Molly’s mouth twisted sideways, and then she put her arms around Lucy.
Lucy took a deep breath and leaned into her best friend. “At least I have you,” she said.
Molly said, “Oh, honey. You always have me.”
Lucy let the tears come.
Chapter Thirty-three
And always, in knitting, as in life, have an open mind. You’ll see there might be another path open to you, one you almost missed. Stockinette never looked so good from a garter-stitch road, did it?
—E. C.
Huddled under an oak tree in the rain, Owen stood outside the firehouse, his heart in his hands. Okay, it wasn’t his heart, it was a Ziploc container of homemade chicken tikka masala that he’d made himself, but it was the best he could fit into plastic. Owen had wanted to make a great dinner, something interesting, different. Something people didn’t get every day, something with flavor, depth, richness. Something romantic, full of spice and passion.
Owen didn’t have much else to offer Lucy. It wasn’t lost on him that his life echoed his father’s a little too closely at this point. No job, an old Mustang, and soon he’d be in the process of repurchasing the same damn house his father had owned. He’d talked to a delighted-sounding Molly on the phone an hour ago, and she was getting the wheels in motion for him to buy back his mother’s house.
Again. The same house he’d sold for her when she’d gone into Willow Rock. He was buying it back at a fraction of what he’d sold it for, thanks to the recession, and it would be his first big project in Cypress Hollow—he’d fix it up and use the before and after photos to launch his handyman business. As long as there weren’t too many stairs in a project, he could do almost anything, he knew he could.
And he’d repair his mother’s garden, bring the roses back to life, and on sunny days, he’d bring her from Willow Rock to sit in the garden. Maybe, just maybe, it would be like she’d never left. He could hope, right?
Owen could become a part of Cypress Hollow again.
And most important, Lucy would see that he was serious as hell about all of this. About staying. About her.
Owen would wait all night if he had to, holding the container in his hands. Tonight was the first night of the new recruits’ training for the fire brigade, and Molly had told him that Lucy always helped with the classes. When the class let out, she’d come out, and knowing Lucy, she’d have stars in her eyes from helping someone learn something new and exciting.
It was still terrifying, the thought of her being on the department. His stomach churned thinking that at any moment, anywhere in this little town, an old man could drop his cigarette onto his couch and set his whole house on fire, thus putting Lucy’s life in danger. Lucy’s life.
But maybe, if he took his time about it, he’d be able to talk her out of it. He wouldn’t try to force her. That was the wrong approach with Lucy. But maybe, with the horror stories he’d stored up over the years, and he had a million of them, he could convince her that she’d be better off safe with him, not running around all over town, chasing after car crashes and gas explosions and house fires . . .
And he hated the niggling jealousy he felt, low and deep inside, that she got to run toward the problem, while he would always, from here on out, have to stay behind.
But Owen was going to work like hell on getting over that feeling. He was. He knew everything depended on it. He took a deep breath to even out the nerves that jangled electrically through every part of his body.
He could see the tops of their heads in there milling about, the meeting over, and if just the force of his will could drive those citizen rookies out, they’d be flying out of the building as if shot from the end of a fire hose. He hadn’t seen her, yet, though. She was probably still at the front of the class. Helping someone learn something extra. That would be like her.
There, he could feel that dumb-ass grin again. He loved her. Hot damn, he’d finally realized it.
He wasn’t stupid enough to think it would be easy. He’d broken her trust, and he knew that it would be hard won back. Lucy was smart, tough, and strong. His equal, in all ways. But he’d do what it took to prove that he was worthy of her.
Of course, figuring it out while he’d been with his mother was one thing. Knowing it inside the parsonage was just fine. But knowing it here, when she was about to face him with those cool, beautiful dark brown eyes, accepting that she was just as likely to blow him off with a few well-chosen words that would turn him into tiny pieces of jelly quivering on the ground, well, it was taking all his remaining courage to stay here, standing up, holding his damn cooked chicken in a plastic bowl, holding it tight so that it didn’t drop, because, fuck it all, it was all he had to give her.
Those stars in her eyes would dim when she saw him, he knew that.
But God, if he showed her this container of tikka masala, and maybe if they sat in the Mustang near the water, where they’d had their clam chowder, and if he took his time, maybe he had half a chance. Okay, a tenth of a chance. He’d take those odds. He’d take any odds at all.
If he told her he loved her . . .
His gut churned as the front doors opened, light and laughter spilling out into the rain. Everything that had ever happened in his life depended on this moment. He was more frightened, more alive than he’d ever been before.
Just her. Owen waited for Lucy.
He recognized some of the people who came out of the firehouse by sight, and some of them looked suspiciously at him from under the edges of their umbrellas. Owen knew that old familiar feeling of being sized up, being categorized as Hugh Bancroft’s son, and relegated to either being not important enough to being thought about again, or the opposite, being worrying enough to warrant constant vigilance. What was he doing out here? Lurking in the dark?
Owen, perversely, found himself enjoying it. He hunkered deeper into his leather jacket and shrouded himself further into the overhang of the oak tree he was leaning against. The man who ran the hardware store who thought Owen had stolen paint from him every time he’d come in as a teenager—Owen had never stolen more than a couple of penny nails, to prove a point—hurried his wife down the sidewalk.
