Wishes and Stitches

by Rachael Herron

  Anna went on, “It must be nice, living here, where everybody knows you.” She paused. “Yeah?”

  Naomi dared a glance at Rig. He leaned comfortably against the bookcase as if he didn’t mind being suddenly thrust into an awkward family situation.

  “Living in a town like this means that two people have found me tonight based on word of mouth from the diner. That makes me nervous.”

  Anna shook her head. “This is the kind of place where you always wanted to live. You love it.” She spread out her arms and then rested them on the backs of the couch cushions. “And look at your house! It’s gorgeous! So big and roomy!”

  Inwardly, Naomi groaned. There was only one translation for this—Anna wanted to stay. She’d probably run out of all other options, and it fell, just like it always had, to Naomi to pick up the pieces.

  Only this time the piece in question was pregnant, and that might be more than Naomi could handle.

  “Anna, I’m glad to see you,” started Naomi. “But—”

  “Oh, no buts, please, not right now.” Her words were quick. Almost desperate. “Can’t we just enjoy seeing each other? Can we have dinner tonight?” Anna gestured to Rig. “He can come, too. We can order in pizza or something. I don’t want to get in the way . . .”

  She was already in the way. How had she possibly managed to break up the only kiss Naomi had ever had in Cypress Hollow? Her timing was truly a force of nature.

  Rig stepped forward and stood next to Naomi. He threaded her fingers with his. “Man, Anna, I’m so sorry, but we already have plans across town. And we should probably be getting going, shouldn’t we, honey?”

  Honey. As if she didn’t already have enough to worry about. But Rig was giving her an out, and she’d be damned if she’d pass it up. For one brief second, she squeezed his hand back and allowed herself to feel its warmth. “Yeah, we’re, uh, probably late.”

  “We are.” Rig nodded firmly.

  Anna’s face clouded as she looked at Naomi. “I can stay here, can’t I?”

  Naomi took a deep breath.

  “Please? I’ll stay right here on the couch. I’ll nap. I might use the bathroom but that’s only because my bladder is the size of a walnut right now. I swear I won’t touch anything.”

  Dropping Rig’s hand, Naomi knew she was beaten. There wasn’t a good way to say no. There wasn’t any way to do it without sounding like the biggest asshole in the universe, and while her sister probably already thought of her that way because of the last time she’d tossed her out after her then boyfriend had hocked Naomi’s laptop, Naomi didn’t actually want to jeopardize any time that she might actually get with her sister.

  Real time. She wanted that. And maybe this time Anna had finally changed.

  Yeah, right.

  “Fine. But just stay out here. Or you can lie down in the guest bedroom, first door down the hall on the left.” Was that cruel, to confine her sister to two rooms? “And you can raid the fridge although I don’t think there’s much there.”

  “God, I’m starved. Thanks.”

  Naomi cringed as she imagined what she’d come home to—spaghetti sauce on the counters, dirty pans in the sink. She doubted the MO had changed. “But clean up, okay?”

  “Of course I will.” Anna’s voice was warm, and her bright blue eyes were just the slightest bit wet around the lashes. “It’s so good of you to do this. I’ve missed you so much.”

  What was she doing? Had she accidentally agreed to more than her sister just waiting in the house for her to come back?

  She probably had. And against all her better judgment, Naomi felt a quiet hum that she hadn’t felt in a long time—the warmth that she always felt when her sister was safe, and close by. “Damn it, Anna.” She bent down to the couch to hug her sister. Anna smelled of sweat and stale, fried food, and very faintly, the sweetness of roses. “I’ve missed you, too,” she said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The definition of travel knitting is whatever project you can fit in your purse.

  —E.C.

  In front of the house, Rig tossed Naomi the extra helmet from the back of his Harley Sportster. “Here you go. I’m betting you don’t have your own.”

  “I’m sorry. What?” She shook her head, making her curls bounce. God, he loved looking at her hair.

  “You don’t mind taking the bike, do you?”

  “A bike is a bicycle, and I don’t like them much. This is a motorcycle,” she said.

