Wishes and Stitches (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

T
he weekend was a quiet one. Naomi took Anna shopping for maternity clothes after she realized her sister was sleeping in one stretched-out shirt while the other one hung in the bathroom drying.

She had to admit that it was nice spending time with her sister. Since Anna was ten years younger than she was, born when Naomi was living with her father, she'd never seen that much of her sister growing up. And the one year she'd lived with them, after Naomi's father died, Anna had been only seven. But even then, her sister was like unexpected sunshine on a dark day. Everyone wanted to be around Anna. Naomi hadn't been jealous, really. She'd just wondered how Anna did it.

In the dressing room of the only local clothing store, Marzies, Anna charmed the clothing retailer over the changing-room door, flattering Mrs. Gonzales's taste in clothing, and when Mrs. G.'s husband tromped through the store, she flattered her taste in men. She ended up earning Naomi a discount on the pile of clothes she paid for, and Naomi learned that not much had changed in her sister's methods. She distributed radiance as if it was talcum powder.

And she was still the opposite of Naomi, at whom Mrs. Gonzales only glanced when she took her credit card.

They'd gone into the Book Spire, but Naomi hadn't gotten to introduce Anna to Lucy Bancroft, as she'd been looking forward to. Instead, Anna walked right up to the counter and asked Lucy what she recommended. Lucy lit up and spent the next half hour discussing the newest fiction, the best romances, the scariest romantic suspense.

Abigail MacArthur came in while they were there, and Naomi only realized she was hiding from her when she found herself in the kids' section. She had no kids to buy books for—although she would, she supposed, soon enough.

This was stupid. The three women stood at the counter chatting. She could hold her own in a polite, cheery conversation, right?

She walked over, her hands stuck in her pockets so she didn't ball them into nervous fists.

“Hi,” she said to Abigail.

“Naomi, I thought that was you. And your sister, just look at her! Are you excited?”

What a strange thing to ask, Naomi thought. Apprehensive, yes. Worried, sure. “I'm . . . hoping for the best.”

Anna rolled her eyes and went on talking to Lucy about the newest Sophie Littlefield and Juliet Blackwell books.

Abigail said, “Oh, there's nothing to worry about. She'll be a great mom, and you're going to love being an aunt.”

Naomi bit the inside of her lip. How could Abigail say that? She didn't know either of them, especially not Anna.

“I'm sure you're . . .” Naomi had no idea how to finish the sentence without offending anyone and was grateful when Abigail went on.

“I have to tell you that from the first moment I saw you in town, I've thought you looked familiar.” Abigail's smile was so friendly. So open. “We've never had a real chance to talk. You moved here from San Diego, isn't that right? I used to live there, too. Did we know each other there? Is that possible?”

Now
was the time to tell Abigail she'd been the doctor to witness her grief at Eliza's bedside. How did she do that gracefully? “Um . . . Actually, I was—”

Abigail waved a hand. “Isn't that silly? It's a big city. Of course we would have remembered before this. It's just those gorgeous green eyes you have, I feel like I remember them. Funny, huh?” She winked at Lucy. “I'm a sucker for green, though. My husband, Cade, has green eyes, and both our kids got that from him. Hey, how's your new friend? Rig, right?”

Naomi choked and tried to turn it into a cough. “Oh, he's not a
friend.
He's a coworker. At the office.”

“Right,” said Abigail. “The new doctor. But you sure looked good together the other day at the party . . .”

“No.” The word came out too loud, but it was too late, she'd said it, and as usual, she couldn't retract it. Had they really looked good together? She blushed so hard her skin hurt.

Abigail nodded, clearly thrown. “Well, it was nice seeing you. Lucy, I'm going to go. Thanks for the book—I'll let you know what I think.”

With a flurry of hugs all around—Naomi was startled into stiffness by the quick, tight squeeze she received unexpectedly—Abigail was gone.

And while Lucy and Anna went over to the maternity section of the bookstore, Naomi leaned against the end cap of the self-help section. Well, she'd blown that one, but good. That had been her opening. It had been what she hadn't even known she was waiting for. She'd almost said,
Yes, I was a friend of Eliza's. I was her doctor. Isn't it a small world?

Wouldn't they have a laugh about it?

Or, and she thought this was more likely, Abigail would just be pissed. It had gone too far—Naomi had taken too long to tell her. It was too late. She'd missed the window now for sure. She'd swallowed the words again and closed the door on that revelation. It couldn't happen now, not after she'd basically denied by her silence any connection at all. Damn it all to hell. It wasn't like it should even
be
a secret. An accidental one, yet another example of how normal human interaction got confusing, how everyone else seemed to know the correct way to barrel through. Now, even though it wasn't, shouldn't be, a big deal, she'd have to continue keeping her silence. At least she knew how to do that.

