Wishes and Stitches (12 page)

Chapter Nineteen

N
aomi touched a skein of baby alpaca, a gorgeous royal purple, soft as air, but she thought only of Anna.

Anna was pregnant. And what had Naomi done? Bolted. It was as if she'd taken a page from Anna's book—her little sister was usually the one running away from confrontation. Naomi was the one who stuck around, even when she felt like hiding.

But not tonight. She'd fled, on a
motorcycle
of all things. And she didn't want to go back. She was a terrible sister.

A man spoke from behind her. “Lost in thought, or just tryin' to figure out what to make next?”

Naomi jumped and turned. She recognized Cade MacArthur, Eliza's friend Abigail's husband, having treated him once, and from seeing him in Tillie's with the ranchers, his daughter Lizzie clinging to his Wranglers, little Owen dangling from an arm. She knew much of the yarn in the store was spun of the fiber from sheep raised on this ranch.

“Oh, sorry.” Naomi put back the skein she'd been fondling.

“Why? It's a good place to do it. I'm Cade, and I saw you once, didn't I? Cade MacArthur.”

Naomi shook his hand and said, “I know.”
Crap
. “I mean, yes, how's that knee? And call me Naomi?”

Cade smiled. He had bright green eyes that actually sparkled. She'd never seen eyes like that besides Eliza Carpenter's. He was her great-nephew, after all. It felt good to see those eyes again, as if she was seeing Eliza. “Knee's better than ever. Should it click so much going downstairs, though?”

Naomi's jaw dropped. “
No.
You need to come back in soon and—”

“Kidding, just kidding. It's just fine.”

“Oh,” breathed Naomi. Of course. It was a joke. “This is a gorgeous store.”

“Thanks. Abigail does a good job. You two friends?” He picked up a sloppy skein and retwisted it as if he knew what he was doing.

Naomi felt the words she was going to say stall in her mouth. She knew Abigail. Kind of. She still wouldn't expect Abigail to know her, though, even with a botched store visit and the deathbed meeting. And they weren't friends, although Naomi could imagine that everyone in town wanted to be able to lay claim to Abigail's friendship.

Then she realized she'd been silent too long.
Shit
. If this was the office, if he were her patient right now, she'd know exactly what to say, instead of staring into this panicked blankness—

“Well,” said Cade, scuffing the floor with his boot, “anyway, enjoy.” He wandered toward a group of other men, and Naomi's hands went stiff, flexing outward. Why did she always have to be
uncomfortable
with people all the time? Would she ever grow out of it? When she was fifty, maybe? At seventy would she know how to do that casual banter that everyone else seemed born able to do?

She moved toward the back, keeping the smile firmly in place, as if she was happy to be there, as if she was ready to talk to anyone.

The one time Naomi had been in Eliza's, she'd been so flustered that she hadn't taken any time to look at what the stock was like. Something about its organization—how the colors of yarn went up the wall and how shop sweater models hung in unexpected places, the fluid nature of the design and the way that voices were muted, all sounds smoothed over so that conversation became a pleasant hum—soothed Naomi in a way she hadn't felt in a long time, and she felt her heart rate drop back to a more normal zone.

Naomi didn't even
need
yarn. She had plenty. She had an old suitcase that was full of yarn she intended to turn into scarves, and more than that, she had two places in her spare room where she kept enough yarn to make two sweaters, for when she got around to trying. For God's sake, her shawls were wonky enough, with their wandering motifs and dropped stitches. Even though Eliza Carpenter had told her that it wasn't worth worrying about mistakes, that no one would notice them, Naomi had stared at Eliza lying there in her narrow hospital bed and she hadn't believed her. If that was actually true, then when she looked at her friend and patient Eliza, she shouldn't be able to see how the cancer had ravaged her body—she should just be able to see how lovely, smart, and kind a person she was before she died.

That was crap. Eliza had been sick as hell. Naomi saw it, and treated her, treated her right into the grave. Eliza's death had affected her more than any other patient, and she'd never figured out why that was, exactly. She'd lost babies before, in tragic circumstances. She'd lost so many patients to disease she'd given up keeping score.

