How to Knit a Heart Back Home (34 page)

At least Molly might have fun.

She laid the pièce de résistance on top of the stack—a butterfly-shaped remote-control operated vibrator. Bright purple, it gleamed at her like a wicked Jell-O mold. It looked like it wanted to have fun, like it was ready. If it hadn’t been Lucy’s mother selling the product, she would have wanted one herself. Just in case.

Lucy stepped back and admired her handiwork. It looked like a dirty display window in Molly’s kitchen, next to her spice rack. The only thing missing was a flashing sign advertising
LIVE NUDE GIRLS
.

The side door opened, the one that led to the garage. Good, just in time. Molly was home. This was going to be the apology to end all apologies. If this didn’t prove to Molly how sorry she was, then she didn’t . . .

Molly entered, followed by Janet Morgan and her husband Tom, all laughing and shaking off the rain.

“Oh, holy hell,” whispered Lucy as she moved to stand in front of the tower of sex toys.

Molly’s mouth opened and shut, just once. Then she put her head to the side and rested her fingers along the side of her nose, as if she had a headache.

“We just finished looking at a loft on Skyline and we were going to talk about the comps. Would anyone like a glass of wine? I know I would.”

“That sounds great,” said Lucy. “A big one.”

“Darling,” purred Janet. “That
is
a big one, isn’t it?” She lifted the largest purple toy out of the pile and held it up for Tom to see. “It’ll match the rest of our collection, won’t it, lover-boy?”

Tom, a cowboy from the top of his worn hat to the tips of his scuffed boots, blushed. “Janet. Stop. We’ll leave these girls to . . . whatever it is they want to do.” He ducked his head and didn’t look back up.

Janet put the toy back on the table with obvious regret. “It does seem you have certain interesting
things
to discuss, sweethearts. Molly, call me tomorrow. My sheep-wrangler isn’t going to go for the loft unless we get a compost heap somewhere along with it, you just know that.” She kissed the air on both sides of Molly’s cheeks and gazed at both of them with admiration. “If I was a bit younger, I would have a
dored
this generation’s freedom. Not as if I didn’t have enough of my own, you know . . .” She followed Tom, leaving a wake of expensive fragrance trailing behind her.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Lucy dropped into a kitchen chair with a wail. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“The biggest commission of my career. Janet Morgan. The cashmere mogul?”

“I know who she is! I’ve knitted with her at Abigail’s place and at the Monday group at Tillie’s and I’m still scared to death of her. And I could have killed her by accident. Death by dildo avalanche.”

Molly snorted. “Is this supposed to be some kind of apology? Is that what all this insanity is?”

Lucy looked down at the overflowing table and sighed. “Yeah.”

Molly gave a short giggle. “It’s good.” Then she laughed. “It’s really good.”

Lucy smiled, her heart leaping hopefully. “It is?”

“Yeah. This is an apology I can get behind. And in front of.” Another gale of giggles. “And on top of.”

“Stop!” Lucy could feel herself going even redder than she had at her mother’s house, which was hard to imagine. “I just wanted to say this: You can do what you want.”

“Lucy.” Molly’s voice was soft, and the laughter died away. “Honey, I love you, but I don’t need your permission.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean I know that you, as a grown-ass woman, can do whatever, and
whoever
, you want, and if my brother is one of them, then he must be pretty damn special to be picked.”

“He is, Lucy. You know he is.”

“And you’re my best friend. Nothing changes that. I’m sorry I was the biggest ass there could possibly be.”

Molly’s eyes sparkled as she looked at the table. “You were an ass. But you’re forgiven, my little vixen. Your mother must have
died
and floated up to heaven when she got out all this stuff.”

“Why are you sure I went to her?”

“Because, dollface, there’s no way in hell you went to a store for this. You would have needed me for that, and I wasn’t around to help. Now, there are a few things here,” she lifted up a particularly lurid purple toy that was curved to look like a dolphin leaping, “that I already have in my stash that perhaps you can use? I don’t need duplicates, after all.”

Lucy took a deep breath. “No, thanks, I’m good.” She smiled and felt tears fill her eyes. “Don’t make me any more beet red than I already am.”

