Remember to Forget by Deborah Raney Page B

polished off both rolls and licked the last bits of icing from the wrapper.
    She curled up in the chair, growing drowsy with the sun and the rhythmic pounding going on in the dining room. What would it be like to live in a town like this? To have friends like Bart and Wren?
    She gazed out the window and imagined what it would be like to live in this sleepy little town. She could almost feel a muddy riverbank beneath her bare feet, cool water lapping at her toes. Overhead, the full moon. And silhouetted in its golden light, ancient trees seemed to whisper her name. She had crossed that river last night, seen that full moon overhead. Through her sun–induced stupor, an odd feeling came over her again—the feeling that something was about to happen . . .
    The jangle of bells on the front door brought her upright in the chair. Wren flounced in, wearing the handles of half a dozen plastic grocery bags like bracelets up and down her arms.
    Maggie jumped up. “Oh, here, let me help.” She cleared the bags from one of Wren’s plump arms.
    “Whew.” Wren wiped her brow with her free hand and tucked a wayward snowy tress behind her ear. “Thank you, honey. I thought I was only going to the store for milk and bread.” She studied Maggie. “Did you decide to spend another night with us?”
    “Oh, no,” Maggie said quickly. “I just overslept. I guess I should have set the alarm.”
    “Are you going to make your connection?”
    Maggie consulted the oversized clock above the mantel, as if she had a schedule to keep. “I should be fine.”
    With her free hand, Wren motioned to the grocery bags Maggie still carried. “Follow me. If Trevor will let us through, I’ll show you where to put those. Have you met Trevor?”
    “The carpenter?”
    Wren laughed. “Trevor is a man of many talents, a true jack of all trades. He owns the print shop in town. But yes, he’s our carpenter.” Wrinkles creased her forehead. “He saved you some of those cinnamon rolls, I hope.”
    “Oh, yes. Thank you. And thanks so much for dinner last night. It was delicious.”
    Wren waved her away. “Goodness, sweetie, it was a sandwich . . . the least I could do after your ordeal.” Wren led the way through the arched doorway into the small dining room where the carpenter—Trevor—was still hammering away. “Hey, keep it down, would you?”
    He turned, a far-off look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t noticed their presence. But then a light came to his eyes and that grin from before spread across his face, and he was fully with them.
    “Hey, Wren. She’s awake now.” He winked at Maggie, then nodded in Wren’s direction. “Please inform this woman that I was nice and quiet while you were sleeping.”
    Maggie looked from him to Wren and back. They’d obviously had words about this. “Well,” she said, trying to decide which one of them to side with, happy to be in on their playful dispute, “I couldn’t say for sure it was hammering, but something woke me up at the crack of . . . well, two thirty.”
    Wren laughed. “At least you’re honest.”
    Maggie winced. If the woman only knew.
    “Here, honey”—Wren reached for the grocery bags Maggie still held—“I’ll get these put in the cupboards. You’re probably wanting to be on your way. I didn’t see a car out front. Where did you park?”
    “Oh, I got a ride . . . from Salina.” She didn’t mention that she’d walked fifteen miles first.
    Wren and the carpenter exchanged glances. “Where are you headed?” Wren asked.
    “California.” Her well-rehearsed answer came a hair too swiftly.
    “Back home, huh?”
    Maggie had to think for a minute why the woman would assume that was home. Oh. The hotel bill her husband filled out last night. “Yes, home. Eventually.”
    “You weren’t expecting the bus to come through Clayburn, were you? Closest place to get on again is back in Salina.”
    Maggie calculated the miles. If she’d walked fifteen miles and hitched a