“Mom, now?”
“I’m just outside, it won’t take a minute.”
Grumbling, Jonas followed his mother outside. Irene’s face went back to disinterested. And wet. Still very wet.
A few minutes later, Jonas reentered the bar and brought over the second drink to Irene. “Here you go. Sorry. You know mothers.” Jonas gave Irene a half smile and for one moment, Owen saw Lucy’s eyes in his face.
“Are her tires okay?”
“They’re fine. She has strange ideas sometimes.”
Jonas’s mother, entering the bar again, heard this last. “Don’t be silly. It’s worth getting my son to check on these things for me. It’s about my safety, isn’t it?”
Jonas rolled his eyes, but turned to face his mother. “Yeah, Mom. I made sure that you’re safe. You feel better?”
“So much! Thank you, my darling boy!” She went up on her toes and embraced her son’s neck. She kissed him twice on the cheek.
“Look at him!” she said across the room to Irene. “Isn’t he just the most handsome thing? Oh, Bart and I made some good babies. How nice to see you out, Irene. Is that your son? He’s handsome, too.”
“Mom,” said Jonas.
Irene’s eyes opened wide through their tears. The woman crossed the room, bells tinkling.
“Owen Bancroft.”
“Toots Harrison, so nice to meet you.” She shook Owen’s hand and then held her hand to Irene.
“She probably won’t . . .” started Owen. But then his mother folded the damp handkerchief, placed it carefully on the table, and shook Toots’s hand.
“Wow,” he said.
“Pleasure,” said Toots. “Honey, what’s wrong? I haven’t seen you in a long time. You look so sad.”
Toots didn’t let go of Irene’s hand, and Irene didn’t pull hers back. There was a quiet moment as Owen and Jonas watched their mothers stare at each other. The tears didn’t slow on Irene’s face, but her eyes softened.
“We don’t know what’s wrong,” said Owen. “The nurse said she’s been doing this for hours now, without stopping.”
“Well,” said Toots. “We’ll just have to deal with that, won’t we, Irene? Crying is good for the soul, but then it has to stop, too.” She gently pulled her hand away from Irene and gave her back the handkerchief.
“You just hold that tight for a minute, honey. I’ll be right back. I can fix this.”
Owen was too surprised to say anything.
“Mom?” said Jonas, looking startled. “Mom, you’re not going to do anything like . . .”
“Just a little bit, Jonas. No one will mind.” She was already darting out of the bar. “Be right back!”
Jonas groaned. “She’s out of her mind.”
“So’s mine.”
Owen took another gulp of his beer. Thank God his drink wasn’t virgin.
Back through the door Toots jingled, carrying a red tote.
She said, “Scoot a little, honey,” to Irene, who did indeed scoot, to Owen’s surprise. Toots sat next to her and took things out of her bag: alcohol, cotton balls, long thin needles.
Needles?
“What the hell?” said Owen.
“Mom, you can’t do this to just anyone.”
“Do what?” Owen held up a hand.
Toots grinned and crossed her eyes at Owen. “Just a little acupuncture. It’ll fix her right up.”
“Acupuncture?” Owen almost yelled the word.
“Mom, that’s not sanitary. Not in my bar. I’ll lose my license!”
“Hush. No one’s going to see me doing it. You boys pipe down.”
Irene leaned forward to look, and tears dribbled off her chin and onto the tabletop.
“You see that?” said Toots. “She’s interested. She knows this is good stuff. You want to try this, honey? Here, wipe some of those tears away again, I don’t want you crying into my kit bag.” Her touch looked light as she used the soggy handkerchief on Irene’s chin and cheeks.
Owen blew a puff of air from his cheeks. How bad could this be? “You know what you’re doing?”
Toots nodded. “Of course. It’s one of the many things I was meant to do.”
She stripped paper from the needles. At least they looked sterile. Small comfort.
“Mom, you’re not even licensed yet. You’ve only had like four classes.”
