Remember to Forget

by Deborah Raney

  At a tiny flower and gift shop beside the café, Maggie faced the moment she’d hoped for—and dreaded. The florist handed her a two-page job application. She slid it to the end of the counter and started to fill it out. She printed Meg Anders and her Social Security number, but as she’d feared, the application asked for information she didn’t have access to, nor did she feel safe including the address of her former employer at the graphics firm in New York. Not yet.

  She completed every part of the form she could, then paused. She would have to admit to the florist that she didn’t have the birth certificate they required for tax purposes, then pray he wouldn’t ask her to get more specific about her job history.

  She cleared her throat, trying to get the man’s attention. “I’m staying across the street at Wren’s Nest for a few days. Would it be okay if I use that address and phone number until I find a permanent place?”

  The man scratched his head and seemed to consider her request. Then his smile turned to an apologetic grimace. “It might be better for you to come back when you have a more . . . permanent address. To tell you the truth, we’re not really looking for anybody right now.”

  Deflated, she left the shop and crossed the street to the art gallery down the street from Wren’s. She’d saved the best for last, but now she was afraid to have her hopes dashed once again. She steeled herself and opened the door. Here goes.

  Entering the shop, she paused to breathe in the pungent oil and turpentine. Standing on the oak floor, surrounded by walls of canvases and prints, she felt a sense of excitement. What a dream come true it would be to work in an art gallery—even a small one like this. Maybe the owner would have a space where she could work in her spare time. Approaching the front counter, she forced herself to shake off the fantasy. She dared not allow herself to dream that big.

  Jackson Linder wasn’t behind the counter today, but she heard someone whistling in the back room.

  She gave the old-fashioned bell on the countertop a tentative tap. She rang a second and third time before a middle-aged woman walked from the back room. The woman swept back a hank of salt-and-pepper hair and considered Maggie over reading glasses looped to a chain around her neck. “May I help you?”

  “I was in here the other day, talking to Mr. Linder. I wondered if you might have any openings?”

  “Oh, I’ll let you talk to Jack.” The woman disappeared through the narrow doorway behind the counter.

  Seconds later, the artist himself emerged from the same door, drying his hands on a paint-splotched rag. As he came around the counter, he tripped over something Maggie couldn’t see but quickly steadied himself and came toward her.

  “Can I help—Oh! It’s you! Still in town, huh?”

  For an instant Maggie thought she detected whiskey on his breath. For one terrifying heartbeat, the man’s face morphed into Kevin’s. It took every ounce of will power she had not to turn around and run for the door.

  But then Jackson Linder’s kind, suntanned face came back in focus. She offered her hand. “Yes. I’m . . . well, I’m back in town, actually. I’ve decided to stay in the area. I’m Meg Anders.” It still felt strange to introduce herself that way. “I wondered if you had any openings here in the gallery?”

  He scratched the short stubble on his chin. “I’d be happy to take a look at your work, but I’ll be honest. Business is slow. Even if I could hang your stuff tomorrow, I couldn’t guarantee—”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I’m looking for a job—as a receptionist or framing paintings, cleaning up, whatever. I’m not picky. I just need a job.”

  “Ah, I misunderstood. Unfortunately, I’m not sure I can help you there either. I—”

  He looked past her out the windows at the front of the shop, and she turned to follow his gaze. But he seemed to be staring at nothing. His eyes glazed over almost as if he’d forgotten she was even in the room.

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate your help.”

  His eyes came back into focus, and he shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if coming out of a trance. He reached out and braced a hand on the counter. “Yes,” he said. “Well . . . good luck. You have a good day now.”

  Maggie had the impression that he was merely going through the motions. She wondered if he was even aware of the conversation they’d just had. She shuddered. Kevin had done that sometimes. Spaced out. Not losing consciousness or giving any physical sign that his brain was malfunctioning, but suddenly he wouldn’t be there mentally.

