The Giving Heart

by Toni Blake

  He looked down at her, dark eyes narrowed. Beck and Lila each held a shopping bag containing the day’s purchases, but with his free hand, he reached out and grasped hers. Even through the mittens she wore, the touch rippled all through her. “I just don’t want to have sex and get kicked out again,” he told her. “Twice was enough.”

  She nodded matter-of-factly. “That’s fair. And...it’s only a week until Christmas, so... I guess it is pointless. Even if hearts are involved.”

  “Is yours?”

  Given that the question made her heart soar with a rush of emotion—the answer was most decidedly yes. However, she chose to ignore the inquiry and instead tell him, “But it would be nice to see you again. Before I go. I mean, if you want. It doesn’t have to lead to sex. It could just be dinner. Or something.” All unplanned and rambling. She sounded nervous, uncertain. And afterward knew she might as well have just said: yes, my heart is involved.

  Even so, he let her off that particular hook and simply replied, “I hear the Skipper’s Wheel stays open all winter as long as the weather’s okay. Meet me there one night for dinner?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ALONG WITH OTHER purchases at the Christmas Walk, Lila had bought more yarn. It amazed her how quickly she went through it, but she’d added scarf making—both infinity and regular—to her looming skills, and she’d just started crafting potholders, too.

  The potholders required 100 percent cotton yarn, which turned out to be a whole different animal compared to the much more common acrylic yarns. But acrylic would melt against hot pots or pans, and she’d grown determined to make a set of potholders for the inn’s kitchen, so she was learning to work with the much thinner, less-stretchy cotton, and the more she knitted with it, the better she got at managing the tension and the tighter stitches.

  Besides, potholders were necessary for another reason, too. She now had scarves and hats for everyone in her family, including Seth’s grandpa, who may or may not end up being part of their Christmas celebration. And of course she had hats for Suzanne and Dahlia, as well, which she still planned to deliver before her departure. She’d tried to master mittens, but that was going to take more meticulous self-training at a time when she felt more patient—Gran had been right that she was easily distracted, and the fairly immediate gratification of loom knitting suited her personality. But after finding a very doable pattern of fingerless hand warmers, she’d soon started producing them at the startling rate of a pair every hour or so. And given that she had no idea what she was going to do with all of them, it made sense to move on to something a person could really never have too many of: potholders. And fortunately, they took at least a little longer than the mod hand warmers.

  The day after the Christmas Walk brought overcast skies with light snow on and off. And even more than last evening, when she glanced out the east-facing window in the inn’s small library, she sensed the heavy solitude of the island’s drift into true winter. Holiday decorations aside, Harbor Street looked like a ghost town.

  So it was a good day for looming. She turned on Christmas music—in particular, old albums on a turntable, all located in the attic. Thus Bing Crosby and Andy Williams accompanied her knitting, which she ceased only when it was time to toss another log on the fire, go to the bathroom, or get something to eat.

  A frozen lasagna from Koester’s baked in the oven, and on knitting breaks, she nibbled on fudge from yesterday. Breaks were bad, though, because they gave her too much time to think. Funny, she’d come here for the peace and quiet, but what did peace and quiet give you but time for reflecting.

  Right now, the fudge made her reflect on yesterday with Beck. If she didn’t count the ridiculous humiliation of collapsing into a snowbank, it had been a near-perfect afternoon. Even without ending in sex. It had been like one big, long, perfect, unplanned but utterly romantic date.

  The bad part was that it just confused her all the more, and left her increasingly torn over her upcoming departure. He claimed his heart was involved now, but what did that mean? And if his heart was so involved, then maybe...but wait, stop. She supposed it was time to quit asking questions and sending up inane wishes about the hillside behind the inn. And when she weighed all the factors, maybe it was just as well she was leaving and wouldn’t ultimately have to make any decisions about the sweet, sexy tree-murderer.

