The Knitting Diaries

by Debbie Macomber

  “Lieutenant, are you—” From the doorway his communications officer stopped and cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

  “No, I’m done here, Sergeant. Do you have new satellite updates for me?”

  “They just came in, sir. There’s been some activity in the valley.”

  Gage took the new file, his mind racing.

  So much for free time.

  Eight

  Summer Island

  Two weeks later

  “Good dog. That’s it, bring me the branch.” Caro was standing outside the animal shelter, tossing a small branch to Bogart, who was covered in mud and deliriously happy. They’d been exercising for twenty minutes in the sunshine and Caro was surprised that her wrist ached only a little. She had also developed a tremendous appetite. Maybe she’d even try to cook today. Her grandmother loved chipotle corn bread, which happened to be Caro’s specialty. Why had she not cooked it in such a long time?

  The answer was clear. She had been caught up in her busy life in Chicago, doing intense work that was both difficult and draining. For years she had helped others put their lives back together. But now it was time that Caro helped herself.

  From her pocket, she heard the ping of the email program on her cell phone. She had tried not to think about the email she’d sent to Gage, or the possibility that he had just been polite when he’d suggested they keep in touch. Every time her email program alerted her to a new message, she had grabbed for her phone, keeping it beside her even when she slept.

  She wasn’t usually impulsive like this. There had been a few men in her life, but none of them had stuck. Yet from the first moment she set eyes on Gage, Caro had felt as if a switch had been flipped on inside her. When she was around him, colors were brighter. Sounds were more intense. She couldn’t explain it, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to try. Explanations might destroy the fragile thing growing between them—whatever it was.

  “Bogie, come here. Heel.” Caro knelt on the ground with the dog’s face pressed against her neck. She tried to stay upright, eventually landing flat on her back when Bogie pushed her over in his noisy exuberance.

  “Down, Bogart. Sit.”

  By the time she fumbled her way free, the dog was calmer. With a noisy sigh he turned once and then settled down with his head across her knee.

  Caro pulled out her phone and scanned her incoming mail. A wave of happiness settled over her when she saw the most recent message.

  Watch those socks.

  Bogart has a real sock problem. He ate two of mine once. Threw them up right after.

  I’m real jealous of the hamburgers.

  Hey—you said you couldn’t draw, but those sketches were great. Keep them coming, okay?

  Gage

  She laughed as Bogie rolled over, his tail banging as he made it clear that rest time was over and he wanted more play. Caro reached down and rubbed the dog’s ears. “He’s definitely got your number, hasn’t he?”

  She drifted happily, remembering Gage’s laugh. He liked her message and had enjoyed her drawings! Bogart barked, and brought her a stick, so Caro held it in her good hand, tossed it high and watched him leap into the air for the catch.

  Another image filled her mind. She’d sketch Bogie in midjump just like this and add a picture of Bacall, curled up in a neat circle, sleeping on Gage’s old T-shirt.

  And she would label them in one line: “Attitude is everything.”

  Caro didn’t look up when the front door opened. Keys rattled and she heard her grandmother’s footsteps. “Anything urgent I should know about? You were working at that desk when I left. I don’t want you to overdo things, honey.”

  “I’m almost done, Gran. I’m just having trouble capturing the line of Bogart’s body when he jumps. It’s harder to draw less, isn’t it? Every line has to count extra.”

  “So they tell me. Now that I’ve found my niche with watercolors, I doubt I’ll ever go back to charcoal or pencil.” Morgan McNeal leaned over Caro’s shoulder and laughed. “Very nice. You’ve caught that dog just right. I swear I can hear him bark on the page.” She took off her coat and sat down next to Caro, helping herself to one of the chocolate chip cookies Caro had baked that morning. “Have you heard anything from Bogart’s owner?”