But then Tony Castello and Charlie Foscalina, two of the old ranchers from up the valley, came out, eyeing their new pagers suspiciously. When they saw Owen under the tree, they jerked their heads in greeting, something they didn’t bother doing for anyone who hadn’t lived in town at least twenty-five years. Owen tried to be cool in his chin-nod back but felt inordinately gratified.
And then Jim Younger, the town vet, came right up to him and shook his hand, telling him it was a good thing to have him back in town, and that Molly had told him he did odd jobs—was there a way he could build a shelving unit for his files in his new extended office next month? Was that something he did?
Owen nodded. “Hell, yeah. I’d love to.”
“Great,” Jim said, struggling as his umbrella blew inside out. “That would be great. Can you get me a quote? Just for the bean counters, you’ve got the job. I don’t care, I just want it done fast.”
Owen had the feeling his new life was starting, and the only part of it that mattered still had to walk out that door.
He waited until the flow of people flowed to a trickle. Then no one. Just that fire captain, Jake Keller, who pulled the door closed and locked it, with him still inside.
“Wait!” No matter how fast Owen tried to move, after standing under the tree so long in the cold night air, his hip hurt too damn much to get rolling quickly. So he yelled louder. “Wait!”
Through the glass, Jake looked up in surprise. He unlocked the door and pushed it open a crack.
“Help you? If you’re here for class you missed it by a long shot.”
“Looking for Lucy Harrison.”
Keller frowned.
“Owen Bancroft. You picked up my mom the other night in that old house on Clement. Lucy was with us. She was supposed to be here tonight and then we had a d
ate after.” Okay, that stretching the truth a bit, but Owen was getting worried.
Jake lifted his wide palms, face up. “Your guess is as good as mine. Better, probably. She’s usually my right-hand man at the orientations. Missed her tonight. You tell her that when you find her, okay?” The door shut with a cold thud.
“Well, hell.” Owen looked at the stupid container of chicken. “What next?”
The front of the Book Spire was dark. It didn’t stop Owen from prowling the back alley, though, to see if Lucy was perhaps in the back of the shop, in the storeroom. But the lights were out back there, too.
Actually, now that he noticed it, everything was dark. The streetlights were out, and he glanced down Main to the one stoplight down on Oak. It, too, was dark. Must be a power outage from the storm. Owen used the small Maglite on the end of his keychain to light up the back of the alley. If Lucy was inside, she’d have lit a candle at least, right?
Should he go to her house? Was that pushing it? At least the Book Spire was literally on his way home to the parsonage, and he could justify poking around.
But looking into the windows, he could see she wasn’t there. He’d blown it again.
Right now, he knew kids were studying in Tillie’s for their upcoming SATs (if they had their generator working), and he knew the local ranchers were already asleep in preparation for getting up at four in the morning, and he knew that skaters on the pier were probably illegally jumping off benches in search of the perfect height, rain notwithstanding.
And he was alone.
“Dammit.” Owen threw the tikka masala into an open trash bin that sat between the bookstore and Whitney’s Bakery. It exploded with a loud thunk that made him feel worse. He was an idiot.
He should just go home and rest. He was cold and wet, and it would probably help if he were able to sleep at all, but sleep had been elusive. Even when he felt most exhausted, as soon as he closed his eyes, all he saw was her.
Lucy.
The woman of his dreams. His heart.
In the alley next to the bookstore, Whitney’s purple Phrosting-mobile was parked near the back door of her bakery. The headlights had been left on, and he waited for a moment to see if she’d just arrived, in case they were automatic and would shut off shortly. When they didn’t, he tried the car doors, but they were locked. Great.
The back door of the bakery had been propped open with a milk crate. He knocked, but no one answered.
“Hello?” he called. The door was heavier than it looked.
“Over here,” a high, flirtatious voice called.
Weaving around huge bags of flour and stacks of boxes, he navigated through the dim interior using his flashlight. He went through the door on the left, toward where he’d heard Whitney call out.
And he found her. She was mostly naked, propped up on a marble slab that was lit by flickering candles. Naked, that is, except for the frosting.
Whitney was decorated like a bachelor’s party cake. Red frosting formed a tiny bra, and pink frosting served as panties. A white frosting necklace framed her throat. She wore silver high heels, and had her ankles draped over an enormous mixing bowl. Candlelight danced across her body, flashing against the silver dragees in her belly button.
Owen could think of three health codes being violated, and he bet that was only scratching the surface.
“Jesus Christ!” Whitney screamed as she hurled herself off the worktable. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Expecting someone?” He tried unsuccessfully to silence his involuntary burst of laughter.
“Sure as shit not you! What do you want?” Whitney breathed hard. She held an empty paper flour bag in front of her, attempting to wrap it around her body. She had pink frosting in her hair from her mad rush off the table. She reached out her hand to steady herself on a stool. Then she gasped.
A roar came from behind him, and Owen was body-tackled before he could spin around. Twisting on the ground, he struggled to roll to his back so he could have a fighting chance at getting in a punch.