  Popping a last nibble of fudge into her mouth, then returning to her loom, she resumed wrapping and hooking off tiny loops of yarn that created the u-wrap stitch. She’d made several potholders for Meg already, but this one was unique—she’d fashioned a little gray cat face in the middle of a pale yellow potholder. She would have liked to go calico in honor of Miss Kitty, who currently lay curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace, but trying to replicate a multi-colored cat was just too complicated for this first attempt at creating a specific image with yarn.

  Once the cat face was complete, her focus relaxed as she returned to creating a simple field of yellow for the remainder of the piece. Loop, hook, loop, hook. Bing Crosby dreamed of a white Christmas on Gran’s old record player—while Lila dreamed of a Christmas that felt simpler and easier than this one, as simple as the repetitive looming stitches she created now.

  But count your blessings. Gran had always been big on that: not fretting over anything too long, and if you caught yourself doing it, you were supposed to turn it around and think of things to be thankful for instead. And Lila had plenty to be thankful for.

  Her family. Her sister’s health. Her own health. The inn—even if what lay behind it would change, the inn was still here, still the special home that had been in the family for four generations so far.

  Then she gasped. Because this meant someone needed to have a baby—to keep it in the family. Meg was turning forty, Lila was thirty-five, who knew if Meg would eventually marry Seth or even want to have kids by the time that happened, so...yikes, that leaves me.

  Okay, don’t think about that.

  What else are you thankful for?

  She looked around.

  I’m thankful for this Christmas tree. It’s brought me more joy than I could have anticipated when it showed up here unexpectedly.

  Her eyes dropped to the coffee table. I’m thankful for fudge. Silly, but it was the little things in life sometimes, and Molly’s chocolate-peanut butter was the bomb.

  I’m thankful for...sleep. At first, she’d credited a couple of good nights’ sleep to being in Beck’s arms. But ever since that second night with him, she’d slept. Better and better. She was pretty sure it had to do with having told him about Simon, having gotten it off her chest, having someone validate what had happened to her.

  But it still all felt as if it was about Beck—about ways he had improved her life since entering it. And she hadn’t even yet gotten to being thankful for the good sex, the sweet kisses, the comfort of snuggling up with him in a big red sleigh yesterday afternoon, the warmth she felt whenever she was around him.

  I’m thankful...for Beck. Hard to believe. A couple of weeks ago, the very notion would have seemed preposterous. But sometimes life was complicated.

  Among the complications, Simon Alexis. Even having told Beck...well, something about knocking down that wall of silence had allowed her to let in more and more questions. Big ones.

  How many women had he behaved so reprehensibly with? Had any actually welcomed the attention, coming from such a powerful man? Had any been so disillusioned as to believe they were special to him, that it held some meaning? Had he gone so far as to force himself on anyone? Wait, stop—use the real word; quit softening it. So had he raped anyone? Would he have raped her if she hadn’t caused him bodily harm? Some women might not be strong enough—emotionally or physically—to fight back. Did his wife know? Did his sons? Would they become like him?

  And smaller questions, too. How had he explained the scratches on his face to his famil
y? What exactly had he told Kelly in HR when he’d fired Lila? How had her firing been explained at the office—what untrue things had been said about her? What twisted perception of the world did Simon hold that made his actions conscionable to him? Okay, that was a bigger one, but still...the upshot was, she’d never know the answers. She’d never quite completely have full clarity on what had happened to her and why.

  She pulled in a breath, blew it back out. Let it go. You have to.

  She kept looming. Focusing on that yellow yarn. But a large part of her had now returned to that ugly situation and what had followed. She’d not allowed herself to revisit many of the details up until sharing them with Beck—part of being good at running away from things was the ability to compartmentalize, and Lila was a pro at it. Only now, she’d opened that door and started letting it all back in. Along with how much the loss of Whitney’s friendship and support had wounded her.

  With a sigh, she set aside her loom and reached for her phone on the coffee table. She’d not looked at it much since arriving here other than checking the weather and sending occasional texts, mostly to Meg (How’s the inn? Meg would ask. And Lila would reply with something vague and innocuous like, Peaceful as ever.) She’d come here to turn off the world for a while, and in many ways she’d succeeded.

