The Stranger In Room 205 (Hot Off The Press Book 1) Page 5

  Before he could wonder why she was just sitting there staring at him, Serena stood. “I’ll leave you to your delicious dinner.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She chuckled at his unenthusiastic response. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sam.”

  She was aware that he watched her leave—as if he was reluctant to see her go. The poor guy must really be lonely, she thought—and then realized in annoyed exasperation that she was beginning to sound just like her mother. Both of them had darned well better be careful—just in case Sam Wallace wasn’t as charming as he appeared.

  Chapter Four

  By ten the next morning, Sam was free to go. The IV had been removed and he’d been given a list of instructions and a few painkillers, in case he needed them. The only thing he didn’t have was clothes. He was still wearing the backless cotton hospital gown. The shirt and pants he’d worn when he’d been brought in had been cut away, he was apologetically informed. Someone would try to find him a pair of pajamas to leave in.

  He was working up to a pretty good case of self-pity when Serena came into his room, her arms filled with blue plastic discount store bags. “I brought you some clothes,” she said without preamble. “They aren’t exactly designer label, and I had to guess at sizes, but they should do until you can replace your own things.”

  He eyed the pile of bags she had dumped unceremoniously on the foot of the bed. “You bought me clothes?”

  She shrugged, obviously determined not to make a big deal of it. “Just a few things. Almost all of it was on sale. I picked up two pairs of shoes in different sizes. I hope one of them fits. I’ll take the other pair back for a refund.”

  He was oddly touched by her actions, and by her painfully self-conscious expression. “Thank you.”

  She avoided his eyes. “I’ll go have a cup of coffee or something while you get dressed.”

  “I won’t take long. I’m more than ready to get out of this place.”

  He’d been half afraid Dr. Purtle—the man everyone referred to as Dr. Frank—was going to change his mind about the release. Sam wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong during the exam that morning, but Dr. Frank hadn’t seemed quite satisfied with the results. He’d asked repeatedly if Sam was experiencing a headache—which he wasn’t—and if he was sure he was seeing clearly—which he was. And then he’d asked if Sam was experiencing any loss of memory other than about the attack itself, which was natural. Sam had looked the kindly, concerned older man straight in the eye and lied through his teeth.

  “No memory gaps, Doc,” he had said. And it hadn’t been a real lie, he reflected bitterly. There were no gaps in his memory. There was no memory at all. Not a clue who he’d been or what he’d done prior to waking up in this hospital with Serena Schaffer sitting beside his bed.

  He didn’t know if the amnesia was a sign of a physical problem or an emotional one—maybe he just didn’t want to remember his past—but it was real. Whether he was brain damaged or a candidate for a psych ward, no amount of effort on his part had brought forth a single detail about his life. He probably did belong on a psych ward. What kind of nutcase would let himself be released from a hospital without admitting to anyone that there was still something seriously wrong with him?

  To distract himself from a question that had no rational answer, he dug in the bags Serena had carried in. He found underwear, T-shirts and tube socks. Two pairs of classic styled jeans, a brown leather belt and three T-shirts in assorted colors. Two button-up shirts—one white, one blue denim. A package of disposable razors, a can of shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb—things the hospital had provided for him, but thoughtful additions on Serena’s part. And the two pairs of sneakers she’d mentioned—size ten and eleven. For all he knew, he wore an eight or fourteen—his shoe size was as lost to him as his real name.

  Fifteen minutes later he had to acknowledge that Serena had a good eye for sizes. He wore the denim shirt with a pair of jeans and the size-eleven shoes. The thirty-four-inch-waist jeans were a little loose, but he cinched the belt to make up for it. The shirt fit perfectly.

  He was frowning at the bruise the IV needle had left on his hand when Serena tapped on the door and then entered. She appraised his appearance with one quick, comprehensive glance. “Looks like my guesses were close.”

  “Everything fits fine. You can return the size-ten shoes. I’ll pay you back for everything as soon as I can.”

  “There’s no rush,” she assured him, looking uncomfortable again. “You’ll need to pay your medical bills first. Actually, you could consider the clothes a birthday present.”

  “A birthday present?” he repeated blankly.

  She smiled. “Today’s the twenty-second. Had you forgotten?”

  June twenty-second. The day he’d selected at random when the nurse had asked for his date of birth. At the time, he hadn’t even known it was June. He wished now he’d chosen a date in December. “I’ll pay you back for the clothes,” he said, and he tried to make it clear that he didn’t want any further argument about it.

  Serena only shrugged and turned toward the remaining packages. “I should have thought to include a duffel bag or something. I guess these bags will have to do for now. I’ll tell LuWanda we’re ready to go. I think you have to leave in a wheelchair.”

  “I think not.” The very suggestion made his lip curl.

  Eyeing his expression, Serena said hastily, “I’m sure they’ll let you walk, if you prefer.”

  Fortunately, LuWanda didn’t try to insist on a wheelchair. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Wallace,” she said, patting his arm. “And if you have any problems, you be sure and give Dr. Frank a call. Any dizziness, headache, double vision—anything like that—you pick up a phone, you hear?”

