How to Knit a Heart Back Home (9 page)

“Nothing that I liked as much as yours. Did you call those references?”

She hadn’t. Lucy had picked up the phone a few times at the store, but the idea of asking other people about Owen Bancroft, hearing them talk about him, made her nervous, and each time, she’d put the phone down and picked up the romance she was reading. Better to get lost in a book, always better to be lost in fiction.

Taking a deep breath, Lucy pushed past Owen. She’d just made it around him, just cleared him, when at the last moment, he reached out and touched her wrist. Static electricity jumped between them, a snap of blue that cracked and hurt. Lucy jumped. Owen jerked his hand back.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, I always pick up charges. I drag my feet,” Lucy said.

“You should know that I’m still interested,” said Owen.

And for one long second, the tone of his voice made Lucy think that he wasn’t talking about the rental.

Chapter Seven

Man learned long ago that two sticks, rubbed together, can create a spark. It took a little longer to realize that if you attach a string, you can create a whole lot more.

—
E. C.

J
ust let me know.” Owen peered at her. “Okay? You have my cell number, right?”

Lucy shook her head and then nodded. “Yeah, I have it.” Her cheeks flaming, she made her way back out to the main bar area, leaving him standing behind in the hallway.

Molly was laughing with Whitney. Some best friend she was. The frat boys had eaten all the treats and seemed even drunker now. Jonas looked like he was trying to serve them coffee, but they were more interested in lining coasters up along the edge of the pool table.

She sat down and picked up her knitting. It was really too dim in the bar to try the short-row heel she usually worked on toe-up socks, but she’d reached the place for the turn, and there was no way in hell she was going to sit here and not knit. Maybe she’d just keep knitting straight, a long useless tube, and rip it back and fix it tomorrow.

Molly leaned sideways and nudged her shoulder. “Whitney was just telling me the funniest story about her employee Thomasina, the company SUV, and a Venetian gondolier. You have to hear it.”

The two women dissolved into giggles, and Lucy tried to smile. “It sounds like a good one.”

“Oh, it was! You should have seen Thomasina’s face, when I caught her and Paolo in the back of the Phrosting-mobile. She’s worked for me for ten years, and suddenly she pretended she didn’t speak English.”

Lucy gave what she hoped passed for a laugh. Then, when Molly and Whitney were talking again, she sighed.

It wasn’t even that she hated Whitney Court anymore. Who could? They weren’t in high school anymore. The throwing-up photography incident was behind them. Whitney had not only grown up to be incredibly beautiful but had also become a remarkably savvy businesswoman, respected by the community of Cypress Hollow. Her bakery supported a good number of small ventures in town. She was successful, a small dynamo. Cheerful. Positive. Influential. She had an employee, for Chrissake. Lucy had to do her own taxes.

And Lucy wanted to run whenever she saw her.

Owen made his way back out from the bathroom, limping slowly. He picked up his leather jacket from where he’d draped it over a chair and shrugged into it. “I’m going to get out of here. You all have a good night.”

Whitney hopped lightly off her bar stool and said, “You know wasn’t it you and Lucy who pulled Abigail MacArthur out of that wreck earlier this week? Or was that just a rumor I heard?”

Molly said, “That wasn’t a rumor. They were heroes. I saw it all.”

“Well, heckola,” said Whitney. “I think that deserves a little fanfare or something.” Her voice was sweet. Light.

Too
sugary. “That’s okay, Whitney,” Lucy said.

“No, we should get some press for you. It would be good for the bookstore!”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll call the paper tomorrow. We can do it up right. Get a big front-page spread on the small-town heroes, the local boy finally makes good, alongside the quiet bookstore girl who never has a moment’s excitement, thrust into the heat of action. And I’ll cater the desserts at the reception.”

Aha. That was her angle.

Owen’s face flushed, and he tugged the zipper up on his jacket. “ ’Night,” he said, nodding.

“Wait,” Lucy said.
Local boy finally making good, my ass.
She took a deep breath. “You can have the parsonage.”