“Licensed, schmicensed. I don’t need the government to approve of what I do, and neither do you, my boy.”
Owen said. “Excuse me?” That’s what every gun-toting off-the-grid libertarian had ever said to him, right before he arrested them.
Toots held a finger in front of his nose. “Shhh. Don’t disturb the process. Irene, take a deep breath in for me.”
Irene drew a shuddering breath.
“Now, this won’t hurt a bit, and it will make you feel better, all right?”
Owen knew he should jump in, but he felt frozen. He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t move, and he couldn’t stop it, either.
Toots raised a needle high and then stuck it, quickly, with a small tap, into the very top of Irene’s head.
“Are you crazy? Her head?”
“Quiet. Don’t scare my patient.” Toots’s voice was stern, and Owen fell silent.
“Just two more. One here,” a swab with a cotton ball and then a needle went into the flesh between Irene’s right thumb and first finger. “And one here.” Another needle, just the very tip, went into Irene’s other hand.
“Put your hands on your thighs, love. Lean back into the booth. Close your eyes. Rest in the breath.”
“Mom? Does it hurt?” Owen didn’t think Irene would answer him, but she rocked back and forth in a no gesture as she kept her eyes closed.
“Let me see one of those,” he demanded of Toots. She nodded and handed him a needle. It didn’t even look like a regular needle—it was so thin it was almost transparent at the end. Barely the width of a hair, the whole needle moved and bent with the lightest touch.
“Do one in me,” Owen said.
Jonas raised his eyebrows. “You sure, man?”
“Yes. Put this one in me. I want to see if it hurts.”
“Just one?” asked Toots, sounding disappointed.
“One.”
“Just one place for it, then.” She swabbed a place between his eyes, up about a centimeter. Then she held the needle to his forehead and gave a slight tap. She drew the outside casing back, leaving the tiny wire bouncing above his eyes.
It didn’t hurt. It was more of an electrical feeling. Owen felt as if it was plugged into something, a tiny current. It didn’t feel bad, just kind of twitchy.
Jonas laughed. “You look funny.”
Toots said, “Quiet, or you’re next.” She turned back to Owen. “Now, just sit here with your mother for ten minutes. I’ll come back then and take them all out. You just relax.”
“Can I still drink my beer?”
“Of course, if you think that helps.”
Toots and Jonas retreated to the bar. Owen could hear Jonas chastising his mother again in low tones, but from the sound of her giggles, she didn’t seem to be taking him very seriously.
Owen stared at his mother. Her cheeks were still wet, but her eyes were closed, and she looked content to rest the back of her head against the red leather seat.
He closed his own eyes. The beer was hitting him hard, and he hadn’t even had half his pint.
Beer never made him feel like this.
It couldn’t be the needle, could it?
Nah.
Owen rested, enjoying hearing his mother breathing in and out. Less sniffles, more oxygen.
It didn’t feel like it had been even ten minutes when Toots came back, but when he looked at his watch, he was shocked to find it had been more than twenty.
“Time! Here we are, honey,” said Toots as she unceremoniously pulled the three needles out of Irene’s head and hands. She plucked his out. Again, he felt that tiny jolt but no pain.
> “That felt weird,” said Owen.
“Looked weird, too,” said Jonas.
“I’d like to see Mrs. Luby’s roses,” said Owen’s mother.
All three of them went silent as they stared at Irene.
Irene wasn’t crying anymore. The tears had dried. There were streaks down her cheeks that showed where she’d been crying and the bottom of her chin still looked damp, but she wasn’t crying. Her eyes met and held Owen’s eyes, and she looked like his mother.
Bullshit. He wasn’t going to let his eyes fill up. One crier in the family was enough.
“Okay, Mama. We can go see the roses.” Owen looked up at Toots. She appeared completely satisfied, standing there in her purple sweater, jingling every time she moved. He wondered if Lucy ever favored clothes that had bells attached. “How did you do that?”