  “Just one email. But he’s doing fine. I think he was very glad that his pets are in good hands.” As she spoke, Caro sketched quickly, stopping to erase a line or smudge a shadow. Once she dropped the eraser and muttered under her breath. But her hands were finally getting stronger. She still couldn’t knit more than a row, but her drawings were coming along surprisingly well. She couldn’t wait to share this one with Gage in her next email.

  “What?” She looked up, surprised to see her grandmother shaking her head.

  “I’ve only asked you a question three times. Did you decide what you wanted for dinner? Or maybe we should go out tonight. I hear that Peter Lindstrom’s granddaughter is back from France, and we could meet them somewhere. Grace has been gone for what—three years now?”

  “Three and a half. I’d love to see her.” Caro’s voice faded as she vanished back into her drawing.

  “Tonight, then. That will be very nice.” Morgan McNeal smoothed back her hair in a little unconscious gesture of happiness. “Where would you like to eat?”

  No answer.

  “Honey?” Still no answer.

  Caro didn’t look up, busy drawing, so she didn’t see the thoughtful look on her grandmother’s face as she left the room to call Peter.

  One week later

  Tuesday p.m.

  Caro hunched over her laptop, gnawing at her lip. She had sent Gage four emails now and she usually received an answer quickly.

  It was just friendly chitchat, she reminded herself sternly. No reason to let this go to her head. So she was careful to keep her tone casual.

  Pet Diary #5

  We gave your pair baths today. I got soaked, but I didn’t mind.

  You won’t believe it. Dr. Lindstrom lost his hat in the field behind the shelter and Bogart found it. He came trotting up the path as proud as possible, carrying the hat in his mouth. Then he dropped it right at Dr. Lindstrom’s feet. Did I mention that your dog is really smart?

  He is also really hungry. He tried to eat my shoe tonight. Second time this week.

  As for my knitting, I can still only manage one row. But I can feel myself getting stronger.

  Caro

  Wednesday p.m.

  No kidding. He loves to track. Maybe I need him helping me over here.

  Your last drawing of Bogart with your shoe made me laugh so loud I spit out my coffee. And you say you can’t draw?

  You really got Bacall down to the last whisker. Are they still sleeping curled up together?

  Take your time on the knitting—you’ll get there.

  Gage

  Wednesday p.m.

  You bet. I stayed with them at Dr. Lindstrom’s again. His granddaughter is home from France and we had a lot of news to catch up on. But why didn’t you tell me Bogart’s a pillow hog? I’m lucky to get one tiny corner. Plus—he snores.

  Really, really snores!

  Bacall slept curled on my chest, purring again. But they don’t go to sleep without your old sweatshirt.

  I’ve decided to knit you something. At the rate I’m going, it will be months before it’s finished. But it helps to think of someone when I’m working—it makes the pain seem worth it.

  Be safe.

  Caro

  Caro didn’t mention that she slept with the sleeve of his sweatshirt by her cheek, too.

  Gran wants to know if your friend’s wife liked her painting. Even after all these years, my grandmother is still a little insecure about her work.

  But please don’t tell her I said that….

  C.

  She loved it.

  She wrote her husband a letter and said it was the only thing she’d carry out in a fire—well, after their two kids.


  Knitting something for me? I can’t wait—that’s something I’ll definitely look forward to.

  G.

  You know what I think? I think that you should get these sketches published. You’re good, Caro. My guys are cute, but you make them look beyond cute. You catch something…something that’s universal about them. I don’t know how you do that. If your knitting is anything like your sketches, it’s going to be incredible.

  Well, gotta go. Chow time—

  G.

  But it wasn’t chow time.

  It was a high-priority alert about hostile activity targeting Gage’s area.

  0400 Zulu time

  Northern Afghanistan

  Sand blew over the ridge. Stars gleamed, bright and cold, above the horizon.

  Gage stood beside his communications officer and both scanned the rough terrain with night-vision glasses.

  “Lieutenant, did you see that? I’m picking up something just where I did the last time.”