  “You’re smart,” Rig said. It felt good out here in the cool, clear air, good to get away from the tension he’d felt but didn’t quite understand inside the house.

  “And you’re a smart-ass. I don’t ride motorcycles.”

  “You can’t? Or you don’t?”

  The slight furrow between her brows grew more pronounced, and Rig wanted to raise his thumb and rub it away. “Both. Oh, lord, my father would have killed me.”

  “You always did what your father told you?”

  She leveled a cool glance at him. “Yes.”

  “Well,” said Rig, “It’s a good thing you don’t have to tell him, then. You don’t need to know anything but how to hold on to me. Lean in the direction of the bike, follow my body. You can do it.”

  He didn’t watch to see if she’d follow his lead in putting on the helmet—he knew she would. For whatever reason, Naomi Fontaine wanted to get the hell away from her sister, and even though he didn’t understand where it was coming from, he wanted to help her. And sure enough, after he snapped the strap in place and straddled the bike, he looked over to see her pulling her helmet down. Then she put her hands on his shoulders. He felt her nervousness radiating down to her fingertips.

  “Wait,” she said, her voice small and muffled under the helmet. “Should I leave? Leave her alone like this?”

  “Do you want to stay?”

  Slowly, the helmet shook back and forth. “That’s what’s awful. I don’t want to. Not right now. I need time to think . . .”

  “Get on, then. You’re going to love this. Just don’t touch that pipe there,” he said and pointed to it. “It could burn you. But that’s the only thing you have to be careful of. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Now I’m nervous.” But she scrambled on behind him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, thighs and arms clamped tighter than he’d expected her to. Even though her fingers were curled like sharp claws, almost painfully so, he reveled in the way she felt. God, she was good behind him. She fit on his bike perfectly, and he wasn’t surprised. When he’d cruised past his place and picked up the extra helmet, hoping that she’d come with him to the party, he’d imagined she’d feel exactly like this.

  Only, unbelievably, she felt better.

  He started the Harley and felt her respond to its purr. Her legs gripped his a little bit harder, and he thanked God for motorcycles.

  The ride to the MacArthur ranch was fast and sweet, no traffic on the narrow highway. They wound their way under the eucalyptus trees, past the live oaks on the rolling hills that were already brown from the summer sun. The air smelled of warm dust and clean sunshine, with a hint of salt from the ocean, now invisible over the hill to the west. The sun, low now in its seaward dive, poured light like honey over the countryside. After five minutes, Naomi had relaxed her death grip on his sides, and she was almost sitting all the way up. Her hands rested on his hips, lightly. The way they should. He took another curve and felt her lean with him, perfectly in sync.

  Damn. She had no fucking clue how hot she was. One more time, he reminded himself that she was a complication he didn’t want. Didn’t need. No way was he getting caught around the axel.

  But that didn’t stop him from wishing the ride would never end.

  There were more than twenty cars already parked out on the county road just down the road from the ranch. Rig pulled the bike in behind a Ducati—someone had nice taste.

  Up at the curve, a knot of people had gathered on the road. Rig heard light laughte
r, followed by good-natured shhh-ing.

  He took Naomi’s helmet from her and placed both on the bike. Her cheeks were flushed bright pink, and her eyes were sparkling, glinting the color of sea-glass shards. “That was amazing. That was . . . wonderful. I didn’t think I’d like it, but then I did.” She pulled her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it down. Her blue T-shirt was pulled a little sideways—he should have insisted on that jacket, she’d get cold later—and she had dust on the knee of her black pants.

  He’d never known he had a type, not until he looked at her.

  “Is it always like that?”

  “What?” he asked, unable to tear his gaze away from the curls that still defied her efforts.

  “Riding. Is it always that great?”

  He answered honestly. “No. That was pretty spectacular.”

  She nodded. “The warm coast before sunset, through the countryside? That was amazing.”

  It hadn’t been the view that had made it his favorite ride ever, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “Yep.” He gestured up the road. “Come on. Don’t want to miss the surprise.”

  Naomi looked down at herself, as if for the first time. “I can’t go like this.”