Molly leaned forward. “And what about Owen?”

Lucy shook her head, the lump in her throat preventing her from speaking for a moment.

“It can’t be that bad.”

“It is. We messed things up too badly. Yesterday, at the store, when he said those things, that’s when I knew. He’s seriously over me. And honestly, if he feels that way about what I do with the fire department, I can’t be with him, either.” Lucy looked at the black-and-white tile of Molly’s kitchen floor and her heart fell into her Keds again. “He’s gone.” Her voice broke. “But I don’t know what to do about this pain.”

Molly’s mouth twisted sideways, and then she put her arms around Lucy.

Lucy took a deep breath and leaned into her best friend. “At least I have you,” she said.

Molly said, “Oh, honey. You always have me.”

Lucy let the tears come.

Chapter Thirty-three

And always, in knitting, as in life, have an open mind. You’ll see there might be another path open to you, one you almost missed. Stockinette never looked so good from a garter-stitch road, did it?

—
E. C.

H
uddled under an oak tree in the rain, Owen stood outside the firehouse, his heart in his hands. Okay, it wasn’t his heart, it was a Ziploc container of homemade chicken tikka masala that he’d made himself, but it was the best he could fit into plastic. Owen had wanted to make a great dinner, something interesting, different. Something people didn’t get every day, something with flavor, depth, richness. Something romantic, full of spice and passion.

Owen didn’t have much else to offer Lucy. It wasn’t lost on him that his life echoed his father’s a little too closely at this point. No job, an old Mustang, and soon he’d be in the process of repurchasing the same damn house his father had owned. He’d talked to a delighted-sounding Molly on the phone an hour ago, and she was getting the wheels in motion for him to buy back his mother’s house.

Again. The same house he’d sold for her when she’d gone into Willow Rock. He was buying it back at a fraction of what he’d sold it for, thanks to the recession, and it would be his first big project in Cypress Hollow—he’d fix it up and use the before and after photos to launch his handyman business. As long as there weren’t too many stairs in a project, he could do almost anything, he knew he could.

And he’d repair his mother’s garden, bring the roses back to life, and on sunny days, he’d bring her from Willow Rock to sit in the garden. Maybe, just maybe, it would be like she’d never left. He could hope, right?

Owen could become a part of Cypress Hollow again.

And most important, Lucy would see that he was serious as hell about all of this. About staying. About her.

Owen would wait all night if he had to, holding the container in his hands. Tonight was the first night of the new recruits’ training for the fire brigade, and Molly had told him that Lucy always helped with the classes. When the class let out, she’d come out, and knowing Lucy, she’d have stars in her eyes from helping someone learn something new and exciting.

It was still terrifying, the thought of her being on the department. His stomach churned thinking that at any moment, anywhere in this little town, an old man could drop his cigarette onto his couch and set his whole house on fire, thus putting Lucy’s life in danger.
Lucy’s
life.

But maybe, if he took his time about it, he’d be able to talk her out of it. He wouldn’t try to force her. That was the wrong approach with Lucy. But maybe, with the horror stories he’d stored up over the years, and he had a million of them, he could convince her that she’d be better off safe with him, not running around all over town, chasing after car crashes and gas explosions and house fires . . .

And he hated the niggling jealousy he felt, low and deep inside, that she got to run toward the problem, while he would always, from here on out, have to stay behind.

But Owen was going to work like hell on getting over that feeling. He was. He knew everything depended on it. He took a deep breath to even out the nerves that jangled electrically through every part of his body.

He could see the tops of their heads in there milling about, the meeting over, and if just the force of his will could drive those citizen rookies out, they’d be flying out of the building as if shot from the end of a fire hose. He hadn’t seen her, yet, though. She was probably still at the front of the class. Helping someone learn something extra. That would be like her.

There, he could feel that dumb-ass grin again. He loved her. Hot damn, he’d finally realized it.

He wasn’t stupid enough to think it would be easy. He’d broken her trust, and he knew that it would be hard won back. Lucy was smart, tough, and strong. His equal, in all ways. But he’d do what it took to prove that he was worthy of her.

