She ate two of them and offered Trevor the last one. He accepted with a grin. A few minutes later he put the last bite in his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and pushed back from the table. “Ready?”
“Ready when you are.”
He followed her to the kitchen and helped her refill the roller pan from her bucket. For the next two hours they worked. And they talked. Mostly Trevor talked. And she preferred it that way. He regaled her with the colorful history of the unincorporated town of Clayburn and his boyhood stories of growing up here. Trevor’s childhood had been one Maggie could only imagine—one full of love and a whole town of supportive mentors. His memories were built around simple adventures that she could sense grew more precious with every recall. His telling of his one and only climb to the top of the Clayburn water tower with two of his buddies the summer he turned ten had her rolling with laughter.
“But scared as we were climbing those eighty-seven rungs to the top, we didn’t know the meaning of fear until we got up there and looked down to see our mothers glaring at us from the ground. We seriously considered camping out up there . . . until Mom told us the police were on the way.”
A faraway look shadowed his smile, but Maggie watched him shake it off and turn to her, a winsome spark lighting his eyes. “So, can Meg Anders top the water-tower story? What was it like growing up in California?”
She shook her head, her mind whirling. “Can’t top that.” But Trevor’s story had reminded her of a story she hadn’t thought of in a long time—maybe since it happened. Her mom . . . trying to teach her how to make pancakes. She smiled, unspooling her memory for Trevor. “I read the recipe wrong and only used half a cup of flour when it called for two cups. I didn’t know the batter wasn’t supposed to be thin as glue.”
“Oops,” Trevor said, obviously knowing where this was headed.
“They came off the griddle thin as cardboard and full of holes—like lace. Mom picked one up and saw that I was about to cry from humiliation. So she announced that I’d just made a lovely batch of crepes.”
“Those fancy French pancakes?”
She nodded. “She spread orange marmalade on them, rolled them up, sprinkled them with powdered sugar, and you know what? They were pretty good.”
“That was quick thinking on your mom’s part.”
Maggie swallowed over the lump in her throat. Why had she spent so much time dwelling only on the times after they’d put Mom in the hospital? She laughed as a new memory rose to the surface. “Mom made some jam once that never jelled. She opened a jar and it was like syrup. She said, ‘We need to make some of your famous crepes to pour this over, Magg—’” She caught herself and dropped her voice. Trevor seemed not to notice, so she hurried on. “We made crepes every Saturday morning after that. Mom called them faux crepes and made us all speak with thick French accents while we ate them.” She lifted her chin and demonstrated. “Jennifuh, dahling, would you pahss the cr-r-repes, s’il vous plait.” She trilled her rs and struck a haughty pose.
Trevor roared, and his laughter washed through Maggie, filling up a place inside her that had been empty and dry.
Her story reminded him of another, and he launched into his tale. They traded memory after memory, and by the time the clock in the lobby chimed nine o’clock, Maggie had quit worrying that she would slip up and say something that would give her charade away.
By ten, when the noisy guests came in and sat out in the lobby laughing and talking, Maggie and Trevor were having their own party in the kitchen.
All three walls of the kitchenette area were painted, and they had a good start on the wall the archway was on. Maggie had figured out a design for a border in her head and she could hardly wait to start sketching it out on paper to show Wren.
“Is there anyplace in town to buy art supplies? My fingers are itching to hold a paintbrush,” she told Trevor when they talked about the border again.
He chuckled and pointed to the wide paint-caked brush in her hand. “You can say that after tonight?”
She laughed. “I was thinking of something a mite smaller . . . and a mite more artistic.”
“I doubt Alco has the kind of paints you need, but we’ll find them. I might even have some stuff in the print shop that would work.”
As a burst of laughter wafted from the lobby, Trevor checked his watch. “I don’t know about you, but I’m plumb tuckered out. What do you say we move the appliances back and call it a day? I think Bart and Wren are down for the count.”
They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the couple since they’d gone up to their apartment earlier to watch a movie. Maggie smiled, picturing them together on the love seat in their little living room sawing logs while a soundtrack droned in the background. She made a mental note to set her alarm so she’d be up when Wren came down in the morning. She could hardly wait to see the look on the sweet woman’s face when she saw how much they’d accomplished. She and Wren would be able to fix breakfast for the guests in a nice, neat kitchen. They’d still have to move the tables out to the lobby to serve the meal, but a few more work nights like this one and the dining room would be finished too. Maggie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt such a sense of accomplishment.
She helped Trevor plug in the heavy range and scoot it back into place, likewise the refrigerator. While she swept the floor and wiped off countertops, Trevor moved three of the four small tables out into the lobby, ready for breakfast guests in the morning.
Maggie took the paint rags to the laundry room and found Wren’s kitchen knickknacks stored away on a shelf there. She arranged them on the kitchenette counters, which worked wonders for the overall effect.
By the time they finally stood under the archway surveying their handiwork, the guests had retired to their rooms for the night.
Trevor smiled down at her. “Not bad for a day’s work, huh?”
“It looks so good, I’m tempted to go wake Wren up.”
He laughed. “I think she’ll enjoy it more in the morning.”
