Wishes and Stitches (9 page)

Chapter Thirteen

T
oots Harrison, a local yoga teacher whom Naomi knew from the charity auction for the SPCA, waved cheerily. Half a block away and on the other side of the street, she was carrying a bunch of at least thirty helium balloons, and wore a toxic green sweater liberally decorated with pink polka dots. She looked like her own one-person parade. “Naomi! Hello!”

She jaywalked across the street with little regard for the two cars that honked as she made them stop, and came up to Naomi as if she was an old friend. For a moment Naomi pretended that she really was. It felt wonderful, if bittersweet.

“Toots, you look like you're going to fly away.”

“Oh, wouldn't that be marvelous? To go up, up, up and then float around peeking down on people? I'd love that. How are you, Dr. Fontaine? It's been a long time since we talked about my teaching you how to knit. You know I'm happy to, anytime.”

“And I appreciate that.” Naomi hadn't actually lied—she'd only expressed interest in Toots's knitting at the auction, and Toots had assumed Naomi wanted to learn. “Where are you headed with those?”

“Lucy's birthday party! Oh, my dear, aren't you able to come?”

For just a half second, Naomi was tempted to say that she couldn't, that she had plans, and that's why she wouldn't be there, but Toots just had something about her that made it too difficult to be untruthful.

“I wasn't invited.” The admission was even more painful than she'd thought it would be.

Toots's face fell and a balloon popped as it hit the light pole they were standing next to. “You're
kidding
.”

Naomi shrugged. “I don't really know your daughter that well. We've done coffee, but that's about it.” She smiled to hide the hurt feelings. No big deal. Just a party.

“Naomi, you simply have to come. The whole town is coming. Owen's throwing her a surprise party, the first she's ever had.”

Naomi shook her head, but Toots overrode her, continuing, “I won't take no for an answer. It's at Abigail's yarn shop tonight. Oh, do you know where that is?”

Naomi, feeling mute, nodded. Of course she did. She'd been just once, when she'd first moved to town. She'd desperately wanted to see Eliza's home, to make that connection between the land and the patient she'd loved, but when she'd been there, the pretty little shop had been busy with a knitting group, full of loud women all having fun, and she'd been struck with a huge bout of confusion. Stay, and fail at polite chitchat? Run away and listen to them laugh as she went? When Abigail MacArthur offered to help her, she'd told her that she was lost, looking for a waterfall in the area. Then she'd received such good directions to the waterfall that she thought she'd made up, she had to drive by it afterward. And it was, truly, beautiful. But the falls hadn't been half as alluring as the sound of those women, all talking and laughing in friendship, their needles flying in their laps.

She hadn't reminded Abigail that they'd met twice already, in the hallway outside Eliza's room at the hospital in San Diego and then again at the funeral. Abigail had been crying too much to register anything else, including Eliza's doctor, who was also grieving.

It was good that Eliza had known love like that.

Toots pulled Naomi back to the present by saying, “The best part is the
way
we're going to surprise her. Abigail set up a ruse—she needs help sewing together a blanket, and would Lucy come out and help her? Of course, since it's her birthday, she might suspect something's up, but when she gets there, the shop'll be closed, only Abigail there, with work in her hands to turn over to Lucy.” Toots leaned forward conspiratorially, and the balloons bounced with a rigid plastic tapping noise. “But we're bringing the party to
her
. So park on the county road out of sight of the cottage with the rest of us, right at eight. Then we'll sneak up, en masse, and barge in, screaming. Oh!” Toots clapped and let go of the whole bunch of balloons.

“Careful!” Naomi grabbed the attached weight and pulled the mass back down.

“So will you?”

“Oh, I don't think that . . .” What, was she scared? She was lonely and sad because the community didn't include her, and here was an invitation by a woman who was beloved by them, and she wasn't jumping on it? It didn't matter that she hadn't been on the original invite—Naomi was being ridiculous.

“Yes,” she said, her voice tight. “I'd love to.”