Back in the car, Naomi asked, “So. What are you going to do next?” Her voice sounded too loud.

Anna sat straighter in the passenger seat. “What do you mean? About the baby?” Her right hand rested over her newly outtie navel.

“You should probably eventually tell Mom you're here.”

“I'll call her.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Naomi shook her head. How could she put this delicately? “You need to get a job.”

Anna wrapped both arms around her belly protectively. She scowled. “I'm huge. I can't work.”

“You're the healthiest pregnant woman I've ever seen. You could probably work in the fields picking strawberries if you wanted to.”

“You want me to pick
fruit
?”

“No, of course not.” Naomi came to a stop too quickly at the light, and the car rocked. “But you can do something to occupy yourself and make some money at the same time until the baby comes.”

Anna folded her arms as much as she could and slumped farther in the seat.

“What about a receptionist position? You've worked in offices before.”

“I
hated
offices. Women are so political and none of them ever liked me. They'd talk behind my back, make things up. You work alone. You can't even imagine how awful it is.”

“Okay, so what about dog walking? It would be good exercise, and there's a woman in town who does it, maybe she needs help.”

“I'm allergic to dogs.” Anna pulled a tissue awkwardly out of her pocket and wiped her nose.

“Since when?”

“Since . . . the idea of dog walking came up. Too stressful.”

Anna thought dog walking was too stressful? Naomi wished she could be paid for hauling a pack of mutts around a dog park, instead of treating people for illnesses they didn't always recover from. She clicked her ring against the steering wheel.

“Where did you get that ring? I've never seen it before,” said Anna.

“A friend.”

“Oooh!” Anna bounced in her seat, happy to change the subject. “A tall friend? A friend with benefits?”

“A woman friend.” Naomi paused. “A good one. She's dead.” The words hurt. “Back to the job. Really, we have to think of something.”

Anna deflated. “Do you even
like
having me here?”

Naomi did, but she didn't know how to say it. The loving, fiercely protective feeling she got when she looked at her baby sister seemed impossible to speak about out loud. She held it inside and only allowed herself a nod.

“Did Mom put you up to this?” Anna looked sad. Even when she was at her lowest, Anna retained an angelic radiance about her, one that made Naomi want to pick her up and tuck her into bed, soothing her brow until her countenance relaxed again.

Naomi hit the gas and sped around a small red car that was trundling along the waterfront, obviously a tourist. “Are you kidding me? I haven't talked to Mom.”

“You haven't? Why not? Don't you two talk all the time? About me?”

Naomi snorted. “Mom would like that. You're her favorite topic.”

“Really?” Did Anna actually look pleased?

“You know you are. All she does is think about where you are and what you're doing and how she can change you.”

“She hasn't learned yet,” said Anna. “You can't tame a wild horse.” She gave a comic neigh.

Naomi disagreed but didn't say so. She
did
want her sister to change, but only for the good. To settle down, to figure out her life, to stop being so impulsive. “Mom only wants the best for you.”

Anna nodded. “Sure. And she wants the best for you, too. It doesn't mean it has to be the only song in her repertoire. She loves us, Naomi, but she doesn't know us.”

The comment felt unfair, but Naomi didn't have a way to respond. “What about Whitney's Bakery? I saw a sign that said she was looking for—”

“What about your office?” asked Anna.

“Mine? Oh, no.” Naomi let an old woman and her seven tiny dachshunds cross the street, even though there was no crosswalk.

“Why not? You're busy, right?”

“Not that busy. I already have office help.”

“Maybe if you had more help, you'd be busier.”

Naomi doubted that. She couldn't even imagine what Anna might do to their carefully filed system. “No. You're not . . .”

Oh, God—she sneaked a look at her sister . . .

Anna's face crumpled.

Shit
. She'd done it again. “Anna, I'm sorry. I only meant that you're not experienced enough in medical reception. That's all.”

“No,” said her sister, sticking her chin out. “I'm not good enough. That's what you meant. You didn't have to say it for me to hear it.”

Anna didn't speak to her the rest of the way home, and when they pulled into the driveway, Anna raced as fast as she could into the house, leaving Naomi to carry all the bags. Fine. She deserved it. As she put the bags onto the couch, she heard Anna slam the door of the guest room with a thud that made the pictures on the living room wall rock.

Naomi moved to where Eliza Carpenter's book
The Road Not Taken
was lying next to the couch. She closed her eyes, flipped the pages, and placed her first finger carefully down.

Naomi carried her knitting basket to the kitchen table slowly, as if her bones ached. Something inside her hurt, that was for sure. It felt as if her heart was bruised, even though the doctor part of her brain mocked herself for indulging in the thought.

