The Stranger in Room 205

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 sure.” He kept his tone deliberately nonchalant. “I guess I’ll play that by ear.”

“What sort of work were you hoping to find before those awful men attacked you?”

Again, he didn’t know quite how to answer her. It was harder, for some reason, to lie to this kind-eyed woman than it had been with the others. Yet something deep inside him refused to let the truth come out. Pride? Fear? He didn’t know what instinct held him back, what repercussions he feared most, but he was no more willing to confess his amnesia now than he had been before.

“As long as it’s legal, I’m not particularly selective about the jobs I take,” he said, bluffing.

“What about waiting tables? Is that a job you would consider?”

“Waiting tables?” He had a vague image of himself sitting in a dimly lit restaurant while white-coated servers set plates of food in front of him. Obviously a glimmer of memory—but where was that restaurant? And who had been sitting on the other side of the table for two he’d envisioned? “I can wait tables.”

She nodded, looking curiously satisfied. “Good. If you’re interested, I have a job for you. You can start as soon as you’ve recovered sufficiently to be on your feet for several hours.”

“You, uh, have a job for me?”

“Yes. I own a little diner downtown. The Rainbow Café. We’re open Monday through Saturday for breakfast and lunch, and we do a brisk business on week-days. I’ve just lost two employees. You can work for me when you’re released—or as soon as you’re physically able, if you need a few days to recover first.”

Sam blinked a couple of times. “Um…a diner?” He couldn’t seem to stop foolishly parroting her.

She nodded brusquely. “I can’t pay you a lot, of course, but you’re in no shape to work at construction or other more physically challenging jobs. You can work for me at least until you recover all your strength, which might take a few weeks.”

“Why are you offering this, Mrs. Schaffer?” He was pretty sure this generous offer was unusual from a complete stranger.

Her smile was angelic. “Because I need your help, Mr. Wallace. And because you need mine. That seems like a fair trade, doesn’t it?”

Surely his memory would return by tomorrow. Maybe he would remember that he did, indeed, have insurance—or a couple of million dollars set aside for emergencies. But just in case… “Thank you. I accept your offer.”

She nodded as if there’d never been any doubt. “You’ll need a place to stay, of course.”

“I’m sure I can—”

“I have a place you can use until you get something more permanent. It’s a little one-bedroom guest house my late husband built for my mother a few years before she passed away. It’s completely separate from the house Serena and I share, so you would have your privacy. You’re welcome to stay there rent-free while you’re working to pay off your medical bills. If you want to stay longer than that, we can discuss rent then.”

“You’re being very kind.” Scary-kind, actually. Did normal people really do things like this?

She beamed at him. “I’ve been accused of making snap judgments, but I’m almost always correct in my instincts about people. I know you’re a good man, Sam. You just need a little help right now.”