“Oh,
good
,” said Toots. And she sounded like she really meant it. “Bring that new doctor you have, too. He could meet the whole town tonight in one swell foop, as they say.” Giving a cheery wave, Toots and her bunch of balloons made their way down the street.

Rig? No. Not him. The last thing he needed was help with being friendly.

Naomi could use a social outing, she knew it. It probably wouldn't kill her.

Right?

Chapter Fourteen

R
ig felt exhilarated as he locked the door behind his last patient. He'd seen seven people today—not a large number, but since four of them were walk-ins and most of his day had been free, he'd been able to spend quality time with each. He'd learned about Mrs. Luby's corns, and Theo McCormick's snoring, and he'd been able to give them suggestions that actually might work, rather than just prescribing something. After he'd given Bart Harrison a referral to an allergist and explained the way a neti pot worked—boy, had that man's eyes popped wide when he realized what Rig meant—Bart had invited him to his daughter's surprise party. He'd left, thumping him on the back in parting. “My wife, Toots, will love you, son. You've got to come.”

Rig turned out the front-office lights. Bruno had left fifteen minutes earlier, since there hadn't been anything for him to do. He'd jumped at the chance to leave early, and offered to have the time docked from his wages.

“Nah, man, get out of here. Go home and fix yourself a drink, and then call Peter, okay?”

Bruno said, “Why? He should call me.”

“If you make the first move and it's not your turn, you get the credit for being the bigger person. It's just there, comes along with it. You'd be a fool to miss that opportunity.”

“You brain-gaming me? I thought you were a GP.”

“I haven't been single this long without playing the game a little. But connection is a good thing. Just do me a favor and do it, okay? Report back tomorrow.”

“Fine,” grumbled Bruno. “If you insist.”

Now Rig stood in front of the window, looking out on to Main Street. He supposed any doctor would think this was a very fine view—sand and shore opposite, the pier reaching toward the horizon, pink clouds piling up to the southwest.

But for him, the water was so much farther away than normal. He was used to standing on the deck of a rig and seeing nothing but water for miles around. Water heaving below him, the sound of a thousand pieces of machinery grinding under his feet, and all around, nothing but the sea, the salt in the air staining everything he owned with a slight fine layer of white.

Rig jumped at a rap on the glass door. He'd been so busy gazing out past the pedestrians that he hadn't noticed one had stopped. It was a deliveryman, dressed in brown with features to match, a frantic look on his face.

Rig unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Dr. Fontaine here? I got an overnight delivery for her, but I forgot to get it off the truck when I made my rounds earlier. I don't know if it's something really important for the office or what, and I didn't want to let it wait another day because of my screwup.” The man's gangly neck swiveled up and then sideways, trying to look around Rig. He handed over the box. “I don't want her to be mad. I haven't been doing this job very long. Is she here to sign for this? Or can you?”

The package was small and weighed very little. “I work here.” The words felt strange. “I can sign.”

The relief was obvious—the man's shoulders sagged, and his skinny chest rose with a huge breath. “Thank God. Would you . . . if you don't mind . . .” He looked at his watch. “Technically it's only a couple of hours late . . . I'm sorry.”

Rig looked at him sympathetically. “Secret's safe with me.”

“
Thank
you.”

Rig relocked the door and took the package with him into the back. The return address said Koigu, with a Canadian address.

What if it was important? It had been overnighted—it was obviously something Naomi needed quickly.

It might be neighborly to take it to her.

Yeah. Rig quickly warmed to the idea. She'd be pleased he took the initiative, right? And if it was important, he'd only be scoring more points with his new boss/future partner, which couldn't hurt, right?

The alarm accepted the code she'd given him, and he locked the back door. He went down to Tillie's to see if he could find out where Dr. Fontaine lived. Would he really be able to get directions to a community member's house when he was this new?

Sure enough, Old Bill didn't ask questions, just scribbled barely legible directions on the back of a flyer advertising the chicken-turkey-bacon scramble, and Rig was on his way.