Or maybe it was just her hands that ached, missing having the yarn in them, as if knitting was a physical need.

Spreading the soft lace on the table, Naomi leaned forward against her forearms and picked up where she'd left off. Knitting back. Just like in life, going back was always the same. It was when the pattern changed as it was moving forward that Naomi ran into trouble. It was good that she'd decided to make this for herself.

“Damn,” she said softly, to no one.

Chapter Twenty-six

D
ays fell into a rhythm at the office—Bruno was good at divvying up the appointments, and when Naomi passed Rig in the hall, she only thought about the kisses every once in a . . . okay, she'd admit she thought about them a lot.

Temporary loss of sanity, that day. Could she blame it on the fact that she'd been thrown because her sister had just arrived? That she was confused by it and had latched on to him because of it?

Considering that Anna hadn't shown up until the end of their kiss, probably not.

But the last month had been smooth at the office. Rig was a good doctor. The patients loved him. Bruno adored him, and actually grinned when Rig came in every morning. She'd seen Rig leaving with Peter and Bruno on Friday afternoons, on their way to the Rite Spot for a drink, and she longed to invite herself along. She even practiced the words, under her breath,
Hey, wait up. I'll come, too.

But she didn't say it. She worked instead, and when she wasn't working, she fussed over Anna, who still hadn't told her who the father was, who still hadn't gotten a job, who still wouldn't say what her plans for her life were.

Naomi had ideas about all of these things, but she tried not to dump them on her sister every time they were in the kitchen together. She bit her tongue, holding back 80 percent of the advice she wanted to give her. It was a little easier between them when they were knitting in the living room together—she'd taught Anna the basics of garter stitch, and now Anna was going to town on a simple baby blanket, made of soft, washable wool Naomi had picked up at an incredibly uncomfortable visit to Abigail's shop. Abigail had acted normally, of course, because some people were able to do that. All Naomi could think of was whether Abigail thought she and Rig had something going on at the office.

Because they didn't.

Not at all.

Today it was lunchtime before Naomi saw Rig. He wore a crisp tan-colored button-down shirt, a tie, jeans, and cowboy boots—would the man ever wear work pants? A white coat at the very least? Rig looked like a cowboy at a wedding. The only thing missing was his hat. He was bent over the back desk where Bruno placed recent lab results. He looked good, the taut muscles of his back delineated through the thin cotton of his shirt. She could practically see the muscles ripple, and she had to admit that his rear end looked amazing from this vantage point. And how he managed to look like that in regular clothing was beyond her. It must be something about the corded muscles running up his neck . . . the width at his pecs . . .

No. She wasn't looking at him. Not like that.

She cleared her throat. Rig turned, jumping a little.

“Hi, there.”

Rig shook his head and smiled. The way that dimple in his left cheek pulled in when he grinned made Naomi's ribs feel tight, as if she could almost get enough air, but not quite.

“Hey, how are you?” he said. “Get some rest over the weekend?”

Why? Did she look like she hadn't? It was true, she hadn't slept well. Again. She put a hand up to make sure her hair hadn't come down.

“Yeah, great. Lots.” Her mouth felt tongue-tied. Did he ever think of those kisses, too? The way her lips had felt, the slick rasp of his tongue touching hers . . .

Bruno interrupted her inane thoughts, thank God, coming back from reception. He carried a stack of opened mail.

“Have you seen the bill from PG and E? The one they said was late? You said you had the canceled check, right?” asked Naomi. Bruno started to answer but Rig interrupted.

“You look different. What happened?” Rig sat on the edge of the filing desk. Naomi wished he wouldn't—it was organized so that she knew where everything was, and desks weren't for sitting on, anyway.

Bruno beamed and set the bills down on top of the morning's lab results. “We talked.”

“Dude,” said Rig. “And?”

“I was right. He bought a ring.”

Were they
gossiping
? Naomi felt suddenly left out. “Peter did?”

Her voice was too loud. Not casual enough. She didn't have a desk to lean against, like Rig. She crossed her arms, knowing she looked stiff, but unable to figure out how to soften her stance.

“Umm,” said Bruno. He fiddled with the edge on an envelope. God, she'd been his boss for over a year now, and he still couldn't trust her with his personal life?

Well, truthfully, what did he know about hers? What did anyone know about hers? Nothing. Which was just about what she had to say when it came to his. Her stomach hurt.

“Good,” she said lamely. “Good for . . . you.” She walked toward her office in defeat. Let Rig handle it. He knew how to talk to people, to care about them. She just knew how to fix them, only knew how to care when the person in front of her was a patient. So far today she'd seen an arm in a cast, a raging case of strep throat she'd given antibiotics for, and one case of whooping cough that she'd have to keep an eye on. Just normal, small-town aches and pains, people who needed simple care—she prayed they'd felt the connection she had when they were in the room with her.

