For Want of a Memory

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1-2 | 3-4 | 5-6 | 7-8 | 9-34 & Epilogue Available On

PLEASE NOTE: This is a preview of this novel. It is available for purchase in its entirety via

Chapter Seven

"You're looking better," said Officer Connel.

"I feel better...mostly," said Kris.  "I have lots of questions, but I feel better."

"I've still got lots of questions, too," said Mitch.

"Why didn't you tell me I got shot?"

"I was hoping you'd tell me about that."  Mitch watched for signs of stress, but didn't see any.

"I'd love to tell you," said Kris.  "I'd love for you to put whoever did this to me behind bars for the rest of his life."

"His life?"  Mitch waited.

"Or her life," said Kris.  "Don't you think I'd tell you who shot me if I knew?"

"I can think of a dozen reasons why you might not want to do that," said Mitch.

"Do I need a lawyer?"

Mitch frowned.  He hated it when suspects asked that question.  There was precedence, in some of the more liberal courts, that had interpreted that question as a request for a lawyer.  He hadn't advised Farmingham of his rights, because he really had no probable cause to arrest the man.  It wasn't against the law to GET shot.  And, while there appeared to have been a motor vehicle accident of some kind, Mitch didn't have the car and there was no way he could convince even the stupidest of jurors that Kris had "left the scene."

His gut instinct was that there was much more below the surface of Mr. Farmingham than was visible, but the fact was that all he had...at present...was that gut instinct.  He decided not to play anymore games.

"I don't know," he said.  "In the first place, that's your decision to make.  I can't advise you on that, legally.  What I CAN tell you is that you're not under arrest and you're not being charged with any crime...at least not for now.  You popped up here in very curious circumstances, though, and I'm not going to just forget about you."

"So if I'm not under arrest...I can leave?"

"Where do you intend on going?" asked Mitch.

"I've been thinking about that," said Kris.  "I don't know where to go.  It would help if you answered some of my questions."

"Isn't this interesting," said Mitch.  "I have all kinds of questions for you and you have all kinds of questions for me.  Seems like kind of a yin yang situation, don't you think?"  He smiled.  "You have information that could be valuable to me, and I may have information that could help you.  How about trading?"

"What do you mean?" asked Kris.

"I'll ask you a question and then you get to ask me one," said Mitch.

"How do I know if I can trust you?" asked Kris.

"I could ask the same question," the policeman countered.

"OK, fair enough," said Kris.  "How will I know if I'm getting myself into trouble by answering your questions?"

"You'll know when I advise you of your legal rights," said Mitch.

"Don't I already have them?" asked Kris.

"Of course you do," said Mitch.  "I'm just not required to tell you what they are yet."

"That sounds pretty chicken shit," said the man in the bed.

"You'll get no argument from me on that," said the policeman.  "But that's the law.  You're not under arrest and I don't have any current plans to charge you with anything, so all we're doing right now is chatting.  I'll make you this promise, though.  If that changes...I'll tell you."

"Remind me not to play poker with you," said Kris.

"Actually, I kind of hope that someday we DO play poker," said Mitch.  

"Why?"

"Because that would mean you were my friend, instead of a disturbing mystery

There had been a few more moments of uneasy silence, until Kris finally said, "OK, what do you want to know?"

"You were in an accident," said Mitch.  "A car crash, probably.  What do you remember about that?"

He had hit on the one thing that Kris had some relatively distinct memories of, but those memories didn't make any sense.  If he'd hit a car door, and the man getting out of that car door, the policeman in his room wouldn't have said "probably."  He would already know about that part.  And, he was still scared that he WOULD be arrested, if he described what he remembered.

"I remember hearing glass breaking," said Kris.  He also remembered being afraid he was going to die, but that part didn't make any sense.

Mitch frowned.  He'd already told the suspect about the glass, so this wasn't new information.  He tried a different approach.

"What do you remember about your vehicle?"

Kris was quiet.  The only memory he could access was the one he was afraid to talk about, but this question didn't seem so dangerous.  He closed his eyes and replayed the memory.  This time, when he saw the door open in front of him, he paid attention to the front of his car hitting the door...and the man.

"It's kind of light blue," he said.

"What kind of car is it?" asked Mitch, his voice quiet.

"I don't know."  Kris opened his eyes.  "I know you ran a check on my license.  Does that match?"

Mitch didn't think giving that up was much.  "You have a '98 Buick Regal registered in New York.  They don't list the color of the car in their records."