“It’s just a really good point.” She put her head to the side as if evaluating him. “You’re the one living in Lucy’s parsonage.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do.”
“Do you see her much?”
“No, ma’am. We both seem to be pretty busy.”
“Jonas said you used to ride a motorcycle when you lived here.”
“I did.”
“And that you were a troublemaker and you were either a criminal or a cop. Or maybe both.”
Owen didn’t say anything.
“Do you still?” Toots asked.
Owen shook his head, confused. “Still what?”
“Ride a motorcycle.”
“No, ma’am. Not for a long time.”
“Too bad. I’d ask you to take me out on it sometime. Always wanted to feel one of those rumbling between my legs, and my kids are too conservative.”
Owen laughed in surprise.
Owen’s mother smiled and dropped her eyes to the table. “Slip the first stitch of every row.”
“Mom. Come on.”
But Toots looked pleased by Irene’s random statement. “That’s exactly right, my dear. Once a knitter, always a knitter, isn’t that right?” She slid into the booth next to Irene and pulled out a different set of needles and started knitting something bright orange.
Owen said, “I guess we’ll have another round.”
Chapter Ten
Wool is magic—even wet, it retains heat.
—E. C.
Lucy gasped as she threw herself down the walkway between the store and the parsonage. Just that short distance had been enough to soak her to the bone and the sound of thunder reverberated inside her chest. The spring storm had come up fast, black clouds scudding up from the west, heading inland with furious haste. Thank God for Grandma Ruby’s bookstore sweater—the rest of her was freezing, but at least her torso was warm.
Lucy huddled under the small eave and knocked.
No response.
Oh, God, she was nervous. Seeing him again was making her heart beat double time.
Chicken.
She knocked again.
Still nothing. The lights were on, and his car was on the street.
Lucy tried the door handle. It was unlocked.
She fought with her baser self as she jiggled up and down, rain water sluicing off her hair and down her back.
Her baser self won. He might be hurt inside, for all she knew. Shouldn’t she check?
The door gave the telltale creak it always had, the sound that had always alerted her grandmother that Lucy was visiting after school, or coming over for the night. But Owen didn’t call out.
“Owen? Hello?” She hoped she didn’t startle him. Was he armed right now?
But Lord, it smelled good in here. Like garlic and steak. Like Owen was cooking. His back was to her as she entered the kitchen.
“Owen? There was no answer at the door.”
He didn’t turn around.
“Hey, Owen.” Her heart now beating so fast she could hear the blood pumping in her ears, she tried to keep her voice even. “What are you cooking?”
He just began to shake his hips.
That’s what he was cooking?
Then, while he continued to lean over the sink and peel potatoes, Lucy watched Owen proceed to get his groove on. White cords trailed out of his ears, and Owen danced to music she couldn’t hear. She could see from the side that he was mouthing words to go along with his motion. His hip shaking got bigger, more exaggerated. He was better at moving one side than the other, but he was still working it.
Did he really just do a Saturday Night Fever move? He put the potato peeler down for a second and used his right hand to do a little pointing dance move. He shuffled his feet to the right. Then he scooted toward the left again.
He looked exactly like Lucy felt when she was having her own little dance parties. Only she’d always suspected she looked pretty dumb and wouldn’t have ever wanted to be caught.
He just looked relaxed. Like he was having a ball.
Like he had no idea he was being watched.
On a twist move, bent knees with slight pelvic thrust, he burst out singing in a falsetto: “Oooh! Got to give it up!” As his twist turned toward her, Lucy tried to duck out of the way to remain unseen, but it was too late.
His eyes met hers as his voice sailed up to another “Oooh!”
He came to a complete stop and his voice cracked.
Holding up the potato peeler, he gave it a little wave. He tugged the iPod headphones out of his ears. He jerked his chin in a manly way and said in a deep voice, “ ’S’up?”
