How to Knit a Heart Back Home (7 page)

Molly knew her too well. She ignored the question. “He has a limp. Did you notice that the other night?”

“In the glow of the car fire? No. But how romantic!” said Molly.

Jonas propped his arms on the bar and leaned forward. “How the hell is a limp romantic?”

Molly sighed. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s a weakness, and any weakness in a strong man is an attractive quality.”

“You mean you want to emasculate the man and make him into a child by taking care of him?”

Molly said, “You’ve been watching Oprah again, huh?”

Jonas said, “No, that’s what Aggie said once. Right before she returned my Wii.”

Aggie left Jonas in the middle of the night two years before, running off with a beer delivery guy. Lucy thought Jonas still looked broken sometimes.

“You weren’t good together. Everyone knows that. You’re better off apart,” said Lucy, taking another sip of her latte.

Molly slid off the bar stool. “I’m going to play some music.”

As Molly moved toward the jukebox, Jonas said, “So. About Owen Bancroft moving in.”

“I’m in love. It’s serious, and it’s moving fast,” said Lucy. Then she shook her head. “He wouldn’t be moving into my house, you dumbass, just into the parsonage. And I haven’t decided yet, anyway. It’s been two days, and I haven’t called him. He hasn’t called me, either. He’s probably found somewhere else by now.”

“You can’t just let him move in. How do you know he hasn’t turned into a serial killer since high school?”

“You’re the one who was in his class in high school. Was he a killer then?”

“I’m serious, Luce. It honestly worries me.” Jonas leaned back, folding his arms across his chest, giving her that look that said he meant business. He’d been giving her that look their whole lives.

“He used to be a cop. He gave me references.”

“Did you call them?”

“Well, no. Not yet. But Mildred Elkins said that he’s home to be closer to his mother, who’s in some care facility, and he confirmed that. It sounded pretty sad, actually.”

Jonas raised his eyebrows in obvious disbelief. “He was one of the bad kids, Lucy. Not little punk stuff, cutting class, not weed. His friends carried guns, stole cars. You’re the one who tutored him, you should remember this even better than I do.”

Lucy tried to look confused. “Did I? Now that you mention it . . .”

A look crossed Jonas’s face, and Lucy watched him remember. Her heart fell.

Jonas said, “You had that
crush
on him.”

“I did not.”

“Did
too
. Something about a party, right?” He snapped her arm with his rag. “Dude, it’s all coming back to me.”

“That thing is dirty! Don’t do that!”

“The first time you got drunk? I remember Dad being mad at you for like the first time ever. Owen had dropped you off that night. That was the night the puke picture got taken, the one in the yearbook.”

Lucy clucked her tongue and shook her head. She would
not
discuss it with her brother. “Nope. Not ringing a bell.”

Jonas laughed. “You’re full of shit.”

“Okay, okay. God, that picture is from
hell
. Yeah, he’s that one. But don’t remind Owen of it if you see him, okay? I’m hoping he has a bad memory for that part of it.”

“Hey, Silas!”

Silas looked at them from his booth, his eyes unfocused, clearly still deep in his book.

Jonas said, “You remember Owen? Lucy’s big crush in high school? That’s why she’s thinking about letting him move in.”

Silas frowned.

Lucy laughed. “He has no idea what you’re talking about.”

“God. Silas. Pay attention once in a while.”

Silas nodded and went back to reading.

Molly settled back onto her bar stool, back from the jukebox. “I’m flashing back, kids. Dire Straits, straight ahead.”

Shaking his head, Jonas said, “No taste in music.”

“It’s your jukebox.”

One of the college guys at the pool table said something about the other’s mother and a ball hit the floor with a clatter.

“Hey!” yelled Jonas. “Keep ’em on the table!”

Lucy stirred another packet of sweetener into her latte even though it didn’t need it. Desperate to change the subject before Jonas led it back to Owen, she asked Molly, “How’s Booty-Call Barry?”

Jonas snorted and leaned backward, watching them.

Molly grabbed Lucy’s stir stick and broke it, then set the pieces neatly next to her coffee. “I told you, quit calling him that. Besides, booty calls don’t stay over, and sometimes he did.”

“And?”

“I haven’t called him back. He said I needed to watch my calorie intake, so I said he needed to watch his back.”

Jonas rolled his eyes and walked away toward the dartboard. “You’re not fat.”