Naomi lived close by, on a street that looked well kept. Older houses on spacious lots had full-grown trees hanging over long driveways. The lawns were manicured, and in the front yard of every third house, someone was outside watering or pulling weeds, or chasing their children in a game of tag. It looked like something from a television ad for life insurance. People really lived like this? Even Jake's house, which was nice enough, set back on a quiet cul-de-sac, didn't look as ideal, as perfect as this street.

He counted down numbers until he reached hers.

Naomi's lawn was a little shaggy, overgrown with Bermuda grass and a cluster or two of short foxtail. It looked like she was fighting a losing battle with clumps of dandelions.

Looking around, he couldn't see evidence of a man. Rig didn't know he'd been wondering until he'd checked to see how her gutters were (dirty from the bottom, which meant they needed a good cleaning). The two camellia bushes were untrimmed and growing so high that they almost covered up her front windows. As he knocked on her front door and peered into the entry that could be seen through the side glass, he saw only women's shoes. No men's boots or sneakers anywhere to be found.

The gut feeling of satisfaction surprised him.

He would just drop off the box and go. Helpful, that's what he was.

He knocked again, a little harder this time. Maybe she was in the shower? Man, that wasn't the image he needed, but he let it play out for a second before he squashed it: Naomi, her curly hair wet and hanging heavily down her naked back, turning slowly under the spray, her breasts high, nipples tight against the beading water . . .

His
Playboy
movie fantasy was broken by the door jerking inward.

Naomi stood there, fully clothed in a blue T-shirt that looked as soft as it looked old and black workout pants, a portable phone held between her ear and her shoulder, shaking off her hands, which dripped water all over the entryway.

Her eyebrows went up when she saw it was him. “Mom? Mom. Hey, Mom! There's someone here. I gotta go.” There was a pause while she listened, rolling her eyes. “Please, Ma. Okay. Fine. It is, okay? Are you happy? I've got to hang up. Yeah, bye.”

She shook her head, staring at the phone, and then seemed to realize all over again that he was there. Stepping backward into a small living room, she gestured him in.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“No hello?” He handed her the package. “Asked Old Bill.”

“And he just
told
you?” Her voice was tight, and suddenly Rig doubted the wisdom of what he'd done.

“I'm sorry. I'm sure he only did it because we work together.”

“Jesus. This town.” She scrubbed her eyes with one hand. “I'm sorry. He probably thought he was helping.” The tension was gone from her voice. “And my God, I'm sorry.” She looked around the room. “This place is a mess. I've been too busy to . . . No, truth is, it's always kind of like this.”

“It's nice,” he said, and he was surprised to find that he meant it. More cluttered than he ever would have thought her house would be, it had a good feeling. Warmth. Comfort.

But she wasn't inviting him to stay. “I'll get out of here, then, now that you have that.”

She looked down at the package. “My yarn!”

“Excuse me?”

“It's just yarn,” she said, sounding more casual this time.

“Oh,” Rig said. On the couch rested a basket, a ball of yarn, and some needles with something hanging from them. “Knitting?”

She half-smiled, and he loved how the softness played on her face. He bet she had no idea how pretty she was when she did that.

“Don't tell anyone.”

“Secret vice?”

Naomi sat on the sofa next to the knitting, placing the box on her lap. “You have no idea. In this town, yeah. I'm totally in the closet.” She paused again, and then said, “You want to have a seat?”

He did want to. He wanted to stay for a few minutes in this room that smelled like her, felt like her. “Sure.” He sat in a green wooden chair.

The living room seemed to have no rhyme or reason, and no apparent thought had been given to the placement of things. The sofa was too close to the coffee table, and the lamps stood in awkward areas—the one nearest the couch was still three feet away, which must have made her knitting difficult at night when there was no natural light coming in from outside. Two antique-looking upholstered chairs sat facing each other, as if two people having an intense discussion had just left the room. Books were piled on every surface, medical texts he recognized, and ones with pink and red covers that he didn't. A large dust bunny lurked in the far corner, although the surfaces looked clean enough. It didn't appear that housekeeping was her strong suit.