"Buick Regal," Kris repeated.  It didn't mean anything to him.  He couldn't even think of what a Buick Regal looked like.

"What about your personal life?" asked Mitch.  

"I'm pretty sure I write books," said Kris.  "I have this kind of hazy memory of a computer screen, and I'm writing something.  It has chapters, so it has to be a book."

"Maybe you came up here to do research on a book," suggested Mitch.

"Where IS here, exactly?" asked Kris.

"Here is Pembroke, Connecticut," said Mitch.  "We don't have any industry to speak of.  Some people vacation here in the summer.  There's some sport fishing and a little hunting.  Are you a nature writer?"

"Maybe," said Kris.  "I like nature."

At that moment a scene flashed into his mind.  He closed his eyes, because he was eager for anything that might drift up in his memory, and he recognized what was happening as a memory being uncovered.  It was of a kangaroo, standing and looking at him.  He stared at the animal in his mind.  The landscape behind the kangaroo was stark and almost bare, with reds and yellows in the dirt, and scrubby little bushes, but no real trees.  A joey stuck it's surprisingly large head out of the kangaroo's pouch and looked around before ducking back in.

"What is it?" asked Mitch, seeing the man's face change.

"I think I've been to Australia," he said.  "I remember a kangaroo."

Mitch blinked.  That matched the accent, but it didn't fit with his image of this man...or, more correctly, of a man who might be involved in some criminal enterprise.  Australia wasn't a place where criminals went to further criminal ends.  Not in the sense of drug trafficking, anyway, which was what a lot of criminal enterprises were mixed up in, one way or another.

"A kangaroo," said Mitch.

"And a dingo," said Kris, smiling now.  "I had a pet dingo named Gyp.  She used to try to get me to stop writing and pay attention to her."

The kangaroo had flowed into another memory, of a mottled looking dog, that made Kris feel an ache in his heart.  He knew he had loved this dog and that the dog had died.  He couldn't remember much more, except that the dog had a habit of coming up to him while he was typing and lifting his arm with its nose.  He opened his eyes.

"I wrote a book in Australia."

"What was it called?" asked Mitch.

"I don't know," said Kris.

"I'll run a check on your name as an author," said Mitch.

"OK," said the man in the bed.

"Any idea why you have two names?" asked the lawman.

"I have two names?"  Kris was obviously surprised.

"You had a rental agreement in your coat pocket," said Mitch.  "It didn't have the same name as the one on your license."  He still didn't see anything that suggested Kris knew what he was talking about.  "You also had a key to the house on you.  It suggests you were driving there when you had the accident."

"A rental agreement?"  Kris's voice sounded wondering.  "But I live somewhere...don't I?"

"Yes, in New York City."

"I live in New York?"

"You sound surprised at that."  Mitch let the silence hang.

"I'm just surprised I live in a big city," said Kris.

"Why?"

"Beats me.  It just surprises me."  He blinked.  "What's the name on the rental agreement?"

"Larry Phillips," said Mitch.

Kris closed his eyes and said the name in his mind, silently.  It meant nothing to him at all.  He replayed the accident he could remember in his mind again.  He looked past the door...and the man.  There were buildings and cars and a lot of people on foot, but that's all he could remember.

"There were a lot of people," he murmured.

"What?"

Kris realized he'd spoken about the accident.  That was dangerous, so he shied away from that.

"I just remembered a crowd of people, but that's all," he said.

Mitch saw the pulse in the man's throat, suddenly.  He was upset by the memory.  The man was talking, though, so he didn't push it.

"Any idea what they were doing?" he asked softly.

Kris thought about the accident...and all those people.  They HAD to have seen it.  They would have been witnesses.  And yet this policeman didn't seem to know about it.  It wasn't much of a leap to decide that the accident had happened somewhere else, at some other time.  But that meant it wasn't responsible for the circumstances he was in now.  And yet, the memory of the accident seemed fresh somehow...not like the memory of Australia and his dog.  He knew those were old memories, somehow.  It didn't make any sense.

"No," he said.  "It doesn't make any sense to me."  He looked at the policeman.  "What did you do with my car?"

"I haven't found your car yet," said Mitch.

"How can that be?" asked Kris.  "If I had a wreck, and somebody brought me here, they had to have seen the car.  What about the other people in the accident?"

