Recovered Secrets. Jessica R. Patch

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СКАЧАТЬ half, that is.

      This woman had taken her under her wing, physically and spiritually, the day Hollister Montgomery—the man who’d rescued her—brought her to Tish. She’d given her a place to live, turning the garden shed into a small living quarter, and in return Grace helped Tish around the inn for a meager, but livable, salary. A man at Hollis’s church had given her a car. Once she got behind the wheel, the muscle memory had taken over. Weird thing about retrograde amnesia—she’d lost some words but not her procedural memory. She might not remember the name for a spoon, but she could drive a car or even ride a bike if she’d done it often in her past. Hollis insisted she take lessons and a driver’s test anyway. He’d worked with the sheriff to get her a temporary ID and license.

      “You going to the facility today?” Tish asked, and pointed to her search-and-rescue raincoat.

      “Yep. I told Hollis I’d help him do inventory.”

      “Hmm,” Tish said and gave her a knowing eye. The one she always gave when Grace mentioned him.

      Grace couldn’t have romantic feelings for Hollis—or anyone. How could she? What if she was already married—or in a relationship and her beloved was out there hunting for her, worried sick? And even if that weren’t the case, what did a woman with no memory have to offer? Nothing. Literally. She could see a first date now: Where did you grow up? I don’t know. What do you love to do in your spare time? I can’t remember. Do you have any brothers or sisters? Maybe.

      Tish pointed toward the small dining area for guests. “Not many today. The two businessmen from Memphis. The Westcott couple. And a man from Jackson.” She rubbed her hands on her apron. “Before you head out—and take Hollis a couple of those cinnamon rolls—would you carry these into the dining room?”

      “You got it.” She licked her fingers and washed her hands, then carried a platter of glazed goodness to the buffet in the dining area. She nodded a hello to guests she recognized and spotted the man from Jackson, Mississippi, at the table by the window, sipping coffee and gazing at the rain. He glanced her way as if he felt her watching, but made no move to be polite, to smile or even acknowledge he had locked eyes on her.

      “Good morning,” she said softly and set the tray of sweets next to the bowl of fresh fruit. “Tish makes homemade cinnamon rolls that are out of this world.”

      He said nothing, only stared.

      “Are you okay, sir?” She moved closer to his table. Was he having a stroke? His fist tightened, and he cocked his head. “Sir?”

      He blinked out of his stupor. “Fine. Sorry. I’m fine. I’m Peter Rainey.”

      “Grace Thackery.”

      “You work here or just doing a favor?” he asked and studied her. Not in an uncomfortable way, but curious.

      “For almost two years now.” She granted him a smile and he returned it, dimples creasing deep into his cheeks.

      He rubbed the stubble on his chin, a shade darker than his close-cropped blond hair. “And before that?”

      “This and that.” Probably. Surely. She shrugged. “So, what are you in town doing?” Her lack of memory was no one’s entertainment. It was a horror story at best.

      “Business.”

      Grace checked her watch. “Well, I hope it goes well. If you need an umbrella, Tish keeps extras by the front door.” She waved and bustled to the kitchen. Before opening it, she tossed a look at Mr. Rainey. He was still watching her, his eyebrows pulled together creating a line across his brow. He couldn’t possibly know her. Could he? If so, why wouldn’t he have said something? She shook off the thought and snagged the to-go box of cinnamon rolls for Hollis, then she poured a cup of coffee and snapped the plastic lid over it.

      She hollered a quick goodbye as Tish stirred a vat of gravy for biscuits and then she rushed into the steady rain. Once inside the small four-door Honda Civic, she removed her hood and set off for the SAR facility. She’d been volunteering at the search-and-rescue organization for over a year. It had started out to keep her busy while she was acclimating to her new normal, but when she discovered she loved the outdoors, hiking and had several survival skills—including tying a slip knot like a pro—Hollis had suggested she take the classes to join the volunteer team. Maybe she’d been a Girl Scout troop leader.

      Being a part of a team and helping others had been a lifesaver for Grace. Guess Hollis suspected she needed to feel useful. He was intuitive and patient. Always going the extra mile to help others, including Grace. He’d made sure she had a place to live, to work, and he’d also taken her to church on Sundays. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever given her heart and life to God, but after a few months of attending she felt the urge to make the commitment.

      The women had been kind and helpful, inviting her to Bible studies and quilting classes—she was a natural with a needle and thread—but the love and friendship she’d been lavished with still didn’t combat the nighttime warring where she wrestled with who she was—who she’d been. Did she want to be that person again? Were her interests and likes now the same as the woman once before? Would she ever know?

      As she turned on Old Highway 4, a pop sounded and the car jerked to the right. The smell of rubber stamped out the homey scent of coffee and cinnamon. She veered off the shoulder and parked. Clambering out into the rain, she spotted the right front tire blown, tread hanging limply on the ground. Growling under her breath, she opened the trunk and hauled out the jack and the spare. Hey! She knew how to fix a tire. It was all there in her mind. Score. Maybe she was a mechanic. Or she had an attentive father who wanted her to be independent. Or a husband...boyfriend...brother?

      She knelt in the wet puddle and went to work.

      Headlights stabbed through the dappled haze. A pickup eased onto the shoulder of the road. She waved as two men clambered out and headed toward her. Both wearing jeans and work boots.

      “I got it, fellas, but thanks for getting out in the rain to help a lady.” Were the people where she once lived as cordial?

      The shorter, stockier man didn’t smile and the taller one ran a hand through his black rain-slicked hair—his eyes glinted like a shark’s. Grace’s neck hairs stood at attention and a pit of dread hollowed out her gut.

      “I see you have a little trouble, eh?” The taller man shot her a wild smile, and the hungry animal gleam in his eyes said he very well may have done something to give her this trouble.

      “No...no,” she stammered. “I’m doing fine on my own.” Rain trickled down her face and she gripped the jack as the stockier man edged to the left of her and the one speaking stalked her dead-on.

      “We just want to know where the doctor is.”

      Grace’s heart hammered in her chest as she jumped to her feet, her knees like jelly and her hands trembling. It was pretty clear they weren’t talking about Dr. Jones, the local General Practitioner. “You...you stay back. I don’t know anything about a doctor.”

      He laughed. “Don’t play stupid. All you have to do is tell us the truth and no harm comes to you. But if you hold out...”

      She backed up a step and right into the chest of the shorter Latino. He gripped her upper arms with force. “You hold out and we mess you up. Where’s the doctor? We won’t ask again.” He hurled Spanish slurs and she recognized them. СКАЧАТЬ