How to Knit a Heart Back Home (38 page)
Read How to Knit a Heart Back Home Online
Authors: Rachael Herron
Out there, on the bench, Irene was the third person to see the finished book. Lucy put the gleaming, dust-jacketed copy of
Eliza’s Road Not Taken
into Irene’s lap.
“It’s my book,” Lucy said. “This is your copy.”
Irene nodded and turned the pages. On the front flap was a large black-and-white photo of Eliza and Joshua, both wearing homespun, handknit Ganseys, leaning against the barn wall. Irene touched the paper and smiled again, then she’d closed both the book and her eyes, turning her face up to the sunset. The three of them sat in the garden, listening to the waves crash on the beach, two blocks away.
Then they’d taken her back to Willow Rock and put the book on her nightstand.
It had been enough.
Tonight, though, Lucy was almost sick with excitement that felt too close to dread.
“What if no one comes?”
Owen leaned against the bookstore register and laughed. “They’ll come.”
“No, really. They’re bored to death. Or just tired of hearing me talk about the book for a year and a half. No one cares anymore. Why should they? Why would they come to a book-launch party of a knitting book? A novel, sure. Or when Bill Hildebrand self-published his memoir on sailing to Fiji, yeah.
That
was a party, but you know what? He roasted a pig in the ground, didn’t he? Yep. We’re not roasting a pig. All we have are cupcakes!” Lucy gave a wail and covered her face with her hands.
She felt fingers lift her hand and then a kiss was placed on her forehead. “Okay, now open your eyes and look at me,” said Owen.
Lucy shook her head. “I’m terrified.”
“You’re not terrified of anything. What about that three-alarm fire last week up in the valley when that firefighter fell off the ladder? You were on the rapid intervention crew? You can’t tell me you’re scared.”
“That’s different. I’m with everyone else when I’m on a fire. This is just me.
Alone.
”
“You’ll be fine.”
“What if they’ve published this book and they’ve made it look so gorgeous and we’re throwing this party and
no one ever buys it
? No one, anywhere, ever.”
“I’m sure that’s what the publisher intended. A loss. You must have been a real fast-talker to pull that one off.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I know, heart. That’s the point.” Owen laughed again. “They had a plan. It will sell. It’s your book-launch party. This is your day. And Eliza’s. She can’t be here to enjoy it, and by all that’s woolen, if you don’t enjoy it for her, then I’ll know the reason why.”
Lucy gaped at the man she’d always loved. “Did you just swear by fiber?”
Owen shrugged. “What can I say? It’s catching.”
In the space of half a heartbeat, Lucy wrapped her arms around Owen’s neck and kissed the breath right out of him. When she was done, he was gasping and clutching the book cart behind him. “What was that for, woman?”
“Knitting is
sexy
.”
“I know that now,” he said.
“You really think they’ll come?” Lucy asked again.
Owen nodded.
Everyone arrived at once, of course.
Elbert Romo came straight from a Bingo championship at the VFW, so of course he scuttled straight through into the bathroom without saying hello or looking at the book. But Mildred and Greta came in with gusto, arms raised high, tears already streaming down their faces.
Greta said, “Oh, look at all the decorations! It looks like a wedding, with the bunting on the pews and all the flowers and candles!”
Mildred was already flipping pages frantically, her handbag forgotten at her feet. “But look at the book! And Greta, just look at this picture of Eliza! Oh, turn to page seventy-nine! Do you remember that day? I know just where that was.”
“You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy.” Greta’s smile was quiet, and lovely.
Lucy stood straighter in her red dress and touched the front of her yellow cardigan. It was the prototype for Ruby’s Bookstore Cardigan, and she loved it more than any of the other sweaters in the book—the soft, old-fashioned curved edging, the waist-shaping, the short sleeves, the pearl buttons. It made her feel pretty and feminine, and it made her feel like she was continuing something important, like she was continuing both Eliza’s and Ruby’s work, and that both of them had their arms wrapped around her at the same time.
Whitney and Silas came in carrying huge trays of more goodies than Lucy thought she’d ever need. And even though it was still almost eighty degrees outside on a warm fall evening, Whitney was wearing the red earflap cap Silas had knitted for her. She took it off and folded it, placing it carefully in a side pocket of her bag.
“You’re going to be fine. Remember the other night at the ganache class? Every single woman was planning on being here tonight, and you didn’t even know all of them. And some of them didn’t even knit. They’d just heard the buzz.”
“About a knitting coffee-table book.”
“About
the
knitting coffee-table book. Now I have to go guard the goods before our men devour them all.”
Lucy grinned at Owen and Silas, hovering over the trays, sniffing ecstatically. “They’re good together, huh?”
Whitney nodded. “Did Owen tell you yet about the job they got today?”
Lucy bit her bottom lip. “I’m the worst person in the world. I forgot to even ask.”
“Today is your book-release day. I think he’ll forgive you. Silas said the house was in such bad shape that they’re going to have to gut the place and fix everything, do a complete overhaul for the owner.”
“So they’re in heaven.”
“Completely. Utterly.”
“Good.” Lucy was glad for Owen. He worked so well with Silas. Owen handled the visible stuff, the counters and floors and walls, and Silas did the insides, the plumbing and the wiring. Owen had only pulled a gun on him one more time, for dramatic effect. As a joke. And Silas had been
really
late that day.
Molly and Jonas came in through the front doors, Toots and Bart hot on their heels.
Toots was saying in a loud voice, “But Bart, I told you, if we lead a Tantric class, you
have
to be naked. At least part of the time.”
Bart walked past Lucy, shaking his head. “You may have hit the point where I draw the line, wife. I never thought I’d say it, but this may be it.”
“You knew when you married me . . .”
