Under the Mistletoe with John Doe (7 page)

“Don't worry about that,” Pete said. “I've got lunch covered today. You can pick up the tab next time.”

“Okay. If that's the case, then you've got yourself a deal.”

“Glad to hear it,” Pete said, a grin spreading across his face as he patted John on the back.

Barbara was smiling, too—as if his company would be a real treat.

John shot a glance at Betsy, to see if she was as happy as her parents seemed to be. But she wore the same unreadable expression she'd had on earlier.

 

As Betsy slid into a corner booth at Caroline's Diner with her parents and John, she was both pleased and discomfited about his joining them for lunch. She could have dealt with one or the other, but the conflicting emotions made her uneasy.

Now here they were, seated at the table with their sodas before them and waiting for the waitress to serve their hamburgers.

Her father—a retired banker—leaned toward John and said, “Tell us a little about yourself, young man. What kind of work do you do? And how did you come to meet Dr. Graham?”

Betsy glanced at John, who'd yet to respond, and watched the dilemma weighing in his eyes. But before she could field the question for him, he answered her father truthfully. “Actually, sir, I had an accident a while back and suffered a head injury. I'm afraid I've got temporary amnesia, so there's not much I can tell you.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” Betsy's mother said. “That must be so difficult for you.”

“It's tough, but I'm dealing with it.”

For a moment, pain shadowed John's eyes. As Betsy's heart went out to him, he rallied and changed the subject. “I was pleasantly surprised when I entered the Shady Glen lobby. It's got a warm and cozy feel about it.”

“We like it,” her dad said. “And there's a convalescent facility right next door, if one of us should ever need it. But the residents on our side of the complex are considered active seniors, and we have a lot of opportunities to get out on our own and with the others.
I even have a couple of golfing buddies who play with me on Saturdays at a little executive course in Wexler. And Barb belongs to a book club and a quilting group that keeps her busy.”

Her mother added, “Betsy wanted us to live with her, but we didn't want to be a burden.”

Actually, they'd been afraid they would get in the way if she ever started dating again. But that wasn't going to happen. She'd given up the white-picket-fence dream for herself.

Still, each time she looked at John, she found herself wondering if she'd been wrong. If she could have both a career and a family and balance them as well as Molly Mayfield seemed to have done so far.

But considering something like that, especially with John Doe, was crazy. Look how wrong she'd been about Doug and she'd known him for years.

Sure, they'd been happy at first—or at least she'd thought they'd been. But she'd been so busy with her studies and then with her internship at Grace Memorial that she hadn't realized that while she was working the night shift, her husband hadn't been home in bed.

At least not alone.

And the fact that there had been numerous affairs during their three years together had been worsened by his criminal activity. The conviction for insider trading had left her feeling stupid and naive, confirming to her that the man she'd once thought she loved hadn't been the man she'd thought he was.

Of course, John wasn't anything like Doug.

Oh, yeah?
a small voice asked.
How in the world could you possibly know
that?

She had nothing to go on but feelings and gut instinct. And when it came to romance and judging a man's character, her emotional gauge had proven to be flawed in the past. Could she ever trust it again?

“Here we go,” the waitress said, as she brought a tray with their plates.

“Would you look at those burgers and fries,” her father said. “What'd I tell you? Caroline sure knows how to make them right.”

As much as Betsy wanted to focus on her meal and to take part in the chatter around her, she couldn't seem to keep her eyes off John. Her curiosity and interest in him were growing by leaps and bounds, especially after that kiss, and she had no idea what to do about it.

So as a result, she remained fairly quiet over lunch, while her father and John seemed to hit it off.

John seemed to know quite a bit about sports and economics, and she wondered if being around her dad might trigger his memory.

Or had it done so already?

When everyone had finished eating and the waitress had picked up the plates, her father asked for the check.

“Don't forget,” John said, “I owe you a meal, Pete.”

Her dad slid out from his inside seat at the booth, and before heading for the cashier, he tapped his index finger on his temple. “I won't forget. And I'll look forward to next time.”

Betsy told herself that John's insistence to pay his own way was a good thing, a sign that he was a decent person at heart. And she reminded herself that some of her
assumptions about him were based upon observations she'd made and not just on emotion.

After her father paid the bill, they climbed into her car and headed back to the retirement home. Before she knew it, she was dropping her folks off in front of the lobby doors.

John climbed out to help her mom with the walker—another sign of his character.

“It was nice meeting you,” her mother told John. “I hope we get a chance to see you again one day soon.”

He smiled. “I'd like that, Barbara.”

