by Lori Wilde
Beau blew out his breath, parked his cruiser in front of the sheriff’s office, and got out, the black velvet ring box weighing heavily in his pocket. He’d put up with a lot from Flynn because he knew she was right for him and he was right for her. They’d been through so much together. For the most part, he was willing to give her the time and space she needed. He had been happy with their current relationship.
That was until Warden Neusbaum called him to tell him Jesse Calloway was getting out of prison on early release and Beau knew he had to get his ring on Flynn’s finger before that bastard came roaring back into town. Because he knew Flynn didn’t take commitments lightly. Once she committed to something, she was in for the duration.
And he was going to make sure that he was the one she committed to. He’d be damned if he let her end up like Jodi. Once and for all, he was saving her from that low-life scumbag, if it was the last thing he ever did.
Her sister, Carrie, stood in the kitchen tying a green and white Froggy’s apron around her waist. Flynn screeched to a halt and said breathlessly, “Red alert. Knitting club is right behind me, where’s the afghan?”
“Don’t panic. The living room is set up for the meeting. Afghan is by your chair. Your dark secret is still safe. Cookies, sandwiches, and tea…” She motioned to the sideboard. “All laid out.”
Flynn stared. Her sister had come through for her and in a big way.
Carrie wrinkled her nose. “Why are you looking at me like I’m Jezebel singing in the church choir?”
All those years of bailing her sister out of trouble—shoplifting charges, underage drinking and pot smoking, annulling her ill-conceived marriage. Carrie was going to be okay.
“You’re not supposed to work tonight,” Flynn said. “I thought you had a date with Logan.”
“I’m taking Dad’s shift.” Carrie pinned her name tag to her chest.
“Where is he?”
“AA meeting.”
Relief that her father hadn’t fallen off the wagon was as strong as the dual twist of concern. “What happened?”
Carrie shook her head. “Today would have been their twenty-eighth wedding anniversary, Flynn.”
May 28. How could she have forgotten? Flynn smacked her forehead with her palm. “I’m such a dumbass. It completely slipped my mind.”
“You can’t be expected to remember everything.” Carrie turned for the door, uncharacteristically cutting her some slack. “You’re giving me that look again.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my sister, you evil pod person?”
“How come you’re late?”
“Beau gave me an ultimatum.”
“Oh?” Carrie paused, one leg in the kitchen, the other on the porch. “What kind?”
“Marry him or he’s going to find someone else.”
“He’s bluffing.”
Flynn shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not this time.”
“I guess he’s getting the urge for babies.”
Flynn covered her ears with her palms. “Don’t say that. I’m not ready to hear that. I’m not ready for babies.”
“Remember twins run in our family.” Carrie scooped up her purse.
“You’re evil, you know that?”
“I thought you just said I was a pod person.”
“Okay, my mistake. You’re still the same old Carrie. You just lured me in there for a minute with these lovely little sandwiches with the crusts cut off.”
“Honestly, Flynn, you’re finally going to say yes, right? I mean you guys are meant for each other. Mr. and Mrs. I Walk the Line. Of course, I pity the kids. They’ll have no choice but to rebel, but look at the bright side; they’ll have Auntie Carrie showing them the ropes.” Carrie headed across the veranda.
Flynn followed her. “You think I should say yes?”
“Beau’s crazy about you.”
“I know.”
“So why the hesitation? You guys fit like peanut butter and jelly. Although there is the issue that you’ve never dated anyone else. That’s gotta be weird, having only been with one guy.”
Except Jesse. Sort of.
But Carrie didn’t know about that. Nobody knew about her and Jesse except Jesse’s Aunt Patsy.
“We all can’t have your colorful past with the opposite sex.”
Carrie hummed a line from an oldies song, “Going to the Chapel.”
“Who’s going to get married?” Patsy Cross asked as she and three other members of the knitting club—Dotty Mae Densmore, Terri Longoria, and Marva Bullock—walked up on the porch.