“We can discuss this later, Toots.”
“The kids don’t mind.”
Jonas said, “The kids mind, Mom. They really mind. We’re at Lucy’s party now, look, Mom! Her book!” He held it up and waved it as if waving a red cape at a bull.
Toots scowled at Bart. Then she beamed at the book and then at Lucy. “Darling. My clever little rutabaga. How gorgeous is that book? And you did this? With Eliza? And Abigail? Where is she, by the way?”
“They’ll be here soon,” said Lucy. “Lizzie woke up late from her nap and little Owen is teething, but they’re on their way.”
Molly came up next to her and squeezed Lucy until she could barely breathe. “It’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you. Show me where your picture is.”
Lucy blushed but flipped to the back flap to show her the small black-and-white photo that Owen had taken of her down by the pier.
Molly touched it with her finger. “Lucy Harrison. That’s you.” Then she looked around the store. “And this is you. Look, I see people from three different knitting groups, from the fire department, from Willow Rock, and from City Hall. This is
all
you. I’m so proud of you, Luce.”
“Thank you,” Lucy whispered, and she kissed Molly’s cheek. She
wouldn’t
cry. Not now. That would be silly. Instead she grinned and said, “How’s my brother?”
Molly shrugged. “Good. We’re hanging out tonight.”
“Like last night. And the night before.”
“Like we always tell you, it’s not a big deal.”
“Right, right.” Lucy said. “You’re just hanging out. Dating other people.”
“Whenever we want to. We can totally see anyone else.”
“Totally. And the last time you slept with another person was . . .”
Molly turned a page in
Eliza’s Road Not Taken
and said, “Did you know there’s a typo on page eighty-seven?”
“No, there’s not. And it was like, a year ago, right?”
“But we could. Anytime we wanted to.”
“You just keep telling yourselves that.” Lucy loved the flush that stole across Molly’s face.
“But there
is
a typo.”
“Crap.”
Thirty minutes, half a glass of champagne, and many congratulations later, Owen caught her eye as he slid two snickerdoodles at the same time into his mouth. He didn’t look repentant at all. He looked delighted.
And in the russet sweater she’d made him from Abigail’s pattern and Cade’s wool, he looked delicious.
It had been the busiest year and a half of her life, but what with editing the patterns and Eliza’s vignettes, and moving out of her house and into Owen’s, Lucy’s life had gone from peaceful and stable to unpredictable, loud, and filled with love. With the money she made renting out both her house and the parsonage, she finally had enough to feel comfortable experimenting a little with the bookstore. The cooking nights with Whitney and the craft nights in the store were going like gangbusters; the waiting lists were always long, and word of mouth sold each class out. During her evenings and days off, she wore the brigade pager and responded for station coverage, medicals, and the occasional fire. It was exciting, sometimes scary, and she loved it.
Owen, in the meantime, was intent on making his childhood home into a house that would be for both of them. Not a repository of memories, but a place for the two of them to make new ones. He was always trying something new in the living room or kitchen, adding an island, or building a bookcase. When she got home from work in the evening, the furniture was never where she’d left it in the morning, and she was getting used to it.
Kind of made things fun, actually.
Just like he did.
Owen winked and Lucy’s toes curled inside her blue-and-green Keds.
My deepest thanks go to Susanna Einstein for reading and rereading my many rewrites, for brainstorming with me, for believing in me, and best of all, for being my friend. I am so lucky. Deepest thanks also to my editor, May Chen, who is a genius, pure and simple. Thanks to the wonderful people at HarperCollins who have made working on this book such a joy: Amanda Bergeron for knowing how much overnight delivery means to an author, Catherine Serpico for being excited with me, and Kendra Newton for bringing the noise. Thanks to Ann Mickow and her mother, Josephine A. Mickow, who was nothing like Irene except for inspiring a moment of hand-washing grace. Thanks to Susan Wiggs for her unparalleled generosity, Stephanie Pearl-McPhee for the laughs, and Barbara Bretton for everything. Thanks to Cari Luna, for making me believe I could pull it off. Thanks also to Stephanie Klose of
Romantic Times
, for bringing the knitters with her, and to A. J. Larrieu for her keen eye. I couldn’t have written this (or any other) book without MacFreedom (which kept me off Twitter long enough to write it) or Zocalo Coffeehouse (where I write all my first drafts). Thanks to the Pigeon Point Lighthouse for being a refuge, and to Pescadero’s Duarte’s, for allowing me to eavesdrop on the ranchers. Thanks to our Night of Writing Dangerously NaNoWriMo fairy godmother. To my PensFatales, I don’t know where I’d be without you: Martha Flynn for pushing us to make things
happen
, Gigi Pandian for your gracefulness, Adrienne Miller for knowing everyone needs a hero, L.G.C. Smith for knowing just about everything else, Lisa Hughey for caring so hard, Juliet Blackwell for hotel sauna pillow fights, and for Sophie Littlefield who makes everything happen exactly as it should. Thanks also go to Elizabeth Sullivan, for making my pattern-math work—any mistakes are mine, not hers. Thanks to my dispatchers: you really do save lives, and I’m so proud of you. To the readers of Yarnagogo, I adore you and thank you. And to my family, Dan, Christy, and Bethany Herron; Lala, Tony, Jeannie, Richard, Won-Ju and Isaac Hulse: you are my everything. I’m sorry I get so busy writing that sometimes I forget to tell you.
RACHAEL HERRON
received her MFA in English and Creative Writing from Mills College. She lives in Oakland, California, with her family and has way more animals than she ever planned to, though no sheep or alpaca (yet). She learned to knit at the age of five, and generally only puts the needles down to eat, write, or sleep, and sometimes not even then.
www.RachaelHerron.com
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