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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