But Eliza had been different. It was as if Eliza had loved her—Naomi shook her head and picked up a green ball of something incredibly soft and stared at the label, unseeing. Well, who was to say she hadn't? Eliza loved everyone. After all, Eliza had told her about this town, had talked about Cypress Hollow for hours as they knitted together when Naomi was off shift, with nowhere better to go. Eliza had put her feet on the path that led her here, to a yarn store on Eliza's old land, named in her memory.

She put the green ball back and picked up a dark gray mohair skein that had tiny streaks and flashes of color spun into the softness. From a distance, one would never see the color, but here, in her hand, the sparks looked like tiny, colorful secrets. She put it to her nose and inhaled its musty sweetness and let the yarn rest against the soft piece of skin just above her lip. It was as soft as a breath. Naomi needed this yarn. Keeping it in her hand with no idea of what she'd make with it, she moved farther down the aisle to where it curved. Oooh, this spot was nice; surrounded on three sides by shelves, she was alone and hidden. She took a deep breath, and just for a moment, she let herself pretend that the people out there on the other sides of the shelves were her friends, that they were looking for her, waiting for her.

Naomi peeked through two shelves and caught a glimpse of Rig smiling, talking with Lucy Bancroft's older brother and Elbert Romo. Rig looked like he fit right in—he threw his head back in a laugh, and even from where she was, she could see the dark stubble on his chin, at his jawline, the broad sweep of his cheek up to his eyes that crinkled with the grin. God, he was sex on a platter, wasn't he? Women must shoot their numbers on paper airplanes at him as he rode by their towns on the Harley-Davidson.

Naomi whacked her shin on a wooden drawer that was sticking out, full of overstock yarn.

“Shit,” she whispered, and bent over to rub the knot that was quickly forming.

“I can't believe she's here, actually out of her office. Do you think she wants to learn how to knit?”

Naomi froze, still bent over.

“Doubt it. She doesn't look like the type. Well, you saw who she came with. I'd say
he
has something to do with why she's here.”

Naomi peeked again through the shelf. Three women sat on low settees, all knitting, and leaning forward as they gossiped. She recognized one as Molly Flood—Naomi had bought her house from her last year. Then she'd treated Molly once for laryngitis. She'd never come back in, but they usually smiled at each other when they passed on the street, and Molly had sent her a bottle of Cypress Hollow red wine for Christmas. The second woman was Janet Morgan, a businesswoman whom Naomi often saw holding court in Tillie's, a cowboy-looking guy hanging on her every word. Everything about Janet looked expensive, from her impeccable eyebrows to the red-soled high heels she wore. The third woman looked familiar, but Naomi couldn't place her—she was a knockout with masses of long, straight red hair and huge blue eyes. She looked like she'd be good in a Victoria's Secret campaign.

They were the popular girls. Naomi could tell just by looking at them, and she felt herself curl into a small ball inside. But she kept eavesdropping.

“He's a hunk, all right,” said the redhead. “I'd like to interview
him
.”

“Oh, Trix. What about your reporter's code of ethics or whatever that is?”

That was it, now Naomi could place the third woman: Trixie Fletcher, reporter for the local paper. The one who'd had that small mocking laugh in her voice as she'd taken down the copy for the blood sugar check.

“What my boss doesn't know doesn't hurt him. And sometimes I really get the goods.” Trixie smirked. “We're talking inside edition, if you know what I mean.”

Molly's needles flashed. “There must be more to your interview techniques. You're a smart woman, don't sell yourself short.”

“With those legs, darling?” drawled Janet, who was knitting much more slowly than the other two, her needles moving almost luxuriously. “She couldn't sell herself short if she tried. Legs for days—we
hate
you, kitten.”

Trixie leaned forward again. “There's a story here, though. I can feel it. Big-time doctor from the Gulf, ultrasuccessful, running his own private practice out of his car, leaping off helicopters to aid injured workers, the guys on oil rigs bringing us the stuff that makes our nation great, slumming it here in little old Cypress Hollow at a small practice that he could probably afford to buy with cash? Only one other doctor in town, excluding the ones at the ER ten miles up the road, and she's a lonely cat lady. I'm seeing a
Modern Love–
style piece, only it wouldn't have a happy ending.”

