Remember to Forget (30 page)

“Oh.” He went on painting.

“So were you?”

He bent to balance the paintbrush across the rim of the can, then straightened to face her. His mouth turned down in a thoughtful frown. “I need to talk to you about something.” He came a step closer.

Uh-oh. Here it comes.
She stood, waiting.

“It’s about Jack Linder.”

“Yeah, you told me. Believe me, Trevor, I know how to handle a drunk.”

Trevor’s eyebrows shot up, but she was glad she’d said what she did. It was true. Maybe she could ease gradually into the truth. It would be less painful that way. “Is he like the town drunk or something? Wren was upset, too, when I told her I might start working at the gallery. Does she know about this guy’s problem?”

He rubbed the space between his eyes, as if staving off a headache. “Wren knows.” Trevor lifted his head and studied her for a long minute.

Maggie got the impression he was trying to decide how much to reveal to her.

Finally he blew out a hard breath. “Wren knows better than most, Meg. Jack is her son.”

“What?” Hadn’t she met Jackson Linder’s mother at the gallery that day?

His expression grew somber.

“But—I
met
his mother.”

Trevor nodded again. “That’s Twila . . . Linder. It’s a long story, Meg, and it’s not all mine to tell.”

Maggie waited, hoping he didn’t plan to stop there.

He glanced past her to the lobby and craned his neck, listening, she knew, for Wren.

The muffled tremor of the washing machine agitator apparently gave him license to continue. “John and Twila Linder adopted Jack as an infant. John died a few years ago, but they were a great couple. I spent a lot of time at their house when we were kids. Jack always knew he was adopted—it never seemed to be a big deal. But he had a girlfriend in high school who convinced him he should search for his birth mother. With Twila’s blessing, Jack did a search when he turned eighteen and . . . well . . .” Trevor eyed Maggie. “It turned out his birth mother had been living in Clayburn all along.”

Maggie released the breath she’d been holding. “Wren?”

“Yes. Wren was . . . well, let’s just say she wasn’t the Wren we know and love now. I don’t know all the details, but apparently Jack’s birth father wasn’t exactly”—he cleared his throat meaningfully—“
available
to marry Wren.”

“But Bart?”

“Bart and Wren just celebrated their tenth anniversary last summer.”

Meg leaned back against the table, stunned, trying to wrap her mind around the things Trevor just revealed. The situation was so different than she’d imagined. She’d assumed Bart and Wren had been together forever. That they were nearing retirement after being high-school sweethearts. Of course she hadn’t bothered to ask Wren about her life. She’d
been too immersed in her own problems. Problems that paled now, in the light of Trevor’s story. It seemed she wasn’t the only one with problems, with a past she was ashamed of.

Her heart melted with tenderness toward Wren. It all started to make sense to her now. Wren’s odd reaction when she’d mentioned the gallery owner. Her concern about Maggie working there . . .

She stared up at Trevor. “Do people in town know? Does Wren have a relationship with Jack?”

He shook his head. “Not lately. People know—the newspaper ran a story years ago, when Jack first found Wren. For years they were close. Wren was careful not to try to take Twila’s place—not that she ever could—but it was good for both of them to know the truth. And they got along great.”

Maggie wrinkled her nose. “So what changed that? Jack’s drinking?”

“Not exactly.”

Trevor’s tremulous sigh made Maggie wonder why he seemed to have a stake in Jack’s story. It seemed to be deeper than their high-school friendship.

He glanced at his watch, then picked his paintbrush back up. “Let’s finish this last coat and grab some supper. Then I want to show you something.”

F
rom her perch in the passenger seat of Trevor’s pickup, Maggie watched the telephone poles sail by on Old Highway 40—the highway she’d walked into town on. She’d spent four days in Clayburn now. By some strange trick of her mind, this place—this tiny, humble town on an ancient prairie—felt more like home than anywhere she’d lived before.

She was curious where Trevor was taking her now. He hadn’t spoken a word since they’d cleaned up their painting mess and climbed into his pickup.

