Remember to Forget by Deborah Raney Page A

for the door but halted halfway there. She wasn’t anxious to hit the road again. She plopped back onto the plump bed pillows. She didn’t have enough cash to pay for another night. She remembered what the woman who’d picked her up outside Clayburn had said about Wren letting her work it off washing pots and pans. It was tempting. But she needed to get on the road. With a sigh, she stuffed the cash deep in the pocket of her clean khakis.
    In the bathroom she gathered up all the little soaps and shampoos and put them in a plastic bag marked Laundry that she’d found hanging in the small closet. She tied the sack in a knot and slung it over her shoulder. She was officially a hobo now.

Through her sun–induced stupor, an odd feeling came over her again—the feeling that something was about to happen...

Chapter Sixteen

    M aggie closed the door to her room behind her and crept down the hallway. She peered around the corner to the lobby. Still empty. No sign of Wren or her husband.
    The carpenter was whistling in the dining room. She poked her head through the doorway. “I’m leaving now. I’m already checked out. I checked out last night,” she explained.
    He studied her over a sheet of drywall. “I see you found your clothes.”
    She looked down at her clean outfit. “Oh. Yes. Would you tell the owners thanks for me? I’m Meg, by the way. I really appreciate everything they did.”
    “Meg.” He bobbed his head. “Sure. I’ll tell them.” He carried the unwieldy drywall toward a torn-up kitchen, apparently dismissing her.
    After a moment, she turned to leave.
    “Oh, hey! Meg!”
    His shout brought her back around.
    “I almost forgot. Wren wanted me to be sure you got some of the cinnamon rolls she fixed for breakfast. I’ll be in a whale of trouble with her if you don’t eat something before you leave.” That lopsided smile again. “You’d be doing me a personal favor.”
    Maggie chuckled at the thought of him being in trouble with the elderly proprietor. “Well, I guess I did miss breakfast.”
    He glanced at his watch. “Only by four or five hours.” The crinkles around his eyes deepened. “But Wren saved some rolls back especially for you.”
    “That sounds really good right now,” she admitted.
    “They’re in the oven, wrapped in foil. I tested them. Wren didn’t make them from scratch like she usually does, but they’re edible.” He grinned.
    He had a nice grin.
    “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said.
    “Here.” He propped the slab of Sheetrock against the bare studs and squeezed through the labyrinth formed by the refrigerator, stove, and dishwasher. He opened the oven door as far as the maze would allow and pulled out a packet of foil. “There are plates and forks on that little table out in the lobby. There might even be a cup of coffee you could nuke. Or you could make a new pot. Everything you need is out there.”
    “Thanks.” She took the rolls from him and went back to the lobby.
    An overstuffed chair facing the window invited her to sit. She rested her head against the upholstered back, relishing the sun on her face. Outside, the village street was picturesque, with geraniums and petunias blooming in flower boxes in the middle of the street and every store decked out in a colorful awning.
    The passersby appeared to be in no hurry to get anywhere. She watched as people stopped on the street to greet one another like oldfriends. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and their smiles were contagious. Did people really live like this? She felt as if she’d fallen into an old rerun of Mayberry RFD  . . . or The Twilight Zone. Come to think of it, Wren did favor Aunt Bee.
    She unwrapped the foil and tore off a bite of cinnamon-crusted roll. She’d taste one bite and save the rest for later, when she was on the road. After the feast Wren had fixed for her last night, she shouldn’t have been hungry, but the cinnamon was sweet on her tongue. Before she knew it, she’d