"It appears that your car went off the road and into a river.  I found the place, but your car isn't there.  It may be under the ice."

"Ice?"

"You're in Connecticut, in the middle of winter.  It's below zero outside."

"Shit!" said Kris.

"You're telling me," said Mitch.

"You're telling me nobody SAW this accident?"  Kris sounded amazed.

"A local woman found you on the road, almost dead.  She got you to the hospital."

"I met her," said Kris.

"You did?"  The policeman sounded surprised.

"She came to see me," said Kris.  "She's got a weird haircut."

"That's Lulu," said Mitch.  He smiled for some reason.  "She may be a little out there, but she saved your life."

Nothing made sense to Kris.  He was, if anything, more frustrated now than he'd been before getting his questions answered.

"Have you got that rental agreement?" he asked.

"It's in your personal effects," said Mitch.  "Not that there's much left.  Your clothing was cut off in the ER.  As far as I know, all they have is the rental agreement, the key, some loose change, and your billfold.  I'm not even sure they kept your shoes."

"Can I look at what they have?" asked Kris.

"It's your stuff," said Mitch, shrugging his shoulders.  "Be right back."

He was gone for only five minutes, during which Kris tried to make sense of what he now knew.  What he'd learned suggested he'd had TWO accidents; one in a city, where he hit a man and another here in Connecticut, where his car had gone into a river.  That didn't seem likely, but it's what the evidence suggested.  Mitch came back into the room, a plastic bag in his hand.

The bag was upended on the table they put his food trays on, and Mitch pushed it across the bed.  Everything except the loose change looked like it had been wet.  The paper had been folded into three equal sections, but was wrinkled and stained with red.  He realized it was his blood and was fascinated by it as he unfolded the document.  It was still legible, but just barely.  It said the rent had been paid in full up to the end of May.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"Today is the thirteenth," said Mitch.

"I mean what month?"

"November."

"So I obviously just drove up here to come to this house," said Kris.

"Looks that way."

"I don't remember any of this," sighed Kris.  He was obviously frustrated.

"Maybe you came here to meet somebody, or write a book that you couldn't write in the city," suggested Mitch.

"Why couldn't I write a book in the city?" asked Kris.

"Too many distractions?"

"I'm pretty distracted right now," said Kris explosively.  "I don't even know what I'm supposed to be writing!"

"Can't help you there," said Mitch.  "While they were getting me this stuff I Googled your name.  If you're a writer, you either haven't written anything noteworthy or wrote it under another name."

The men looked at each other, both arriving at the same conclusion.

"My other name," said Kris.  He picked up the rental agreement.  "This name!"

"I Googled that one, too," said Mitch.  "I didn't get anything on it either.  Not about an author.  Who's your publisher?"

Kris closed his eyes, but got nothing.

"I don't KNOW!" he moaned.

"Maybe it will come to you," said Mitch.  "The place is paid for.  Why not just move in and see what happens?"

"You want me around...in case you find out why you want to arrest me," said Kris.

Mitch grinned.  "I can't exactly tell you not to leave town.  Used to could do that kind of thing, but those days are over."

Kris looked at the man, who was at the same time a threat, though a hazy one, and just a man doing his job.  He HAD told Kris some things that he'd wanted to know and he WAS, apparently, being honest about what he had in mind.  While that was threatening, Kris liked it that the man was up front with him.

"I don't even have any clothes," said Kris.

"You've got a credit card," said Mitch, standing up.  "It's valid.  I checked that when I ran your license."  His smile looked friendly, but his words robbed it of that attribute quickly.  "And, as soon as you decide to tell me what you're holding back, maybe we can figure out what to do with you."

He left and Kris picked up the billfold he didn't recognize.  Other than the credit card, it contained a twenty and three ones, a library card in the name of Kristoff Farmingham, a discount card showing that if he bought two more pizzas from Tony's Real Italian Pizza and Pub that he'd get a free cheese pizza, and three pieces of paper with phone numbers on them, but nothing else.  The wallet looked starkly bare to him.  There were no pictures.  Maybe the policeman was right.  Maybe he was some kind of hermit who shunned contact with the outside world, even to the point of fleeing the city he lived in so that he could write without anyone bothering him.

He couldn't remember being like that, but his billfold suggested he didn't have much of a life.

He looked at his left hand.  There was no wedding ring and no indication that one had been removed.  He wondered if anybody was looking for him.