Patsy owned the Teal Peacock, a curio/souvenir shop situated on Ruby Street catty-corner from the Twilight Playhouse on the town square, where in the summers, touring companies performed Broadway musicals. It drew visitors from the Dallas/ Fort Worth Metroplex, infused extra money into the town. This month Mamma Mia! was on the playbill. Patsy also served on the town council, and people sought her advice because of her sound, logical outlook on life. She possessed round cheeks, a rounder waistline, and a precise, measured way of taking stock of people and situations. She wore her hair short and dyed blond and she reminded Flynn a bit of Debbie Reynolds, just not as perky. She’d never had any kids. Last year, her husband had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s and she’d been forced to put him in a home. Flynn’s mother had once told her to be extra kind to Patsy, because she’d had a very hard life, but she’d given her no details.
“Beau and Flynn,” Carrie supplied in answer to Patsy’s question.
“Finally?” Dotty Mae Densmore squealed with excitement and clapped her hands. “It’s about damn time.”
Dotty Mae was a former Miss Twilight, 1942. She had the outer appearance of a typical great-grandmother—blue hair, floral print housedress, a rash of liver spots on the backs of her hands, thick glasses perched on the end of her nose. But it was all a guise. Dotty Mae cussed like a Green Beret, played the Lotto every Saturday, and never missed the biannual Twilight senior citizens’ bus trip to the Indian Casino in Choctaw, Oklahoma. Her passion for the Dallas Cowboys rivaled that of any Joe Six-Pack. She smoked clove cigarettes and had a certain fondness for peppermint schnapps. Flynn had discovered that last tidbit when Carrie had come home staggering drunk at age twelve, reeking of cloves and peppermint. Dotty Mae had called her up to bawl her out for letting Carrie go around stealing old people’s hooch.
“That’s wonderful,” cooed everyone except Patsy. They converged on her in a group hug.
Carrie winked and abandoned her to the smother of well-meaning bosoms. If she hadn’t been so proud of her sister for stepping up to the plate and taking care of things, she might have been irritated. Then Flynn’s gaze met Patsy’s gray-blue eyes, which were the exact same color as Jesse’s. She stood back from the group. Something flickered on Patsy’s face. An accusation? A challenge? Disapproval? Whatever it was, it quickly disappeared.
The others pelted Flynn with questions as she escorted them inside through the kitchen and into the living room.
“When’s the date?”
“Are you getting married at his church or yours?”
“Have you picked your colors yet?”
“Um…” Flynn said. “I’m afraid Carrie was putting the cart before the horse. I haven’t exactly accepted Beau’s proposal yet.”
“But you’re going to this time,” Terri said firmly.
At thirty-seven, Terri was the youngest member of the knitting club besides Flynn. Her husband was chief of staff at Twilight General, and Terri owned Hot Legs Gym. She loved salsa dancing and bowling, and she held the title of best female slalom skier in Twilight. Her biggest claim to fame was an appearance on a reality show called Fear Nothing where she’d systemically gulped down a bucket of earthworms and won ten thousand dollars for the disgusting honor. However, her most prized accomplishment was her plump little four-year-old, Gerald. No one had the courage to tell her the kid was a complete brat, and Flynn breathed a sigh of relief that she h
adn’t brought him with her tonight. Gerald had a sordid history with knitting needles.
“I’m surprised someone hasn’t stolen Beau away from you already,” Marva said. “Half the single girls in town are in love with him.”
“And a few of the married ones too,” Dotty added.
“It’s such a shame that your mother won’t be here for the wedding,” Patsy said quietly and that caused everyone to pause and look toward the photograph of Flynn’s mother on the wall over the fireplace mantel.
The photograph had been taken thirteen years earlier, just before her mother had received the devastating news she had amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—a progressive and incurable neuromuscular disease made infamous by baseball great Lou Gehrig. In the picture she was only thirty-five, with a smile so bright that it made Flynn’s heart ache. Her soft blond hair, which Carrie had inherited, curled down her shoulders, and her blue eyes danced mischievously. She was a far cry from the way she’d been at the end; her body weak and helpless, but her mind fully aware of what was happening to her.
