Wishes and Stitches

by Rachael Herron

  Naomi had just never liked the city itself, had yearned for something slower, smaller. She’d grown tired of hearing sirens bringing people into the emergency room all night, and hated the way the traffic snarled and growled every time she fought her way onto the freeway. Cypress Hollow had seemed like the perfect answer.

  Over the course of Eliza’s treatment, the two-year time span of their friendship, Eliza had told Naomi everything about her beloved small town. Naomi knew that Pete Wegman went crazy if he drank tequila, and she knew that Mildred and Greta were the true town doyennes, their blue hair and fancy umbrellas notwithstanding. Eliza had also told her that Cypress Hollow would someday need a new doctor, and that they’d embrace her with open arms. She’d said that on her first day in town, Naomi would probably make friends she’d treasure above all others for the rest of her life. She’d said that everyone loved one another in her small hometown, and that she should apply to work for Dr. Pederson’s private practice if he ever had an opening.

  In love with the idea of becoming a small-town doctor, like her father had always wanted to be, Naomi kept her eye out for job openings. When the magic words “Cypress Hollow” appeared in her e-mail notifications, she applied for the position and won it, beating out fourteen other applicants who wanted to practice near the beach. And on her first day working in the office, the chamber of commerce’s Don Beadle had stopped by bearing a fruit basket and a request that she move her car, since the street sweeper was coming by and she’d do well to remember that this happened on the third Monday of every month.

  As she approached the water, the sunset turned ferocious. Hot pink ribbons and ridiculous splashes of red lit up the pale blue sky. A brilliant orange roasted the underside of the low clouds as the sun hovered an inch over the ocean. Seagulls wheeled above the pier, coming to rest on light poles, and children ran along the edge of the waves, darting back when the foam splashed too close.

  Ahead of her by half a block, almost at the line of the sand, was a dark-haired man. Tall. Jeans and boots. Great backside. Naomi stumbled on a piece of broken sidewalk as she remembered: Rig was in town. Her one and only one-night stand was probably somewhere nearby, right now. Embarrassment warred with a low-grade excitement—was it him? Did she want it to be?

  The man turned, and his profile was unfamiliar. She should feel grateful for that, right?

  As Naomi passed the gazebo in the small grassy park across the street from the beach, she raised her hand in greeting toward the two women knitting on a bench. They smiled back and one waved, one called out something that Naomi couldn’t quite hear. Naomi knew their faces, but not well enough to put names to them, and even though she longed to stop and touch their knitting, to talk about yarn, she was overcome by shyness, so instead she just gave them her biggest smile and hurried on.

  As soon as her back was to them, Naomi’s smile fell, and she pressed her lips together in frustration. If they’d been in her office, if they’d been patients, she would know what to say, how to be comfortable with them.

  Knitting friends. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  Well, she’d had Eliza. No one could ask for much better.

  Crossing High Street, she pulled back her shoulder-length brown hair with the rubber band she kept around her wrist for exactly this purpose. She hated the feeling of the curls hitting her in the eyes, and wondered for the hundredth time if she should just cut it all off.

  Hitting the sand’s edge, she slipped off her tennis shoes and parked them next to some ice plant. The sand was still warm, but when she got closer to the water, she could feel the cool wet sand an inch or two underneath the dry.

  Naomi felt the muscles in her neck relax for the first time all day.

  Eliza had been right about this. And about the knitting. Eliza had told her that the Cypress Hollow beach was the prettiest in all of California, and that knitting would save her sanity. Both statements had turned out to be true. Naomi had never seen a horizon like this, the breaking waves beating a perfect rhythm against the soft sand, and if it weren’t for going home every night to her knitting, she’d feel even lonelier than she did already.

  Small white terns darted in and out of the foam at the edge of the water. They moved as quickly as her thoughts, keeping her company as she walked.

  The sun dipped almost all the way into the dark blue water, and just a sliver of orange floated on the ocean’s surface. From the road out of sight, to her left, she could hear the occasional car going down High Street and taking the turn where the coastline came back, curving in toward itself along Beach Road. Voices carried to her ears over the dunes, a child’s cry, a snippet of laughter.

