Thanks, Mick. I appreciate the offer, but . . .” He shook his head. “Maybe I’ll order some off the Internet. Didn’t you tell me there was a place online that you order from?”

“Yeah,” she said.

He could almost see her spirits deflate.

“I’ll send the link to your e-mail at the print shop.”

“Okay. I’ll watch for it.” He felt bad, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He started toward the door. “I’d better run.”

“Yes . . . sure. I need to go round up kids.” She held up a hand and gave him a close-mouthed smile.

It was almost time for Main Street to roll up its welcome mats, but he decided to make a quick stop at the library before he headed to the
inn. He could choose a few books from the children’s department for next week’s story time. If he left the task until next week, he was bound to forget.

He mounted the stairs of Clayburn’s public library and opened the massive doors. As he walked into the cool sanctuary of the main room, musty remnants of dust and old ink met him. He breathed them in with satisfaction. This library always took him back to his own childhood. His mom had taught the weekly story hour here for as long as he could remember—until his dad retired and they became snowbirds. Now his parents lived in Florida year-round. He missed having them close by, but it was also nice to have a warm destination for a week every year when the bitter cold of February in Kansas rolled around.

If he didn’t hurry up with Bart and Wren’s project, he’d find himself stuck in Clayburn all winter with no relief. He turned to go downstairs to the children’s wing but stopped short near the checkout desk. The girl from the inn—Meg—was sitting at one of the clunky computers at the back of the room. Engrossed in whatever was on the screen, she apparently hadn’t noticed him. He wondered what had brought a California girl across the country by bus. She hadn’t said where she’d been, but if she’d been farther east than Salina, she was a brave woman. That was a lot of miles on a Greyhound and she had a few to go before she was home.

He felt a twinge of guilt about his halfhearted offer earlier. He should have been grateful to take her to the bus station, grateful for another assignment that would keep his mind occupied. But he wasn’t looking forward to half an hour in the car with a stranger.

Amy had always called him an extrovert. She’d been shy and on the quiet side. And he
was
outgoing with friends and family, but he wasn’t crazy about meeting new people—especially since what had happened to Amy and Trev. The subject was bound to come up within ten minutes of meeting someone new, and if it didn’t, then he felt as though he were hiding some deep, black secret.