Molly was a little on the padded side, it was true, but she was the kind of woman who wore it beautifully. Every part of her body was proportioned, and she had a waist, and hips, and breasts. She had a figure to die for, Lucy’d always thought, but she never listened when Lucy told her so. She reminded Lucy of a chick-lit book, pink and fun, with hidden depths not appreciated or noticed by everyone. Masses of straight black hair fell around Molly’s shoulders as if she’d just had it professionally done. She had a perfect ivory complexion, with a bloom of rose at her cheeks. She had the longest lashes Lucy had ever seen. She had Lucy Liu freckles and a perfect small gap between her two front teeth.

Lucy patted Molly’s hand. “You know you’re not, right? And has your body shape ever slowed a man down?”

Molly gave her a smile. “Believe me, I know I’m not. And no, my body shape just speeds ’em up, usually.”

“It’s true. You were telling me about Larry.”

“Barry. Prize jerk. But never mind about him, because now I’ve got a new thing going on with Theo down at the TV repair shop.”

“Since when? A thing?”

Molly shrugged and grinned. “A naked thing. Which is awesome when we’re not arguing. He’s spicy. Not like Barry, who was just an asshole.”

Lucy said, “What if you like the fighting with the bad boys more than you like the relationship itself?”

Molly didn’t deny it. “What’s better than make-up sex? It’s like a mental challenge. Better for your brain than crosswords.”

“I’m glad about Theo, if it’s what you want, and I’m sorry about Barry,” said Lucy. “You want me to put flaming dog poop on his porch?”

Molly brightened. “Would you?”

That was the thing about Molly. She might be serious. Lucy shook her head and said, “No, not really. I don’t want to touch dog shit, let alone light it on fire, which I’m sure is some kind of arson. I’ll snub him if I see him in the grocery store, though.”

“Damn.” Molly looked disappointed. “I’ve done it. I don’t think it’s a crime. But okay. Snubbing is good. But while Jonas is gone, let’s go back to you. Owen Bancroft? Would you really rent to him? Is he as cute as he looked the other night while he was dragging that woman out of the car?”

“Yeah, if you like that rugged McDreamy look, sure.” Lucy shrugged.

“Who doesn’t? Three words: Hit that shit.”

“Ew! No.” Lucy’s answer was too quick and she tried to cover it up. “You know. Not really my type.”

“What kind of book is he?” Molly knew how Lucy categorized people.

Lucy thought before carefully choosing her words. “I think he’s a thriller. Like a paperback espionage novel. Suspenseful. Guns and forged passports and spies.”

“Hot,” said Molly. “But you’re a really bad liar. That’s not what book you think he is.”

“I hate you sometimes.”

Molly held up a finger. “One quick sec.” She looked to see that Jonas was busy clearing a booth before scuttling around the back of the bar. She shot a finger of Baileys into her coffee and raised the bottle toward Lucy’s cup.

“No, thanks. I’m on call, remember?” Lucy pulled the pager out of her pocket and waggled it at Molly.

“Oh, yeah.” Seated next to her again, Molly said with a satisfied air, “Now. Really. What book?”

Lucy sighed and said in a whisper, “
Wuthering Heights
.”

Molly laughed so hard she almost came off her bar stool.

“It’s not that funny.”

“Oh, God!” Molly tried to gasp for air. “Yes, it is. Heathcliff. To your—your Cathy . . .”

Lucy sat. She waited.

“You done yet?”

Molly giggled. “I think so. I’m sorry. It’s just funny. Thinking of you on the moors . . .” She wiped her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

“Stop! Seriously.”

“That’s why you wouldn’t read it with me last year for book club? Too”— Molly choked—“difficult?”

Lucy spun on the barstool to face her, trailing the yarn behind her. “Shhh! Look, it’s not funny, and I’m well aware that it’s moronic, but that was a hard time for me.”

“It was high school. I was in New York, not out here on the Wild West Coast, but it was hard for all of us.”

Molly had no idea. Looking at the stitches on her needles as if they held the answer, Lucy said, “I was his math tutor. I was the bookish one. The smart one. And then one night . . . I thought he really saw me, that someone finally had seen me. And the best part was that the someone who had seen me was
him.
” With each word, she jerked a stitch. They’d be tighter than the rest on her next row.

