by Geri Krotow
“This is a scarf and this—” she pulled out a brown square “—is the first of thirty-six squares for an afghan I saw in a magazine.”
Patsy’s hands were all over her projects, caressing the yarn. “Oooh, is this alpaca?”
“No, it’s a blend of llama and merino.”
“Really? Did you buy that around here?”
“She’s probably one of those Internet yarn buyers, aren’t you, Claire? Your generation doesn’t go to stores as much.” Mrs. Ames sniffed and kept up with her knitting, using the plastic needles Claire had tried, but found uncomfortable in her hands.
“Actually, it’s from the farm where I bought my llamas.” Claire felt a certain smugness—she might not knit well, but she’d learned a great deal about fiber over the past couple of years. “Llama fiber tends to stretch, so even though it’s warm and soft like alpaca, it works best when it’s spun with another wool or natural fiber.”
Patsy nodded again. “You’re really gonna make a go of this—your llama farm?”
Claire couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “That’s my plan.”
“Give me a high five!” Claire hesitated when Patsy held up a slim, acrylic-nailed hand, but then raised her own worn, short-nailed hand and landed a firm smack on Patsy’s palm.
“Now this is what I’m talking about, Claire. Women need to do their own thing and show the world we can do it.”
“Sure.” Claire smiled. She and Patsy would never share fashion taste nor be close friends, but they had a common history.
And now they had knitting.
Claire settled in and started knitting her second square for the afghan. She watched as each woman appeared, and then, to her surprise, a man joined the group. Tall, elegant and with a shock of white hair, Mr. Black had been Claire’s tenth-grade English teacher. She’d loved that class. She also remembered the unending teasing Mr. Black had taken. Not directly to his face, but the guys in class made jokes about his sexual preference, often within his earshot. The girls usually frowned, not sure why their male classmates cared if Mr. Black was gay or not.
“Hey, Donald.” A chorus of female voices greeted their lone male.
“Good morning, ladies.” He smiled at each woman. His gaze rested on Claire’s for a moment.
“Claire Renquist. Row two, three from the window.” His voice hadn’t changed. It was still the same deep melodious voice that had read passages of Shakespeare to them as they struggled to grasp the meaning.
Claire wanted to hug Mr. Black, but didn’t know the ins and outs of knit-group etiquette. “So nice to see you again, Mr. Black.”
Mr. Black folded his frame into the single chair left in the circle. He pulled an intricate Scandinavian-looking sweater from his bag and started knitting. Claire observed the deftness of his long-fingered hands and the casual manner with which he wove two colors into such a detailed pattern.
He raised his dark eyes and caught her stare. “I never did reveal my love of knitting to my English Lit classes.” The whole group laughed, and Claire marveled at this softer, friendlier version of Mr. Black. He’d been an erudite teacher, his passion for story evident, but he’d never revealed an inkling of his personal life to the students.
“No, but you taught the best class I’ve ever taken. Even in college my professors didn’t have the grasp of story structure and theme that you did, Mr. Black.”
“Why, thank you so much, Claire. And please call me Donald. I haven’t been Mr. Black for years.”
“So you retired?”
“Yes, to write the great American novel, of course. What else do retired English teachers do?”
“They knit!” Mrs. Ames piped up and the group laughed again.
Mr. Black chuckled and pulled up a strand of red yarn. “Yes, I knit.”
“Is that sweater for you?”
He gave Claire a measured look over his glasses.
“No, it’s for my partner, Jim.”
“It’s gorgeous. He’s very lucky to get it.”
“He snagged the other one on barbed wire when he was bringing in hay last fall.”
Claire’s expression must have revealed her horror. What a beautiful sweater, with so much love knit into it. And his partner had worn it to harvest?
“Jim loves the fit and design of all the things Donald’s made him, but he doesn’t get it when it comes to the quality part, or the time.” Patsy filled in some of the blanks.