  Turning around earlier than she usually did, she headed back toward the pier and caught the last orange flare from the sun being swallowed by the sea. An elderly couple, arm in arm, nodded to her as they crossed paths. Two small boys shrieked their way across the dunes and darted around the pier pilings. Even the terns moved two by two.

  But down there, just at the edge of the foam, stood one white heron. Alone. Proud. It looked content to be exactly where it was, and Naomi straightened her shoulders.

  This was a good place to be.

  When she reached the base of the pier, Naomi climbed the steps up to the street above, trying to make her legs feel long and heronlike.

  “Watch out!” a man yelled. She looked up to see Rig racing forward, his arms outstretched. “Milo!”

  A small child rode his bike directly into the path of an oncoming car.

  With a screech of brakes, the purple SUV lurched to a sudden stop, but not quite fast enough—it hit the child, sending him to the pavement with a thud.

  Chapter Five

  It’s natural to feel a touch of fear when knitting lace.

  —E.C.

  There was a moment of strange silence before the SUV’s door flew open and the child gathered the breath to cry, and then all hell broke loose. Naomi sprinted forward as Rig raced into the middle of the street. The driver tumbled out of the purple SUV and slammed the door on the cursive writing that spelled PHROSTINGMOBILE. The owner of the local bakery, Whitney Court, wore a short, poofy black dress and ridiculously high heels. She put her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide.

  “Did I kill him?” Whitney asked. “Oh, God, did I kill him?”

  Naomi shook her head and brushed past her. “If he’s screaming, he’s breathing.”

  And he could certainly breathe—the kid was wailing bloody murder. Rig fell to his knees next to the boy. “Milo, are you hurt?” He moved his hands up the child’s arms, then down his legs.

  “No, don’t touch him, don’t move him,” said Naomi. “You,” she said to Whitney, who still stood next to her car, apparently frozen in horror. “Call an ambulance. Okay, let’s check him out.”

  Rig barely glanced in her direction and then turned back to the boy. “Milo, buddy, I know you’re upset, but quit crying for a second. I need to ask you to show me how your body works.”

  Milo caught his breath between screams. He hiccupped, giving the man an interested look. “What . . . do . . . you . . . mean? My body?”

  “Can you wiggle your toes and move your feet?”

  “No, keep him still,” said Naomi, leaning over the boy.

  Rig unsnapped Milo’s helmet. He took it off, running his hands over the boy’s head. “Milo, can you move your toes?”

  “Yep . . . hic.” Milo waggled them in his sandals.

  “And can you show me seven fingers, buddy?”

  Naomi held up her hand. “You need to stop. He could be injured internally. Please, we need to examine him without moving him.”

  “Really, I got it,” he said, but his voice sounded shaken. “Milo, seven? Can you show me?”

  The boy solemnly held up two fingers.

  “Oh, God,” wailed Whitney, her cell phone in hand. “He hit his head, didn’t he? I broke him!”

  “That’s two, buddy.”

  “I was trying to . . . hic . . . trick y
ou, Uncle Rig.” Milo put up the other hand, showing five extra fingers. “That’s seven.”

  “Hey,” started Naomi.

  “Let’s get everyone out of the street.” Rig stood and then reached down, picking Milo up under the arms. He held the boy with one arm, and with the other he picked up the bike. “Come on, big guy. You’re okay now.”

  “I told you not to move him!” Naomi hurried to follow them. Why wasn’t he listening to her? He was a doctor, for Chrissake. He should know he could hurt Milo without even trying. “Until he’s examined, keep him still . . .” Her voice trailed off. Rig was already on the sidewalk, the bike at his feet. He held Milo against his shoulder. Curled into the man’s bicep, the boy looked like he was about five, and thank God he wasn’t presenting any obvious injuries.

  But that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

  “Would you mind very much if I looked at him, too?” Naomi tried a new tack. She smiled as broadly as she could. “I’d love to just make sure he’s okay.”

  “My uncle’s a doctor. For people,” said Milo from Rig’s shoulder. “Not for animals. If he fixed animals, then he’d be a vet.”