  She couldn’t get out of the gallery fast enough. On the sidewalk outside, she forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. She wasn’t sure what had happened in there, but she hated the thoughts of Kevin Bryson that were so close to the surface.

  Still, she was disappointed. Her hopes of landing a job at the gallery—perhaps having access to a studio, and maybe even a mentor—had been dashed. And she was fast running out of options.

  He seemed perfectly sober now. Had Maggie only imagined the hint of liquor on his breath?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Walking back to Wren’s, Maggie pondered the few options she had left. Maybe she was going about this all wrong. If she were back in New York, she would have studied the classified ads first and gone out with a game plan. Maybe she needed to start over.

  She remembered seeing a newspaper in a vending machine in front of the café. She felt for the few coins in her pocket. She’d buy a paper and take it back to the inn to study. There had to be something available in this town.

  She turned to go back to the café but realized she would have to pass the gallery again unless she crossed the street to the other side. That seemed petty, but she quickened her steps and hurried past the gallery storefront with affected purpose in her demeanor.

  Just when she breathed an inward sigh of relief, a male voice called after her. “Miss! Miss! Hello?”

  She considered pretending she hadn’t heard, but then footsteps thudded on the pavement behind her. She spun on her heel to face a smiling Jackson Linder.

  He skidded to a halt and gave a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry. I know you told me, but I’ve forgotten your name already.”

  His ready charm made her think again of Kevin. She wanted to take a step back, move away from his closeness. But she forced herself to hold her ground, refusing to cave to old demons. “It’s Meg.”

  “Yes, of course. Meg. Well, listen, I’ve been rethinking your offer—someone to help out in the gallery. My mom comes in when she can. You met her.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the gallery. “But she has her own business, so you can imagine how that works. Or doesn’t work. It struck me that if I had regular help, I might be able to get some new paintings out to a few other galleries and maybe make up the difference.” He seemed suddenly hesitant. “I’m still thinking it through, and if I did decide to hire you, I couldn’t pay you much, but I thought I should at least talk to you—before someone else snags you.”

  She gave a wry laugh. “That’s not seeming to be a problem. I’m striking out so far. Everyone I’ve talked to says they’re not hiring. But I’m only getting started,” she added quickly. If she didn’t quit stuffing her foot in her big fat mouth, she was going to convince him that she was completely unemployable.

  He seemed perfectly sober now. Had Maggie only imagined the hint of liquor on his breath? At least here on the sidewalk the only aromas she detected were strong coffee and homemade bread from the café across the street.

  She extended her hand to him. “Thank you, Mr. Linder. I—”

  He held up a hand. “Jackson, please.”

  “Jackson,” she corrected. It was an effort to keep her smile toned down to polite instead of giddy. “Thank you again. I’d really appreciate if you’d let me know what you decide. I have some experience with framing, and I’ve worked in graphic design, so I think I could really help out. And I’d be willing to do secretarial work or janitorial . . . whatever.”

  He smiled. �
��I’ll keep that in mind. Nice to see you again, Meg. I hope you like living in Clayburn. I’ll give you a call in the next couple of days and see what we can work out.” He hesitated. “You’re still staying at the inn?”

  She nodded.

  He looked as though he might say something, then shook his head slightly. He slipped a ballpoint pen and a business card from his breast pocket. “Why don’t you give me your cell-phone number?” He waited, pen poised.

  She winced an apology. “I don’t have a cell phone. But I’m sure it would be okay for you to call me at the inn.” Guilt chided her. She’d already taken advantage of Bart and Wren’s kindness, but she would talk to them about it tonight. Surely they wouldn’t mind.

  Mr. Linder extended his business card. “Here. Why don’t you call me sometime Monday afternoon?”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you.”

  He held her gaze a breath longer than necessary, but she brushed aside the twinge of discomfort it caused. She had a job. She felt sure of it. She practically skipped back to the inn. She’d gone from dark discouragement to hopeful elation in the space of a conversation on the street.

