How to Knit a Heart Back Home (30 page)

“Just a second, honey, the other guest of honor should be coming in . . . right . . .
now
!”

The side door of the transept opened again, and Molly entered, looking triumphant. Behind her trailed Owen, and Lucy’s heart leaped in a way that almost hurt. The deep blue cabled—but store-bought—sweater he wore matched his sea-swept eyes perfectly. His limp seemed a little more pronounced, and his face seemed tired.

Lucy’s heart pounded harder.

Across the room, over the low shelving next to the counter, over the table stacked with baked goods, past the heads of people seated on the reading pews, they locked eyes, and it was as if all the air had been sucked right from the huge room. Nothing existed but the two of them.

For one second, time and sound stopped. Lucy only heard her own breath. His lips moved, and she longed, with everything within her, to fly across the room and press her mouth against his, to bury her face in his neck, to feel his arms come around her. She stared at his eyes, his mouth, the plane of his jaw, the side of his neck. Maybe it was the cookie, the taste of chocolate still filling her mouth. Maybe it was the way the morning sun lit up the tops of his cheekbones. Lucy couldn’t remember it ever being so
necessary
to be near someone, to the exclusion of everything around her.

Instead, she wrested her hand from Whitney’s and held her own elbows, tightly. Her stomach knotted as she turned her head to look at Abigail and Cade, who beamed in her direction. Then they stepped up into the reading nook. They were higher now than anyone else except for those standing on the pews, and they raised their hands for silence.

“Everyone! Thank you for coming,” said Cade. “This wouldn’t have been possible without Whitney’s Bakery, so thanks for that, and Trixie, thanks for getting the word out in the paper so we could all show up.”

Lucy resolved to never miss a day of the
Independent
again.

Abigail, wearing a green handknit sweater that couldn’t disguise her huge pregnant belly, stepped forward. “Owen? Could you come stand up here with Lucy? We promise we’ll make this short. Neither of you look like you’re breathing.”

The crowd laughed, but Abigail was almost right—Lucy’s breath got shorter the closer that Owen came. When he was standing with her, when she could smell the scent of his soap and something that was uniquely, perfectly him, she bit the inside of her mouth.

She stole a glance at him, and his eyes met hers. Something in his gaze looked broken, and he glanced away quickly.

Lucy felt empty. Alone, surrounded by everyone she knew and loved.

Abigail and Cade held hands as baby Lizzie made a loud crowing noise that wowed the crowd.

None of this seemed fair. She couldn’t even remember if she’d brushed her hair this morning. Surely she had, right?

Crap.

And Whitney was taking photos, the flashbulb popping. Of course she was. Just like at the party in high school. All Lucy needed was to throw up on everyone, and the circle would be complete.

Abigail grinned and said, “Everyone knows that we named our daughter Lizzie after my mentor and Cade’s great-aunt, Eliza Carpenter. That name was easy. Well, we’ve been at a loss for what to name our next child when he or she arrives. We’ve spent some late nights arguing about who’s more right than the other one. But after that day almost a month ago, when these two angels pulled me out of a burning car that I was trapped inside, the decision has become clear to us. If it’s a boy, we’re naming him Owen. And if we have another girl, she’ll be called Lucy.” Tears filled Abigail’s eyes and her voice broke. “And we couldn’t ask for finer, more heroic names than those.”

Lucy felt her own eyes fill with hot tears and saw a suspicious sheen in Cade’s eyes, too, as he stood next to his wife on the steps. Sniffs in the crowds told her she wasn’t alone.

“And if it turns out to be a girl, then Owen gets to pick the middle name. And vice versa,” said Cade. “That’ll keep it fair. Thank you, you two, for saving the life of my wife. She means everything to me. She
is
my life.” He cleared his throat and dropped a kiss on top of his wife’s hair. “Now, you two, is there anything you’d like to say? Lucy?”

Lucy just shook her head. She wouldn’t have been able to speak around the lump in her throat, even if she’d wanted to.

Cade nodded. “Okay, Luce. Owen? How about you?”