The chill of the air conditioner blew across her bare arms, and she wished she’d left Trevor’s flannel paint shirt on. She glanced at him across the truck’s cab. She had known him such a short time, but she didn’t feel an ounce of fear toward the gentle man who sat with tanned wrists lopped over the steering wheel, eyes on the road ahead, Vivaldi on the CD player.

The sun balanced atop a hedgerow that stretched across the horizon behind them in the distance, and a band of puffy purplish clouds lined up for what promised to be a spectacular sunset. Ten minutes east of town, where the road crossed the Smoky Hill River, Trevor slowed the truck and turned onto a gravel road just past the bridge. He made a U-turn on the side road, pointing the pickup back toward Clayburn. He shifted the truck into park and switched off the radio.

The intersection seemed vaguely familiar, but Maggie didn’t understand why he’d brought her here.

Trevor cut the engine and opened his door, leaving the keys dangling in the ignition. “Careful climbing down. The ditch is steep on that side. Here. Hang on.” He ran around to her side and gave her a hand down.

The ditch was lush with tangled weeds and tall grasses. Clumps of sunflowers were scattered at haphazard intervals. The air was musky with damp soil.

She followed him along the edge of the dirt road, their shoes crunching on the ridge of fine sand the passage of rural traffic had created. A few yards behind the truck, Trevor stopped and stared off across the pastureland. She paused beside him, following his gaze, but the low buttes and the copse of gnarled trees beyond the stone post fence gave her no clue as to why they were here. A mourning dove cooed somewhere behind them. A pair of the doves had a nest under the eaves of the inn, and Bart had identified their call for Maggie one evening. It was the loneliest sound she’d ever heard.

And now the haunting birdsong seemed to reflect Trevor’s demeanor.

He stood straight and somber, seeming someplace far away. Maggie stood a step behind him, respecting his silence with her own. After a minute, Trevor bowed his head, as if trying to compose himself. She waited, growing steadily more uncomfortable.

But then he turned to her, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “This is where my family died . . . Amy and Trev.” He swallowed hard, looking away. “The accident happened right here.”

She inhaled a shuddering breath, finally understanding. “Oh, Trevor.” Her voice rushed out in a whisper. This made it all seem so real. She tried to imagine this peaceful spot swarming with emergency vehicles, paramedics, shattered glass. A chill went through her. “I’m so sorry.”

Staring at the dirt beneath his feet, he nodded a silent acknowledgment. A long minute passed. “Come over here.” He walked around the pickup to the other side of the ditch. He climbed down the grassy embankment and held out his hand to help her down behind him.

When she was on solid footing in the ditch, she looked around her. Trevor was bent, wading through the high grasses as if searching for something. And then she knew why this intersection seemed familiar.

He parted a tall curtain of plumed grass to reveal the hewn crosses she’d seen in the ditch the day she’d walked from the bus station. A deep sadness came over her as the meaning of the crosses became clear. She swallowed the lump in her throat and waited for Trevor to explain.

He knelt on one knee in the ditch, a hand resting on the larger cross as he yanked out some of the grasses and tossed them aside, clearing the space. She waited, not knowing what to say, aching for this man and all he’d been through.

Finally he rose. The sun had fallen below the hedgerow, casting his face in shadow. “These crosses . . . Jack made them. For Amy and Trev. For a year—maybe longer—he put fresh flowers on them every single Saturday. It’s been awhile now.” He bowed his head again.

“I don’t understand.”

“Jack pulled out in front of Amy. Plowed into her car, probably
going about fifty. The police said chances are . . . she never knew what hit her.”

Maggie’s breath caught. “Was he . . . drunk?”

“No.” Trevor gave a humorless laugh and wagged his head. “No, that’s the ironic thing. Jack
never
drank—not even that teenage rebellion thing in high school. He was stone sober the day of the accident.”