“Lynn would approve,” Marva murmured. “She was crazy about Beau, and she wanted nothing more than to see you happily married to your childhood sweetheart.”
Marva and her mother had been best friends since high school. Marva was as dark as Lynn had been fair. With her cocoa-colored skin, ebony hair plaited in neat cornrows, and lean body, Marva looked years younger than forty-nine. She had a son, Ashton, who was Flynn’s age, and a daughter, Kiley, a year younger. They’d both moved away from Twilight to better job opportunities in Dallas. Marva’s husband, G.C., worked as an electrician, and she was the principal of Twilight High. At first glance it was impossible to see what her mother and Marva had in common other than their kids, but they’d both shared an almost rabid love of knitting.
That love led them to start the Sweethearts’ Knitting Club the very same year her mother posed for the photograph. The genesis for the club came from the fact that as part of a romantic Twilight tradition, both Marva and Lynn had married—and stayed wedded to—their high school sweethearts. They formed a knitting club among other women who could claim the same thing.
Twilight was founded on the Brazos River in 1875 and today it functioned mainly as a regional tourist destination. To keep a steady influx of cash pouring into a town that claimed a permanent population of just under six thousand, a cottage industry had sprung up around a local legend whose authenticity was the topic of heated debate.
The prevailing legend, among the romantics, involved two teenage sweethearts separated during the Civil War. Jon Grant had been a soldier for the North; Rebekka Nash, a sweet Southern belle. Circumstances tore them asunder, but they never stopped loving each other. Fifteen years later, they met again at twilight on the banks of the Brazos in the same spot where the town now stood.
In the early 1900s a statue in the lovers’ honor had been erected in the park near the town square. Rumor had it that if you threw pennies into the park’s fountain, you’d be reunited with your high school sweetheart. Whether it was true or not, the legend worked. Twilight was officially nicknamed Sweetheart Town in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram in 1910, and there’d been a steady influx of romance-related tourism ever since. Many reunited high school lovers came to Twilight to get married under the Sweetheart Tree, and in fact Belinda Murphey, one of the other ladies of the knitting club, ran a thriving matchmaking business focusing on helping people reconnect with long-lost loves.
“Once you and Beau are hitched, you’ll be an official member of the club,” Terri said. “Having qualified by marrying the only man you’ve ever really loved.”
Thoughts of Jesse circled Flynn’s head again. Why was he on her mind so much today? She hadn’t thought about him in ages…well, except in an occasional lusty dream. She slid a stealthy glance over at Patsy, who sank down in her designated rocking chair near the television set. She was startled to find the older woman glaring at her.
Unnerved, Flynn snatched her gaze away.
“Wow, you’ve made a lot of progress since last week,” Terri said, plucking up the afghan Carrie had knitted for Flynn and studying the needlework. “How do you find the time? Running Froggy’s, looking after your dad and Carrie and the twins, keeping house, dating Beau…”
“Idle hands,” Flynn said, and reached for the afghan. She clutched it to her chest. She didn’t want anyone looking too closely. “With the twins away at basketball camp in Iowa for the entire summer, I’ve got some extra time on my hands.” That was true enough.
“You’re getting really good.” Terri nodded in approval. “I love this pattern. When did you learn to do that stitch?”
“Oh, you know,” Flynn shrugged. She hated lying, but she’d been pretending for so long, how did you just suddenly come out and confess that you were a fraud?
“Your mother would be so proud.”
Guilt stabbed her. This was her secret shame.
The lie had started innocently enough not long after her mother received the crippling blow that she would be slowly wasting away until she died, losing her abilities to do all the things she enjoyed most. Combing her daughters’ hair, cooking her husband’s dinner, rocking her twin sons, knitting crafts for family and friends.
Her mother had been hands-down the best knitter in the county. Some said even the whole of Texas. She’d won the state fair competition three years running.
