Wishes and Stitches

Wishes and Stitches

A Cypress Hollow Yarn

Rachael Herron

Dedication

To Cari Luna, for reading my first drafts
and for believing in me anyway

Contents

 

 

 

Chapter One

I
n Tillie's Diner, Naomi's scrambled eggs were cooling fast. She stared with blank eyes at the crossword puzzle tucked under her cup, the coffee ring on the ink spreading each time she set it back down.

Come on. Focus
. These jangled nerves and distracted thoughts weren't like her. The diner was normally a place of calm where people nodded to her, but didn't bother her—the townspeople talked among themselves, letting her work the puzzle in peace as she eased into the morning, writing down the last word before leaving for the office.

But today Naomi's thoughts flew everywhere, all over the place, most specifically to the one thing she was trying not to remember.

“How you doing, hon?”

Naomi jumped. “Fine, thanks.” Shirley was a good waitress, fast and accurate, and one of the few friends Naomi had made in this first year of living in Cypress Hollow. On days off, they went to the movies or walked the coastal trails while Shirley scanned the beach for people engaged in shocking behavior, which she pointed out at the top of her lungs. But she wasn't usually much for checking back in with Naomi after she'd served her breakfast. She'd just cruise by her table, refilling her coffee cup, never spilling a drop, already moving on to the next table. Shirley wasn't big on small talk. That was fine, Naomi had never been great at it herself.

But today Shirley lingered, the pot still hanging over Naomi's cup. “You look different,” she said. “You get a haircut?”

Blinking, Naomi reached up to touch her curls. “No . . .” She suddenly felt shy. “But I'm using a different conditioner—”

“Nope. Something else.” Shirley set the coffeepot on the edge of the table and crouched so she was on Naomi's eye level. She lowered her voice. “You got some.”

“Excuse me?” Naomi stiffened.

“Action. At that conference you went to. I can tell you got some, because you got this high color right here.” Shirley pointed to the top of her own cheekbone. “And because you're
way
less uptight than normal.”

Naomi shook her head. “I can't—no, you must be imagining that.”

“I don't mean no offense by it, you know that. I'm just saying. You look good.” Shirley puffed a breath of air as she hauled herself back to standing, using the edge of the Formica for purchase. “Did you have fun, though? Just tell me that.”

Naomi felt the spots of color Shirley had noticed burning on her cheeks. “I . . . yes.”
Yes. I had the best time of my life and I can't stop thinking about it.

“Good girl. Keep it up, then.” Shirley walked away, taking the coffeepot with her.

Did a one-night stand really show like that? Was Naomi wearing the equivalent of a neon sign? Was it flashing above her as she walked?
Got laid. Best sex ever. Ask me how.

Oh, damn. She would
not
think about it. Instead, she fiddled with her phone, staring at it with unseeing eyes until she almost dropped it on her plate.

Her normal booth in Tillie's was the one farthest from the door, next to the entrance that led to the side room where the old ranchers sat in the morning. It was the booth no one else wanted—the vinyl was torn in such a way that it always poked her legs uncomfortably, and the center table leg tilted, even though it was bolted down. Naomi was used to resting her newspaper so that it covered the burned stain on the Formica, and she didn't set her pen on the tabletop lest it roll off the table. Again.

At least Naomi normally
got
a booth. Half of it was luck, the other half was getting there early enough. It seemed as if everyone in Cypress Hollow came through Tillie's in the mornings, and lots of people had their favorite seats that no one else would dream of sitting in. Mayor Finley sat in the booth closest to the door, saying hello to everyone, local and tourist alike. She was tall, always dressed in yellow, and reminded Naomi of a pencil. Officer John Moss, who Naomi thought looked like he should be working for Boss Hogg, sat on the stool nearest the cash register, peering into open wallets as if he expected a tip.

She tried eavesdropping on the room next to her, her favorite part of Tillie's. The ranchers gathered there—tourists were strictly not allowed, nor were townsfolk even, normally. Naomi loved to hear the rhythm of the stories they told, the way they held on to vowels longer than anyone else in town. She couldn't quite hear them, though. Dang it.

If only that group back there would come into the new health clinic.

She drew small circles along the bottom of the paper, and then made a note to remind herself to call the paper to advertise the free blood sugar check she was offering next week. Maybe that would bring a nibble or two.

A nibble. Like she'd gotten along her jawline, the curve of her neck. . .

That fling had
not
been like her. She would never have one in Cypress Hollow, that was for sure. Word would spread like a seasonal virus, and Naomi valued her privacy above all else. But at the medical conference in Portland last weekend, in a city where she knew no one, it had turned out to be as easy as tripping over the uneven curb in front of Tillie's.