“Oh, Trevor.” She tried to fathom how much this must have cost him. “How can you ever forgive something like that?”

Trevor stared at her. “No, Meg. I forgave Jack. The day it happened. I truly did.”

Maggie shook her head. She didn’t understand how anyone could possibly forgive such an incredible mistake.

“It could easily have been you or me, Meg. We’ve all done it. You’re in a hurry, you think you checked traffic, but you’re distracted . . .”

“So . . . his drinking . . . ?”

“Guilt over what happened drove him to the bottle. He can’t seem to get over it.”

She stared at him for a minute, unable to comprehend the kindness she saw in him. “But you forgave him.”

He nodded, the dim light eclipsing his expression. “I think I understand how he feels. If the tables had been turned, I might have struggled with a similar temptation.” He hung his head, then looked up at her, sorrow clouding his eyes. “I’ve done everything I know to help release him from the guilt. But he can’t seem to forget. It’s out of my hands now. Until he can forgive himself, there’s nothing I can say or do.”

He panned the dusky sky and nodded toward the pickup. “It’ll be dark soon. We should probably go.” He led the way around to her side and opened the door for her.

When they were back in the truck, Trevor put his hand on the keys, then hesitated. “Would you mind if we just sat here for a while?”

Maggie wanted to tell him she would’ve sat there with him all night. Instead she managed a nod.

He rolled down his window, and she did likewise, letting a breeze move through the stuffy cab. They sat in silence, her mind reeling with everything she’d learned. She thought again of Trevor’s claim that he’d forgiven his friend. She ran a finger along the edge of the window, trying to muster the courage to ask the question burning inside her. “Please . . . don’t take this the wrong way, but . . . I don’t see how you could possibly forgive what he did.”

He smiled softly. “I love Jack, Meg. He’s my friend.”

“But what if he
had
been drunk when he hit Amy’s car? Could you still have forgiven him?”

Trevor bit the corner of his lower lip and bent over the steering wheel for a moment. But when he straightened and met her eyes, his own were clear. “Even then I hope I would have chosen to forgive. But Meg, it’s not by my own will. I couldn’t do it without His help.” He gestured heavenward, then looked pointedly back at her. “None of us can do it without Him.”

She averted her eyes, wanting to change the subject. “It must be so hard. This whole thing with your friend, on top of losing your family.”

He gripped the wheel, a rueful smile curving his lips. “It pretty much stinks. But what are you going to do?”

“I’m so sorry, Trevor.” Why could she never think of the words that might hold true comfort?

He shifted in his seat. “The worst of it is what it’s done to Wren.”

“I don’t understand why he distanced himself from Wren.”

“I’m not sure I understand it either. But then liquor doesn’t do much to put sense into a man’s head.”

She nodded slowly. She understood more than Trevor could possibly know.

“I think Wren saw Jack throwing his life away and tried to intervene. That didn’t sit well with Twila, and somehow it got all messed up, and Wren became a place Jack could unleash his anger.”

“Poor Wren.”

“So now maybe you can understand why Wren”—he reached across the seat to pat her hand—“and me, too—are uncomfortable with you working for Jack. The gallery was thriving a few years ago. Jack had so much promise. He’s a very talented man. But I don’t know if he’s even finished a painting since that day. Or sold much of anything.” He shook his head. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Clayburn isn’t exactly a cultural mecca with people lining up to collect original art.”

She smiled at his sarcasm.

His gaze moved out to where the crosses poked up through the grasses in the ditch. “Maybe he
does
need help at the gallery. It’s not my business—or Wren’s, for that matter—what you do. We just don’t want to see you get hurt. And most of the time, Jack has a full-time job just trying to stand up straight.”

Sincerity softened his expression. Maggie saw in his face how much Trevor cared for his friend. And for Wren.

“What happened to Jack wasn’t fair.” Trevor’s voice was far away for a minute. He stared out the front windshield into the encroaching darkness, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t have to tell you how much I hate it that it was my friend driving that car that terrible day.”