Chapter Eight

Lou Anne looked at Ambrose playing and felt the surge of warmth in her heart she always did when she saw him like this.  She loved him more than anything she could think of and every time she saw him her heart reminded her of that.

She didn't want more children, but that was because of the difficulties she'd had carrying Ambrose.  It had been torture for her.  Her body hadn't coped well with hosting a child.  The thought of going through that again had convinced her to take precautions.

Not that she'd needed them.  There hadn't been "another man" after Ambrose's father.  There had been some that were mildly interesting, but that was all.  At least until now.

She thought again about the man she'd found on the road.  She remembered the feeling of fear that he might be dead, and the hope that had leapt into her heart when he had turned out to be alive.  He was very interesting.  She tried to figure out WHY he was so interesting.  She had a hard time with that.  She knew almost nothing about him, and her short visit with him at the hospital had been routine in a very strange kind of way.  She'd noticed his accent while she was there.  Maybe that was it.

All she knew was that something made her want to learn more about him.  She hadn't thought about any man this much for almost as long as she could remember.  She'd said he'd see her again and she'd meant it.  That she'd meant it was one of the reasons she was thinking about him so much.  She WANTED to see him again…she just wasn't sure why

Lola Henderson was one pissed off woman.  Kris hadn't called her in over a week.  All the message she left for him at home went unanswered and his cell phone had been turned off every time she'd tried to call it.  She'd gone to his apartment twice-the second time she'd waited around for a while, hoping to catch him.  She was sure he'd dumped her and that he'd done it the gutless way of not telling her about it.  She was positive she'd catch him bringing some other woman home to his apartment and she was primed to make him pay for it.

But he never came home.   His parking spot was empty, too.

She had been THAT close to getting a commitment from him.  She'd had to ask him for a key to his apartment THREE times, but the last time, at least he'd said, "We'll see."  And now he'd disappeared off the face of the Earth.

It suddenly occurred to her that he might have been involved in an accident.  She felt panic at the thought.   He was her ticket.  She just KNEW it.  He was so secretive about his daily activities.  She hadn't met any of his friends.  He never talked about any friends either.  If he was laid up in the hospital or...worse...dead...she'd have to start all over again.

She was just barely getting by on her salary and she HATED her job.  She didn't want to work.  She wanted a man to take care of her, so she could sleep late and go shopping whenever she wanted to.  Kris wasn't rich.  Not yet.  But he WOULD be, if he wrote the right book, and she was quite sure if he listened to her she could tell him how to write it.  After all, she'd read at least ten or fifteen books.  She liked the ones with pictures of muscled men on the covers, set in England, when people still rode horses and men took what they wanted from a woman.  Kris wasn't like that.  She'd managed to get him into bed a few times, but he wasn't helpless yet.

She was thirty-six, though she'd told him she was only twenty-eight.  She needed to get him dependant on her.  If he was in a hospital somewhere, she needed to find out, so she could go and feel sorry for him.  She'd get the key to his apartment, to get his mail for him or something, and have a copy made.  She'd visit him every day, and take him home to finish recuperating from whatever was wrong with him.  He'd see that he needed her.

She picked up the phone book.  It took some effort, because it weighed a lot.  Turning to "Hospital" she stared at the page.  It was covered with names and numbers.  So was the next one…and the one after that.  She couldn't call all of them!  It would take days!

She thought of a shortcut.  Let somebody ELSE do all the calling.

She picked up the phone and dialed 911

"What do you mean I have to come to the precinct?" objected Lola.  "My boyfriend is missing.  Do your fucking job!"

"I can't take a missing persons report over the phone," said the operator.  "That's not an emergency.  We're all backed up down here.  You'll have to make the report in person."

The line went dead and Lola shouted at the phone.

She checked her watch.  She had to go to work.  She definitely couldn't afford to get fired right now.  She cursed again as she grabbed her purse.  She'd have to do this later.  She thought that Kris had better be in practically critical condition when she found him, because if he wasn't, he would be when she got done with him

"You're sure I can go," Kris said to the little Pakistani doctor.

"I am being very sure of deese, yes," said Dr. Massouf.  "I vas telling the Mitch Connel dat I was being ready to deescharge you for sure."  The man looked up at Kris.  "Are you wanting me to be referring you to a psychiatrist?"

"Do you think I'm crazy?" asked Kris.

"Of course not," said the man, his voice on edge.  "You are being troubled with memory losses, yes?"

