The Stranger in Room 205. GINA WILKINS
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a point to find out if there’s any reason for us to be wary of Mr. Wallace.”
Marjorie murmured something noncommittal, then changed the subject before Serena could nag a promise from her. “Did I mention that Kara called while you were at work today?”
That too-casual announcement made Serena sit up straighter. “She did? How is she? Has she come to her senses? Is she coming home to take her place at the paper and reclaim this idiot mutt of hers?”
Marjorie’s laugh was tinged with just a hint of wistfulness. “I’m afraid not. She is still desperately in love with Pierce and determined to help him become a country music star. She’s waiting tables at a little nightclub outside of Nashville while he sings there three nights a week hoping to be discovered.”
Serena groaned. She honestly wondered if her older sister had lost her mind. Kara had always been as responsible and dependable as Serena, outwardly content to settle in Edstown and take over the family-owned newspaper. She’d been engaged briefly during her senior year of college, but that hadn’t worked out, and she’d seemed in no rush to get involved again.
Marjorie had often fretted that neither of her daughters was anxious to marry and start families, both focused more on establishing their careers and their independence than finding the right men. “Too picky,” she had called them, reminding them often that there weren’t many single males to choose from in this area and advising them to grab a couple before they were all gone.
Eight months ago, thirty-one-year-old Kara had met twenty-six-year-old Pierce Vanness during a girls’ night out at a bar in a neighboring town. Pierce had been the entertainment that evening, singing with a local band. Like a star-struck groupie, Kara had approached him between sets—and the rest was history. Kara had convinced Pierce to give up his day job working in his father’s shoe store and head for Nashville in search of stardom. She’d named herself his business manager—which seemed to involve supporting him while he pursued his dream.
Serena just couldn’t understand it.
Marjorie spent the next twenty minutes filling Serena in on all the details of Kara’s call. It occurred to Serena only after she’d gone up to bed that Marjorie had never promised to stay away from Sam Wallace until after Dan had thoroughly investigated him.
Sam sat in a chair in his hospital room, gazing out the window at the uninspiring view of the parking lot. The doctor had said it would be good for him to get out of bed, that it would help him build up his strength. Sam was more than ready for that, but he saw no evidence of it yet. His limbs were still as rubbery as a jellyfish. He didn’t want to believe that was a normal condition for him.
The ever-present IV pump stood on its wheeled stand beside his chair, chugging liquids into him through the needle still taped into the back of his hand. He was idly considering using the heavy metal stand to break the window and escape this place when someone tapped on his door and then pushed it open. Expecting one of his nurses, he was a bit surprised when his caller turned out to be a comfortably rounded woman in her mid-fifties with beauty-parlor curls lacquered into her salt-and-pepper hair and soft blue eyes behind plastic-framed glasses. She wore a pale green knit pantsuit and she carried a large black purse in one small hand.
“Mr. Wallace?” she asked.
Without confirming the name, he responded, “What can I do for you?”
She bustled into the room. As far as he could remember, he’d never actually seen anyone bustle before, but it was the only word that seemed to describe this woman’s quick, almost fluttery steps. “Actually, I’m here to find out what I can do for you. I’m Marjorie Schaffer.”
Shrink? Social worker? Had someone figured out his problem already? Acutely aware of his scratched bare legs sticking out from beneath the gown and paper-thin robe the hospital had provided, Sam cleared his throat. “Um—yes?”
“I’m Serena’s mother. She told me all about you.”
Relaxing a little, he murmured, “Did she?” It must not have been much of a conversation, considering how little there was to tell about him at this point.
Marjorie Schaffer bobbed her head. “She said you were passing through looking for work when two evil men robbed you and beat you up. I’m so sorry, Mr. Wallace. I hate to think anyone around here would do such a terrible thing.”
Just what he needed to flood him with guilt—this sweet little woman apologizing for a crime he’d concocted from thin air. He tugged his robe over his bare knees, trying to decide what to say in response.
She didn’t give him a chance to speak, but sank almost royally into the other chair and gazed at him kindly. “You have no family to turn to in your time of need, Mr. Wallace?”
“Um…no. No close family, anyway.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve lost both my parents, as well as my husband. It’s very difficult to be left so alone, isn’t it? I don’t know what I would do without my daughters.”
“Serena has a sister?”
“An older sister, Kara. She’s living in Nashville, Tennessee, now. She calls often, though. And she knows she’s always welcome to come home—and that Serena and I would both be there immediately if she needs us.”
Because she seemed to expect a comment, he said, “You’re very fortunate to have each other.”
Was there someone even now frantically searching for him? Ready and willing to offer him the type of comfort and support Marjorie Schaffer had just described? Someone who loved him enough to drop everything to come to him? He strained to remember, but the only result was a throbbing headache and a hollow feeling in his chest. If he had a loving family somewhere, they were as lost to him now as his real name.
The memories would come back when his injuries healed, he assured himself. And then he would offer a sincere apology to anyone who might have suffered because of his unplanned absence. But if there was someone who loved him—someone he loved in return—wouldn’t he sense it? Somehow?
“Mr. Wallace?” Marjorie broke into his torturous self-questioning, her soft face creased with concern as she leaned toward him. “Are you in pain?”
He immediately cleared his expression. “Just a headache.”
“Poor dear.” She patted his braced left hand, exactly as if he were a wounded six-year-old. “Should I call a nurse?”
Reacting instinctively to her tone, he answered, “No, ma’am. That isn’t necessary.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, thank you. Someone will be in soon enough.”
She sat back with a sympathetic smile. “If you’re anything like my late husband, you hate being in the hospital. He couldn’t abide the loss of privacy and dignity, even for his own good.”
That was a sentiment Sam heartily shared. “The doctor told me this morning that I’ll probably be released tomorrow. Most likely before noon.”
“So soon?”
Having seen himself in the bathroom mirror, he understood her surprise. The colorful scrapes and bruises that covered most of his exposed skin looked every bit as bad as they felt. He didn’t know whether it was those bruises or the amnesia that had made his face look so much like a stranger to him. But the injuries weren’t life-threatening, and the hospital administrators were probably growing a bit nervous about his lack of insurance. There was little more that could be done for him here. Time and patience were the best medicines for him now.
He just wished he knew where the hell he would go when he was ushered, barefoot and penniless, out of this place. If his memory had not returned by that point, he would be forced to admit the truth to someone. What else could he do?
“Where will you go when you leave here?” Marjorie asked, as if she’d somehow read his thoughts.
“I’m not