How to Knit a Heart Back Home

by Rachael Herron

  “No, she doesn’t. She tells you four of five. She says you flip out regularly on the fifth so she leaves him or her out.”

  “Her?”

  “Well, she usually leaves all the hers out when she’s talking to you. Hang on.”

  Lucy took the 7UP Jonas slid to her while he went to serve a couple of beers to some truck-driver-looking types. She looked across the bar at her own reflection in the mirror, but quickly looked away. She had no idea whether or not Jonas was successful or not with his business. She’d always supposed he was, but she realized now that it was possible he was hanging by a thread. Maybe he was scared. Maybe he had a hard time trusting himself. Maybe she hadn’t been looking hard enough at things that mattered, maybe not for a long time.

  Was it always about control? And what the heart wanted?

  Funny, last week, when she’d made love with Owen, as soon as she’d reached for him, even while she’d felt like she was spiraling out of control, she’d known exactly what she was doing. What she was choosing. What she was doing with her heart.

  That was the worst part of it all.

  Her stupid heart.

  Jonas was back. “So what’s all this really about? Is this about you and Owen?”

  Lucy scowled. “Of course not. Besides, you hate him.”

  “Yeah. But I’ll get over it if he’s what you want.”

  Eying Jonas suspiciously, Lucy sipped the 7UP, feeling the bubbles on her tongue. Then she said, “I don’t believe you. You’re trying to trick me so I’ll leave you alone about Molly.”

  “I don’t think he’s going anywhere, that’s the thing. And I watched how he looked at you yesterday during that party Whitney threw at your store.”

  “How? What do you mean?” Lucy leaned forward.

  “He looked at you . . . Okay, this is going to sound wrong, no matter how I say it, so I’m just going to say it, okay?”

  Lucy nodded, hard.

  “I don’t even know if you remember. You know when Dad was on that trip to New York and there was something wrong with his plane, and it went down, but everyone was okay? And then he flew home and we picked him up at the airport? You know how Mom and Dad looked at each other?”

  Lucy swallowed. She did remember, of course she did. She’d been clinging to her mother while they ran through the terminal, but then the gate’s doors had opened and Toots had dropped her hand and covered her own mouth with a cry like Lucy had never heard before. And then her father was there, and her parents had looked at each other before running through the crowd to embrace, as if they were home.

  It was the look she’d always measured everything else against. Butterflies beat inside Lucy’s chest.

  “He looked at you like that. No matter what he was saying, that’s how he looked at you.”

  “Oh.” The butterflies turned into sparrows that turned into something bigger, brighter. Something necessary and essential and scary as hell.

  “And quit worrying about me and Molly. We’re fine.”

  “But . . . you know she . . .”

  “Eats men for dinner and spits them out behind her as she walks away. I know. But Lucy, have you maybe considered that that’s all I want? Friendship and a fuck?”

  Lucy’s eyes widened. “Jonas! You don’t talk like that!”

  “We’re just having sex, Lucy. No strings. For either of us.”

  “That’s what you say, but—you want a girlfriend! To get married again someday! That’s what we want for you!”

  “No strings, Lucy. That’s what we both want. And it’s okay for us to do that. It had been a really long-ass time for me. I love Molly as my friend, and she’s incredible in bed.”

  Lucy held up a hand. “There’s a line that I can’t cross in discussing sex—anything in regards to you. Or Silas. Or our parents. Ew.”

  “And she’s still my best friend.”

  “So when she sleeps with someone else, you’ll be fine.”

  “I like hearing about it when she does.”

  Lucy put her forehead on the bar. “Oh, my God,” she mumbled. “You are such a better Californian than I am. Where do you all go to school for this?” She raised her head. “Seriously? Is there a number I can call? I don’t do drugs. Would wearing Birkenstocks assist me in my enlightenment?”

  “How about not being a jerk about it, huh? Just try to support us both.” Jonas’s voice grew serious, and he put both his hands down flat on the bar between them. “Molly’s really mad at you, kiddo. I don’t know how you’re going to fix what you broke between you two. But sometimes you just have to trust the people you love.”