  “What?”

  “What the hell was I thinking? I was just so desperate to get away from Anna. I look like I’ve been cleaning the kitchen. No, wait, I look worse. I look like I’ve been scrubbing toilets. I have a hole right here, see? Over my belly button. How on earth would I get a hole there?”

  He reached forward to touch the hem of the offending shirt she was holding out. “It’s a tiny hole,” Rig said, running his thumb over the fabric. “No one will notice.” And he absolutely couldn’t help it, even if he’d tried, when he let the back of his fingers touch the soft skin of her stomach, for the most fleeting of seconds.

  Her lower lip dropped, and her eyes met his. Sun motes danced between them in a last shaft of warm light. Time slowed until he had to tell himself to breathe.

  The moment shattered as Toots Harrison saw them. She let out a squeak and then called, “Yoohoo! You made it! I can’t believe we got the new doctor and the shy doctor, too!”

  They thought she was shy? He’d call Naomi other things: reticent, maybe. Jumpy. Nervous. But shy wasn’t on the list of things he categorized her as.

  Toots went on, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Now march! The time is now, and don’t forget, don’t shout surprise until Abigail actually opens the door. We want Lucy to die of surprise. Mildred, don’t drop the cake! Bart and Jonas, you have all the wine? Owen, you have the plates? Everyone, go, go, go!”

  As the cheerful mob tumbled forward, Rig caught Naomi’s hand. He felt seventeen again, unable to stop touching the girl he liked. And shit, she made him nervous. He half-expected her to shrug him off. They were in public, after all. Anyone could see.

  But she didn’t. She even looked up and caught his eye for a split second, and then, astonishingly, she winked. He wanted to drag her into his arms and restart that searing kiss that had been so cruelly interrupted, damn the fact that they were surrounded by just about everyone who was anyone in town.

  Naomi stumbled over a rock and Rig steadied her. Then he wished for more rocks, so that she’d lean against him again.

  This was completely ridiculous.

  And so much damn fun.

  At the mailbox the group turned en masse into the driveway, and moved past a small purple outbuilding. A huge ancient house, painted white with dark green trim, looked as old as the trees around it that stood to their left, and to their right was a smaller, matching cottage with a hanging sign that read ELIZA’S in curling script. The sun was now far enough down that they could see into the shop, and a slant of golden light illuminated two women leaning over a large table, holding what looked like squares, moving them back and forth. Everyone ducked and giggled like children.

  “Shhh! They’ll hear us,” hissed Toots. She climbed up the steps of the cottage slowly, avoiding creaks. “Ready?” She banged on the front door with her fist.

  A pause. Everyone held their breath. Rig’s fingers tightened on Naomi’s and she squeezed back. His heart raced in a way that he suspected had nothing to do with the party.

  “Surprise!”

  Lucy Bancroft stood in the open doorway, her mouth hanging open. She didn’t say a word—she just started laughing. Great heaving laughs turned into gales of hilarity as the group poured up onto the porch and then into the store.

  Owen Bancroft, a local handyman Rig had met at the hardware store when he’d been shopping for wood stain with Jake, lifted his wife, Lucy, up, his hands at her waist. She whooped at the top of the lift, and then she seemed to melt down Owen’s body, ending up in a kiss that Rig looked away from. Now that was a kiss. And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that the kiss reminded him of the woman whose hand he was still gripping. The thumb he touched was the one he’d bitten earlier, so lightly. . .

  Startled by the intensity of the thought, Rig dropped Naomi’s hand and turned to shake the hand of the man next to him.

  He barely heard himself as he spoke automatically. “Rig Keller,” he said. “New in town.”

  The man, who was tall and wore a wool newsboy cap—and actually got away with it—shook his hand. “Jonas Harrison. Lucy’s brother. I own the Rite Spot in town.”

  Rig tuned in. Sure, the one bar downtown. He needed to check it out. No doubt he’d end up with a couple of patients who only liked to really talk if they were tucked into a dark, private booth. “Good to meet you.”