When they'd all said their goodbyes, she drove away, feeling a bit relieved. John and her parents had hit if off better than she'd expected.

She had to admit, she felt a lot more comfortable with John on the drive back to the ranch than she had coming to town. She wasn't sure why that was, though. Nothing had really changed.

“Your parents are great,” he said.

“I think so, too.”

“They're really proud of you.”

“Yes, they are.” In fact, just the other day, her mom had told her that they'd been blessed the day they'd adopted her. And Betsy felt the same way.

She had no idea what her life would have been like if she hadn't grown up in the Nielsons' home.

Yet whenever that question came to mind, she couldn't help wondering about her birth mother, the woman who wanted to meet her. The woman who'd at least taken time to look at her red-haired newborn before handing her over to social workers.

She tried to imagine the possible scenarios that might
have caused the woman to put her newborn daughter up for adoption. A teenage pregnancy? Illegitimacy?

How would the woman feel when she learned that the baby she'd given away had grown up to be happy, successful and well-adjusted?

Would she have been pleased by the decision she'd made? Relieved?

Would she feel disappointed that she hadn't played even the slightest role in Betsy's life?

“It's nice that your parents opted to live in a retirement community rather than become a burden,” John said, interrupting her tumble of thoughts.

“They'd never be a burden to me, and I think they know that. In reality, I think they were afraid that if they moved in with me, they'd scare off any potential suitors.” She chuckled at their reasoning and turned to John. “They're still concerned that I'll become an old maid.”

As their gazes locked, something surged between them, causing her heart to race.

John's voice dropped a decibel, as he said in a husky tone, “There's no chance of that, Betsy.”

Her heart zinged as she considered the subtext, but she forced herself to turn away and watch the road before they ended up in a ditch or wrapped around a telephone pole.

Yet in spite of her better judgment, she found herself fishing for the words he'd implied but hadn't actually said. “Why do you say that?”

“Because some lucky guy is going to talk you into marrying him one of these days.”

The thought of marriage to a man who truly appre
ciated her set her heart off-kilter. She tried to remind herself that she was happy being single. At least, she had been until John entered her life.

But ever since they'd kissed last night, she'd found herself envisioning a two-story house in town, surrounded by the proverbial white picket fence. She could imagine a swing hanging from the branch of a tree in the front yard and a set of rocking chairs on the front porch.

She'd always wanted a family—a husband and kids. But her life was cut out for something bigger. Something better.

Or had she just convinced herself of that?

O
n the way back to Doc's ranch, John watched the road ahead, noting the shops and establishments that stretched along Brighton Valley's main drag. Earlier, when he'd told Doc what he thought was wrong with the pickup, the elderly man had given him some cash and asked him to purchase the parts he would need to fix it while he was in town.

Across the street from Sam Houston Elementary School, John spotted a blue-and-yellow sign that advertised auto parts.

“Would you mind stopping at B.J.'s Auto Works for a minute?” he asked Betsy. “I'd like to pick up a starter for Doc's pickup. I think that was the problem I was having with the engine this morning.”

“I'd be glad to.” She pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the store. “Do you need me to come in and pay for it?”

“Not unless it costs more than the money Doc gave me.”

As he was getting out of the car, she said, “I think it's great that you think you can fix Doc's truck. Maybe you're a mechanic.”

“I doubt it. I have a feeling that I can handle something simple, but that's about it.”

She paused for a beat, then said, “Your hands were neat and clean when you came into the E.R., so maybe it's safe to assume that you don't fix engines on a regular basis.”

“Then maybe I have a white-collar job. Who knows?” He tried to laugh it off, but the fact that he didn't have a clue how he'd been supporting himself before landing in Brighton Valley made any humor in the situation fall flat.

He shut the passenger door, then went into the store. Several minutes later, he returned with a large box filled with his purchases.

“I thought you only needed a starter,” she said. “What else did you get?”

“I picked up some oil and filters, too. I'm going to do what I can to get that truck running smoothly for Doc, but if this doesn't do the trick, then he'll have to call in an expert.”

John placed the box in the backseat of her car, and once he was buckled in, Betsy took off.

When they arrived at the ranch, she parked near the guesthouse. “Good luck getting Doc's truck started.”

“Thanks. What are you going to do this afternoon?”

“I've got some bills to pay, my checkbook to balance and some bookwork to do.”

He hoped he would see her later. It wasn't often that she got a day off. And even though his plans would be taken up with repairing Doc's truck, he wondered if she'd remembered his invitation to go riding, a question he'd asked before that mind-blowing kiss.

Maybe it would pan out someday. But for now, they each went their own way.