“He doesn’t get the cost of the fiber, either,” Donald grumbled, but it was clear from his tone that he’d knit a sweater every month for his partner if he had to.
Claire felt a warm sense of security that she hadn’t had in years. She was glad Mr. Black had a good life and someone to love. It was nice to be with him again, this time without adolescent boys making snarky, ignorant remarks. She was also relieved that no one in the knitting group had critiqued her knitting ability.
I’m happy to be here.
After two years of often backbreaking work, Claire felt the tension in her shoulders begin to dissipate. This was where she belonged.
CLAIRE SETTLED into the rhythm of her knitting as the group’s chatter waxed and waned. Sometimes two people conversed; sometimes all the knitters took part in a cacophony over a subject that could be simple, like how to cast on stitches for a fine-gauge cardigan. Once the topic was where to find the best mammogram and breast care in the area. And as they talked, they knitted.
The olive-colored yarn moved easily through Claire’s fingers as she reached the halfway point on another square for the blanket. She wanted to use it in the farmhouse’s cottage-size living area. Maybe one day when the farm was doing well she’d have enough cash to remodel that front room, enlarge it and raise the ceiling. Make it into a great room, combined with the kitchen—what she’d envisioned when she first saw the tired-looking interior.
Claire glanced around the group. Even though they drove from all over to get to this chain bookstore, the majority of the knitters were from Dovetail. This plaza was only about twenty minutes from Claire’s driveway, so it was ideal for her. She got a break from Dovetail and the farm, but wasn’t so far away that she felt she’d abandoned the llamas.
“Hey, Doc!” Donald’s voice rose in greeting, and several female voices echoed his welcome.
Claire turned away from her knitting for a few seconds. Her hands froze when she saw Dutch in line at the café.
Oh, boy.
She forced out a breath and resumed knitting.
What was he doing here? Couldn’t she go anywhere without running into him?
“Hey.” He gave a quick wave toward the group before he placed his order. Claire noted the pile of books and magazines in his hands. Dutch had always been a reader. Some things didn’t change.
But he has, she reminded herself. He hadn’t seen her yet, she was sure. He would have narrowed his eyes at her, scowled or left. Or all three. He had to deal with her when he tended the llamas. He put up with her so Sasha could visit. But he hadn’t previously encountered her out here in civilization.
In the real world.
Too bad. It was high time he accepted that she was a participating member of his community—and that she wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER NINE
“GRANDÉ DRIP.” Dutch enjoyed the bookshop’s home roast whenever he came out to Annapolis, which was pretty often. Since starting up his vet practice he’d made a habit of occasionally getting away from Dovetail and finding some solace in the local bookstores.
Several years ago he’d scoured the shelves—and the Internet—for anything on breast cancer and any glimmer of hope to save Natalie. Before that, he and Natalie had come here to get the baby-raising books she wanted.
He smiled to himself. Even though he was a vet and could’ve helped Natalie give birth if he’d had to, he’d been more nervous than she was. When Sasha was born at Anne Arundel Medical Center, a short drive down the road, it’d been the happiest day of both their lives.
He paid for his books with the coffee, grabbed the steaming cup and turned to walk by the knitters, toward one of the empty tables. They used to come here on Thursdays, he recalled. He never thought about it much as his days in town were rarely planned.
He looked up as he took a sip of the pungent black coffee and fought not to choke.
His gaze took in the occupant of the worn leather easy chair near the center coffee table. His first instinct was one he’d rather not acknowledge. He was getting used to it whenever he saw Claire.
Arousal. Interest, of the most basic kind.
He dug for a more appropriate reaction.
What the hell was Claire doing here? In Natalie’s old seat, no less.
Son of a bitch.
His hand shook and he gripped the paper cup more tightly.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” He kept his voice even, didn’t look back at Claire. Her eyes remained downcast, focused on whatever she was knitting.
“Hey, Dutch, I’m going to bring Jasper in tomorrow—he’s limping again.” Patsy all but drooled at Dutch as she knit her flamboyant multicolored scarf. Her needles were the size of wood stakes and her bright green nails clicked against them as she worked.