Jonas stuck his head out from the back room and glared at her.

“Good,” said Owen. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at her, his face impossible to read. His eyes, though, were the same as they’d been in high school, filled with the same intensity they’d had then.

“If you walk there with me now, I’ll give you the key. You can have it tonight.”

Jonas spoke from behind her. It was a warning. “Lucy . . .”

Owen said, “Deal.”

Then he smiled at her. Lucy’s heart flipped a somersault, and she dropped most of the stitches on her left needle.

The walk to the parsonage was quiet and short, the waves crashing on the far side of Main Street louder than their footfalls.

At the front of garden walkway, next to the side wall of the Book Spire, Lucy flipped the gate open. “Look, if you jiggle the latch here, you’ll keep it from sticking. I haven’t been able to fix that.”

“I can do it for you, if you want,” Owen said. “I’m good at things like that.”

Lucy nodded. “That would be nice. Thank you. We can take it off your rent.”

She led him down the pathway, past the old cemetery, and up the steps. Unlocking the door, she led him into the parlor.

“I really appreciate this, you know,” Owen said. “It’s the perfect place for me right now. I wish I could tell you how long I was staying, but . . .”

Lucy shook her head. “It’s really all right.” She got the rental agreement from the kitchen, and he filled it out in silence. She gave him a key, showed him where the fuse box was, and how to relight the heater’s pilot light.

Then she stood in the hall and held up her hands. “That should be it. I’ll leave you here to get settled in. There are fresh sheets in the linen closet, just make the bed, and you’re good to go.”

“I’ll walk out with you,” said Owen. “I’ll grab my stuff from the motel. Won’t be sad to dump that joint.” Moving forward, he stumbled on the old, worn runner.

“Careful!” Lucy put her hand out and caught his forearm. His arm was warm, the sinews of muscle below the skin taut, ropelike. She swore she felt another spark jump between their skin, a snap of electricity that jolted her through to the ground. As quickly as she touched him, she withdrew her hand. Had he felt it, too?

God, he looked sexy as hell. That black leather jacket over those jeans, looking enough like a bad boy to make her heart beat fast and enough like a hero to make her knees knock.

No
. That line of thinking just led to trouble, and she had no need for that.

“Thanks,” he said.

She jerked her chin in a nod of sorts and started toward the stairs. He followed, holding the handrail.

“Steps are the hardest for me. Any more than three and I’m doomed.”

His voice didn’t invite pity, so she didn’t give any. “It’s a good thing there are only three, then.”

Lucy swung down a step, her hand on the porch rail, gazing out into the yard.

“So who’s buried out here anyway?” In the cold air his voice floated over the headstones, which gleamed pale in the moonlight.

“There aren’t too many, really. The Snodgrass family has a few members buried out here, and they put flowers out sometimes. The very first minister and his family. The drummed-out minister’s first two children, who were stillborn. A couple of drifters, I think, that they took pity on, if I’m guessing right, since their full names aren’t given, just their first names and the dates of death. No one’s been buried here for sixty years, though.” She glanced at him. “In case you were worried. They’ve been sleeping a long time.”

Owen said, “Live people give me enough trouble. I don’t worry about the dead ones. I think it’s kind of . . .”

“Companionable?”

He nodded.

“This used to be one of my favorite places to read as a kid. There’s a baby’s tomb over there, almost invisible to us right now, under that huge oak.” Lucy pointed into the dark. “In the summer, that marble was the coolest thing to curl up against. My parents could never find me when I hid on the far side of it, but my Grandmother Ruby, always knew where I was. She didn’t ever tell my hiding spot—she’d just come out here and give a whistle if she really needed me.”

Lucy stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled, an ear-shattering blast that split the night.

“I never could do that,” he said admiringly.

Lucy shrugged. “It’s easy.” She moved down another step. Only one more and she’d be on the ground, leaving.

“How old were you when you last hid out there?”