Molly leaned over and put her head briefly on Lucy’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. You don’t talk about him, and I’m just trying to figure out what happened in high school to my best friend. Will you forgive my teasing and tell me?”

Lucy groaned and gave up. “Long story made blessedly short. It was the grad night party of his senior year. I was a junior. I had a nice boyfriend, Tim Snopes, who was on the football team: running back. We held hands and necked on Friday nights, but he had strep throat and couldn’t take me to the party. Owen had twenty-two girlfriends and he did more than neck.”

Molly snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“I could list the girls for you. In either alphabetical or chronological order.”

With a whirling hand motion, Molly indicated for Lucy to go on.

Lucy made sure Jonas was still over by the dartboard. She sure as heck didn’t need her older brother hearing about her sad love life. Behind her, Silas’s nose was still buried in his book. He’d never hear them talking, even if he were sitting closer.

“I’d been his tutor for six months. I was crazy, horrible, sick-to-my-stomach in love with him. He never even really knew my name. We’d meet in the public library on Thursday nights and I’d take bets with myself whether or not he’d get my name right or not. Laura or Lisa or Luann—every once in a while he got it right and called me Lucy. I told myself he was teasing me, but I wasn’t sure if he was or not. He wasn’t good at math, but it wasn’t because he wasn’t smart. There was stuff going on at home—he’d come in with dark circles under his eyes, and kids told stories about the screaming coming from his house, his father beating his mother, and he came in with black eyes sometimes. He blamed it on his motorcycle.”

“Swoon,” said Molly.

“I know, right? Remember Matt Dillon in
The Outsiders
? Dallas Winston? He was that tough and dark and scary and sad. And
hot
. I sat next to him and we talked numbers. He never met my eyes.”

“And you went to a party . . .” Molly prompted her.

“I’m getting there. I tried the punch. My first alcohol. I was practically begging to be a John Hughes movie, I know. I was a moron. I wore this fuchsia dress with big puffed sleeves and a net bodice—it was horrible. I had dyed fuchsia shoes to match that made my toes pink for weeks. My mom still has the outfit in a closet somewhere, I have no idea why. I drank too much, of course. I saw him standing in a corner when I was waiting for the bathroom and when I came out, I saw him go into a side bedroom. I followed him on a drunken whim, and as soon as I entered . . .”

Molly said triumphantly, “A la John Hughes, he stole your panties and put them on the bulletin board at school!”

Lucy groaned. “I wish. He’d been waiting in the dark for a girl. I’m not even sure which one, but he thought I was her, so when I wandered in, not knowing what I wanted, and suddenly he had his . . . hands all over me, I was surprised. But I went along with it.” She stared across the bar into rows of colorful bottles.

She had shut the bedroom door behind her, and the noise of the party that had been roaring like an unfamiliar train behind her was suddenly silenced, and all she could hear was his breathing, close, right in front of her.

“You came,” Owen had said to her.

And even though the small part of her brain that was still processing normally knew he hadn’t meant her, knew that he’d been waiting for someone else, she irrationally hoped he’d seen her backlit by the open door and that she was, in fact, exactly who he’d been waiting for. She’d nodded, even though in the dim light he would barely have seen it.

Both of his hands slid around her waist, and he pulled her tight against him. Her breath left her body as if she’d fallen from a great height, as if it had been knocked out of her. Her head felt light. He didn’t take his time. His lips moved to just below her jawline at the same time that his hand crept up to cup her breast. Then his mouth claimed hers.

And time stopped.

She swore it did. For Owen, too.

The kiss deepened. Their breath became ragged as their lips touched, danced against each other’s, parted and returned. She couldn’t bear her mouth to be far from his and she noticed that his hand at her breast became less insistent as all their focus spun around this one kiss, this perfect, perfect, kiss. Everything depended on this moment. Just to breathe against his mouth, to feel him gasping against her, was enough. Their hands touched each other’s faces, they drew back and gazed in the dimness at each other in wonder, and then returned to what was the ultimate kiss, the kiss Lucy knew she’d been waiting for her entire life.

“Lucy,” he’d whispered raggedly. “I never . . .”

He’d known her name. He
knew
her. “What?” she said, breathless.

Then the overhead light snapped on.

Whitney Court, dressed in a pale pink strapless dress with lots of tulle, danced into the room, camera flashing. “Smile, kids, this is history in the making!”