  Owen’s face flashed through Lucy’s mind.

  In a small voice, she asked, “With all that . . . in mind. If you don’t know where anything is anymore, how anything works, how can you be sure that what you need will still be there when you open your eyes?”

  “You don’t. Sometimes it’s not there when you look the second time. Sometimes it’s just gone. And sometimes you get hurt.” Jonas raised his hand to brush the hair from her face. “And then you move on. You always do.”

  Lucy took a deep breath and released it slowly.

  Then she said, “I have to call Mom. But hey, I have books five through the end of that series at the store. Make sure you get them from me, not some internet retail giant. Okay?”

  Chapter Thirty

  A little knitting shores you up. It always does.

  —E. C.

  Toots answered on the first ring, and of course she wanted Lucy to come over, she said, but yes, there was something Lucy could pick up on the way over. An apple galette from Whitney’s Bakery would hit the spot, wouldn’t it?

  Lucy closed her eyes. It was her punishment, she supposed. Just what she got. She wanted her mother—and the universe wanted her to pay for the comfort up front.

  Lord, even the cutesy font on the bakery sign bothered Lucy, all lace curlicues and cotton-candy paint. The front window was done up with half curtains and doilies. Maybe Whitney was going for French chic, but it really came off looking more like French bordello from the outside.

  Right. She’d be quick about it. Get this over with.

  Lucy pushed open the door. She did it briskly, with authority.

  And promptly knocked over a little old lady standing on the other side of the door.

  “Oh, my God!” Lucy pulled the door back toward her, to the outside, the way it should have been done anyway, now that she saw the big Pull sign.

  “I didn’t see you!”

  The old lady moaned.

  “Are you hurt?” asked Lucy.

  “No, it’s just my pies . . .”

  Whitney pushed Lucy aside. “Mrs. Irving. Oh, dear. Are you injured? Do we need to get help?”

  Mrs. Irving held up her hand. “I’m fine. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m quite cushioned, and I didn’t hurt myself. Someone take my arm.”

  Whitney, still looking darling although presumably she’d been actually working, helped Mrs. Irving up. “There now,” she cooed. “Are you all right? I’d hate to think that you’d even hurt just one tiny muscle. Everything okay?”

  “I’m fine, dear. But I do think my pies are ruined.”

  Lucy scrambled to try to pick up the boxes that littered the floor. There were four of them. Two were upside down, and one was on its side. She’d just assume all those were done for. “Look,” she said, picking up the last box triumphantly. “This one might have made it. See?”

  As she held it up, the bottom of the box ripped and the cherry pie dropped to the ground, its cherry contents splashing to the floor and back up, splattering onto the counter, the glass case, and Whitney’s dress.

  “Shit!” Lucy said.

  “Language!” said Whitney. “Mrs. Irving, you just get on home. I’ll personally deliver four fresh pies, no, make it five for your trouble, in the morning. I’m sorry you won’t have any tonight, though. Any cherry on you, dear? No? She just got me, I see. I’m glad none hit your clothing. Off y
ou go, I’ll see you first thing.”

  “Very sorry!” Lucy called as the door swung shut.

  Whitney turned to face Lucy and said, “Nice job.”

  “I said I was sorry. I didn’t see Mrs. Irving there.”

  “She’s wide as a barn, which is the only thing that prevented her from breaking a hip.”

  “I was in a hurry. I’ll buy a pie, though, if it helps.”

  “You’ll buy a pie? Don’t you need five? And if you want to buy another one for yourself, that’s fine by me.”

  Lucy sighed. “Fine. Whatever. And I’ll take an apple galette, too.”

  Whitney said, “Oh, I suppose you really didn’t mean to knock Mrs. Irving over. But I wouldn’t turn you down if you offered to dry-clean my dress. It’ll be ruined if I don’t get it treated professionally.”

