"Do you guys have cabs around here?" he asked. "Or Uber?"
The doctor let out a chuckle, but stopped when he realized he was serious. "We can probably arrange for the police to get you there if you don't have a way."
Arlie stood up. "I can take him."
"No," the man said, touching the gauze. "You've done too much already. Honestly."
"I don't mind," she said. "You need to get checked out, and I'd hate to bother Chief Chapman with it when I'm perfectly capable. Besides, it'll be good research for me. For my next book."
Doctor Phillips nodded. "That's really kind of you, Arlie. And,” he looked at the stranger, “it’s probably the best possible plan. They'll want to see you as soon as possible to get in for a CT."
A few hours later, they were waiting for the emergency room doctor to return. The stranger had invited her to stay with him, and she'd gladly accepted. Anything for research. The doctors had to shave a bit of his hair in order to get the staples in place and clean him up. With the blood off of his face, she could finally take in the impossibly blue eyes. His black hair had been smoothed over and he sat up in his hospital bed, wearing just a gown and black socks. He was undeniably handsome in a regal way. Dignified. Clean cut. When she’d first seen him, it had been hard to gauge his age, though she assumed he couldn’t be too young, but staring at him now, she realized he was closer to her age than she’d initially thought. As the dirt had been washed away, it took with it his seemingly gray hair and makeshift wrinkles. He couldn’t have been more than forty-five.
"So," he said, clearing his throat, "you mentioned research for your books. What do you do?"
She smiled. She was never sure how to say it without sounding pompous, still feeling like a fraud despite her two years of success. "I'm an author."
"Seriously?" he asked, raising a brow and then wincing. "What do you write? Romance?"
She scowled. "Because I'm a woman?" It was a sensitive subject for her, especially after years of her publisher's insistence that she use a man's name to write. "I write thrillers."
He seemed impressed by that. "I knew you had a dark side."
"Do you read?"
He frowned, looking up as if trying to recall a memory. "I think so. God, this memory thing sucks."
"I'm wondering if you were mugged. I mean, not having a wallet on you, that's not normal."
"Your town doesn't exactly seem like the kind of place where people get mugged."
She crossed one leg over the other, letting out a breath. "Oh, you have no idea."
"Really now? Real life inspiration for your books, then?"
She laughed. "I guess you could say that. I feel like I should be asking you about yourself…but I guess there's no point."
"It would be the polite thing in normal circumstances, but rather impolite now, wouldn't it?" he asked with a grin. "I guess I could make up some heroic life story for myself, couldn't I?"
"I'd never know the difference."
"Alright, I'll play along. I was a…hm, a firefighter before. Named…Aaron?"
She stuck out her tongue.
"Not a fan?"
"If you're going to pick out your own name, surely you can come up with something better."
"How about Brock?"
"Too pretentious."
"Alright, Miss Author, make me a character. What would you name me?"
She thought for a moment, studying his features. "You're Mason. Mason Beaumont. A proper Southern gentleman with a large fortune. But you’ve broken away from it all in search of a simple life." She winked at him, crossing her arms.
"Mason Beaumont, huh?" he asked. "I like it. Now, tell me this…is Mason Beaumont a good guy or a bad guy?"
She gave him a small smile. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."
Just then, the door opened and the doctor walked in, a chart in his hand. "Okay, good news. It doesn't look like there's a bleed."
"Why don't you sound like that's a good thing?" Mason asked, reading Arlie's mind.
"Because it doesn't explain the memory loss." He paused. "It's probably nothing, but we do want to hold you for the night for observation. Hopefully we can get a better idea of what's going on and the best way to treat it."
"Does he need to stay awake? I could stay here and try to keep him—"
"No," the doctor answered, interrupting her. "That's an outdated course of action. We encourage them to sleep now; it lets the brain rest. But, not too much just yet. The police will be here soon to talk to you both.”
Arlie nodded, adding that to her mental notes for her latest book. Could she work in a head injury somehow just to use that knowledge? Without another word, the doctor checked the monitors, typed something into his iPad, and walked out of the room. Arlie stood up. "Well, I guess I should be going then. I can wait out in the lobby to talk to the police if you want."
Mason nodded hesitantly. "You know, I don't mind if you stay. For…research or whatever."
Arlie just about jumped at the chance. "Are you sure?" She tried to look like it didn't mean as much to her as it did. She wasn't sure why she was so intrigued by this man, but she was. In the nearly two years since Brett had passed, her human interaction was extremely limited. She supposed it was part of the writer lifestyle, that people just assumed she was happy being alone, but it wasn't true. She craved conversation like an addiction. It had been too long since she'd had friends. Too long that she'd been inside her own head.
"Yeah. Sure. I mean, it's pretty lonely not knowing who you are. I think I'd like to be Mason for a while. And you're probably the only person who could understand that."
She smiled, sitting back down in her chair. "I can definitely understand that."
CHAPTER THREE
The next day, they were preparing to release Mason, though his memory still hadn't returned. Arlie walked into the room, handing over a clean shirt and pants she'd bought from a nearby store that Brett had loved.
Mason took them. "Thank you. I'll pay you back as soon as I figure out where all my money is."