But for all the awkwardness of the room, for all that it shouldn't work, the colors brought everything together. A deep red wall on one side touched an orange wall in which stood a doorway that looked like it led to the kitchen. The other side wall, opposite the red one, was bright yellow, and was decorated with a flight of blue butterflies that looked hand painted. It should have felt like a children's room, or a paint-demo area at a hardware store, but it didn't, it felt rich and warm. A brown lamp in the shape of an owl stood next to an improbable owl ashtray.

Only one picture hung on the red wall, a large, blown-up print of a brilliantly colored orange California poppy against a hillside covered with dry brown grass. The poppy's petals reached up, as if yearning for the strip of blue sky at the very top. It looked bold, daring, and shy, all at once.

It was a perfect setting for Naomi. Awkward. Leaving more, something hidden, to be desired.

“So,” he said into the silence. “Yarn. You going to open it?”

Her face lit up again. “I was going to wait, but fine. Since my secret is out and all.”

She ripped at the packing tape with her fingers, declining his offer of his pocketknife. Then the box flaps parted, and the last remaining tension in her face evaporated.

“Oh,” she said in a breathless voice. “This is gorgeous.”

The yarn she pulled from the box was pretty. Even he could see that. A mix of purples, blues, and reds, the yarn came in what looked like twisted hanks.

“Koigu,” she said. “Worsted weight. I've been wanting this for a while, but this colorway was sold out for a long time. Actually, it might have been years since they've done this one.”

“Years?”

“Doesn't it look like a sunset? Like the kind we have around here? Look at that pale blue mixed in, right here.”

Naomi held it out, and he had to agree. It
did
remind him of the colors that lit up the western sky at dusk. “I've never seen anything like that, actually. It's pretty.”
Just like you
. He didn't say the words.

Instead he said, “I used to knit, you know.”

Naomi laughed, a sudden happy sound he wanted to hear again as soon as she stopped. “You did? You don't look like the type.”

“Oh, yeah?” He picked up her knitting, careful not to drop any of the stitches. “My mom was always knitting, but I didn't try it myself until I was in college. My buddy said it was a chick magnet, and he was right. I could probably finish your . . . is it a scarf?”

“Shawl.”

“I could probably finish up this shawl for you right now if you want.”

Naomi crossed her arms but her smile remained in place. “You know how to knit lace.”

“Lace?” Not a chance in hell. “Sure. Easy.”

“Did you knit on the rigs?”

Rig couldn't help snorting. “No way, not on any of 'em. They liked me out there. I didn't want them throwing me to the sharks.”

“Ah, so you know how to stay in the knitting closet, too.”

“Oh, yeah. But it was always fascinating, making knots like that in a regular, prescribed pattern.” He paused, and then said, “Sometimes putting stitches in a person feels the same way.”

Naomi colored and she looked at her thumbnail. She nodded slightly.

He went on, “It always made my brain feel good. Even if I was just making a scarf for my mom. Who taught you? Your mom?”

“No way. She can barely tie her shoes without help. That's why she wears slip-on Prada loafers. No, I learned from Eliza Carpenter. As knitters go, she was famous. She was originally from here, actually; I knew her from treating her in San Diego.” She paused. “But no one knows that here.” She took the lace back from him, her voice softer than perhaps she meant it to be. Rig wondered if she knew how completely readable her face was—sadness and stubbornness warred, and then stubbornness won. He wanted to touch the curl that hung so softly by her right ear, but of course he didn't.

Naomi shook the needles. “This pattern is kicking my ass. Maybe you can show me how to do the tricky part? Right here?”

“Tricky part.” Rig examined the lace with what he hoped looked like a knowledgeable eye, picking up one end of it. “No, I'm afraid you screwed the pooch with this one. Even I couldn't fix the mess you've made. You have holes everywhere, did you know that?”

She laughed again, and he felt like he'd won the lottery. When she laughed, she seemed open. He'd seen the same thing for a moment when she'd shown him the center, and then she'd closed off again.

This was better. He released the knitting carefully, suddenly worried he'd fuck it all up, for real.