  Lucy grimaced. “Of course. Tell me how much it costs.”

  “I’ll just add another twenty to your bill here. That should do it. Just call it a nice round hundred and ten?”

  “Dollars? Are you kidding me?”

  “Well, fifteen each for five pies and one apple galette for you, plus twenty for the dress.”

  Lucy ground the words out from between her teeth. “Will you take a check?”

  “Of course, silly! I know where to find you if it bounces. Now, let me get your galette.”

  Lucy concentrated on making her handwriting clear. While she was paying for her sins, she might as well go all the way. “Thank you for the nice party yesterday, Whitney.”

  Her voice rang out from the back room. “Oh, darling, you’re so welcome! Wasn’t that fun? We should do more things like that! Together! Don’t you think?”

  Gritting her teeth, Lucy signed her name, pressing so hard that the paper ripped a little. “I think once was probably enough, but it sure was . . . fun.”

  Whitney’s gleaming curled bob popped out from behind a rack of cinnamon buns. “Didn’t you have a good time?”

  “Well, of course I did . . .”

  “Lucy. Oh, I was so proud of you.” Whitney put the white box on the counter, and then came around and embraced Lucy tightly in a hug that smelled of chocolate and butter.

  Lucy extricated herself as carefully as she could. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “That was the point, you goose. It would have been so easy for you to have done nothing. Like you’ve always done. Just like most people do. You’ve always kept everything the same, haven’t you? Just like your grandmother did. But that night, you did something, you saved Abigail. And now, with me, you’re moving ahead with your business. And as businesswomen in our town of Cypress Hollow, a small town traditionally run by the good old boys, I’m proud of us.” Whitney raised her fist. “We are women with a mission! Hear us roar! We shall not be moved!”

  “I think you’re mixing your metaphors. Or your marching slogans or something. I don’t want to change my business, Whitney.”

  “Oh, come on, sure you do. It’s exciting, isn’t it? You’re a writer now, as well as a bookseller. People already love us in this town, and as a combined force, we’ll only do better!” Whitney was pretty all of the time, but she was really gorgeous when she smiled like that. Lucy felt a headache starting, just looking at her.

  “Why are you on my side?” The words were out of Lucy’s mouth before she could stop them. But she meant them—wanted the answer, even though it came out sounding wrong. More and more lately, she’d found herself drawn to Whitney. What had she missed all these years? Had an actual friend been hiding next door to her all this time, and Lucy had been too busy being caught up in old, tired drama to notice? Was that possible?

  Whitney’s smile slid sideways. “Oh, Lucy. Never mind. Thanks for the check. I’ll lock the door behind you.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lucy was sorry. She hadn’t meant it like it had sounded and she wished with her whole heart she could take it back.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Whitney . . .”

  “I’m not after you, you know. I’m not out to get you.”

  Lucy shook her head. “But . . .”

  “When I proposed having a night where our businesses merge, like a cookbook night here or a cupcake night at your bookstore, guess what? It was because I want our businesses to succeed. Both of our businesses.” Whitney picked up a napkin holder and then set it down. “I’m a good businesswoman. I might even go a step further and say that I’m a great one. I could retire in two years if I wanted to, did you know that? That’s how lucrative sugar and flour has been for me. But I’m not going to, because I want to do even more. I look around our town and I’ve seen a lot of closed stores and shuttered windows, but the only store that concerned me was yours. Because we went to high school together, and because sometimes, every once in while, I thought we might end up being friends. Finally.”

  “Whit—”

  “But guess what?” Whitney raised her hands and then dropped them. “I’m done. I won’t be bugging you anymore.”

  No, Whitney didn’t understand. “In high school, though, you remember that night at the party? Haven’t you hated me since then?” Lucy clung to the edge of the countertop.

  “In high school? The night I took that picture, the night you threw up? You know I threw up, too, about two miles down the road? We were all drunk, and we were all stupid, and we were all kids, and we’ve all forgotten about high school. We aren’t the same people. We’ve all grown up, Lucy. For God’s sake. It’s time you did, too.”