Owen said, “Thanks for . . . this. You didn’t have to, though.” He stepped forward, and Lucy could only see the side of his jaw which clenched before he went on. “Lucy may have a burning need to save people, after watching her grandmother die in front of her, but I’ve gotten over it during the course of my career. Honestly, you save some, but you lose more. The good guys die, and the bad guys get away. Nothing personal, but it didn’t matter who was in that car. Coulda been a child molester or a murderer, and we would have dragged him out, just the same.”

Whitney dropped the cup of punch she was holding. Toots reached for extra napkins and started mopping up the pink liquid while Owen kept talking.

Lucy dug her nails into her palms and felt fury rise in her chest. This wasn’t fair of him, and not kind at
all.
If Cade and Abigail wanted to thank them, even if they didn’t want it, the least they could do was accept it, even if they hated it. She willed words to come to her, something that could ease the sudden tension that crackled under the high ceiling, but she was still unable to move her vocal cords.

Cade looked confused and hastened to wrap it up. “Well, anyway, we sure appreciate that you were there. Both of you. That’s all, folks. Now, everyone get some of Whitney’s great baked goods and buy some books from Lucy!”

In the crush of awkward hugs and congratulations, Lucy was pulled away from standing next to Owen before she could formulate the words she was searching for, and in the next half hour, she lost track of him altogether. When the Book Spire finally emptied of everyone except Molly, almost two hours later, Lucy walked through the store, stooping to pick up dropped napkins and stray receipts.

Owen was gone. Again.

Oh, the
gall
of him, to bring her grandmother into it! And to make Whitney, and worse, Cade and Abigail, feel stupid about their sweet surprise plan.

Fine. Whatever. What an ass. How could she have ever seen anything in him? Lucy kicked the side of the trash can by accident as she tried to lift the bag out and stubbed her toe so hard she saw stars. “
Shit.
”

“You okay?” said Molly, tucking another paper plate in the bag.

“No.”

“Where did Owen go?”

“I don’t
know
.”

“His speech was weird. But do you think that baby-naming thing will help you work it out with him, though?” said Molly with a saucy wink. “Double date? With me and Jonas?”

“Molly, no!” Lucy’s voice came out even more horrified than she felt, and that was saying something.

Molly’s smile fell away. “All right. We need to deal with this,
now
. Which is the part you hate more, exactly? The part with you and Owen? Or the part where your slut friend is dating your brother?”

They stared at each other.

Lucy opened and closed her mouth, and then said, “You’re not a slut. You just sleep around. A lot.”

Molly gave a high screech and clenched her hands into fists. “What is
wrong
with that?”

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with that!” said Lucy. “But he’s my brother and I just don’t want—”

“—him to get hurt. Obviously,” said Molly. “In the meantime you’re about to lose your best friend if you keep this up. You need to think about what you’re saying, and I’m not kidding here.”

“I . . .” There was so much to say Lucy didn’t know where to start. She loved Molly, so much. But for Jonas? For sweet, injured Jonas? She didn’t want to hurt her friend, but how could she make Molly understand that Jonas wasn’t ready for her? “He’s just so . . . Look, Molly. You’re an erotic novel.”

Molly cocked an eyebrow and a hip at the same time. “I’m porn?”

“No, they call it erotic. It’s totally acceptable. It’s hot. It sells, and it’s good stuff. Well-written and fun. Very, very popular. But Jonas, he’s an inspirational romance. Maybe historical. Like on the prairie. He’s looking for marriage material. Someone for the long haul, someone to help him . . . pull his tractor or something.” Lucy’s voice trailed off.

Molly’s mouth opened and then snapped shut. Her freckles stood out in sharp relief on her angry face. “I hate to break it to you, Lucy, but that’s not what he wants pulled. He’s looking for someone to screw on my back-porch swing while I’m giving people instructions on how many baby aspirin to take for their chest pain in Cantonese. Then he kisses me and goes home. He’s the best lay I’ve had in years and the kindest person I know, and we’re not looking for anything right now but fun, and I would have shared that with my best friend if she’d been able to get the stick out of her ass for even one second.” Molly’s façade was broken only by the sheen of tears in her eyes, but not a drop fell. “Call me if you grow up a little bit, okay? I need a friend. Not judgment.”

