Wishes and Stitches (13 page)

She scooted down the aisle of yarn, which had remained blessedly empty until now—no one to witness her humiliation, thank God—and she bumped into Rig as she turned the corner. Two more steps and the women would be able to see her. With any luck at all they'd have no idea where she'd been.

Rig wasn't moving. Naomi, desperate to get out of the aisle, walked into him, hoping that by invading his personal space, maybe even pushing if she had to, that he'd get it, and move. She didn't trust her voice to be able to ask him politely to get the fuck out of her way.

Instead, it felt like walking into a tree. A warm, tall, really firm-chested tree. He didn't budge, didn't even blink. Instead he caught her upper arms gently, wrapping his fingers around them. He waited until Naomi looked up at him and said, “Where's the fire, Doc?”

“I can't—I have to—let me go.” She cleared her aching throat. “I've got to get out of here.”

“Too much yarn? You're overwhelmed by the selection? Personally, I think if you've seen one yarn ball, you've seen—”

Naomi put everything she had into the one word. “Please.”

His eyes went from mildly amused to concerned to something resembling ferocity. He turned so that he was beside her, and put his hand against the small of her back.

“Let's go,” he said. “I'll handle it.”

“No,” she said over her shoulder. Somehow, it was desperately important that
she
handle this, not him. But she let him keep his hand on her back. That she would accept.

They made their way out of the yarn aisle and over to the main area, near the register, where most of the partygoers had congregated in small groups. Naomi looked at her phone and said loudly, “Well, dang it! Isn't that a shame?”

Abigail MacArthur, jiggling a baby on her hip and writing out a receipt with her free hand, looked up in alarm. “What is it?”

“Medical emergency. In town. We have to go.”

At least five voices asked in unison, “Who?”

Rig's fingers pressed more firmly into her back, moving her toward the door.

“I mean, just out of town,” said Naomi. “Tourist in an RV. Ambulance is on its way, but they'll need a doctor to transport, and since we're together on his motorcycle anyway, we're both going. Better two doctors than none.”

She looked at Abigail, directly into her eyes. “What a nice party, though. Thanks for having me.” Then she turned to Lucy, who stood near a display of needle gauges. “And happy birthday. I hope it's your best year ever.”

She sounded good. Normal. Damn, she was proud of herself. Even if she still wanted to cry.

To a chorus of
What a shame
and
Be careful,
Rig steered her out of the crowd, onto the porch. He made excellent drive-by small talk as they passed people, murmuring good-byes that he made sound like they were both being polite.

“We'll see you soon,” he said. “Can we just slip behind you here? Thanks, you take care, too.”

Naomi didn't even glance in the direction of where Molly, Janet, and Trixie were still sitting. She couldn't.

Once out at the driveway, under the star-studded night sky, Naomi started to catch her breath. The air was cool, and smelled of hay and salt. Screw those women. She didn't need them. She didn't need anyone, never had, no one except her father, and look how far that had gotten her. “About that,” she began.

“Don't worry about it. I'd already diagnosed gallstones and a case of gout. Glad for the excuse.” The gravel crunched under their feet companionably. Up on the county road, they didn't speak until they reached Rig's motorcycle.

“So,” he said. “You've got to get to that ‘thing' you mentioned earlier? Should I drop you off wherever that is?”

“I lied. I don't have a thing.” He knew already, Naomi figured.

“And you don't mind riding the bike again?”

“Only if you go as fast you can.” The words on her lips surprised her, and she pulled on the helmet so hard she hurt her ears.

Chapter Twenty

T
he harvest moon still hung low in the sky, and Naomi stared into its face as they rode eastward into the country. The farther they went, it seemed, the faster he drove. And the faster the motorcycle went, the slower Naomi's heart rate felt. It was as if touching the danger, feeling the ground whipping by below them and the slight sting of the air against her bare forearms, allowed her to forget herself and think of nothing but the way Rig felt in front of her: hard, strong, in total control of where he took them, and for those few minutes, Naomi let him be in charge. She let herself feel as if they might ride all night and leaned her cheek against the cool leather of his jacket.

Spread far down below them to the right was a sparkling night panorama—the yellow moon behind them, lighting the fields that stretched right to the ocean's edge. Small collections of light flickered in valleys, groups of two or three homes, surrounded by nothing else but moonlight. And the ocean itself . . . It spread as far to the north and south and due west as her eye could see. There was no fog, rare in and of itself on a summer night, and moonlight glinted on the water, flashes of silver that existed for only a split second, then reappeared somewhere else.

And down there was a town where almost no one liked her. Naomi blinked hard and tilted her head up to the stars, the air cold at her exposed throat. It hurt. She hadn't even
known
they didn't like her. That was the worst part: feeling this stupid, the shock of it.

Much too soon, Rig cruised down the hill into town and pulled onto her street, then up to her house. He put one foot down, rocking the motorcycle to rest as its engine coughed to a stop.

Naomi didn't move. She stayed resting again Rig's broad back, and whispered, “Damn.”

She felt his laughter more than she heard it: a rumble that moved from his lower abdomen up to his chest. Naomi's hands had been resting lightly on Rig's hips, and she let herself feel the denim fabric for another heartbeat before she sat up and away from him. Then she slid off the bike, feeling graceless as she hopped backward to avoid touching the pipe Rig had said was hot. She took off her helmet and her head felt so light that it might float away.

Inside, Anna waited for her. It said something awful about her that she wanted to stay out here with Rig, just a few more minutes. But she didn't want to go in, not just yet.

He sat on the curb and patted the concrete next to him. “You wanna tell me what happened back there?”

“When?” Playing the dumb card wouldn't help, but it bought her an extra second or two while she sat down next to him.

“At the shop, when you freaked out.”