She waved him off. "Honestly, it's not a big deal. They weren't much. Do you need me to drive you to a hotel?" He stared at her, and she realized her mistake as soon as she'd asked. "Right. No money. I could pay for it. You know, until you find your money or whatever."
"I can't ask you to do that," he said. "Arlie, you've done…more than I could ever expect from a total stranger. I'll figure something out."
"What are you going to figure out? You can't remember who you are. Even if you manage to find a job, you have nowhere to stay until you start getting paid. To leave you here alone with no ride anywhere and no clue who you are…it would be heartless. I can't do that. I'd never forgive myself."
"I'm not your responsibility," he said. "I really do appreciate it, but you've spent enough on me. Wasted enough time. I can't ask anymore from you."
"You aren't asking. I'm offering. If you won't let me pay for you to stay in a hotel, at least come and stay with me. I have plenty of room. That's probably safer anyway. People get a little crazy in Crimson Falls this time of year, and sometimes that crazy trickles over into Arbordale. Then, as soon as your memory comes back, I can help you get home."
"Why are you being so kind to me?" he asked, one brow raised.
"I can't say it's entirely selfless. It'll be nice to have some company. Not to sound like a total loser, but I'm always alone and this week is particularly hard for me. It's the anniversary of my husband's death. So, I could use the distraction."
"I'm so sorry," he said, his eyes softening. "I had no idea."
"It's okay."
He bit his lip. "Well, I'm happy to help distract you. At least I'll feel like I'm doing something useful, but please don't feel like you have to do this. I promise you I can take care of myself."
"Oh, I know," she said with a smile. "You were doing such a good job of that before I came along."
When they arrived at her house, Arlie led him into the living room. It was
a humble, brick home. Thirteen hundred square feet of improvements she had yet to make. Brett had promised he'd get around to it someday, and then when that someday was torn away from him, Arlie had never been able to hire it out. Despite the fact that money was no longer an issue, Arlie hadn't been able to leave the house they'd built. It was only six months ago that she'd finally packed up the last of Brett's clothes and put them into the attic. She couldn't even bring herself to get rid of them yet.
She set her purse and keys on the sofa table. "This is it. It's not much, but…it's home. The kitchen's there, bathroom's down the hall. I'm going to start something to eat. I'm starving. Any preferences? What do you like?"
"Your kindness is off-putting, Arlie. It's your house. You're hosting me. You could literally feed me stale chips and I would be grateful."
"What can I say? I'm a true Southern woman."
"Fix whatever you like. From what I can remember, I'm not picky."
She smiled. "My husband used to say that, too. Until I suggested something. Then he had four other suggestions," she said with a laugh. "So I guess I'm used to asking."
“Sometimes I think, as men, it’s ingrained into us that we should know better than you. I’m sure he never meant to make you feel like you couldn’t choose.”
“No,” Arlie agreed, “he didn’t. My husband was a good man. An amazing man, actually. It was just a habit of his, you know? We all settle into our own habits.”
“Can I ask what happened to him?”
Normally, Arlie hated to talk about it. The moment she brought up his name, the people that recognized it—which was just about everyone—would get strange. Excited, but guilty for feeling excited. It was as if they knew him personally. As if it was them who sat with him at night eating ramen noodles on their worn couch. As if they were there when he’d hold her and they’d watch Jeopardy, competing to see who could answer the fastest. As if they loved him like she did. Didn’t they know that was impossible?
But, as relief suddenly washed over her, she realized it couldn’t hurt to tell Mason about Brett. Chances were, he wouldn’t recognize the name even if he’d once known it. He was safe.
“He was…shot. At work. Some sort of domestic violence thing turned active shooter.”
Mason’s face grew stern, and he took a step toward her on what seemed like instinct. “I’m so sorry.”
She took a step back, shaking her head. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay.”
“No, of course it’s not okay,” she said, acknowledging how easily the canned response slipped off her tongue.
“But people expect that you’ll say that. If for no other reason than to make themselves feel better.”
She nodded slowly. “‘Fraid so.”
“Well, I’m not like that. Or…at least, I don’t think I am. You can be real with me. In fact, I want you to be. After all, at least while I’ve forgotten who I used to be, it’s a chance for me to decide who I want to be moving forward. I’d like to think Mason is a good listener.”
“Well, how does Mason, the good listener, feel about salmon?”
“Salmon sounds perfect,” he said simply.
She nodded, her cheeks heating up at the way he was smiling at her, and suddenly she felt nervous. This would be the first time she’d had dinner with a man, alone, since Brett’s death. It was the first time a man had ever stayed in her home that wasn’t her husband. With nerves racing through her, she walked away quickly, trying hard to calm her pounding heart.
CHAPTER FOUR
That night at dinner, the couple ate ravenously. Arlie hadn't realized how hungry she was until the food was in front of her. She swirled her glass of wine. "I hope you like it. I'm not much of a cook." Judging by his already half-empty plate, he did.
"It's great," he said. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself."
She took another bite. "So, I've been thinking about what your old life was like. Based on your clothes, I'm guessing maybe you were a lineman, or you worked construction? Do either of those seem right? The reflective vest…it has to mean something."