Naomi had seen him when the conference attendees moved from the opening session over to the bar. His eyes met hers across three crowded tables. Next to the men who had typical doctor-style clean haircuts and ties neatly knotted under their chins, he'd looked rugged. His dark brown hair was a bit too long, parted unevenly, as if he'd just run his fingers through it after showering, and he leaned against the hotel's tall iron and glass table as if it were a tree. The long planes of his jaw were softened by a mouth that was perhaps a little too big, but the proportions worked—he stood out from every other man in the room. The others looked like they were in soft-focus black and white to Naomi. He was drawn sharply in color. He'd taken his tie off, if he'd even had one on that day, and the top two buttons of his soft blue shirt were open.

His eyes, dark and smoky, met hers and he grinned at her. His expression told her he'd caught her—he knew she'd been checking him out. And the wink he'd dropped, the one that made Naomi's heart race, told her he liked it.

After watching each other from their respective circles of acquaintances for an hour, they finally met in the bathroom line.

He said, “You have gorgeous eyes. I don't think I've ever seen greener eyes in my life.”

“Nice line,” said Naomi, smiling and leaning back against the wall. She was trying desperately to remember this game, but it had been a long time since she'd played it.

“Rig,” he said.

“Seriously?” She couldn't help it. Of
course
his name was Rig. If he got into trouble in here, he could probably jump off the hotel roof and land on his waiting black horse and ride off into the wilderness. She shook the thought from her head and said, “Sorry. Naomi.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said.

“There's a minibar in my room.”

Naomi swallowed her gasp and nodded as coolly as she could.

They never got around to opening the minibar—there had been other, more relevant things to open: her blouse; his slacks; her skirt; and then, her legs.

Even though she hadn't planned it, Naomi had remembered how to get what she wanted, and Rig had known how to give it to her. Those long, sensitive,
talented
fingers would be wasted on a GP; he had to be a surgeon. But that was yet another question she didn't ask. In the dark, they didn't ask many.

After round two and more kisses, she'd felt the warm flush of pleasure that had nothing to do with where his hands were going. She
did
still know how to work this—thank God. It had been one of the most interesting things she'd studied in medical school, the sexual act and how people could fit together physiologically.

If only everything else was as straightforward and easy to control.

She'd flown home feeling the heady flush of a new secret. She kept picturing Rig's fingers, kept feeling the shape of his mouth on hers. She held the knowledge of him carefully to herself, something to bring out later and remember when her spirits needed a lift.

Naomi sighed, moving her coffee cup slowly across the Formica. She doodled on the edge of her paper. She needed to get Rig's hands off her mind. She could think about them later, but not here, where Shirley was still glancing curiously at her. Hopefully Shirley wouldn't tell anyone. She trusted Shirley, yes. But Cypress Hollow was a small town, and it was difficult for the residents to sit on good gossip.

It was such a close-knit town that it had been hard for Naomi to gain her footing, to make friends. She had Shirley, of course, thank God. And Lucy Bancroft at the bookstore was sweet—they'd had coffee twice, and Naomi kept meaning to call her again, but time had slipped away from her while she was working on opening the health clinic. Every once in a while one of the locals would notice that she was sitting in Tillie's and would nod or give a half smile, but no one stood next to her table chatting like they did over by Mildred and Greta's booth. No one impeded the flow of customer traffic while catching up on
her
week. Mrs. Irving had never laughed while standing at her table like she did at others, her head tipped back, lipstick on her teeth, laughing so that her belly shook under her blue plaid dress.

It was okay. Naomi had known it would take a while to fit in here, and that was fine. Besides, she was awful at small talk. Terrible. She was the opposite of her mother, who could charm a bluebird out of the sky, and just like her father, who'd thought meaningless chat was a waste of time that could be better spent elsewhere.

“Hey, you!” a happy voice said from behind her as someone gripped her shoulder. A smile crept onto her face as she turned her head. Maybe, just maybe, today it would be different? She'd get that casual chitchat right?

Elbert Romo's engineer's cap bobbled on the back of his head, and his blue denim shirt was missing a button. “Sorry,” he said to Naomi. “I lost my balance there for a second.”

“Oh,” she said.

Elbert steadied his hand on her table. It wobbled precariously, spilling her coffee. She didn't mind the new puddle. “How are you?” she asked.

“Oh, sorry,” he said again to Naomi, not looking at her. “I'm just trying to get his attention.”

He pushed off and wobbled on his cane toward the front of the diner. “Hello there!” he called. “Over here!”

Naomi dropped her eyes back down to the table, then picked up her phone again and checked for nonexistent e-mails that she knew hadn't come in since the last time she'd had it in her hand.

Okay, so she hadn't broken into Cypress Hollow society yet.

She stole a glance toward the front where Elbert was pumping the hand of a man who dwarfed him. The brown, scuffed cowboy boots caught her eye first—the man wore them just like everyone else in this town did, and they looked great on him. His legs were long in his well-worn jeans, and his chest was broad under a red plaid shirt. His dark brown hair was thick and a shade too long and it stuck up in places as if he'd just woken up. He had a scruff of beard on his jaw. If he yelled “Timber,” she'd believe him.

And she was damned if he didn't look exactly like . . . Rig.