  Naomi shook her head to clear it, her smile slipping. “Yes. Sorry. But, Dr. Keller . . .”

  Milo sniffled and burrowed deeper into his uncle’s arms.

  “But what? And come on, shouldn’t you really call me Rig?” His smile was slow and warm.

  She’d remembered him as good looking, but damn, she’d forgotten exactly how good looking he was. Some of the local young cowboys and ranch hands who came into Tillie’s were handsome, young and sweet and pretty faced. Rig wasn’t sweet looking. He was wearing lived-in jeans and a dark black T-shirt that strained over his chest. He was big and broad, his face still sporting that stubble. He looked like a cigarette ad from the sixties.

  Milo wiggled in Rig’s arms.

  “You see?” said Rig and smiled back. “I appreciate your offer, though.”

  “He . . . could have a concussion.”

  “I don’t think he does. Did you call that ambulance?” Rig asked Whitney.

  “Y-yes. Do you really think he’s okay?” said Whitney. She was pale, the blusher on her cheeks standing out, bright pink, a fine sheen of sweat at her hairline.

  “I know he’s fine. I saw it happen, and it wasn’t your fault. Milo here,” Rig patted Milo’s back, “didn’t look both ways. He just learned to ride his bike, so we’re new at this. Two doctors on the scene, though, how lucky can you get?”

  “But I hit him.” Whitney sank down onto the planter box on the sidewalk. “I can’t believe I hit him. I could have run right over his little body. Oh!” She put her hand over her mouth, the white of her face turning a pale green.

  “Go ahead and cancel your call. We don’t need an ambulance.”

  “Dr. Keller, I’m afraid I have to insist that—,” said Naomi.

  Rig didn’t look at her as he kept talking to Whitney. “You didn’t really hit him. You touched the back of his bike, practically a love tap. He hit the ground harder yesterday when he ran into a light pole. Kids bounce, huh, Milo?”

  “I bounce!” yelled Milo.

  “Are you sure? Really sure?” Whitney’s face was a mixture of relief and tears.

  “I’m sure,” Rig said, and his voice was warm. Reassuring.

  Naomi had to try one last time. “Can I at least help you get him home? To make sure that he’s—”

  “We’re fine.”

  His voice was just as reassuring when he spoke to her, and she wanted to protest. She wasn’t the one who needed help; that little boy needed to be looked after. “Peer to peer, then, I think he should probably take it easy the rest of the day. Don’t you think?”

  Rig’s smile turned into something that looked like a grin. “Yeah, well, maybe I doctor differently than you do. A hug is the best medicine, right?” He kissed the side of Milo’s head. “And besides, we have an appointment to play Frisbee on the beach. After he trumps me at that, we’ll both have a lie-down; does that make you happy, Doc?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not really.”

  “You want to come?”

  Naomi raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “To play Frisbee.”

  Milo turned his head and peeked at her again. “I throw good.”

  “God, no.”

  Milo hid his head again. Oh, crap. Her too-quick phrase wasn’t meant for him—it was meant for his uncle. She started to raise her hand as if to touch him, but then she stopped, letting her hand drop. She didn’t want to scare him. “I’m sorry, Milo, I bet you’re great at throwing. But not today, thank you.”

  Rig shrugged and hitched Milo up a notch at the same time. “Suit yourself, Doc. It’s good to see you again.” His eyes were exactly the same dark brown as her favorite pair of ebony knitting needles, rich and warm. “And hey, I should probably also tell you I’m the new doctor in your office. Pederson and I finished up the paperwork yesterday. So I guess I’ll be seeing you at work.” He grinned and picked the bike back up with his free hand, looked both ways, and crossed the street.

  Naomi gasped, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Pederson wouldn’t have. He wasn’t even in town, was he? It was true that when she’d been hired, it had been with a phone call and a faxed contract. Small practices sometimes played it looser.

  But without consulting her? Pederson was the primary, and she knew he could make those decisions without her, but she’d bought in, and she was his only partner. He should have . . . Damn. Naomi balled her hands into fists.

