The Stranger in Room 205. GINA WILKINS
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Do you have training for waiting tables?”
He shrugged. “How hard can it be?”
She couldn’t help smiling at that. She would love to be around to watch his first encounter with her mother’s busy lunch crowd, all of them in a hurry to eat and return to their jobs. “Mom said you’re being released tomorrow. Do you know what time?”
“Sometime tomorrow morning. Before noon, they said.”
“I’ll be here to pick you up. Is there anything you need me to bring in the morning?”
His eyebrows rose. “You understand that your mother has offered to let me stay in your guest house?”
“Yes, I know. She’s probably dusting and freshening it as we speak.”
“And you have no objections to this arrangement?”
“I suppose not. After all, Mother already offered.”
“And you claim that she is the trusting one in the family?”
Serena wrinkled her nose at him, amused by his expression. “I don’t have to completely trust you to give you a hand in the morning. Not that I don’t trust you, of course,” she added quickly, in case he’d taken offense. “What I meant to say is—”
He laughed. The sound was so unexpected—and so pleasant—that it silenced her babbling. “I know what you meant,” he assured her. “And there’s no need to apologize. I appreciate your help. I hope I can find a way to repay you and your mother someday for the kindness you’ve shown me.”
Somewhat stiffly, she murmured, “I wasn’t apologizing.”
“Good.”
A young woman in teddy-bear-print scrubs carried a covered tray into the room. “Dinner, Mr. Wallace.”
He eyed the tray without enthusiasm. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a thick steak under there? Or maybe lasagna?”
With an apologetic smile, she set the tray on the wheeled bed table. “I’m afraid not. It’s macaroni and cheese with English peas and Jell-O.”
The look Sam gave Serena almost made her laugh. It was quite clear that he wasn’t looking forward to his dinner.
“There’s a corn bread muffin to go with it,” the young woman said almost anxiously, as if eager to please him. “I’ve heard the corn bread is pretty good.”
Displaying a smoothness that immediately set off Serena’s alarms, Sam gave the woman a near-blinding smile. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, then. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She almost stammered, and she was blushing when she hurried out of the room.
Serena doubted that this little hospital had seen many patients like golden-haired, blue-eyed, wicked-dimpled Sam Wallace. She’d heard gossip that the nurses had all but competed with each other to take his vital signs. LuWanda had told her in the hallway earlier that he was one of the nicest young men she’d ever taken care of. “So funny and polite,” she’d raved. “It’s such a shame about his circumstances. Something terrible must have happened to cause such a smart, obviously well-educated man to end up without a home or a job. No one to turn to in his time of need.”
“Maybe he’s just a loner,” Serena had suggested. “Someone who can’t stay in one place for very long. One of those guys who’s incapable of forming lasting attachments.”
“I don’t think so,” LuWanda had murmured thoughtfully. “Have you seen the look in his eyes? Something tragic happened to him—maybe the death of someone he loved deeply or something awful like that. He’s running from a broken heart or tragic memories. I’d bet my next week’s salary on it.”
Remembering those fanciful words, Serena studied Sam’s eyes. Once again the first adjective that came to her mind when she tried to identify his expression was “lost.” She wasn’t sure if Sam Wallace was running away from something or looking for something, but he was obviously not a happy man. But, oh, could he turn on the charm.
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
B y 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