  Now, feeling wistful about her ex-bestie, she tapped on icons that would lead to Whitney’s Twitter account to see what she was up to. Had life gone on as normal? Would there be a link to a new fruit smoothie? Whitney was obsessed with smoothies. Or would there be some pithy observation about Chicago traffic, or her latest Netflix binge, or what amazing charitable organization she was currently in contact with via her work at the Alexis Foundation? Or...no, it was Christmastime. So there would probably be links to low-cal holiday treats and—ugh—maybe pictures from the holiday office party. But regardless, Lila wanted to go there, find out—because if you can’t bear to look at someone’s tweets, you’re still hiding. And given that she was leaving Summer Island in less than a week, it was time to stop that.

  As she focused on the phone in her hand, though, she couldn’t make sense of what she saw. No tweets directly from Whitney, but her page was filled with people tagging her—and saying bizarrely vicious things.

  * * *

  @whitneyventler, you should be ashamed of yourself! Casting aspersions on someone who does so much good for so many. What is wrong with you?

  @whitneyventler is probably just looking for some kind of big payout. After all, who better to accuse of something than a rich guy.

  @whitneyventler, what an evil slut you are!

  Lila stopped, drew back slightly, took a breath. What the hell was happening?

  Next, she searched Twitter for mentions of Whitney.

  * * *

  Can @whitneyventler prove her accusations? Anyone can toss an accusation out. I say innocent until proven guilty.

  In the case of @whitneyventler vs. @SimonAlexis, I cry foul. She probably had a thing for him and he didn’t reciprocate. At worst, she’s a spurned lover.

  Whatever happened between @whitneyventler and @SimonAlexis, it takes two to tango.

  Who is this @whitneyventler chick anyway? Why should anyone believe her? Too many people are just looking for attention, or money, or fame, or whatever. Hang in there, @SimonAlexis! This too shall pass.

  Lila’s hands were shaking—which made it hard to close Twitter in order to google Simon’s name. But when she did, numerous articles, dated yesterday and today, popped up front and center. She clicked on one from the Associated Press—and quickly learned that Whitney had come forward to a reporter at the Chicago Sun-Times accusing Simon Alexis of sexual misconduct.

  Miss Ventler claims Mr. Alexis made unwanted advances toward her, cornering her in an office, forcefully kissing her and touching her inappropriately. She further claims that declining his advances led to her firing. A representative for Mr. Alexis states that the revered Chicago philanthropist rejects the accusations and falsehoods put forth by Miss Ventler and denies her version of events. According to Mr. Alexis, the rep says Miss Ventler approached his wife with these accusations before going to the press, making her feel threatened. He categorizes Miss Ventler as a “disgruntled ex-employee.”

  Lila went numb inside. Talk about having unanswered questions. Clearly she’d missed a lot after leaving Chicago. Of course, Whitney hadn’t reached out to her, so how could she have known?

  Some questions she did suddenly have answers to, though. Now Whitney knew she hadn’t lied. And she felt all the more certain Mariah, her predecessor, hadn’t lied, either. The only person lying here was Simon. And, of course, Lila had no idea what had happened between Whitney and Mrs. Alexis, but he was clearly trying to make Whitney look like some sort of crazy stalker type. Asshole.

  This is why I didn’t go to the press. I knew there would be denials. Name-calling. Attacks. She’d paid close enough attention to the #MeToo movement to see that the woman was always accused in return—if nothing else, of being stupid, or complicit, or inviting, or any number of other things.

  Now Whitney had been brave, too. Braver than her. And was clearly paying for it.

  And maybe from the outside, dealing with that in order to bring the truth out seemed easy—but Lila knew it wasn’t. The victim was victimized all over again—one look at Whitney’s Twitter feed made that scathingly clear. And Lila simply hadn’t wanted to keep being treated like shit.