  But as Jonas spoke about something his brother Silas was building, Rig tuned out again. He was only registering one thing: where Naomi was at all times. If someone had covered his eyes suddenly, he’d be able to walk to her exact location, as if he had sonar. She bumped around the room, looking at loose ends. Soon he’d go rescue her, but he had a strange feeling she needed to scope out the room for herself.

  It was gorgeous, he’d give the store that. Jewel-toned yarn lit up the dark wooden shelves, and skeins of yarn in colors he’d never even dreamed existed were piled high in baskets around the tables and the soft armchairs that were scattered around the room. Janelle Monáe’s Metropolis played in the background, and people jiggled their hands and their feet in time to the rhythms.

  Right now Naomi was behind a tall shelf of yarn. She’d been there a little while, actually, without moving. Almost as if she was hiding.

  But she was probably just looking for the yarn she needed next. Rig assumed that all knitters collected yarn, like his mother had. She’d had almost a whole closet full of yarn when she died, and they hadn’t known what to do with it after Dad had his heart attack and moved in with Jake. He had a feeling that perhaps they hadn’t done anything good with it. They might have just thrown it all out, and now he realized that they probably could have asked around. Surely some charity or another needed yarn, right? It hadn’t even crossed their minds as they got rid of most of Mom’s stuff.

  Maybe that’s why Jake couldn’t let a thing go. Too hard to make decisions.

  Rig was hit with an insane desire to buy Naomi all the yarn she needed, all the yarn she could ever want: the softest, nicest stuff in this place. Anything that made her smile.

  He tuned back in just as Jonas said, “Romo?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know Elbert Romo already?”

  The old man walked up wearing what looked like a green flight suit, a bit ratty, but patched and clean.

  “Course I do. He’s the one who introduced me to Dr. Pederson. New look for you there, sir?”

  “Howdy, son. Not a new look, just one I’m thinking of bringing back into fashion. Plus, if you get tired when you’re at home, you can say they’re pajamas and call it good.” Elbert shook Rig’s hand with such vigor Rig wasn’t sure his neck wouldn’t suffer a minor case of whiplash. “We was just discussing you yesterday over at the bookstore. Have a few questions for you, if you don’t min
d.”

  Uh-oh. Whether this was investigating his private life or the ever-popular game of What-does-this-rash-look-like-to-you, Rig knew he wasn’t getting away from Elbert anytime soon. He’d be stuck here while Naomi roamed free as she pleased in the store. No one asking her personal questions.

  Eh. If he got a query about Elbert’s junk downstairs, he’d pull Naomi in for a consult. Just for fun.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When knitting with a friend, the laughter is worth the dropped stitches.

  —E.C.

  Naomi touched a skein of baby alpaca, a gorgeous royal purple, soft as air, but she thought only of Anna.

  Anna was pregnant. And what had Naomi done? Bolted. It was as if she’d taken a page from Anna’s book—her little sister was usually the one running away from confrontation. Naomi was the one who stuck around, even when she felt like hiding.

  But not tonight. She’d fled, on a motorcycle of all things. And she didn’t want to go back. She was a terrible sister.

  A man spoke from behind her. “Lost in thought, or just tryin’ to figure out what to make next?”

  Naomi jumped and turned. She recognized Cade MacArthur, Eliza’s friend Abigail’s husband, having treated him once, and from seeing him in Tillie’s with the ranchers, his daughter Lizzie clinging to his Wranglers, little Owen dangling from an arm. She knew much of the yarn in the store was spun of the fiber from sheep raised on this ranch.

  “Oh, sorry.” Naomi put back the skein she’d been fondling.

  “Why? It’s a good place to do it. I’m Cade, and I saw you once, didn’t I? Cade MacArthur.”

  Naomi shook his hand and said, “I know.” Crap. “I mean, yes, how’s that knee? And call me Naomi?”

  Cade smiled. He had bright green eyes that actually sparkled. She’d never seen eyes like that besides Eliza Carpenter’s. He was her great-nephew, after all. It felt good to see those eyes again, as if she was seeing Eliza. “Knee’s better than ever. Should it click so much going downstairs, though?”