3. Mia
Mason’s car is in much worse shape than mine, but both cars are towed to the only body shop in town.
I sit with Christian’s mom after the paramedics checked me out, Mrs. Hargrove, and wait for my car to be taken to Timberline Mechanic and Autobody Shop. It was a lucky coincidence that Mrs. Hargrove was at Greenfield’s when the accident occurred. Well, maybe not such a coincidence when half the town was there to stock up for the storm, but I am grateful she was there all the same.
My mind is strictly focused on Mason Adler and his well-being in the accident’s aftermath. “I want to go to the hospital,” I tell Mrs. Hargrove. “Can you take me there?”
The bag of Mrs. J’s pumpkin pie filling weighs heavily on my arm as Mrs. Hargrove nods. “Yes, I was planning on going. I’ve already called Christian to meet me there,” she tells me. “I should call your mother, too.”
I balk at the idea. “No!” I plead. “Please don’t worry my mom, Mrs. Hargrove. She is already concerned enough about me being out in the storm.”
Christian’s mother appears uncomfortable by the request, her friendship with my mother clearly forefront to her mind. Quickly, I add, “I’ll call her myself from the hospital. I promise.”
She nods.
“We don’t have to stay long,” I tell her. “I can even grab a ride home with Christian if you want to drop me off. I just need to make sure that Mason’s all right.” Holding up the bag in my hands, I add, “My neighbor is waiting for her groceries, anyway.”
Begrudgingly, Mrs. Hargrove concedes to the arrangement, and we both pile into her vehicle.
“You should get a more thorough examination, too,” she chides me. “He did hit you. You could have internal damage no one can see.”
I wave my free hand dismissively, knowing that I hadn’t even seen the accident coming, which was probably what saved me from being more seriously injured.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Hargrove, honestly. If I start to feel funny, I’ll go get checked out again. I promise.”
She doesn’t fight me anymore, but I’m sure she’s going to get on the phone with Mom the second she drops me off at the hospital.
We spend the fifteen-minute drive in silence, and to my surprise, she parks and escorts me inside. We stride through the emergency room doors, frosted in fake snow for the holidays, but when we ask about Mason at the nurse’s station, we learn he’s already been admitted. When we arrive, Christian is already in his room on the third floor, scolding him.
“…not to go out! Why didn’t you just listen to me?”
“Why are you yelling, Christian?” his mother snaps, striding into the room to offer her son a reproving look. “The man was just in an accident. Show some compassion.”
My eyes fall directly on Mason, his head bandaged up where he had been bleeding earlier. With my heart in my throat, I tentatively step closer to study his pale face. Despite his state, he steals my breath now that I am looking at him up close.
Dark, intelligent eyes peer at me from behind thick, black eyelashes, his generous mouth parted slightly in surprise. The bed isn’t made for someone his size, well over six feet and built like a line-backer.
He looks at me, coffee-colored eyes widening in recognition. “You!” he breathes. “You’re the driver of the other car.”
Christian looks at me worriedly. “Are you okay, Mia?”
Mason eyes his friend. “You two know one another?”
“Our moms are good friends,” Christian explains quickly, and then he fixes his gaze on me. “Do you need to get checked out?”
“The paramedics checked me out. I’m fine. I’m not hurt,” I assure him.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Mason, walking toward his bed.
“I’m fine,” he replies.
“He doesn’t remember anything,” Christian tells me flatly.
Mason turns his head away. “I hit her. I remember that.”
Shock colors my face. “What do you mean, he doesn’t remember anything?”
Through his peripheral vision, Mason eyes me, and I continue to stare at him.
“According to the doctor, he suffered a concussion. He has short-term memory loss. He can’t remember coming to Spruce Crossing,” Christian says, then looks at his friend. “I really wish you’d listened to me and stayed home.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his tone.
Mason turns his head away and looks out the snowy window. “I wish I had now, too,” he mutters.
My brow furrows. “What? You don’t remember that you moved to Spruce Crossing?”
Although I’d never met him personally, I do know that he moved here to open the restaurant.
Mason refuses to meet my eyes or anyone else’s.
“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Hargrove sighs. “You must have bonked your head pretty hard.”
“Why would I have come here?” Mason mutters, more to himself than us. “I have a job in Spokane. I’m a tax lawyer.”
“Not anymore,” Christian grumbles. “You gave that up to come here and open a restaurant.”
Mason’s pupils constrict.
“Maybe this isn’t the time,” his mother interjects, casting her son a warning look. “Mason obviously needs his rest, Christian. When he gets home, we can have a more in-depth discussion with him about all this.”
“Home?” Mason repeats. “My home is in Spokane!”
I bite on my lower lip, suddenly wishing I hadn’t come. If I had any idea that Mason had lost his memories, I wouldn’t have infringed on this difficult time.
“You’re staying at my mom’s place,” Christian sighs, but he nods at his mother. “You’re right. We’ll do this another time.”
“Wait!” Mason cries out as we turn to leave. Only I hesitate as the other two linger at the door. “What restaurant? What are you talking about? Why would I come here of all places, Christian?”
I glance at Christian, who is clearly pained by his friend’s predicament, but he doesn’t elaborate. “Just get rested up, Mase. It will all come back to you.”
He gestures at me to follow him and his mom out of the private room, and we head down the hall and leave the hospital.
I don’t speak until we’re back in the parking lot. “Are his memories going to come back?”