"I'll let you know," said Kris.  He stood up.  That didn't feel odd anymore.  The nurses had had him up and walking around for several days now.  All the bandages were off and he had only a little residual ache in a few muscles and bruises.  "I don't have any clothes," he pointed out.

"Ah, yes, vun moment, pliss," the doctor said and hustled out of the room.

Jessica came in almost immediately, two bags in her hands.

"The hospital chaplain got these for you from the Salvation Army," she said.  "I hope they fit."

From the first bag he pulled out a blue checkered shirt, long sleeved, thankfully, and a pair of gray work pants.  There was a new package of jockey shorts, containing three pairs, and another package that had three pairs of new white tube socks in it.  A pair of hiking boots-used, but in surprisingly good condition-were in the bottom of the bag.  The other bag had a folded up coat in it.  He stood there, while she waited.  Apparently she didn't intend to leave while he dressed.

"You going to stay here while I change?" he asked.

"Oh!"  Her face got darker.  She didn't answer his question.  Instead, she posed one of her own.  "Um...did you remember anything about your health insurance?"

"No."

"In that case, I'm supposed to take you down to the cashier's office.  They want to make arrangements for payment."

"Of course," he said.

"I can leave if you want me to," she said, but she didn't move.

"Well, I'm going to be naked here in a minute," he said.

"It's not like I haven't seen that before," she said.  Her face was still darker than usual.  He thought again about how she was really a strikingly good looking woman.  "I gave you a sponge bath when you were still unconscious," she added.

"Makes no difference to me," he said.  He was surprised, for some reason, to find that it really DIDN'T make him uncomfortable for her to be there.  Maybe she was interested in him.  THAT he found to be an odd concept, for some reason.

He dropped the hospital robe and looked at her.  She had turned around after all.

"You're not going to make me leave here in a wheel chair, are you?"  He smiled.  He still hadn't moved to put anything on.

She turned her head just far enough to see he was still naked, then looked away again.  "Do you need help getting dressed?" she asked.

"I don't think so," he said.  He ripped the bag of shorts open, somewhat enthusiastically, and pulled a pair on.  Being in this room naked, with a woman, was affecting him, but the shorts kept it from showing too much.  He pulled on the pants, which were loose around the waist.

"No belt?" he asked.

"I guess not," she said.  "Mitch says you're staying here to write your book."

"I suppose so," he said.  "I can't remember what it's about, and I don't have a computer.  I don't even have a pad of paper, though I don't think I write that way.  I'm hoping something will come to me."  He looked around.  "Got anything that I can use as a belt?  These things will fall off of me if I don't do something."

She left, without a word, and he'd put the shirt and shoes on by the time she was back.  She had several safety pins in her hand.  She didn't ask, but just went to kneel behind him, lifting the shirt and pulling the waistband of the pants tighter.  He felt her hands for half a minute and then didn't.  He turned to find her standing close to him.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome."  She took a deep breath, and his eyes strayed to her chest.  He was pretty sure she noticed, but she didn't say anything.  "I won't make you ride," she said.

He followed her to the cashier's office, watching the sway of her hips.  She had a really nice ass and it kept him half hard as they walked.  He had no idea if he could put the bill on his credit card, or if he did, if it would exceed his credit limit.  He thought it was almost funny that he could remember that there were things like credit limits, when he couldn't even remember what the clothes they had cut off of him looked like or if he'd ever worn a checkered shirt before.  He arranged, with relatively little fuss, to make a down payment on his card and be billed for the rest over a period of months.  That was possible because he had a local address, which he showed them on the rental agreement.

Jessica walked him to the front doors.  He put the coat on.  It was tight over the shoulders, but it was better than nothing.

"OK," he said, feeling a pleasurable surge at knowing he was about to be free of restraint.  "Now all I need are directions to my rental.  I hope you know where it is," he said.  "Cause I sure don't.  How do I call a taxi?"

"We don't have a taxi company in Pembroke," she said smiling.  "We're a little small for that."

"So, how am I supposed to get there?" he asked.  "It looks cold out there."  He looked through the windows.  "And it's dark too.  What time is it?"

"Oh my!" she said.  "It's seven-thirty.  I didn't think about that."  She frowned and appeared to be thinking.  "I'm almost off shift," she said.  "If you can wait another half hour, I guess I could take you."

"Deal," he said.