“No problem. You still have him on glucosamine?”
“Yes, of course. And the new food you suggested has perked him up.” Patsy frowned. “I think that eleven years of chasing geese and rabbits and foxes is catching up with him.”
“Aww, he’s got a few more goose chases in him—so to speak. I’ll check him out tomorrow.”
Patsy leaned toward Claire. “Dutch doesn’t usually see small animals, but he’s always taken care of Jasper for me.” Patsy’s tone was cajoling and Dutch wanted to groan. That woman kept her husband hopping but still had time to flirt with every guy in town.
Maybe she’ll make Claire jealous.
The surge of satisfaction at the thought, however fleeting, was enough to prove his insanity.
Dutch needed to get out of here. He couldn’t even look at Claire or nod a casual hello.
“Did you see who’s joined us, Doc?” Mrs. Ames pointed her tiny lace needles at Claire.
Cornered, Dutch forced himself to stand still and look at Claire. She raised her head and when her eyes met his he didn’t explode with anger or feel the usual rush of hostility.
To his total astonishment, he had to stifle a laugh that threatened to burst through his gulp of coffee.
Judging by Claire’s pained expression and the way she gripped whatever she was working on, she didn’t want to see him any more than he did her. It’d be worthy of a television sitcom if it weren’t so painfully tragic, this mutual revulsion between them.
But you don’t really revile her, do you?
“Claire.” He nodded, not willing to let any of the townsfolk sense his discomfort.
“Dutch.” She went right back to her knitting.
He sent the group a last smile. “Good seeing you all. I imagine we’ll all run into one another back in town.”
“Bye, Dutch.” The group all knew him. And they also knew that Claire was sitting in Natalie’s place. Dutch hustled out of the store and made a silent vow never to come back here on a Thursday.
CLAIRE DIDN’T MISS how Dutch had looked down and sipped his coffee as Patsy flirted with him. Nor did she miss how attractively his jeans stretched over his hips, how the button-down white shirt he’d tucked into those same jeans fit his broad frame.
But Claire wasn’t like Patsy, thank goodness.
Some people never changed. Wasn’t Patsy married—for more than a decade now? But as far as Claire was concerned, Patsy was behaving just like the outrageous flirt she’d been in school. She looked as if she was going to sob as Dutch left the bookstore. Claire wasn’t sure if she was more disgusted by Patsy’s obvious infatuation with Dutch or by her own response to it. She told herself she had no interest in whoever had the hots for Dutch or vice versa.
Did Dutch have a lover?
“Darn it!” Claire muttered as she threw her knitting down on the table.
“You’ll have to rip that one back,” Donald commented. Claire met his gaze. If he had a double meaning, his passive expression revealed nothing. As for her knitting, the stitches hadn’t come out right for the last three rows. Mr. Black meant she’d have to rip out her work back to the last correct row.
She didn’t understand how he could look at her work all the way across the table and know what the problem was.
“How’d you do that?”
“Do what?” Now this was the Mr. Black Claire remembered.
“Instantly know what I’d done wrong?”
“Hold up your block.”
Claire complied and saw what Donald saw. A huge ripple ran through the center of the square, not part of the cable-stitch pattern she’d taught herself. It indicated that she’d either dropped a stitch, gained one or both.
Claire sighed, excruciatingly aware of the fact that Donald had probably witnessed every second of her reaction to Dutch’s presence.
“So do I have to rip out the whole thing?” Her vulnerability made her feel fifteen again. As if the entire group could see Dutch’s effect on her.
But only Donald seemed to notice.
“It’s called ‘frogging’ now, Claire.” Mrs. Ames piped in from the couch.
“You know, because you riiiippp it out, like ‘ribbit,’ like a frog!” Caroline Beasley, a bubbly redhead, smiled at her. Caroline had been a grade or two behind Claire and now worked as a CPA in Dovetail.