  She pushed open the front door and nearly toppled Wren, who was perched on a wobbly ladder washing the tall windows over the front door. A mixture of lemon wax and Windex tickled her nose.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Wren spooled out a length of paper toweling and spritzed the glass. “You’re back awfully soon. Is that a good sign or not?”

  Maggie ducked under the ladder and looked up, excited to share about her morning. “Maybe good news. The guy that runs that gallery in the next block up might have a job for me.”

  Wren’s vigorous circles with the wad of paper towel stopped abruptly. “Jackson?”

  “Yes. Jackson Linder.” She practiced his name. “Do you know him?”

  Wren hesitated. “I know him.” Without meeting Maggie’s eyes, she handed down the spray bottle and started descending the ladder. “Have you had lunch?”

  “Trevor is picking me up at eleven-thirty, remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right. Well, I have a nice soup on the stove and Bart wound up going down to the senior center for a workshop, so he’s not here to eat it and I’m not really hungry. Guess I’ll save it for tomorrow.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, goodness, it’s not your fault.” Wren twisted the soggy paper toweling through her fingers. “Meg . . .”

  The hesitation in her tone drew Maggie’s attention.

  “I’m not sure it would be a good idea for you to work for Jackson.”

  “But . . . why not?”

  Wren breathed out a quiet sigh. “Listen, Bart and I don’t mind putting you up for a few days. You don’t need to get in a big hurry about a job. You haven’t even tried out on the highway yet. There are several good businesses out there.”

  “I thought, for now—until I can afford a car—it’d be best to stay here . . . downtown.” She studied Wren. “Is there a reason it wouldn’t be good to work for Mr. Linder?”

  Wren’s weary sigh made Maggie think there was a story coming. Wren smiled, but it didn’t come easily the way it usually did. “Well, it’s none of my business, but . . . for one thing, I don’t think he’d be able to keep you busy full-time.”

  “Yes, he said that, but maybe I can find something else to fill in.”

  “Maybe.” Wren seemed suddenly preoccupied. “I’d better go put that soup away.”

  “Let me help.”

  She trailed after Wren—no small effort, as the woman scurried between the stovetop and the counter, where a plate of little cheese and cracker sandwiches sat.

  “Here.” Wren handed her the plate and met her eyes for the first time since Maggie had mentioned the possibility of working for Jackson Linder. “Why don’t you take these and put them in the fridge in your room? They’ll make a nice midnight snack tonight.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t.” Maggie patted her stomach. “I think I’ve gained five pounds since I got here.”

  “Nonsense.” Wren clicked her tongue and reached to pinch Maggie’s forearm. “You could stand to put on a few pounds, sweetie.”

  Despite all the walking she’d done, she’d been eating like the proverbial pig. But what a treat it had been to eat guilt free, without Kevin as her constant watchdog.

  The clatter of bells on the front door saved her from having to argue with Wren. She looked through the archway to the clock in the lobby.

  “It’s almost eleven-thirty. That’ll be Trevor.” Wren beamed as if she’d abandoned her earlier concern. “You two enjoy yourselves.” She held Maggie’s gaze, a softness moving in behind her eyes. “Trevor Ashlock is the nicest man you could ever meet.”

  Maggie was beginning to suspect that very thing. But the thought of seeing him again sent a little shiver of nerves through her. She only hoped she could keep her stories straight through an entire lunch.

  Maggie placed her hand over his, for one brief moment, but it was long enough to feel the warmth and strength there.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Trevor stood by the fireplace in the lobby, wearing a subdued smile. “You ready?”

  He looked cool, refreshed, and—well, wonderful—in his navy polo and Dockers.

  Maggie glanced self-consciously at her outfit. “Am I dressed okay?” Immediately she laughed at her own question. “Not that it matters. I don’t really have much to change into.”