Neither Christian nor his mother answer me as the young man unlocks his car with his key fob. The chirping echoes through the lot as Mrs. Hargrove searches for her keys.
“Christian?” I press. “Is he going to remember again?”
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. “The doctor didn’t say.”
My arm aches from the cans of pumpkin filling now, but not as much as my heart does for poor Mason.
“He has to remember why he came here!” I cry. “He gave up his whole life in Washington for this! Isn’t that what you said?”
I wonder if I’m projecting my own desires on him, or if I’m genuinely hurting for Mason’s loss. Regardless, it can’t be easy for the man to have lost his memories.
“And he’ll recall his passion soon enough,” Christian insists firmly. “That guy has always loved cooking. A bump on the head isn’t going to make him forget it.”
“Mia, are you coming with me or going with Christian?” Mrs. Hargrove asks. “The storm is not getting any better, and I want to be on my way.”
“Go, Mom,” Christian tells her. “I’ll get Mia home.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Hargrove…” I trail off as she turns away. “Mrs. Hargrove?”
She eyes me as she stops by her vehicle.
“Do you think it would be okay if I drop by to check on Mason when he gets home?” I ask quickly.
“I don’t mind, but who knows if he’s going to stick around now, Mia. He might go back to what he knows once he’s released. If I were him, I might want to go back to what I know.”
The idea saddens me, and I’m not sure why.
“Come on, Mia. My mom’s right. We need to go before there’s another accident,” Christian urges me. Reluctantly, I follow him to his car and climb into the passenger side, wracking my brain for a solution.
“He has a storefront,” I say, more to myself than Christian. “There must be a lease.”
“He bought the building, actually.”
I almost choke on the revelation. “What?!”
“He can sell the building. It’s not like he doesn’t have the means to do what he wants, Mia.” Christian casts me a sidelong look.
My eyes narrow slightly. “He saved up all his money to open the restaurant?” I ask in confusion. “And now he doesn’t remember any of it? He’ll have to have some record of it somewhere, some plan. That’s years and years of saving for this!”
Christian hesitates, pulling out of his parking spot.
“No… I mean, yeah, he made a lot as a tax lawyer, but that’s not where his money came from.”
I wait expectantly, but Christian doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push, sensing he doesn’t want to tell me. It’s not my place to pry.
“Why do you care so much, anyway? I didn’t even know you’d met Mason before,” Christian adds. “Not to mention the fact that he just totaled your car.”
I hadn’t met him before tonight. But now that I have, the thought of someone giving up their dream because of a temporary lapse in judgment doesn’t sit well with me.
“Much as I love the Maple Leaf Diner, I was looking forward to something different, somewhere where I could actually go on a date. And I am not worried about my car—it only matters that everybody is okay.”
Christian snorts, pulling out of the parking area. “It’s funny you should say that about the restaurant. It was one of the first things I said to Mason when he was considering Spruce Crossing to open Wild Sage. We need him around here.”
My old friend smiles at me, and I make a decision—I will not let Mason leave his dreams behind. He left Spokane for a reason, even if he can’t remember it right now.
It’s too bad I don’t know a thing about cooking or running a restaurant.
My next-door neighboris exasperated but relieved when I finally arrive with her pie filling, but when I explain the circumstances of my delay, she’s more forgiving and outright apologetic. She ushers me inside and tries to sit me down, but I just want to get home now.
“Oh! Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have sent you out! Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she asks mournfully.
“Mason got the worst of it,” I sigh.
“Oh, that poor young man! I’ll pray for him tonight! I’ll have the entire church group pray for him tomorrow, too!”
“That’s kind of you, Mrs. J,” I tell her, grateful to have the weight of the pumpkin filling off my arm. “I hope you’re not up all night baking now because you were waiting so long.”
She winks at me. “I talk a lot of nonsense, dear, but baking doesn’t have to be all that complicated—should you ever get a hankering to learn. And what I don’t get done tonight, I can get done early tomorrow morning.”
Interested, I cock my head. “I might take you up on that, Mrs. J,” I reply honestly. “But not tonight.”
“Of course not, dear. Get yourself home and take a nice warm bath. Oh! And don’t forget your pie. You’re looking a little pale, understandably. Make sure you warm it up and eat a piece tonight.”
She hands me a freshly baked cran-apple concoction, the spicy hints of cinnamon teasing my belly. I wonder if it really is that simple to bake.
“Thanks, Mrs. J,” I tell her gratefully. “I’ll see you later.”
“Don’t be a stranger, dear.”
I head out of her unit and walk a few feet toward mine, Mason Adler’s handsome, pale face imprinted on my mind as I enter the empty, chilly apartment. Flicking on the lights, I set the pie on the countertop in my kitchen, my layout identical to Mrs. J’s and yet so much different.
There’s no flourishing tinseled wreath adorning my front door or stockings sitting by the sliding glass to the patio. No one’s bought me a poinsettia for my breakfast window, and I have yet to put up a Christmas tree. The heat of the oven doesn’t take the draft from my unit, and sugary aromas don’t cut through the stale air in here, except for what comes through from Mrs. J’s apartment.
Here, there’s only me, my pie, and a newly hatching plan to ensure that Mason Adler remains in Spruce Crossing where he believed he belonged before my Subaru ended his vision tonight.
But I refuse to believe that it’s gone for good. Wild Sage will be open for business, with Mason at the helm. That will be my Christmas miracle for him.
Someone ought to have one.