It felt like the only real connection she had these days.

Rig and Bruno let her go, not stopping her. Naomi heard their dropped voices, and she wondered what Rig was learning about the man who had been her right hand for a year now. Falling into her father's office chair, she touched the light purple flowers of the African violet on her desk. In the last year, she'd never watered it, not once. She'd trusted Bruno to take care of it. Paid him to do it.

Damn.

She had to go over some charts anyway. Screw eating. Naomi wasn't hungry for lunch. Pulling out a stack of files she needed to update, Naomi lost herself in work for the next half hour.

She didn't notice the time until Rig rapped on her partially open door and stuck his head in.

“Hey, Naomi?”

“Yeah?” she said, slapping together the file folder she'd just finished. A completely nonprofessional rivulet of heat ran from the top of her head to her groin at the sight of him.

“I just gave Bruno the week off.”

Her thoughts about the way the underside of his jaw looked, and what it would taste like, dissolved. “You what?”

“He needed some time off. I thought it would be good for him to go get ready to see Peter, and then have some real time to spend with him.”

Naomi could only repeat herself. “You what?”

“They've got big plans. Engagement is a serious business.” Rig grinned.

“But . . . we
need
him. He does everything around here.”

Rig twirled the retro globe she'd picked up at an antiques shop a while ago. He stopped it, his finger landing on what looked like England. “So he had the time, right?'

“He has time on the books, yes.”

The globe spun. Rig poked Guatemala. “And he needs it. We can answer phones and clean the head for a week.”

That wasn't it. Naomi looked at her nails. “I wish I'd been the one to give it to him. He hardly ever takes time off, even when I've asked him to.” If Bruno needed time off, he deserved it, more than anyone she'd ever worked with. He was loyal to a fault, and he was great at his job. She leaned forward. “
How
much time did you give him?”

“It's Monday today. I gave him the rest of the week. He didn't want more.”

Folding the corner of her desk calendar, Naomi paused. Then she said haltingly, “Was he . . . happy? About that?”

“He hugged me three times. He said he was going to check in with you but I said that I was giving him a direct order to get the hell out. Nicely. As one of his bosses.”

A chime filtered through the back office, indicating that someone had come through the front door.

“You going to get that or should I? That might be a walk-in,” said Naomi, crossing her arms in front of her.

“They'll wait till we're done here,” said Rig, folding his arms to match hers. “We've been needing to talk. Are you avoiding me because of what happened between us?”

How could he be so direct? Naomi had been prepared to ignore the fact that Portland had ever happened, that their flirting here had never occurred. They were just going to work together. Like adults. She looked at her desk calendar. Almost a full month had passed without them referencing what had gone on between them. Not exactly the lifetime she'd hoped for.

“Of course not.”

“I think you are,” he said, his voice calm.

Naomi gripped the armrest of her chair and bit the inside of her lip.

Rig went on, “You hate the fact that you kissed me and almost lost control outside your house that night, and you're going to do everything you can to avoid thinking about it again. That's without even mentioning Portland.”

She heated, instantly. He was being ridiculous. She didn't hate the fact that she'd kissed him, she hated the fact that now she couldn't get away from him. Kissing him had shown terrible judgment. How had she not thought it all the way through? Naomi was nothing if not a planner. She looked down at her desk again and saw, on the right-hand corner, a list of her lists. Taking care of things, that's what she was good at. Getting things done. Helping people feel better physically. That was her job.

“Come on,” said Rig. “You can't deny we have great chemistry. We have to at least admit it to clear the air.”

“Chemistry. Yes. That's what it is.” Naomi grasped at something she could name, categorize. “A physical response to external stimuli.”

Rig laughed, a low, rich sound. It wasn't fair that he had that kind of laugh, the kind she wanted to wrap around herself. “Yeah. Kissing lowers cholesterol, did you know that?”

Naomi did, actually. “It uses thirty-four facial muscles.”

“One hundred and twelve postural muscles, most important, the orbicularis oris muscle.” His eyes dared her.

“It's also a good vehicle for transmitting diseases.”

Rig's dark eyes danced. “Stress reducer.”

“Vestigial premastication technique.”

“
Hot
,” he drawled, daring her with his gaze.

The word hit her like a blow. And damn, had he gone to school to learn that look? That intense focus that made her feel like he was seeing no one but her . . .

She stood, feeling warmth flood her kneecaps. She would
not
sway. This was ridiculous. “If you're not going to check the reception area, then I am. Since we have no one to help us.”

Sweeping his arm forward, Rig motioned her to go ahead of him. “I'll go, too.”

“Fine.”

It
wasn't
fine. He was behind her now, and she was aware of only one thing: his scorching gaze resting on her rear end.