Mr. Black waited for the others to subside, then continued.
“No sense ripping open any more of the stitches than you need to. Take it back to where you miscounted, then start over from there.” Claire looked up at Donald again.
By stitches he meant old wounds or was her preoccupation with Dutch making her crazy?
His gaze was steady and apparently innocent.
But his mouth was ever so slightly curved, the lines around it a fraction deeper. Enough for Claire to realize she needed to make this man her friend. It was never wise to have an enemy who could read you so well.
“Thanks, Donald.” She emphasized his given name. He wasn’t Mr. Black anymore; Mr. Black would’ve told her to read another chapter of A Tale of Two Cities to understand the significance of Madame Defarge and her maniacal knitting. Donald let her know with a glance that he didn’t miss a trick, but wasn’t inclined to push her on it, either.
His kindness was evident in the relaxed way he spoke to her. He didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable around him.
“This is always scary.” Claire ripped back row after row until she couldn’t see the ripples anymore, and the stitches left in the row were the same ones she’d started with.
“It’s part of the process, Claire. We all rip back, even after years of knitting.”
“Donald, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still trying to teach me theme and motif, only this time on life.”
Donald laughed. “Am I that gauche? It’s a good thing I retired, then. I’d really confuse today’s kids.”
Claire smiled at him. “No, you wouldn’t. You were always a wonderful teacher. You cared about your subject and the kids. But you did keep a wall up.” Indeed, he’d never been the go-to teacher when a student needed affirmation or advice.
“You understand it now, I assume?” He raised his eyebrows at her. She looked at his face; he was still handsome, the once-dark goatee and full head of hair an elegant shade of silver. Claire saw the years in the wrinkles on his forehead. Years of keeping his private life private, years of ignoring the taunts and snide comments issued by adolescent boys learning about their own sexuality.
“I do. And I still think you’re wonderful, Donald.”
With that, Claire started her first real friendship since returning to Dovetail.
CLAIRE WAS SCRUBBING down her countertop and glanced out the kitchen window toward the barn for at least the sixth time in five m
inutes. Dutch’s truck was there. Some days she went out and talked to him as he tended to the llamas, other days not—she figured he’d tell her if there was anything she needed to be aware of.
Besides, it was easier to her if she didn’t have to face him in person.
Alone.
The past few weeks had passed without incident as Stormy healed from the rough birth, the crias grew stronger by the day, and Sasha fell into a routine of spending time with Claire a couple of afternoons each week.
Claire was proud of keeping her promise to herself. She was available to Sasha, but wasn’t consumed by Dutch’s moods or her own ruminations on their past.
For the most part.
She threw down the sponge and leaned against the counter.
She hated the total awareness her body had of Dutch. From the moment his truck turned into the drive, a full quarter mile up the road, until he was a mile out from her property, her internal radar seemed to vibrate at a frequency just shy of excruciating.
With another man, other circumstances, she’d be able to let herself enjoy the physical chemistry. But not with Dutch, especially since it was so one-sided. Whatever chemistry they’d had as kids only lingered with her; she was certain of it. Even if Dutch saw her as more than a client, his loathing for her and his lack of forgiveness remained impenetrable barriers.
Claire wanted to tell Dutch that it was partly Natalie’s decision to let the friendship go. Natalie must’ve known, somewhere deep in her heart, that Claire still cared for Dutch.
The thought startled Claire. Had she painted Natalie as too naive, too “innocent,” to be aware of Claire’s feelings?
She wished she could talk to Natalie. But if Natalie were still here, Claire would never have sought out her company after moving back. It would’ve been too awkward.
Everything that involved Dutch was awkward.
She shifted away from the counter and looked out the kitchen window. Dutch’s truck was still there.
“This is ridiculous!” she muttered as she thrust her feet into her waterproof fleece-lined boots. If Dutch was going to come out here, she had to talk to him—and he’d have to face her. She had to let go of the past and be the woman she was today.