  Lucy felt desperate. “No, you don’t get it. . . . It’s all changed. Molly, and Jonas . . .”

  “Are sleeping together. I know. And guess what? I’m taking advantage of your other brother. And what’s more—I like him a lot, too. Didn’t see that one coming, did you? No, you never do. Now get the hell out of my shop, little girl. Come back when you grow a pair.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  When you think that the knitting is all that matters, it’s time to put it down and look up to see the person sitting on the couch across from you. You may have forgotten who you’re knitting for.

  —E. C.

  She was right. Whitney was right. Everyone had grown up. And Lucy was still wearing the same shoes she’d been wearing in high school because she was too scared to change them.

  As she walked to her mother’s house, the world’s most expensive apple pie dangling from a pink pastry bag in her right hand, she thought about the Book Spire and what she was doing with the legacy her grandmother had left her.

  Whitney and she would work well together, especially if they combined the cooking/reading thing. It was hot right now. People would love it. Whitney was smart.

  Lucy knew—she’d known for a long time—that she could be doing more. She could set up a better online presence. And there were book clubs that wanted to meet at her store, but she’d been happy to send them over to the Rite Spot instead. What was wrong with her? There were other nights she should be hosting. She had the room—why not have knitting nights here? Abigail had her knit groups over at her store, but there were other knitting groups in town, the ones that Lucy belonged to, not to mention the crocheters and quilters. For that matter, Toots was always looking for other venues for her various klatches, as well as her tarot groups, her spiritual cleansers, and her meditation groups.

  Lucy had been a fool. Her family had always thought she was scared of trying new things, and they were right—she was. Anything a little different, a little out of the box, and Lucy hid her head in the sand, lest she do something wrong, make the wrong decision and cause the worst to happen.

  But Lucy’d been as scared of losing the store as she was of losing people. And now she’d lost Owen and Molly, and suddenly, in light of that, the store didn’t seem to matter at all.

  She’d probably make a hash of the Eliza Carpenter book, too. Who was she, to try to pull together a new Eliza book? What right did she possibly have? Why were Abigail and Cade allowing her? It was ridiculous.

  L
ucy wished the pager would go off in her pocket. Give her something to run toward, something that she would know how to handle, something she could do. But it remained stubbornly silent.

  The first few raindrops of a spring storm rolling in off the ocean hit Lucy’s face as she turned to walk down her mother’s street. She blinked the drops away. She tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and only caught herself by windmilling her arms. Panting a little, she stopped and turned, the Eliza papers tucked in a knitted bag under her arm. The small town spread out along the shore, blooming against the low, spitting clouds. She knew every roof down there, and as always, her eyes rested longest on the spire of her bookstore.

  Home.

  And the gray roof behind it, the parsonage.

  She hurried faster to the only other place she wanted to be.

  “Mom?”

  Faintly, she heard her mother’s voice from the backyard. “Out here!”

  Toots was lying on the chaise longue outside.

  “It’s cold out here, Mom. And it’s starting to rain.”

  “I love it. Gives me a chance to wear the sweater I just finished.” It was a stunner, all right, pink chenille with embroidered green . . . what were those things?

  “Wow. Snakes, huh?”

  Toots grinned and sat up. “You like them? I thought they were quirky.”

  “That’s a good word for them.”

  “Is that my apple galette?”

  Lucy nodded and thrust the bag toward her mother.

  “Isn’t Whitney a genius baker? She can’t do anything wrong, can she?”

  “Did you know . . .” Lucy’s voice trailed off. “About . . .”

  Toots nodded smartly, approvingly. “About her and Silas? Of course. Don’t you think it’s sweet? Silas, finally getting a girl, and what a girl. Good for him.”

  And then Lucy burst into tears.

  Toots was many things as a mother, and preoccupied was usually part of the equation. But her shoulders were the best shoulders Lucy had ever known for crying on, and she sat inside her mother’s embrace as they rocked in the cool air.