  “I’m on it.” Gage didn’t look up from his glasses. The night was cold, but the activity level was hot—and getting hotter. They’d had two quiet nights in a row, and quiet worried him. Quiet usually meant that someone nearby was marshaling forces, getting ready for bad deeds.

  There it was again.

  A small movement on the opposite ridge. Light glinted for a second, then vanished. That made the fourth time in ten minutes, in a piece of rough terrain where drone surveillance had picked up new insurgent activity.

  “Saddle up, Marine. We’re going out for recon. Three squads.” Gage knew there was only one way to assess the movements in the strategic ridge that faced them across the valley. And that was with boots to the ground.

  Caro shot awake, clutching her pillow.

  Something was wrong, something that she couldn’t name. She listened for a sound in the night—the tread of stealthy footsteps or the clink of metal tools, forcing open a window.

  Nothing. The house was quiet. Her grandmother had gone to sleep a while ago, exhausted from a long day of painting. Caro pulled on a fine wool shawl that had seen better days. Gripping it close, she walked to the window and peered out. A light rain fell, dappling the sidewalk and the gravel path outside her window. Roses swayed in the rain, but there was nothing to make her feel tense and uneasy.

  She looked back at the clock and made a quick calculation of the time in Afghanistan.

  The feeling of off persisted, growing stronger.

  Gage, she thought. Something was wrong.

  He’s hurt or in danger. Somehow, she just knew. And she’d never felt so scared.

  Nine

  “Alpha, do you copy?”

  Gage heard two brief clicks on the radio transmitter, signaling that his first squad leader was in place, no enemies sighted.

  “Duke?”

  Two more clicks.

  The responses came, quick and nearly silent. When he was sure that his squads were safe, Gage began the steep climb to the top of the ridge. This would put him roughly two hundred yards from the last location of the movement he had seen earlier that evening. So far there had been no signs of activity during their reconnaissance, but he knew that someone could be dug in deep here in the boulders, nearly invisible until you were right upon them.

  So he was erring on the side of caution. Taking it slowly and going by the book.

  A piece of gravel shifted, dropping on the trail in front of him. Instantly he lifted his hand, and the order to halt was relayed around him. Slowly Gage sank down, and he knew that all his men were doing the same, becoming part of the night and the scrub of the high desert terrain. Just the way they had been trained to do.

  He glanced at his watch, noting the time, aware that in the silence and the dark every sensation could be untrustworthy. Nothing moved. All the men stayed motionless, flat against the ground.

  Another piece of gravel fell on the trail. This time it was followed by a flash of light. A scrawny goat moved slowly behind two boulders about ten yards away from Gage. He waited.

  A second goat appeared. And behind this one walked a boy, head and body wrapped in felted wool and sheepskin against the high desert night.

  Gage forced himself not to move, not to prejudge a situation that could be exactly what it seemed, a shepherd boy returning home after foraging with his goats.

  Yet it could be something else entirely. A civilian scout, tracking the perimeter of an insurgent base. Civilians were part of warfare here, just as they had been for centuries. It could be a deadly mistake to forget that fact.

  He watched the boy slap one of the bigger goats on the rump with a small branch. The goat snorted and bucked his hind feet, and instantly the boy froze, glancing around furtively as the sound echoed in the night.

  Suddenly the same goat turned, staring directly into the small tangle of bushes where Gage knew one of his forward squad leaders was hidden. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he ran through scenarios. The boy could have a machine gun hidden behind the rock; he could have a cousin or older brothers just over the top of the ridge.

  But Gage would not shoot an unarmed, innocent civilian just because of a suspicion. He tapped out the forward leader’s number and then a danger alert, which was acknowledged just as briefly via encrypted radio set.

  Then Gage rose slowly to a crouch and headed away from the boy, on a wide and indirect route along the far slope to the top of the ridge.

  Twenty minutes later all hell broke loose.

  Caro paced the room, worried but unable to say why. After an hour she went to make a pot of herbal tea and then returned to her drawings of Gage’s dog and cat.