There wasn't really anything else he could do

He was sitting in a chair in the lobby, leafing through a People magazine that was eight months old, but still held nothing in it that sparked any memories in him.  It was eight when she came up to him, bundled up in a hooded parka.  It had a dark fur ruff around the hood that set off her light brown face nicely.

"Ready?" she asked.

"I suppose so," he said, standing up.  "It seems kind of early to be discharging somebody...doesn't it?"

"They like for the admitting physician to be the one who discharges as well," she said.  "It's because you came in in the middle of the night.  If we kept you here past eight, they'd have to charge you another day, and they knew your insurance situation was a little odd."

"Oh," he said.  

They went outside and the cold hit him like a brick.  They got into her car and she started the engine.  

"It will warm up in a bit," she said.

"Any chance I could buy you breakfast?" he asked, thinking of how, when he got to the rental, it would be empty.

She looked over at him.

"I forgot about that, too," she said.  She sounded disappointed in herself.  "You really have nothing, huh."

"Not yet," he said.  "But life goes on.  I'll figure something out.  I guess I need to find a job."

"I thought you were an author," she said, pulling the car out onto frozen streets.

"I am," he said.  That feeling was rock solid now.  "But all I have is twenty-three dollars and a credit card.  I'm going to have to call the company and have the bill sent to me here, and I'll have to have something to pay it with.  I might have a bank account somewhere, but I don't know where, and I don't know if there's any money in it or not, so a job seems in order."

"I never thought about that," said Jess.  She tried to imagine being in his situation, and was almost pathetically glad she wasn't.

They ended up at The Early Girl Eatery, of course.  They got a warm reception when they went in.

"Well HI!" yipped Lou Anne.  "Look at you!  All walking around and acting normal and everything!"

"You didn't come see me," he said.  He wondered why he'd said it as soon as it left his lips.  She didn't owe him anything.

"I'm sorry," she moaned.  "Work was crazy, because they closed some roads and people got stuck here.  I had to work overtime, and still take care of Ambrose.  I MEANT to come see you again."

"It's OK," he said.  "I have no idea why I even said that."

"Because I promised," she said.  "And I like to keep my promises.  I'm so sorry.  How can I make it up to you?"

"You can serve us a delicious breakfast that is nothing like what they have in that hospital," he said firmly.  "For which I will render a handsome tip

Kris leaned back and patted his stomach, which felt huge to him, but was still flat as a board.  Jess sat across from him, delicately cutting up her French toast into small bites, which she transferred to her mouth with a fork.  Lou Anne had been back to the table five times, pouring only a few tablespoons of coffee into his cup each time and beaming when he extolled the delicious virtue of Hank's cooking.

"Ohhhhh," he groaned.  "That was soooo good."

"I would hope so," said Jessica.  "You ate like a starved man."

"I had to," he said.  "I don't have anything to eat at home."  He blinked.  "That sounds funny, calling it home, when I haven't even seen it yet."  He ran a hand through his hair.  "And yet, it's the only home I know about."  He slumped.  "I have no idea how this is going to work out.  I'm an author without a computer, and without an idea for a book.  I've got a home I haven't seen, and no clothes and no car."

"Maybe that's what you should write about," said Jess, pushing a single piece of French toast to the side of the plate.  She was a picky eater and there was just a little too much black on the edge of that piece.

He blinked again.  "You might have something there," he said.  "I mean think about it.  If this isn't an adventure, what is?  I have no memory and I'm stuck in a small town I've never been to."  He stopped.  "At least I don't THINK I've ever been here."  He grinned.  "Anyway, I have no plans and nothing to draw on from my past.  The local policeman thinks I'm a criminal of some sort.  So does Lou Anne, for that matter."

"What?"  Jess was suddenly alert.  "What are you talking about?"

"When she came to see me in the hospital she asked me if I was a mobster," he answered.

"Oh pooh," she said.  "That's nonsense.  You're mysterious...yes...but I'm sure you're a very nice man."

"That's another thing," said Kris as Lou Anne approached the table for the sixth time.  "I managed to meet the two most beautiful women in the whole town, within twenty-four hours of getting here.   This has all the makings of a great romance novel."

Lou Anne poured his coffee cup full again, while Jess covered hers with her hand.  She smiled at both of them.

"Isn't he the charmer," giggled Lou Anne.   "And intelligent too.  Who would have thought a stranger would have such good judgment?"