“I didn't . . .” She couldn't tell him the truth. It was too pathetic.

“You did.” He leaned so that he could lift her hand and tuck it into his.

And suddenly, with that touch, Naomi wanted to tell him. She felt as if she could. “I overheard some women talking about me. They weren't nice, and it kind of confirmed something for me.”

“What?”

“That I don't fit in here. That instead of just being ambivalent about my presence, which is what I thought, they actually dislike me.” The words felt as if they were twisting their way out of her mouth. She closed it tightly to prevent more from coming out.

The streetlight above them gave a metallic
clink
and went out. A curtain twitched across the street, and Naomi knew Mrs. Strufend was watching them, making sure they weren't planning on stealing her 1972 mint green Cadillac.

But instead of protesting, which Naomi expected Rig to do, instead of telling her she must have misunderstood them, he asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

Naomi took her hand back, and shoved it through the curls that kept blowing annoyingly into her face. “
Do
about it? I can't change the way they feel. Psych 101, you remember. I'm not responsible for their emotions.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Rig's voice was a drawl in the dark. “You've done something to earn their dislike. If it's something you want to continue, then fuck 'em. And if what you've done is something you want to change, then change, and see what happens with them.”

“I didn't
do
anything,” muttered Naomi as she plucked a sad piece of grass from behind her and examined it. She really should water more often.

“So what didn't you do?”

Shit. He was on the money, and she didn't like it.

“Well, I didn't come into town and pretend to be the next best thing, trying to be everyone's friend.” She let the implication remain only in her tone. “I didn't josh with everyone in Tillie's or join every committee they asked me to. I didn't have time. I thought people would meet me in my practice—I thought that's how I would make friends.” Her throat tightened with sudden tears, and Naomi was horrified. She didn't cry in front of anyone. Certainly not her new business partner who happened to be stroking her shoulder in a way that was both comforting and devastatingly hot.

She cleared her throat and tried again. “I thought that slowly, I'd become part of a group, like I was down south. I miss them. I miss my friends. But they're too busy with their own work to come up, and God knows I haven't been able to find the time to go south. It's been a year already . . .” She folded her arms on the tops of her knees, and then put her head down, swallowing as hard as she could to try to keep back the awful lump that rose in her throat. “They said I was stuck up.” She groaned and buried her head farther.

Rig didn't say anything immediately, which further increased Naomi's agony. But his hand massaged back and forth along her shoulder blades, a warm, reassuring touch. He wasn't trying anything with her. He more than likely never would, not after this meltdown. And that was fine. Wasn't it?

“You probably haven't failed. Not completely,” said Rig finally. “You're just a little . . . awkward.”

“Thank you.” Naomi turned her head to the right to stare at him. “And you're no help. The town already loves you.”

“You forget I had an in—my brother. Everyone loves a firefighter.”

Naomi rubbed her head back and forth on her folded hands. “No, I think it's you.”

He scooted the final inch closer, so that now their sides were touching. He stared across the street and she saw him blink as Felix, Mrs. Strufend's gigantic great Dane pressed his nose against the glass at the top of her front door. “Wow. But hey, what about me?”

“What?”

“
Why
do you think they like me?” Rig cocked his head to the side and waited, seeming intent on her answer.

Was he fishing for a compliment? It sounded like it, but Naomi didn't think that was his purpose. He didn't really seem like the kind of guy who needed affirmation. God, he felt good next to her. So warm, as if he were giving off warmth like a heater. Naomi had to physically restrain herself from pushing back into him. She'd climb in his lap if she could.

But she couldn't. Naomi gave herself a mental shake, and then considered his question.

“Truthfully?”

He nodded. “Yep. Truth.”

“Because you're The Guy.”

A slight furrow dented his forehead. “Huh?”

“You're tall. You're the right age. You have cheekbones practically as broad as your shoulders. You're a
doctor
, for goodness' sake.”

“So are you. So what?”

“It's different. You drive a motorcycle. You worked on oil rigs. You're a man's man, doing a man's job.”

“No way,” Rig said. “You can't reduce this to a gender argument.”

“I can and I will. That's what it's about. They don't talk to me, put me at my own stupid table at the diner, hold out until they're practically dead hoping Pederson is coming back, but you waltz in, and you're accepted.”

“You're saying that's because I'm male.”

“And tall. And okay looking.”

Rig threw his head back and laughed up into the night sky. “Well, at least you think I'm okay looking.”

He was better than okay looking, but she wouldn't say it. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. Naomi lifted the shoulder that was touching his with a slight up-down motion. “I guess.”

She wanted to touch him more. With a wild desperation that didn't fit in her body, she wanted to kiss him. To feel his mouth on hers again, to determine if the heat that had flared between them would happen again.

No, no, no.
No
.

He had to leave. She'd lost her mind, riding out with him. And they had to be at work on Monday, ready to go, working together, side by side, professionally.

Abruptly, Naomi stood. “Thanks for the ride, then.” She busied herself with brushing off the seat of her pants.

Rig looked surprised but stood with her. “Yeah. Okay.” He threw his leg over the bike and looked at her, his eyes intense in the darkness. “I had a great time tonight.”

Naomi kicked at a pebble. “Thanks,” she mumbled. She wanted to run in the house and bury herself in the afghan on the couch, but she knew another problem was waiting for her inside.

He gave the kick that would preface the rumble of the bike below him. But instead of a roar, she heard a click. Rig kicked the starter again. Still nothing.

“What's going on?”

“Hell if I know. Old bikes like this . . .” Rig's leg jerked again, and this time, there was a loud
bang
and a rattle that seemed to jerk his whole body, followed by another pop.

“Whoa!” Rig leaped off the bike and stood next to her on the curb, watching as it smoked.

“I think it's on fire,” he said. “Whoops.”