  At least, she tried to draw. But she couldn’t relax, couldn’t find her focus. The blurry sense of wrongness had become an acute stab of danger. And there wasn’t a single reason for it.

  She heard the rustle of clothing behind her. “Caro, love, what’s wrong? Is it your hand?”

  “No, Gran. It’s—” She frowned and jammed shaky fingers through her hair. “I feel a sense of danger.” She pulled on a sweater and shivered. “I can’t explain it and maybe it’s nothing. But why don’t you and I check all the doors and windows? And after that, maybe you could call Dr. Lindstrom. I just want to know that Gage’s pets and the clinic are okay. Something just feels…wrong to me.”

  Morgan started to ask a question, then shook her head. With her Celtic blood had come bursts of intuition with no explanation, and she had been wise enough never to ignore them. She would not ignore Caro’s intuition now.

  “Everything checks out. All the windows are locked and the doors are secured. The cars are fine. The fire is off. No problems that I can see.” Morgan took off her coat and slung it over the wing chair that overlooked the bay. “Do you still have that itchy feeling?”

  Caro nodded slowly. “But it’s different now.” Her hands twisted restlessly. “It’s almost as if I can’t breathe, like a big rock pressing against my chest. Maybe I’m just going crazy, imagining things because of stress.”

  “Imagination is a good and powerful thing, Caro. Never dismiss it lightly. And now I’m going to call Peter. I want to make sure everything is okay over there.”

  Peter Lindstrom looked tired and worried when he opened the front door of his house. He was dragging on a robe as he waved Caro and her grandmother inside. “What’s wrong? Caro, if it’s your hand—”

  “No, I’m fine. But…something feels wrong. It could be crazy, but I had to come and check on Gage’s pets. And on the clinic, too, to see if everything’s okay.”

  “Bogie and Bacall? I looked in on them just before I went to sleep. They were both fine then. They’re sleeping in the back bedroom right now until I can fix up the sunroom for them. Let’s go check.”

  The vet led the way to the rear of the house and flipped on a light.

  Caro heard him let out a deep breath of relief. “I’d say there’s nothing wrong here.”

  When she peeked around his shoulder, Caro saw Bogart stret
ched out on a soft tartan doggie bed. His head was resting on his front paws, and Bacall was sound asleep, curled up on the dog’s back, with her tail across Bogie’s head. In spite of her uneasiness, Caro had to laugh at the comical picture they made.

  “I’m so relieved, Dr. Lindstrom. But…would you mind if my grandmother and I drove to the clinic? I don’t think I’ll be able to rest otherwise.”

  “My dear girl, neither could I. Give me two minutes and I’ll drive you there myself.”

  “Well, that looks like another question answered.” Morgan McNeal stood next to Peter Lindstrom, her hands on her hips as she glanced back at the neat cages filled with sleeping animals. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” she murmured, turning to rest her hand on Caro’s shoulder. “Nothing’s amiss here, so why don’t we have a last walk around and then go home. I’ll make us tea.” She glanced at her oldest friend. “Peter, will you join us?”

  “I’d love to, Morgan, but I’ve got two early operations scheduled, so I’d better pass. Why don’t you stop by my house instead? Then Caro can say good-night to her two friends before you go home.”

  As they were leaving, Caro glanced behind the door and then bent down to the floor. “What’s this?” She picked up a battered Frisbee and turned it between her fingers. Something about it called to her, holding her attention.

  “That’s curious. I’ve been looking for that Frisbee ever since Lieutenant Grayson left. It was the one he brought for Bogie and Bacall to play with. It must have fallen over behind the door and been forgotten.” The vet glanced oddly at Caro. “How did you know it was there?”

  “I haven’t a clue.” She kept turning the pitted plastic, feeling a deep thread of connection to Gage, wherever he was. “But you’re right. Nothing seems out of place here. Maybe…maybe it’s just my imagination, running amok.” Yet as she watched Peter Lindstrom lock up, Caro kept one hand across her chest.