Flynn had been thirteen at the time and her mother had been trying for almost a year to teach her how to knit. Flynn couldn’t seem to wrap her head around it. Knitting was tedious, not relaxing as her mother claimed, and when it came to yarn, all ten of Flynn’s digits turned into clumsy thumbs. But more than anything else in the world, she’d wanted to please her mother, so she kept trying.
One day, while Flynn was in the bedroom she’d shared with Carrie, knitting needles clutched in her hands like handle bars, yarn in her lap, cussing up a blue streak because she couldn’t make it work, Carrie got up off the floor where she was coloring and walked over. She took the knitting needles and yarn from Flynn’s hands, sank down on the bed beside her, and just went to town.
Flynn’s mouth had dropped open. “How…how’d you learn to do that?”
Carrie had given her an it’s-no-big-deal shrug. “I watched Mama showing you how to do it.”
“You…you’re a natural.”
“It’s easy.”
Flynn had wanted to slap her. “Does Mama know you can do this?”
“Naw, if I told her she’d pester me to do it all the time like she does with you.”
“I’ll pay you to knit something for me.”
Carrie looked surprised and pleased. “Ten bucks.”
“Done.”
Carrie had knitted her a scarf. Flynn had presented it to their mother as her own work. Lynn had been overjoyed that she’d finally gotten through to her oldest daughter. She called all her friends and bragged up a storm. Carrie bought a bagful of candy with her money and a copy of Teen Beat.
And so Flynn’s big fat lie began.
When it came to the Sweethearts’ Knitting Club, she was a fraud in every sense of the word. She didn’t know how to knit, and while she’d dated Beau in high school, he hadn’t been the one she’d first given her heart to. If these women knew her secrets, they’d boot her right out of the knitting club that her own mother had started.
The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of more Sweethearts. Flynn got up to answer the door. Raylene Pringle waltzed over the threshold. Raylene had been a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader back in the Tom Landry/Roger Staubach days and she still dressed the part even though she was rapidly approaching sixty. White knee-high boots, blond hair teased big, false eyelashes, short skirt, an expertly hand-knitted Dallas Cowboys sweater vest, and lots of flashy attitude. She and her husband, Earl, ran the Horny Toad Tavern down off Highway 377.
“Hey y’all,” she called.
“Belinda’s not with you?” Flynn asked, checking the front porch t
o see if Belinda had lingered to smell the honeysuckle. Usually Belinda and Raylene carpooled together because they both lived in Rio Vista Estates on the other side of the dam.
“One of her kids is sick.”
“Which one?” Patsy asked.
Raylene waved a hand. “How should I know? She’s got too many to keep track of.”
“Is it Kimmie, Kameron, Karmie, Kyle, or Kevin?”
“Kameron maybe.”
“What’s wrong with the kid?”
“She’s throwing up.”
“Then it’s not Kameron. Kameron’s a boy.”
“Whatever.”
“Was it Kimmie?”
“Why do you care?”
“How can I send the child a get well card if I don’t know which one it is?” Flynn asked.
“She’s a kid, she’ll be well tomorrow, and if you sent her a card she’d probably just eat it and throw up all over again. Save your money.”
“Or just send her a funny e-mail,” Terri suggested.
“How can I do that when I don’t know the kid’s name?”
“It was Karmie,” Raylene said.
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Now was that so hard?” Flynn asked.
“Guess what?” Dotty Mae said as Raylene set down her knitting bag near her rocker.
“Dotty, we’re too old for guessing games. You got something to say just spit it out.”
“Flynn’s engaged to Beau.”
Raylene’s eyebrows shot up. “No, really?”
“She hasn’t said yes yet,” Marva said.
“Oh, so nothing’s changed.” Raylene plunked down, crossed her legs at the knee.
“It’s different this time,” Terri added. “He gave her an ultimatum.”
“No shit? Whatcha gonna do, Flynn?”
“I’m going to go get the tea,” Flynn said.
“But you will say yes.” Marva nodded, getting up to follow Flynn. Once she was in the kitchen, she hoisted the tray of finger sandwiches to help serve. “Beau adores you.”