The first thing John did was to find Doc and tell him he was home. Then he set about replacing the old starter with the new one. While he was at it, he changed the oil and the filters, too. And when he was finished, he opened the back door, entered the service porch and washed the grease and grit from his hands.

Doc, who'd just entered the kitchen, asked, “Have you got the truck running again?”

“Yes, and it started right up.”

As John reached for a paper towel to dry his hands, he studied the older man, who seemed out of character dressed in a clean white shirt and a neatly pressed pair of slacks.

“What're you up to?” he asked the man who'd recently showered and shaved.

Doc opened the pantry and pulled out a bottle of red wine that had been lying on its side. “I was invited to have dinner with Edna Clayton, an old friend of mine. And I didn't want to go empty-handed.”

“You've been holding out on me, Doc.” John crossed his arms, cocked his head to the side and grinned. “You've got a lady friend.”

The old man rolled his eyes. “No, I don't.”

“I think it's great if you
do,
” John said.

“Well, to be honest, Edna and I tiptoed around a romance at one time. I suppose it would have been nice to find love in the golden years, but we never had that kind of spark between us.”

“That's too bad.”

“Isn't it?” Doc chuckled. “But Edna's a real hoot and a good friend. She's also one heck of a cook. And she's having pork roast and mashed potatoes tonight.”

“Have fun.”

“I will. But before she called, I put a couple of chicken breasts in the oven to bake. Can you take them out for me? They'll be ready in about thirty minutes or so.”

“Sure.”

“You know,” Doc said, brightening, “why don't you invite Betsy to come over and eat with you?”

A grin tugged at John's lips. “That would be nice. And neighborly.”

Doc opened the pantry door and pulled out another bottle of wine, that one a white—pinot grigio.

“Why don't you serve this?” Doc put it in the refrigerator to chill. “It'll go well with the chicken.”

It would go well with candles and a little mood music, too. The possibilities were opening up by the minute.

“Thanks,” John said. “I think I'll head over there and ask her to dinner now.”

He hoped she would agree because he'd like to spend the evening with her.

And have her all to himself.

 

Betsy had hung up the telephone and was pondering the conversation she'd just had with Roy Adkins, a private investigator, when a knock sounded.

She still held the portable receiver in her hand when she crossed the small living room to see who'd stopped by to see her. She never had company drop by without an invitation, so she figured it had to be either John or Doc.

And she was right. As she swung open the door, John stood on her porch wearing a heart-stopping grin.

“Have you started dinner yet?” he asked.

“No. Why?”

“Because Doc put some chicken in the oven, then got a better dinner offer and took off. Do you want to join me?”

“Sure, why not? I have some vegetables I can make. I'll bring them over to Doc's and fix them there. Just give me a minute.”

As John scanned the inside of her living room, with its new pale green love seat and the matching chair upholstered in a floral print, she realized he hadn't been inside the guesthouse before.

“You can come in, if you like, but I'll just be a minute.” She lifted the telephone receiver she still held. “Oops, I'd better put this away first.”

“Did you want to make a call? I can take the vegetables with me, and you can come over when you're finished.”

“Actually, the call just ended. It was the private investigator Carla hired to find me.”

“Carla?”

“My biological mother. I guess she wasn't happy with the answer I gave her attorney a couple of weeks ago—that I didn't want to set up a meeting just yet. She's eager to talk to me, but I told the investigator the same
thing I told her attorney. I'm stretched to the limit right now and don't want to set a date or time.” Betsy put the receiver back in the cradle. “Wait here. It'll just take me a minute to get the veggies.”

She went into the kitchen, picked out a ripe tomato, an onion, several zucchinis, a small package of frozen corn and some low-fat cheddar cheese.

When she returned, John was still standing on the porch. “I'm surprised you put off meeting her. If I was approached by a family member, I'd jump on it.”

Under the circumstances, she was sure that he would. But her situation was different.

As they headed outside, the sun was setting, taking away the last bit of warmth in the day.

“I'd like to meet her,” Betsy admitted, “but my life is complicated these days….” And, truthfully, she wasn't sure when it would be any better.

A bevy of goose bumps lit on her arms, which she suspected was a result of the half-truth she'd told the investigator and had just repeated to John.

He didn't question her comment, and she was glad that he hadn't. The fact was, she was downright afraid to meet Carla and open up her life—and that of her parents—to a complete stranger.

How would she feel upon meeting the woman who'd given her up? How would any of them feel?

She stole another glance at John, realizing that one stranger at a time was about all she could handle, all she would risk.