  Since he wasn’t experiencing any of the above, it seemed safe enough to agree. “Sure. I’ll do that.”

  LuWanda gave him a long, rather stern look. “Your health isn’t something to take for granted, young man. The doctor can’t help you if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.”

  It was entirely possible that he hadn’t been doing as good a job at fooling everyone as he’d believed. She didn’t know what his problem was, of course, but she obviously suspected there was something he was holding back. He wanted to get out of here before he somehow gave himself away. If he decided to reveal his memory loss to Dr. Frank, he wanted it to be his choice, and on his own terms.

  On an impulse, he leaned over to brush a kiss against the nurse’s soft, plump cheek, ignoring the protest from his cracked ribs. “Thank you for everything,” he murmured.

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the gruff-spoken, kindhearted tyrant blush as she hurried out of the room.

  Sam turned to Serena, finding her watching him with a wary frown. “What?”

  She shook her head and gathered plastic bags into her arms. “I’m going to be keeping a close eye on you, Sam Wallace.”

  She was reminding him that she still didn’t quite trust him. Her words should have made him nervous—but instead he found the thought of being watched closely by Serena Schaffer rather intriguing….

  Sam’s first glimpse of the Schaffer house made him think again of that magical fictional town that was just a bit too flawless to be real. The tidy white frame house had neat black shutters and a front porch complete with big wooden rockers. Flowers bloomed in the yard. Even the weather contributed to the overall image of unreal perfection. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across a sky so blue it looked almost like a painted movie set.

  This situation had the makings of a great horror film, he decided with wry whimsy. Two generous, seemingly kindhearted women living in a house straight out of a fairy tale, offering their hospitality to a man whose memory had been mysteriously wiped clean. A half dozen chilling scenarios played through his foggy mind from that beginning. Had he written horror stories in his previous life, or had he simply enjoyed reading them?

  Serena followed the driveway around the side
of the house and drove into a two-car garage at the back. A small import car was parked in the other bay, and Sam assumed it belonged to Marjorie. He climbed carefully out of Serena’s low two-seater, his aching ribs and muscles protesting the movements. He was forced to steady himself with one hand against the vehicle as the garage swam dizzily around him for a moment.

  Serena watched him over the hood of the car. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He had answered more curtly than he intended, but he hated being so weak in front of her. If he ever found out who had done this to him… Even more important, he’d like to know why.

  She insisted on carrying most of the packages—as if he were incapable of toting a few clothes in plastic bags, he thought in exasperation. Making an effort not to limp or cradle his throbbing sprained wrist, he followed Serena out of the garage and down a brick path. The guest house, as Marjorie had referred to it, was mostly hidden from the road, so this was Sam’s first real look at it. Designed to match the style of the main house, it had a front porch just big enough to hold a wooden rocker.

  Serena opened the front door with a key she then handed to Sam. Even as he accepted it, he was aware of the risk she was taking in giving it to him. He had no intention of taking advantage of her generosity—but she certainly had no way of knowing that.

  The inside of the guest house was as tidy as the outside. Sam didn’t have to be reminded that an elderly lady had lived here. The old-fashioned furniture, doilies and bric-a-brac would have given that away. Feeling like the bull in the china shop, he was pretty sure this was a far cry from the way he usually lived. Yet he was so relieved to be out of the hospital that he would happily coexist with a few doilies. “It’s nice.”

  “Grandma called it ‘cozy.’ One bedroom, one bath, a kitchen and this living room. There’s no phone, but you can come to our house if you need to make a call.”

  He shrugged. “There’s no one I need to call.”

  “Mother stocked fresh linens and a few basic grocery items for you. If you need anything else, feel free to ask.”

  “I’m going to pay you and your mother back for everything,” he said, turning to look at her. “The clothes, the food, the rent—you’ll be reimbursed for all of it.”

  “We’ll talk about that after you see about your medical bills.” She piled the bags she had carried on one of the two wing chairs. And then she glanced his way, and her eyes narrowed. “Did Dr. Frank send any pain pills home with you?”

  “A few, but I don’t need one,” he answered, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head, his wrist, his rib cage—pretty much everywhere.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water. You find your pills.”

  Her tone didn’t encourage argument, but he tried anyway. “I really don’t—”

  “Sam.” She cut in firmly. “You won’t recover unless you take care of yourself. If the pills will let you rest in relative comfort for the next few days, then you should take the pills.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. She sounded so determined, it seemed like a waste of breath to argue any further. “Okay. I’ll take one.”

  His sudden capitulation apparently caught her off guard. “All right, then,” she said after a moment, and turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right back with the water.”

  Rather than waiting for her, he followed her into the kitchen, pulling the sample pack of pills out of his pocket. Like the living room, the kitchen was small and efficient, with not an inch of wasted space. Serena opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler, which she filled with tap water. She jumped when she turned to find Sam only a step or two away. Water splashed over the side of the tumbler. “I didn’t hear you behind me,” she said unnecessarily.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Did you find your pills?”

  He opened his hand to show her the small yellow tablet in his palm.