“Fine, but I’m setting my alarm so I can be here when she sees it. Want me to call you?”
“Ha! You do and all deals are off.” The glint in his eye made her laugh.
“Chicken.”
“You do know that Wren gets up around six a.m. when she has guests?”
“No way!”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Even when she’s just thawing out cinnamon rolls?”
“That I don’t know. But I am not answering my phone before nine a.m. Speaking of which, are you going to church with Bart and Wren in the morning?”
“Church? I wasn’t planning on it.”
He looked at the floor before meeting her eyes. “You want to go with me?”
“To church?” Her voice quavered.
He nodded. “I could pick you up a little before ten.”
“Um, I don’t know.” She squirmed, rummaging for an excuse. She hadn’t been to church since the Tarkans had taken her and Jenn to Sunday school every week. A very long time ago. With the path of lies she’d strewn from New York to Clayburn, the very thought of all that righteousness terrified her. “I promised Wren I’d help her get breakfast. And besides, I don’t have anything to wear.”
Trevor held up a hand. “Hey, it’s okay. Just thought I’d ask. What you wore yesterday would be fine though.”
His hopeful smile made a part of her long to say yes, but common sense won out. “Thanks anyway.”
Trevor stood there, waiting, as if he thought she might change her mind if he stared at her long enough. She looked at the floor, then stooped to pick up a tiny clump of fuzz off one of the wood planks. The clock on the mantel seemed to hammer in her ears. Maggie wished the evening had ended ten minutes earlier on the high note of their triumph with Wren’s kitchen.
“Well, I think I’m going to shove off. Thanks for all your help. You’ll have to tell me what Wren says.”
She gave a little nod. “I will.”
“I’ll be back Monday afternoon to work on the dining area. Wren gave me a check for part of the job, so I’ll bring you a check then—for the work you did today. And I’d welcome your help again . . . if you can.”
“Okay.” She touched the sleeve of the flannel shirt he’d loaned her. “I’ll get this washed and back to you Monday.”
“Keep it.” He stared at the floor. “You’ll need it. At least I hope so.” He gathered his tools and went out through the front door.
She turned off the lights in the kitchen and dining room and checked the front door. Trevor had apparently locked it on his way out.
Her room was quiet. The freshly made-up bed invited her to crash. It was tempting, but she was too grimy and paint-splattered to seriously consider it. But she nearly fell asleep under the warm shower spray.
She set the alarm clock for six a.m. and was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow.
Trevor’s pillow felt cool against the back of his neck. He lay staring up at the ceiling, hands clasped behind his head. His hair was still damp from the shower. He was dead tired, but it had been a good day. With Meg’s help, he’d gotten more done than he’d thought possible, and her company had made the hours fly by.
He sobered a little, remembering Meg’s possibility of working for Jack. But maybe he’d bought them both a reprieve. The remodeling job for Wren would take at least a few more days . . . longer for Meg if Wren agreed to let her do the decorative painting. It was obvious Wren liked Meg. She’d taken her under her wing from that first morning she’d come squawking down the hall shushing him because Meg was sleeping—in the middle of the day. He had a feeling Wren might have other jobs up her sleeve when the painting was done. Especially if Meg mentioned Jack’s job offer to her. Maybe Wren would talk to Meg and save him the trouble.
He doubted it though. Wren had been awfully quiet on the subject of Jack Linder lately. He understood. It hurt to see what Jack was doing to himself. Trevor understood the man’s pain, but couldn’t Jack see that it only made everything that had gone before that much worse?
He drew in a deep breath. In the darkness his thoughts always seemed bleaker and more overwhelming than he knew they would be in the light of morning. Still, it angered him that pondering Jack’s situation forced him to deal again with the question of forgiveness. He knew he’d forgiven Jack. A long time ago. But sometimes the temptation to pick up that burden again was more than he could endure.
“I forgive him completely, Lord. You know that. Help me to keep on forgiving.” He spoke the words aloud, perplexed at their contradiction, yet knowing his prayer had been accepted.
Think about something else. Something good, he told himself. Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely . . .
Meg. Now there was something lovely. He thought of her smile, her genuine laughter at his corny jokes. Until tonight, he hadn’t heard her laugh much. He intended to change that. Meg’s laughter was musical. He longed for her to have a reason to make music. To know how much God loved her.
He smiled to himself in the dark. It had been a good day. For the first time in ages—maybe the first time since that terrible day—he’d come home feeling happy, looking forward to what tomorrow might bring. He wasn’t going to let anything spoil that.
He plumped his pillow and rolled over to face the other side of the double bed. The empty side. And he dared to hope that space might someday be filled again.
If she were going to survive here, she had to remember to forget everything about her old life.
Chapter Thirty-One
The blare of the alarm clock brought Maggie straight up in the bed. Six o’clock. She crawled from the quilts and eased her legs over the side of the bed. Arrgh! She didn’t want to get up. Every muscle screamed, and it felt as if a bongo drum had taken up residence where her brain was supposed to be.
She forced herself from the bed and went to wash her face. Her clothes were on the chair where she’d left them the night before when she changed into Trevor’s flannel shirt. She dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway.