But the call from Mr. Adkins had given her another idea, and she'd pondered hiring her own investigator to search for John's roots. But at this point, she wouldn't
go that far. Still, she was eager for his memory to return. Maybe when he found his identity and remembered his past, it would settle her uneasiness about getting physically—and
emotionally
—involved with a man she really didn't know.

As they crossed the front lawn, John pointed toward the pasture. “Do you see that palomino mare and the roan gelding grazing over there?”

“Yes, that's Buck and Sadie. What about them?”

His steps slowed, and as he studied the horses in the pasture, a look crossed his face that she almost considered a yearning. And an appreciation for horses maybe.

“I talked to Doc about this already,” John said, “and one of these days I'm going to take the gelding for a ride. Sadie would be perfect for you, if you still want to go along.”

“That sounds like fun. But where did you learn to ride?”

He shrugged. “I…don't know.”

“Maybe you're from Texas,” she said. “Maybe.”

Of course that was still anyone's guess.

“I was working with them yesterday,” John said, “and I had a… Well, I can't exactly call it a memory, but it was a piece of one. I remember riding along an equestrian trail, enjoying a sunset and feeling the ocean breeze on my face.”

“You might have experience on a ranch.”

“It seems like it.”

“And ocean breezes would limit the states that you're from.”

He turned to her, that sense of yearning gone. “But not nearly enough. There are a lot of states that border an ocean. And I could have been on vacation.”

So they still had nothing concrete to go on.

They continued on their way. Once inside Doc's kitchen, Betsy checked the chicken roasting in the oven, as well as the potatoes Doc had added, deciding dinner was nearly done.

Next, she washed the vegetables, chopped them into chunks and sautéed them in olive oil with a little salt and pepper. As the veggies were starting to soften, she added grated cheese on top and covered the skillet with a lid.

“I'll set the table,” John said. “And since Doc suggested we try the pinot grigio with dinner and put it in the refrigerator to chill, I'll uncork the bottle.”

“That sounds nice. I can't remember the last time I had a glass of wine with dinner.” Or when she'd had a quiet meal with a man whose smile seemed to turn her inside out.

Before long, dinner was ready, and they were both seated at Doc's dining-room table, where John had lit a couple of tapered candles. It was a romantic touch, and she wondered why John had lit them.

Was he a romantic at heart?

Or was he just trying to provide her with a special evening?

She ought to ignore the romantic aura, but she couldn't help appreciating it—and even basking in it.

“The chicken is really tasty,” John said. “And while I'm not usually a big fan of vegetables, these are really good.” He looked up, his gaze catching hers. Instead
of the usual heart-strumming intensity in his eyes, she could see frustration on his brow.

“I keep remembering all kinds of insignificant things,” he said, “but nothing that's actually helpful.”

“Your memory will come back to you.”

“Yeah. But when?”

Betsy rested her forearms on the table and her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “I wish I had the answer.”

With the truth of her statement ringing in their ears, they continued to eat and enjoy their wine in relative silence. When they finished, Betsy helped John with the dishes.

“I have next Sunday off,” she finally said. “So unless something changes and I get called in to cover someone's shift, I'm going to have my parents over for an early dinner. Do you want to join us? I'll be inviting Doc, too.”

“Thanks, I'd like that. But make a grocery list and let me pick up the food for you. I owe your dad a meal, and I'll have my first paycheck by then, according to Doc. He's insisting on paying me for fixing the truck and being his ranch hand.”

“I'm not going to let you spend your first check on groceries. Maybe next time, okay?”

He hesitated a moment, then finally said, “All right.”

Betsy really hadn't planned to include John in activities with her family again, especially when there was so much she still didn't know about him. But because pieces of his past had already come back to him while being on the ranch, like a familiarity with horses, she
found herself thinking that being around her mom and dad might stir his memory about his own parents.

At least that's the excuse she gave herself. But as they stood at the sink together, he lifted a handful of bubbles and blew them at her, showing her a playful side of him. She couldn't help flicking her fingers, splattering water droplets and foam his way.

They both laughed, and she realized that her efforts to keep him at arm's distance were failing miserably.

She was becoming emotionally involved with John, whether she wanted to or not, and she struggled with what she ought to do about it.

When they had the kitchen put back in order, she was tempted to make an excuse to stick around awhile longer. But instead, she told him she was going to go home, that she wanted to turn in early for the night.

“Okay, then I'll walk you home.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“I know.” His gaze enveloped her, wrapping her up in some kind of electrically charged force field, protecting her it seemed. And suddenly, a whole lot of things didn't seem to matter anymore.

How could she
not
be right about him? How could he
not
have a romantic and protective nature?