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.