“I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” Silas, Lucy’s brother, saying more at one time than Owen had ever heard him say before, hit him in the face. Owen saw a flash of light behind his eyes and felt the impact snap down his spine. He shot his fist up into the air and managed to connect with what felt like a jaw.
Silas yelled again. Apparently, he thought getting Owen in a headlock would be a good idea, which was fine by Owen. He hadn’t taught fighting in the police academy for five years for nothing. Owen waited for his time, until he was in a good position. Silas took a breath and started to say something.
But before a single word left his mouth, Owen swept his left leg out and to the side. Silas’s feet were kicked out from under him. He released his hold on Owen, and crashed to the ground, where Owen pinned his arms behind him.
Leaning forward, he said to Silas, “Are you gonna try to hit me some more? Or can I let you go?”
Silas muttered something against the concrete and then went limp under his hands. Owen released his hold.
Whitney’s paper wrapper shook as she stared at them. “What’s going on, Owen?”
Silas growled something unintelligible and wiped blood from below his nose.
Owen said, “You left your damn headlights on, Whitney. I was looking for Lucy. Can you put on some damn clothes? Silas, I’m not interested in your girlfriend, so you can chill the hell out.”
Whitney held up a finger. “Neither of you move a muscle. I mean it. Not a hair on your head, and don’t say a word.” Her voice brooked no argument.
Whitney disappeared with a bag into a side bathroom. While she was gone, Silas and Owen stared straight ahead, both breathing hard, neither saying anything. Whitney came out three minutes later, looked perfectly composed in a pale peach dress and matching heels. Not even a trace of frosting gave her away.
“Well, all right boys. Silas, it appears as if this date is over, although I’d love a rain check. Owen, Lucy rushed in just before I closed and she picked up a box of brownies, said she was taking it—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Owen interrupted her, “to the fire brigade meeting. But she didn’t go.”
Whitney frowned. “No. She said she was volunteering her time teaching knitting at an old folks’ home. And she asked if I wanted to be part of it with her, to provide the treats if she provided the books. She wants to get Abigail in on it, too, to bring the yarn. And I thought it was the oddest thing, since we’d had a fight earlier in the day, and I thought she’d never talk to me again.”
Owen narrowed his eyes at her. Could he trust her? Jesus Christ, she’d been covered with powdered sugar a few minutes ago. But hell, he would head to Willow Rock, on the off chance Lucy was there, as fast as the old Mustang would get him there.
Silas picked his red earflap cap up from where it had fallen under an industrial-sized mixing bowl, pulled it tight down onto his head, and then stuck out his hand. “Sorry, man. Mix-up.”
“ ’S okay.” Owen shook Silas’s hand. “Could happen to anyone.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Knitting lessons aren’t for the faint of heart.
—E. C.
The first thing Lucy thought when she saw Owen stride into the lobby of Willow Rock was, Finally.
Then she thought, Too damn late. Her legs, which had been shaking for the last ninety minutes, threatened to go out, but she rushed to the front door and folded her arms in front of her chest.
“Where the hell have you been? Why haven’t you answered your cell phone? We’ve been trying you for an hour and a half.”
Her fingers hit the silence button on her pager, which had been beeping nonstop for the last fifteen minutes as it called in the volunteers for the search. She should probably just take the batteries out and save herself the trouble.
Owen gave her a wild-eyed look, and she didn’t blame him. Two police officers spoke quietly to Miss Verna and Janie, who were filling out paperwork
behind the desk. Everyone in the lobby, including herself, was soaked. The power had just been restored, and under the fluorescent lighting, they all looked like drowned rats. Lucy knew she was freezing, but she couldn’t feel it. Not yet.
“Tell me what happened.” Owen pushed past her, his gaze already fixed on the staff.
Lucy grabbed his arm. She’d be damned if they took the heat for this. It wasn’t their fault. That was the worst part.
“It’s nobody’s fault but mine. They had nothing to do with it.”
“Where is she?”
“Everyone’s already out looking. We’ll go back out, too.”
“The house? Have they been to her house?” Owen pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Shit. I turned it on silent when I was here earlier. I always do. I forgot to turn it back on.”
“The cops have been to her house, and I went, too. I searched every room, and the garden, too. She’s not there, Owen. Or anywhere in between here and there.”
Owen covered his face with his hands and scrubbed, hard. “I don’t get it. How did she get out?”
One of the officers approached him. “Owen Bancroft?”
He nodded.
“Officer John Moss. We’ve got six officers searching and our K9 tracking now. The dog’s scented toward the river, but with the rain we’re not sure about the trail. You have any idea about where she might have gone?”
“No.” Owen’s voice was strangled. “If she’s not at her old house, I have no idea where she might be. How did she get out?”
Lucy threaded her fingers through a hole in the left front of her sweater. She felt it ripping, the yarn running even more than it already had, and she didn’t care. “We’d been knitting together. She was doing great. Not talking much, but just knitting along. This was my second time coming to see her.” Oh, God, she didn’t want to tell him. She’d lost his mother. It was the worst thing she’d ever done. Lost a person. His person.
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