“What?” Jacob pivoted in his chair, doing a slow take toward her.
Dee sat in the middle of the discarded pile. A tennis shoe dangled off the end of her toes like Cinderella’s stepsisters trying on the glass slipper.
She snatched the shoe off her foot. “Did I say that out loud? Sorry, but my feet are kind of big.”
“You’re only just noticing?” This was the strangest woman he’d ever met.
“I, uh, just forget sometimes that the rest of the world doesn’t have snow skis for feet.”
If he didn’t get her outfitted soon, she would never return to her room. He gave up the fight and moved to help her. He tucked into the closet and pulled out another box.
Jacob knelt beside it. Beside her. Damn, but he’d gone from putting distance between them to landing himself six inches away. “Dig deep. There’s a pair of gym shoes near the bottom that might come closer to fitting.”
Dee peered inside, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the vee neck of her dress. It didn’t make one bit of difference. Funny thing about the male imagination, he didn’t actually have to see what was beneath that dress to have a clear mental picture.
He buried his hands in the box, rummaging around until he found the near-new Nikes. Jacob tossed them onto her pile. He also grabbed a ski sweater, a long one, and added it to her stack, as well. “You can go shopping with your first paycheck. Which reminds me. If you’re going to work here long-term, you’ll need to fill out one of these.”
Jacob lumbered to his feet, knees and ankles popping as he stood. He shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk and passed one to her.
“What’s this?”
“Your W-2 form.”
“W-2?” Dee’s face turned whiter than the snow in the parking lot, her wide brown eyes the only splash of color.
“Yeah. Just fill in your name and address. I’ll take care of the rest when I file it. You know. For next year’s taxes.”
Dee sagged to the edge of her bed. She wanted to crawl beneath the covers and never come out. The Tacoma Police Department hadn’t told her anything useful on the phone, instead insisting she needed to come in once the highway cleared. They’d relayed only enough to let her know she didn’t fit the descriptions from any missing persons’ reports.
She clutched her little wad of clothes closer, bringing to mind an image of Emily cradling Madison earlier. Dee pressed her small bundle to her belly and rocked. Tears begging for release clogged her chapped nose. Still she rocked, refusing to cry. If she started, the fear would win. Just like if she crawled under those covers she might never tunnel back out.
At least she had a home, four paneled walls with her choice of two beds. Hers sported red plaid comforters to go with the shiny veneer furniture and cheap water-color of Puget Sound. Yes, she had a home. For now.
The W-2 form glared at her from beside the TV where she’d tossed it. How would she talk her way around this one? She wouldn’t, not in a shimmery crimson dress and do-me-sailor pumps.
Dee unrolled her bundle of clothes like some hobo’s pack. Two pairs of sweatpants. A couple of T-shirts. An overlong sweater. And tennis shoes. She’d relented and let Jacob toss in three pairs of his socks.
She peeled off the dress and panty hose with great relish. Forget practicality. She flung both into the trash. Without question, that can would be emptied pronto by the Lodge’s newest housekeeping employee.
As she stood in her lace bra and panties, Dee realized her body looked no more familiar than her face. How surreal to become reacquainted with herself at thirty-some-odd years old.
She extended her arms, twisting the right to one side and then the other arm. She discovered a faded, inch-long scar just below her left elbow and paused to trace it with her finger.
What else didn’t she know about herself?
On impulse, she tugged off her bra and checked the tag: 34B. Not overly endowed, but enough to catch the attention of a certain sexy-eyed man.
She shrugged back into the bra and told herself to quit losing focus. Who she’d been didn’t matter as much as who she became from this point forward. She wouldn’t repeat her “Mr. Smith” mistake by turning weak-kneed over the first hunk to cross her path.
Dee whipped a T-shirt over her head and stepped into sweatpants, wriggling them over her hips. Her hands paused midtug. She couldn’t have seen what she thought she had, could she? She eased the sweats down a notch.
She stared at the map of stretch marks scrolled across her stomach.
“Oh my God.” She blinked and looked again.
Nausea kicked into overdrive. Her hands twitched away. The pants snapped back, covering what she wasn’t ready to view.
“Calm down,” she muttered, not even caring that she was talking to herself since she’d decided she might well be crazy anyway. “Stretch marks can come about any number of ways. Maybe I’m a diet junkie with a ballooning weight problem. I’ve just got babies on the brain because of little Madison.”