“Don't be mean,” said Molly. “We don't know her well.”

Naomi blinked, her eyes hot. She didn't have any cats.

Janet pulled out more yarn to use, stretching it slowly above her head and letting it drop. “She might even be a knitter, chickens. You never know. And then your mind would change about her, wouldn't it, Trixie?”

“She's no knitter. We'd know. She'd have come to knit night at least once. She would have
had
to buy yarn here—there's no other place to go. She's just an uptight, stuck-up city girl who doesn't really fit in here.” Trixie jerked a stitch tight. “Shit. I dropped something somewhere.”

“Careful.” Molly looked around and Naomi ducked farther into the Malabrigo so that she couldn't be seen. “She's here somewhere. I'd hate for her to hear.”

Trixie said, “Always the peacemaker, Molly. I'd tell her to her face she was stuck up. Always coming in Tillie's in the mornings, never saying hello to anyone. You know they hold that table for her every day just because it's the farthest from the other customers? Keeps her out of the way so she can just
watch
everything like she does.”

Naomi felt like she was going to throw up. That's what they thought? That she was awful? Horrible? The ball of sparkly gray wool she'd been holding turned sticky in her hand, and when she set it down, trying not to breathe, it had left bits of mohair on her palm.

She'd thought she just came off as shy, if anything. That had happened before, and she'd thought it would just take time. It wasn't that she didn't want to talk—she just wasn't good at the fake small talk. But they just plain hated her.
That's
why she was always left alone. The surprise of it hurt, too. It felt so . . . high school.

“What are you girls gossiping about?” Lucy Bancroft leaned over Janet's shoulder.

Naomi peeked one more time. She had to get the hell out of here, but she couldn't move—she had to hear the rest.

“Happy birthday, darling,” drawled Janet. “You'll be happy to know I've enrolled you in the champagne of the month club.”

Lucy whistled. “Hot damn! I love it. Thank you.” She kissed Janet on the cheek, and then said, “Spill.”

Trixie said in a whisper designed to carry, “Talking about the girl doctor. And how we'd like to trade her in for the new, über-hot boy doctor we have in town now.”

Lucy frowned. “Naomi Fontaine? You know she's here somewhere, right?”

Trixie pouted. “You don't even know her.”

“I've ordered some pretty obscure medical texts for her in the past year while she was researching patients' symptoms. And we've gone out for coffee a couple of times. We're friend dating. I like her. Says what she means.”

“Well,” said Janet in her normal booming voice, “shy is so difficult for people to deal with. I can't imagine being shy.”

Lucy grinned. “We know. You were born naked and—”

Janet cut her off. “
Glorious
. I was naked and glorious. Oftentimes, I still am. Ask Tom over there.” She pointed at a man in a cowboy hat talking to Abigail at the cash register. He turned bright red as the women looked at him.

Lucy said, “I think he heard you.”

“Oh, darling, I meant him to,” said Janet, stroking the tip of her needle.

Lucy straightened and waved at a woman across the room. “Well, quit talking smack. It's my party, and I don't want any hurt feelings today. And now I'm going to go give Elbert Romo a piece of my mind about not putting down the toilet seat in my store.”

Lucy was too late to prevent hurt feelings. Way too late. Naomi tried to suck in a quiet breath, but it came out as a gasp. She'd gone past hurt feelings a while ago, and now she was all the way to broken ones.

They
hated
her. With the possible exception of Lucy, they despised her. No wonder she didn't have a single friend in town. She'd thought everyone was just formal. That it would take time. That being around the townspeople would eventually make her one of them. Instead, they'd been keeping her quarantined at her own table, lest she infect the rest of the residents with her . . . her what?
What
did they hate about her?

Out. She had to get out, get away. There was nothing more for her here at this party. Yes, Toots had been sweet, but she was practically the official town greeter. She'd probably bring a welcome basket to a newly paroled murderer. Naomi wasn't anyone special.