He pressed his lips together, apparently thinking while his fork remained in his hand. "Hm…maybe. It's like…it's all right there," he pointed to his temple, "but I just can't knock the clouds away enough to get a clear picture. Does that make sense?"
"None of this makes any sense, if I'm being honest. Two days ago I'd never met you. Today you're living in my house, and we know nothing about who you used to be. Do you have a family? People could be out there looking for you." She furrowed her brow, not sounding worried, but rather curious.
"Maybe. I watched the news the whole time we were in the hospital, though, and I never saw anything about me being missing. And you heard what the Arbordale police said, there are no missing persons reports that match my description. For all we know, I was just a bachelor who got hurt on the job."
"That doesn't make sense, though. Why wouldn't the people you work with report you missing? How would you have just wandered away from a worksite without anyone noticing you were hurt?"
"Those are all really great questions, Arlie. And I want to know the answers, too. I do. But, right now we don't know…and there's nothing we can learn tonight to help. So, I'd rather just enjoy each other's company. Enjoy this good food. The rest can wait for tomorrow."
She nodded. "Aren't you worried?"
"Are you?" He raised an eyebrow at her.
"I'm just fascinated by it, I guess. I mean…the idea that this can happen at any time to anyone. You could just walk away and forget your family and your life. It's terrifying."
"Unless there's nothing to forget," he mused quietly. She closed her eyes, feeling small tears forming. Sensing her distress, he leaned forward. "I'm so sorry, Arlie. I didn't mean to upset you. I wasn't thinking."
"No, I know you didn't. It's just…that's what my life has become, isn't it? If I disappeared…no one would miss me."
"That's not true."
"Of course it is," she insisted. "My husband's dead. I have no children, no real friends. My only living relative is my mother, and she’s in a nursing home with dementia. She doesn’t know who I am most days, let alone whether I’m missing. I don't have coworkers. Aside from checking in with my agent once a month, if I were to go missing, there's no one that would even notice."
"Even if that was true, it's not any more. I'm going to notice now. Do you honestly think you could get rid of me that easily? You saved my life. You've been kinder to me than anyone I can remember. You've brought me to your home, bought me new clothes, fed me…I'm your friend, Arlie. And that means it's my job to notice when you disappear."
She laughed, so caught up in the tension she almost hadn't noticed his smirk. "Thanks."
He sat back, looking more relaxed. "Besides, I'm not so sure a reclusive life is a bad thing. From what I can tell, people are generally assholes."
"Yeah," she agreed, "that's true. They are."
"But not you."
She took another bite. "Not me. And hopefully not you."
"The old me, maybe. But definitely not Mason Beaumont."
"I like Mason," she said with a wink. “Mason would make an excellent character.”
"Well, I should think you would. You created him." With that, he took another drink of his wine. Her belly quickly filled with warmth as she stared at him. Did he realize she might've been flirting? Was she?
CHAPTER FIVE
A few days later, Arlie lay in bed, her computer on her lap. She desperately needed to get a couple thousand words down, especially with the setback she'd had the past couple of days. It wasn't entirely Mason's fault, though that had certainly made it challenging. This week was always hard for her. It was as if the words just stopped flowing for a while. But they'd be back. Once the week was over, and even better once the month was over, her story would flow again. Not that anything seemed to flow like it had when Brett was alive, but it was enough.
She sat up, listenin
g to his footsteps down the hall. It felt strange, having someone else in the house again. Strange, yet oddly comforting—knowing someone else was there. Knowing this Founders Day wouldn’t be spent alone. Knowing she was safe—er, safer, at least. Knowing she had someone to protect her.
From what?
What would she need protecting from? It had been the same last year, but she’d foolishly thought this Founders Day would be different. Since Brett had died, the fear that had always been there this time of year was amplified by a thousand. She didn’t like to think of how she’d spent the entire month of October last year—hiding out in her room, crying for days on end. It was like she had lost her husband all over again. For her, October thirteenth spent alone was harder than Christmas spent alone. At the end of the month, she’d dropped thirty pounds from her already small frame. That’s what not eating got you, she supposed. But when you’re fearing for your life, your entire resolve being torn from you every morning as you wake up and realize the man you love, the man you need, isn’t there—will never be there again—food is the last thing on your mind. She closed her eyes again, shaking the thought from her brain. She was being paranoid. That’s what this time of year did to her. It made her worry. It made her watch over her shoulder. It made her come to terms with her own mortality. How she was just one day, one second, away from everything ending. Like that.
The morning Brett had died, she’d planned out their dinner for that evening. She’d known what they were going to do the weekend after. They’d put down a deposit on their cruise the next summer. Their life was planned…and just like that, it wasn’t. It was over. Everything. Everything she had pictured for their future ended, and there was nothing she would ever be able to plan with the man she loved ever again.
But that wasn’t going to happen to her. She was safe. She was indoors. She had someone here who could protect her from all the bad outside. If it were up to her, though she’d never admit it to him, she and Mason would stay indoors until the first of November. Until they were safe again.
The Stranger in the Woods Page 2