  Tomorrow she would figure out how to deal with it, tomorrow she’d fix it. Now she only wanted to be home with the afghan pulled over her knees, her needles in her hands, the stitches slipping like—

  On second thought, oh, hell no.

  With a burst of speed that felt foreign but right, Naomi sprinted across the street after Rig. She startled an elderly man driving a modified golf cart who shook his fist as he trundled by, yelling something she couldn’t quite make out.

  “Hey,” Naomi said loudly. “What did you just say to me?”

  “Go take the Frisbee up to the sand-dune hill, right there, okay, buddy?” Rig directed Milo which way to go, and then turned to Naomi. “I’m sorry Pederson didn’t tell you himself.”

  “How could you finish up paperwork with him when he’s out of the country?”

  “Faxes and e-mails. We’re livin’ in the future.” His smile was rueful. “And I had no idea my Naomi in Portland was the same as Naomi Fontaine, his partner. How would I have known that?”

  She gaped. “Your Naomi? It was one night.”

  “One fucking great night.”

  On many levels, yes. “Whatever. You don’t just come to a town and step into a business like that. My practice!”

  He held up his hands. “I’m not trying to be a threat—”

  “Stop.” Naomi stepped forward and stood on a small rise in the sand. They were eye to eye, and words, instead of stuttering in her throat, came easily for once. “Look, guy. This is my town. This is my life. If Pederson’s made a decision I can’t reverse, then I’ll handle it, but you should know one thing: What happened between us has nothing to do with my business. I love my practice and my patients more than . . . more than anything else I can think of, actually. I won’t let that be compromised in any way, by anyone. No matter how hot that someone is.”

  The corner of Rig’s mouth quirked.

  “That’s not a compliment,” Naomi went on. “I’ll do anything to protect myself and my way of life. Now go play with your nephew who should be lying down in a quiet room, go jar his little head by tossing around a Frisbee, and I’ll talk to Pederson tomorrow. We’ll figure whatever this is out. Just please know this: my work is everything to me.” Her voice shook, just a little. This was so important—this was why she never mixed business with pleasure, and why she shouldn’t have at that damn conference. “That can’t change.”

  Rig nodd
ed, and his voice was completely serious. “I get that. And I feel exactly the same way about my practice. And my patients.”

  “Fine then. Okay.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders before giving him a firm nod and then turning.

  As Naomi crossed the street again, she felt her knees, so sturdy just seconds ago, start to quake. Her limbs felt made of rubber, almost as if she’d been the one hit by the car.

  Whitney was still seated on the low planter. She sniffled and dried her eyes. “I should move the PhrostingMobile, I guess.” She stood and abruptly grabbed Naomi’s hand. “He’s really okay?”

  Naomi thought of all the ways the boy might not be okay. He could be bleeding internally. Even with the helmet on, he could have a concussion that wouldn’t present for another hour or so.

  But then she looked at Whitney’s face, still green with splotches of pale pink. “I’m pretty sure he won’t die,” she said. Whitney looked more stricken and she realized she’d said the wrong thing. Again. “And his uncle’s a doctor.”

  “Then he knows what he’s doing, right?”

  Naomi leaned against a street sign; her legs still felt unsteady. “I sure hope so.”

  Chapter Six

  Sometimes, we are tempted to think of our knitting as a potential family heirloom. That puts a little too much weight on the yarn, don’t you think? Right now, it can be merely your work-in-progress.

  —E.C.

  In his brother’s backyard, Rig flipped a burger on the grill and then took a moment, turning in place to look around. When was the last time he’d barbecued outside with his family on a perfect summer evening? Too damn long. It had to be more than a year since he’d been off the rigs long enough to get to Cypress Hollow.

  He wondered how long Naomi Fontaine had been in town. Shit, he should have known. When he’d been signing the paperwork, the thought passed through his mind—what if this Naomi was the one at the conference in Portland? Then he’d dismissed it. There were thousands of small practices in the world, she wasn’t the only doctor named Naomi. They hadn’t, during that incredible night, said one thing about their home lives. For all he knew, she was married with nine kids and a minivan.