  Serena handed him the tumbler. He swallowed the pill, washed it down with half the water, then reached around her to set the glass on the counter. His arm brushed hers with the movement, and he felt her stiffen. Had the kitchen been bigger, he suspected she would have done a quick sidestep away from him. But since that move would have flattened her against the refrigerator, she stayed where she was. Sam was the one who moved away. As nice as it was to be close to her, he didn’t want to give her a reason to regret offering him a place to recuperate.

  “I’ll leave you to settle in,” she said, avoiding his eyes as she moved toward the doorway. “Mother’s cooking a big lunch. She wanted me to invite you to join us—or, if you don’t feel up to that, she’ll bring a plate out to you. The meal should be ready by one, which will give you a couple of hours to rest first.”

  “Your mother doesn’t have to cook for me. You said she stocked basic supplies. I’m perfectly capable of preparing a meal.” At least, he assumed he was. He didn’t actually remember cooking, but how hard could it be?

  Serena’s smile was suddenly ironic. “She lives for this sort of thing. And we are going to have lunch, anyway. It isn’t that much trouble to make enough for one more.”

  “Then I would be pleased to join you. Thank you.”

  She was still moving toward the exit, putting as much distance between them as possible in the small space available. “We’ll see you at one, then.”

  She was gone before he could respond. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for being nervous around him, considering the circumstances. What he didn’t understand was why, if she still had so many reservations about him, was she being so nice to him?

  Marjorie fussed over her preparations for the meal until Serena finally couldn’t stop herself from protesting. “Honestly, Mother, we aren’t having a visiting foreign dignitary for lunch. It’s only Sam Wallace—and we don’t really know who he is.”

  “He’s our guest,” her mother replied as if that settled everything. “I hope he likes pot roast.”

  “Everyone likes your pot roast.”

  Marjorie slapped a hand to her cheek. “What if he’s a vegetarian? I didn’t think to ask.”

  “He isn’t a vegetarian.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I heard him wishing aloud for a steak when he was in the hospital. Vegetarians don’t fantasize about steak.”

  “All I made for dessert is chocolate cake. Maybe I should throw together a quick fruit cobbler, in case he doesn’t care for chocolate.”

  “Every normal person likes chocolate.”

  “Your sister doesn’t.”

  “Yes, well, the operative word there is ‘normal.’ No normal woman of Kara’s age would drop everything she’s worked for to run off to Nashville with a country singer wanna-be she hardly knows.”

  Marjorie sighed. “You really should stop belittling Kara’s decision, Serena. After all, it’s her life. She has a right to choose how she wants to live it.”

  “I just wish she hadn’t left me to deal with the life she abandoned here. Marvin, the newspaper—her stupid dog.” Curled lazily in one corner of the kitchen, Walter lifted his head and yawned, as if to prove himself unaffected by Serena’s habitual less-than-flattering description.

  “Now, honey—”

  Serena held up her hand in an apologetic gesture. It wasn’t her mother’s fault that Kara had run off on her quixotic quest, although it was Marjorie who had persuaded Serena to try to keep the newspaper running. It was just that Serena had been feeling overwhelmed lately by all the responsibility she had shouldered. And her concern about the unsettling vagabond who would soon be joining them for lunch wasn’t settling her mind.

  She could still almost feel the brush of Sam Wallace’s arm against hers, and she still reacted with a funny little shiver of awareness that made her extremely nervous. She had no intention of following her sister’s example and falling for an attractive stranger. Look where that had gotten Kara—her whole life up-ended so she could trail after the guy in pursuit of his dreams. Sam Wallace had no aspir
ations of musical stardom, as far as Serena knew, but he must be in search of something. Or running away from something. Why else would he be living on the road, drifting from place to place doing the occasional odd job, with no one or nothing permanent in his life?

  Just as that question crossed her mind, someone knocked on the back door. At the same time, the front doorbell chimed, announcing another caller. Serena and Marjorie hesitated, looking at each other in mutual curiosity, and then Serena turned toward the kitchen door. “You let Sam in. I’ll answer the front door.”

  Although she hadn’t been expecting him, Serena wasn’t particularly surprised to find Chief Dan Meadows on her doorstep. His dark scowl gave her a clue as to the purpose of his unannounced call. “I take it you aren’t popping in for lunch.”

  “Tell me the rumors I heard aren’t true,” he said, ignoring her quip.

  “That depends on what you heard.”

  “Have you and Marjorie invited Sam Wallace to live in your guest house?”

  “You might as well come in,” she said, holding the door wider and bracing herself for a lecture.

  “So it is true.” Dan was shaking his head when he passed her on his way to the living room. He’d already launched into his speech by the time she closed the door behind him. “Serena, I can’t believe you’ve brought this man into your home. You don’t know anything about him, except that someone beat the crap out of him and threw him in your ditch.”

  “He didn’t have a place to stay.”

  “So you brought him home.” He ran a hand through his hair, almost audibly grinding his teeth. “A total stranger with no ID, no money and a story that barely holds water.”

  “You have reason to believe he’s been lying to us?”

  “No,” Dan admitted. “But I have no proof he’s telling the truth, either,” he added. “I can’t find anyone who saw the truck he described, nor can I find any information on Sam Wallace.”