Of course, figuring it out while he’d been with his mother was one thing. Knowing it inside the parsonage was just fine. But knowing it here, when she was about to face him with those cool, beautiful dark brown eyes, accepting that she was just as likely to blow him off with a few well-chosen words that would turn him into tiny pieces of jelly quivering on the ground, well, it was taking all his remaining courage to stay here, standing up, holding his damn cooked chicken in a plastic bowl, holding it tight so that it didn’t drop, because, fuck it all, it was all he had to give her.

Those stars in her eyes would dim when she saw him, he knew that.

But God, if he showed her this container of tikka masala, and maybe if they sat in the Mustang near the water, where they’d had their clam chowder, and if he took his time, maybe he had half a chance. Okay, a tenth of a chance. He’d take those odds. He’d take any odds at all.

If he told her he loved her . . .

His gut churned as the front doors opened, light and laughter spilling out into the rain. Everything that had ever happened in his life depended on this moment. He was more frightened, more alive than he’d ever been before.

Just her. Owen waited for Lucy.

He recognized some of the people who came out of the firehouse by sight, and some of them looked suspiciously at him from under the edges of their umbrellas. Owen knew that old familiar feeling of being sized up, being categorized as Hugh Bancroft’s son, and relegated to either being not important enough to being thought about again, or the opposite, being worrying enough to warrant constant vigilance. What was he doing out here? Lurking in the dark?

Owen, perversely, found himself enjoying it. He hunkered deeper into his leather jacket and shrouded himself further into the overhang of the oak tree he was leaning against. The man who ran the hardware store who thought Owen had stolen paint from him every time he’d come in as a teenager—Owen had never stolen more than a couple of penny nails, to prove a point—hurried his wife down the sidewalk.

But then Tony Castello and Charlie Foscalina, two of the old ranchers from up the valley, came out, eyeing their new pagers suspiciously. When they saw Owen under the tree, they jerked their heads in greeting, something they didn’t bother doing for anyone who hadn’t lived in town at least twenty-five years. Owen tried to be cool in his chin-nod back but felt inordinately gratified.

And then Jim Younger, the town vet, came right up to him and shook his hand, telling him it was a good thing to have him back in town, and that Molly had told him he did odd jobs—was there a way he could build a shelving unit for his files in his new extended office next month? Was that something he did?

Owen nodded. “Hell, yeah. I’d love to.”

“Great,” Jim said, struggling as his umbrella blew inside out. “That would be great. Can you get me a quote? Just for the bean counters, you’ve got the job. I don’t care, I just want it done fast.”

Owen had the feeling his new life was starting, and the only part of it that mattered still had to walk out that door.

He waited until the flow of people flowed to a trickle. Then no one. Just that fire captain, Jake Keller, who pulled the door closed and locked it, with him still inside.

“Wait!” No matter how fast Owen tried to move, after standing under the tree so long in the cold night air, his hip hurt too damn much to get rolling quickly. So he yelled louder. “
Wait!
”

Through the glass, Jake looked up in surprise. He unlocked the door and pushed it open a crack.

“Help you? If you’re here for class you missed it by a long shot.”

“Looking for Lucy Harrison.”

Keller frowned.

“Owen Bancroft. You picked up my mom the other night in that old house on Clement. Lucy was with us. She was supposed to be here tonight and then we had a date after.” Okay, that stretching the truth a bit, but Owen was getting worried.

Jake lifted his wide palms, face up. “Your guess is as good as mine. Better, probably. She’s usually my right-hand man at the orientations. Missed her tonight. You tell her that when you find her, okay?” The door shut with a cold thud.

“Well, hell.” Owen looked at the stupid container of chicken. “What next?”

The front of the Book Spire was dark. It didn’t stop Owen from prowling the back alley, though, to see if Lucy was perhaps in the back of the shop, in the storeroom. But the lights were out back there, too.

Actually, now that he noticed it, everything was dark. The streetlights were out, and he glanced down Main to the one stoplight down on Oak. It, too, was dark. Must be a power outage from the storm. Owen used the small Maglite on the end of his keychain to light up the back of the alley. If Lucy was inside, she’d have lit a candle at least, right?