None of them noticed that three booths over, Clyde Watson was paying off a losing bet that the stranger would end up with coffee in his lap, while Buzz Wilder grinned and took his money

Lou Anne appeared one last time, the check in her hand.  She slid into the booth across from Kris, bumping Jess's hip with her own to make her move inward.

"I'm on break," she said, handing him the check.  "So what are your plans?"

"Jessica has agreed to drop me off at my rental house," he said.  "After that...I have no idea."

"Wait a minute," said Lou Anne.  "I can see about a dozen flaws in that plan."  She ticked them off on her fingers.  "First, you have no transportation.   Second, you have no food.  Third, you have no clothes.  Where did you get those clothes?" she asked curiously.

"Salvation Army," he said.  "They donated them to me.  It was really nice of them."

Lou Anne turned to her friend.  "You can't just dump him."

"I don't know what else to do, Lulu!" exclaimed Jess.  "I've got stuff to do today and I have to go in early tonight because Sandy is puking her guts out all over the place and we're short staffed."

"We can't just abandon him," said the waitress.

"You've done plenty for me," said Kris.  "You saved my life.  I'm the one who owes YOU."

"Yeah, sure," said Lou Anne, waving a hand.  "When you're rich and famous and on the best seller list, you can pay me back."  She stiffened.  "Hey!  What if you ARE rich and famous and on the best seller list?"

"Don't think so," said Kris.  "That cop said he checked and nobody's ever heard of me."

"Oh."  Lou Anne's slump, and the disappointment in her voice made him smile.  

"Don't worry," he said.  "With thoughts of you two to motivate me, I should be able to write something that will make every woman who reads it blush and have to go change her..."  He stopped suddenly, and blushed himself.  "Sorry."

"You're very naughty, aren't you," said Lou Anne archly, and in a tone that made it perfectly clear it was a statement, rather than a question.  Then she grinned.  "So you're a romance novelist?"

"I don't actually know," he sighed.  "But why not?  It can't be all that hard.  Some steamy looks, a few stolen kisses, a little intrigue with handsome men and beautiful women..."

"I don't know," said Lou Anne.  "I like reading that trash and I'm a pretty demanding reader too.  I know within the first five or six pages if I'm going to finish it.  There's a lot of junk out there."

"Well then, perhaps you'll lend a little editorial support to my venture," suggested Kris.  "You know, keep me going in the right direction?"

"Me?"  Lou Anne's smile was brilliant.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Jess, her voice petulant.  "I saw him first, Lulu.  You might have saved his life, but I gave him a sponge bath.  We've already been intimate."  She grinned as the man across from her turned red again.

"YOU," said Lou Anne, turning to her friend, "were going to just abandon the poor man in a strange place, if I might remind you."

"I can't help it!" objected Jess.  "I told you.  I have stuff to do."  She looked at her watch.  "In fact, you took so long to serve us breakfast that I'm going to be late getting to the bank and I HAVE to talk to them this morning!"

Lou Anne grinned.  "Don't tell me you bounced another check."

"It's NOT funny!" complained Jess.

"You'd have money if you quit giving it all to the bank in penalty fees," said Lou Anne.  "I wish you'd let me teach you how to balance your checkbook."

"I know how to balance my checkbook."  Jessica pouted.  "I just don't do it...that's all.  I'm very busy."

"Yeah," laughed Lou Anne.  "Busy going to the bank all the time to explain why you keep bouncing checks."

"This will be the last time," stated Jessica firmly.  "I promise, OK?  Now, I have to go.  Can you take care of Kris?"

"Me?" squealed Lou Anne.  "I have to get some sleep and pick up Ambrose!"

"Well, you can't just abandon him," said Jess, pushing Lou Anne out of the booth and putting on her coat.  "You said so yourself."

"You just did!" snarled Lou Anne.

"Ladies, please," said Kris.  "I'll manage.  I'm a big boy.  I can take care of myself."

Lou Anne turned on him.  "Really?  And how are you going to manage that?  You don't even know where you live!"

"Bye!" yipped Jessica.  

"Hey!" yelled Lou Anne.

Bets were made left and right as the other customers looked on with interest.

"See you later!" called Jessica.  "Thanks for breakfast, Kris."

"But... "  Lou Anne turned to look at Kris.  "OH!" she snarled, stamping one foot.

"Could I get some coffee over here?" complained a trucker, who had never been in The Early Girl before.

More bets were made and the clink of silverware almost stopped as the regulars waited for things to play out.

END OF PREVIEW

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