Lucy felt sick as she watched Molly leave. And there was nothing she could say as she stood there, more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Knit like you love—with your heart, hands, body, and soul.

—
E. C.

P
arking in front of Willow Rock, Owen sighed.

His mother was the last item on his list. As usual. But on any given day, being with her was the roughest, and longest, part of his day. Could anyone blame him for putting it off as long as he could?

Owen shouldn’t have left the bookstore. He should have insisted on staying with Lucy. But he’d been so stupidly stunned by the way he’d felt standing next to her that the instinct for flight had kicked in when that crush of people had set upon him, when all he’d wanted was to hold her, to put his arms around her. And at the same time, he was so mad at her—that she’d even consider placing herself in danger, putting herself in places where he couldn’t follow her. Sure, it was the twenty-first century, and women were just as good as men when it came to being heroes. He knew that. He’d worked alongside women on the force who were head and shoulders better than any men he knew at their jobs. But when it came to Lucy . . .

When he imagined her running somewhere when that pager went off, someplace that he couldn’t go, where he couldn’t help? Unarmed? Impossible. Even if it made him an asshole of the first order,
he
was supposed to be the rescuer, the hero. Didn’t she know that?

But after all that, he still just wanted to take her to bed and keep her with him, safe and warm. And if it moved to hot and bothered . . . Okay, so sex with her was the hottest he’d ever had. Every time he thought of her, he had to balance his concern with his lust.

But she wasn’t just a good time, a great lay. Lucy was so damned much more than that.

That was the problem. She couldn’t be more than that to him.

Not when he had nothing to give her.

He’d been running errands all afternoon since the surprise marching band . . .
thing
, trying unsuccessfully to drive Lucy’s dark eyes from his mind—maybe searching his mother’s chest of drawers for more tissue-wrapped shit would distract him.

In her room, his mother was showing Miss Verna a piece of knitting.

“Sleeve,” she said.

“Mmmm.” Miss Verna nodded.

“And heel.”

“Are you making a sweater or a sock, Irene?”

His mother scowled and put the knitting under her pillow.

But Miss Verna grinned at Owen as she slipped past. “She’s feisty today. Your visitor did her good yesterday. Get her to wash her hands, would you? It’s almost dinner.”

“What do you mean, visitor?”

“You know, that pretty girl. The short one. You put her on the list.” Miss Verna looked suddenly worried. “Lucy?”

Owen said, “She came? Already? To see Mom?”

“Was here all last night, knitting with your mother. Kept her quieter than I’ve seen her in months, and she’s been in a good mood all day. Now get her hands washed for dinner, if you don’t mind. It’d be a help.”

Owen nodded, trying to picture Lucy seated in this dark room with the drapes always drawn, leaning over his mother whose breath was probably not so fresh. “Hey, Mom, wanna wash your hands?”

Irene drew the knitting out from under the pillow again and focused on it, bringing her nose dangerously close to the sharp tips of the needles.

“Mom?”

Dammit, where had she gone? She’d been right there a few seconds ago. “Mom. Please. Get up. You need to wash your hands. Almost dinner.”

Glancing up only for a second, Irene hissed. “I’m
knitting.
” But the yarn wasn’t moving through her fingers anymore.

Owen rubbed his eyes with his hand. He leaned on the wall.

How did people do this all day? How did people manage this at home, taking care of the people they loved without help? They were fucking saints and he wasn’t worthy of being in the same room with them. He wasn’t even good at being able to handle this for a small part of every day. Couldn’t even do
this
right.

“Mom.
Now.
”

She ignored him.

He had an idea. Probably a stupid idea, but it was all he had.

“Hey, Mom. Would you help me wash my hands? Please?”

Irene looked up, and it was as if she had put on a different face entirely, as if she were a different woman. “Always had dirty paws.”

In the bathroom, Owen stood next to her, the water running over their hands. “Like this?”

“Let me, let me. Lather, lather.”

Irene’s hands were still strong, and she rubbed the soap into his, turning them so that she didn’t miss a spot.

In the mirror her eyes met his. They were his mother’s eyes again. Without thinking before he spoke, Owen said, “Why didn’t you ever leave him, Mom?”