“Last summer. I closed the store early one afternoon when it got into the hundreds. There’s no air-conditioning in the store—hell, nothing’s changed since you left. There’s still no air-conditioning in town, except at Williams Brothers Grocery—never need it here on the ocean. And I hate the heat. So I closed and came out here with a book and my knitting. I fell asleep on the baby’s grave. I didn’t wake up until after dark, and I had a crick in my neck, but it was cool and the air was so sweet. . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I must sound like some dumb hick to you.”

“I’m from here, remember?”

“I remember,” she said. She looked down at the ground and then back up at him. Then she felt it again. That frisson of energy that went from the soles of her feet, right through her blue-and-green Keds, all the way up to the crown of her head.

God, she wanted to kiss him. It wouldn’t hurt to do it, right? Just a quick peck. It would be brave of her. And around Owen, Lucy felt different.

She skipped up the two steps until she was back up on the porch with him and pressed her lips lightly to Owen’s. “Thank you.” His lips parted in surprise.

It was meant to be light. Fun. Daring.

But he was quicker than she was, and instead of stepping away, as she’d meant to, he caught her in the circle of his strong arms—they came around her, catching her against his chest.

“Did you mean to do that?” Owen asked, his mouth an inch from hers.

Lucy had no breath left to speak but managed to say, “No.”

He didn’t let her go—he pulled her more firmly against him. “What did you think would happen next?”

“I didn’t . . . have a real plan.”

The corners of Owen’s eyes crinkled and as he lowered his mouth to hers, she felt his smile against her lips.

For one moment, Lucy was aware that she was kissing Owen Bancroft for the second time in her life. That first time hadn’t gone so well, all things considered.

But then all conscious thought left her head as the kiss deepened. Her mouth opened under his, and he tasted of hops and something dark, somehow sweet. His tongue rasped against hers, and Lucy’s hands reached to clutch the fabric of his shirt, under the leather jacket. She needed to hold herself up—her knees weren’t capable of doing the job.

“Lucy,” he whispered against her lips, and the sound of her name jolted her back.

What was she doing?

She’d started this. Lucy pulled back and stared into Owen’s eyes. They were as turbulently clouded as she’d ever seen the ocean on a stormy day. She’d kissed him, right after giving him a
lease
to sign. How damn professional was that?

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. Pushing against his chest, she broke out of his arms, and stumbled backward down the steps.

“Be careful!” Owen reached to keep her from falling, but Lucy caught herself on the railing.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Forgive me. That was dumb.” Oh, God, just
saying
that was stupid. She had to get out of here. Lucy felt like she was that high-school kid again, a clueless loser, her unrequited crush the size of the Pacific.

“Wait a minute, Lucy, just let me . . .”

Beeps broke though his sentence, blessed beeps, and she felt the vibration of the pager against her waist. The fire-department pager. Thank God.

Even before he’d finished his sentence, she was down the path and through the gate, not turning once to see if he was watching her run.

Chapter Eight

I believe in the goodness of knitters everywhere. I’ve seen it evidenced over and over, in charitable works and kindness to strangers and community alike. But while knitters don’t normally lie, don’t trust them not to exaggerate yardage.

—
E. C.

A
fter lunch, before school let out, was Lucy’s favorite time of day at the Book Spire. When no one was in the store, Lucy usually had her feet up on the shelving cart and a novel propped open on the counter. Ruby’s yellow cardigan would be wrapped tightly around her, except in the warmest weather. Lucy would knit a while and take a bite of her apple and then knit some more, flipping pages as needed. Any book—it didn’t really matter. She had six or seven of them behind the counter at all times, Post-its marking her spots. If a customer asked what she was reading and expressed interest in it, rather than ordering her a copy, she was happy to sell it to her on the spot. It would come back around soon enough, and she’d get to finish it then.

But Lucy was having trouble focusing on the historical romance she was reading today.

Owen was just a door away. He’d been in residence for two days, and she hadn’t seen him once.

He hadn’t called with any questions, or stopped by for a magazine, or even waved as he’d walked by the window.

It was probably because she’d attacked him.