Sconces glowed beside each recessed doorway up and down the hall, and when she entered the lobby, she saw light streaming from the kitchen. Wren must already be up.
Maggie hurried across the lobby and through the archway but stopped short when she saw Wren sitting at the lone table left in the dining area, head in her hands.
“Wren?”
The snowy head came up and Wren gave a little gasp. Her eyes were red and puffy, her hair disheveled. “Oh, child, you scared me!”
“Wren?” Maggie hurried to her side and crouched down beside her, resting her elbow on the table. “What’s wrong?”
Wren smiled through her tears. “You sweet, sweet kids. Look at this!” She spread her arms to encompass the kitchenette. The room looked especially cozy and charming in the dim glow of the undercounter lights. “You finished! And you put everything away for me.” She sniffed and blew her nose on a crumpled tissue.
“But why are you crying?”
Wren’s tears seemed like anything but tears of joy.
She sniffled into the tissue again. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m just a little overwhelmed right now. And what are you doing up so early?”
“I want to help you with breakfast.”
Wren scooted her chair back and pushed herself up. “Well then, we’d best get started. Do you know how to make coffee?” She didn’t wait for an answer but bustled about the kitchen, opening a cupboard door and handing a coffee canister to Maggie. While Maggie measured the grinds into the basket, Wren pulled ingredients from the shelves. “Oh my! I can’t tell you how nice it is to be able to work without having to hurdle an oven every time I want to open a drawer.”
Wren obviously didn’t want to talk about whatever was troubling her, so Maggie played along and followed her instructions, scrambling two dozen eggs, slicing sweet red peppers and mushrooms, frying bacon to crumble into the egg casserole. By seven o’clock, the casserole was baking, cinnamon rolls were warming in the toaster oven, and the coffee was wafting its heavenly aroma down the hallway.
“That’ll wake ’em up,” Wren declared. She seemed her jolly self now.
“Did you hear all the noise down here last night?”
“Honey, Bart said I was asleep before the previews were over on that video. He woke me up and made me get in bed. I didn’t hear a thing until the alarm went off this morning.”
“Well, good. Between the party in the lobby and Trevor and me crashing around down here, I thought for sure we’d wake you.”
Wren patted Maggie’s arm. “I wouldn’t have cared if you did. Thanks again, Meg. You’re a dear.” She tipped her wrist and checked her watch. “I think everything is under control here. Our noisy guests said they probably wouldn’t be out for breakfast until around eight. Why don’t you go back to bed for a little while? Your body is probably still on California time.”
There was that dagger to Maggie’s heart again. Her lies coming back to haunt her. She was growing to love these people. It seemed impossible, but in a few short days, they had become like family to her. Yet every time someone made reference to her history—the one she’d made up—she felt like a traitor. She had to come clean. And soon.
But if she told the truth now, they might put her out on her ear. And she wouldn’t blame them if they did. What else could they think but that she’d tried to take advantage of them?
She would find a job here. Get settled in her own place. Pay Wren and Bart back every penny for all they’d done for her. She’d do it first thing, even before she bought her art supplies. Then she’d make things right with them, tell them the whole truth. They would understand that she’d lied to protect herself. That she hadn’t known who she could trust at first. That she’d never intended to let the deception go on this long. But if she were going to survive here, she had to remember to forget everythin
g about her old life.
And they would understand, wouldn’t they? All of them?
Trevor’s smile flashed through her mind. Would he forgive her?
It surprised her how very much she cared about the answer to that question.
By nine o’clock the inn was eerily quiet. All the guests had checked out, and Bart and Wren had gone off to church. Main Street outside the windows was like a ghost town—every window bearing a Closed sign, and not a car in sight on the street.
Nothing had changed about her room with its cheery blue and white prints and sunshine streaming in her window, but Maggie was overcome with loneliness. She felt it even more than in the apartment in New York. Here in Clayburn, Kansas—instead of the usual city traffic and the wail of sirens that was background music to her solitude—the only sounds were the twittering of birds outside her window. Even though Bart and Wren had done their best to coax her into attending church with them this morning, she felt somehow abandoned by them. As much as it terrified her to think of setting foot inside a church building, she almost wished she’d accepted their invitation.
She wondered if Trevor was in church right now. She felt certain he was. And it struck her that, for him, she might just be persuaded to darken the door.
Monday morning dragged on forever with more than the usual wrenches in the works of the print shop. It seemed to Trevor that a hundred little jobs had popped up overnight. He might have been happy for the work, except that none of it was big-ticket stuff, and most of it was mere busywork—collating a printed-in-office manual for a manufacturing firm in Salina, corrections on a poster Mason had fouled up in the press, and other odds and ends of the business.
Trevor was anxious to be done with his day here and get to the inn. He felt like a high-school kid, worrying that Meg might have finished her part of the painting and quit for the day. But he didn’t want to miss her. Besides being a big help to him, she made the hours fly by. And the laughter they shared seemed to extend into his evening, keeping his emotional metabolism burning long after he’d left her presence.
Remember to Forget Page 18