  “Oh, no, you’re fine.” He peered through the side window now polished to a shine through Wren’s efforts. “I got stuff for a picnic, if you don’t mind eating outside. It’s clouded over a little, and the park is fairly shady this time of day anyway.” He eyed her, then quickly moved his gaze away.

  She got the impression he was making excuses. “A picnic is fine. Sounds like fun.”

  “Okay then.” He indicated the door with a nod. “I’m parked out front.”

  The sun played peekaboo with fluffy white clouds, and it had cooled off some, but it was warm inside Trevor’s pickup. He cranked up the air conditioner—which spit out a stream of cold air, then immediately turned warm. He rolled down the windows.

  In the short time it took them to drive to the edge of town to the roadside park, Maggie felt like a wind-blown, wilted daisy.

  Trevor parked in the sandy lot near an empty playground and came around to open Maggie’s door. While she climbed down, he lifted a small cooler from the bed of the truck.

  “Here.” He pointed to a picnic table under a massive tree. The old cottonwood’s roots crawled down the bank to drink from the muddy waters of the Smoky Hill River. “Does that look okay?”

  “Perfect. Can I carry something?”

  “I’ve got it.” He patted the cooler. “Everything is in here. It’s nothing fancy, but I thought you might like to see the park.”

  “It’s beautiful.” It wasn’t Central Park by a long shot, but it did have its own charm. Mostly that it was peaceful and quiet, save for the whispering of the cottonwood trees and the occasional splash of a fish or frog in the river. There was a teenage girl playing with two toddlers on the swings a distance away, and an elderly man fishing on the riverbank, but other than that they had the place to themselves.

  Previous picnickers had left broken potato chips littering the table and benches. Trevor brushed them off with his free hand. “I guess I should have brought a blanket to sit on. Sorry. This was kind of a last-minute idea. Maybe it wasn’t a very good one.”

  “Oh, no, it’s fine.” Maggie didn’t know whether to be suspicious of his polite sweetness or to just swoon and be done with it. A bolt of guilt surged through her at that thought. She had no right to be thinking romantic thoughts. If Kevin knew she was here—on something strongly resembling a date—he would be livid. Though she realized now that Kevin had cared little for her, she had been his possession and woe to the man who dared interfere. She shuddered at the thought of what his reaction might be.

  “Are you cold?” Trevor eyed her with
surprise.

  She rubbed away the goose bumps that pebbled her bare arms. “No. I’m just . . . hungry.”

  “Well then, let’s get this show on the road.” He opened the cooler and took out a bag of purple grapes and two fat ready-made subs bundled in cellophane. A bag of pretzels and cans of soda completed the feast. “Have a seat.” He threw a leg over the bench seat across from her, straddling it.

  She sat down and arranged the things he set in front of her, waiting to see if he’d pray a blessing over them as Bart had at the inn yesterday. Trevor bowed his head. His lips moved slightly, but he didn’t pray out loud.

  She waited until he looked up, then busied herself with unwrapping her sandwich. “Mmm . . . this looks good.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t actually take you out for lunch like I promised.”

  She spread an arm to encompass the riverside park. “Hey, this is out.”

  He laughed. “That it is. At least it’s not so warm this afternoon. They say we’re supposed to get some rain tonight.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing. It wouldn’t be in New Yo—” She caught herself. “It-it does make everything new. The rain.”

  Had he noticed her clumsy cover-up?

  If he did, he didn’t show it. “When you live in farm country, rain is usually a good thing. Well, unless it’s harvest. But look how low the river is.” He ripped off a healthy bite of his sandwich and pointed toward the river’s edge with what was left of it.

  She took a sip of her Coke. “You must’ve had the soda in the freezer. It’s still nice and cold.”

  “Soda?” He grinned. “That must be California-ese.”

  Her breath caught. Even her language was giving her away. But she recovered quickly, flashing a smile. “Why? What do you Kansas hayseeds call it?”