  Chicago suddenly seemed more filled with blame and injustice than when she’d left it—and Summer Island all the more peaceful and inviting as a result.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT a light snow fluttered through the darkness to coat the island with another layer of white. Lake effect snow meant snow early and often in surrounding areas, and for the hardy winter inhabitants of Summer Island always guaranteed that white Christmas Bing dreamed of.

  Donning a parka and snow boots, Lila battled the elements, toting her knitting basket up Harbor Street to the Knitting Nook. When she’d stopped in during the Christmas Walk, Allie had informed her the last knitting bee before the holidays would take place tonight. Despite seeing both Dahlia and Suzanne from a distance during Saturday’s shopping event, she hadn’t talked to either in a while, and she felt the urge to connect with other women. She hoped things wouldn’t be awkward with Suzanne, but had decided to just show up and hope for the best.

  Unlike the last time she’d attended the knitting bee, she stepped into the cozy haven of yarn to find herself alone. But subdued holiday music playing low and shimmering white lights on the tree in the corner told her she didn’t have the wrong night. Looking around at the shelves of yarn that nearly reached the ceiling, it was difficult not to feel surrounded in warmth, and it struck her as being like when a book lover steps into a library—if only the books were instead every shade and weight of yarn.

  She was taking off her boots on the mat when she looked up to see Allie wearing a smile as she entered through the door that adjoined the coffee shop. “Hey, you made it.”

  Lila answered with a smile of her own, having taken a true liking to the other woman, along with her place of business. “I enjoy the vibe here,” she told Allie. “Just being surrounded by all the yarn.”

  Allie tilted her head, casting a conspiratorial look. “I suspect we have a similar sensibility when it comes to yarn. You get me.”

  “I would even go so far as to say I envy you a little,” Lila confessed. “I could be happy in a world of yarn.” It was so soft, no hard edges, nothing ugly or mean.

  “The last bee before Christmas can be quieter than most, so you’re the first to arrive,” Allie told her. “But don’t worry—more people will show up soon.”

  “Even if they don’t,” Lila replied with a shrug, “I wouldn’t mind just sitting here and knitting.” Then she rolled her eyes. “Not that I need to keep knitting. I’ve made way
more hats and gloves than I even know what to do with. But it passes the time on a snowy day.”

  Allie glanced toward a rack of knitted goods for sale that Lila had noticed on her previous visits. “If you really have more than you can use, I’m happy to take them on consignment. Mind you, it would have been better before the Christmas Walk as nothing else will sell ’til spring, but the option is there if you don’t mind waiting awhile to get paid.”

  Lila bit her lip. The idea appealed to her. Even if it took some time, being able to earn a little money from her craft would make it all the more satisfying. “I might just take you up on that.”

  “Wonderful,” Allie said. “So...does that mean you’ll be here on the island awhile?”

  “Oh—no, I’m leaving next week. But you could send the money through Meg.” Or PayPal. But she wasn’t sure if Summer Island was a PayPal kinda place.

  “Darn. I was just about to offer you a job.” Allie shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I mean, I’m sure you’re extremely overqualified, but if you were sticking around, maybe you’d like it. I generally hire high school or college girls, and they’re great—but I wouldn’t mind having someone a little more mature and experienced to help me manage the place long term.”

  Oh. Wow. What an...unexpectedly lovely idea. Not that many people had ever called her mature. But she’d managed Simon Alexis’s foundation, so she would probably find managing a yarn shop a piece of cake in comparison. “Maybe I would. That’s super nice of you. But I need to get back to the city.” To get my life in order. Somehow. Even if she had no idea what came next.

  True to Allie’s promise, more people began to arrive, most looking chilled and happy to step into someplace warm and inviting. She was introduced to Allie’s mom, and to Mrs. Bixby, an elderly lady whom she surmised might be Tom Bixby’s mother. As a few more knitters came in, the mood turned festive, leaving Lila content enough to while away the evening with these island residents she didn’t know—until she looked up from her loom to see Dahlia arrive.