Lucy grinned and raised her hand in greeting.
“How long you been standing there?” he asked.
“Long enough . . .” She giggled.
“Man . . .” Owen said in disgust. “It’s Marvin Gaye. What are you doing in here?” He turned back to his potatoes.
“I’m sorry I startled you. It’s pouring. You didn’t hear the door.”
He looked over his shoulder at her and raised an eyebrow. “You know you just broke the law, right? You have to give me twenty-four hours notice before you enter my rental.”
Lucy took a step back, the smile falling from her face. She hunched her shoulders. “I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’ve never . . .” She turned to bolt. Dammit. He was right. She was such an idiot. She should have thought it through before barging in.
“It’s fine.”
She paused at the edge of the kitchen where the linoleum met the old rug. The rug was lifting, she noticed. She’d have to get that fixed. He could trip and hurt his other hip.
Owen spoke without turning away from his peeling. “What’s up, anyway?”
In a halting voice, she said, “I had something to talk to you about. Those boxes you sold me.”
“You hungry?”
Lucy wondered if she’d missed something. “Excuse me?”
“Steak in garlic and onions. And I’m making garlic mashed potatoes, too. Lots of garlic.” He glanced at her from the sink. “Want some?”
Lucy held up her hand. “Oh, no. I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask that, I asked if you were hungry.”
She paused. “Really?”
“I’ve got plenty. I’d be glad if you stayed.”
And just like that, Lucy heard it in his voice. He’d be glad, honestly pleased if she stayed.
And she would be, too.
“You want to chop some more garlic for me? I forgot I wanted to make garlic bread, too.”
Lucy nodded and picked up a knife. This certainly wasn’t the way she’d seen her evening going. But she’d give it a shot.
He sure was going all out for this meal. Did he do this often? Or was this just something he did once in a blue moon? And how often did he dance like that?
Lucy suddenly felt impetuous—a stirring that matched the feeling she’d had on the porch when she’d kissed him. She pointed to the speaker dock sitting on the kitchen table. “Does your iPod plug in to that?”
He glanced back at he
r, obviously surprised. “You want to hear?”
“Yeah. Looked like you were having fun.”
Owen dried his hands on a paper towel and plugged in his iPod. The dance strains of “Give It Up” filled the room. Owen walked deliberately back to the sink to finish rinsing the last of his potatoes.
She mentally shook herself. He wasn’t going to sit next to her at the table over his math textbook and ask her again to solve the equation for him while he watched so he could “get the gist” of it, and he wasn’t going to ask to borrow her pencil and forget to give it back yet again. He wasn’t going to pass her in the hallway the next day, a different girl on his arm, never noticing her once.
There might be no more dancing from him tonight, she thought. But that was okay. It was enough that the music filled the room. Enough that she could rest her eyes on his broad shoulders while he turned the faucet off.
When she was done with the garlic he asked her to mash the potatoes as he worked on doing something to the steak. He handed her a beer, and she drank it out of the bottle, like he did.
Owen put heavy plates on the table and turned on the light outside so they could see the rain sheeting down through the sliding glass doors.
But as Lucy reached to take her first bite, the rain slowed. It eased so quickly that the resultant silence from the roof was unnerving.
Lucy chewed, conscious of every move she made. Then she said, “So. Those boxes.”
Owen took a bite and then leaned back in his chair, the front legs lifting off the floor a few inches. He looked comfortable, and a half smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Big boxes o’crap.”
“Yeah. Not so much. They’re full of treasure.”
Owen raised an eyebrow.
“A knitter’s treasure,” said Lucy.
“There was yarn in there? I really thought there was only paper.”
Lucy moved the mashed potato into a peak with her fork. “There were a couple of really valuable books. . . .”
“Lucky you. Looks like my loss, your gain.”
She looked up at him quickly. “It’s way more than that. There were papers in the box. Undiscovered patterns of a really famous knitter.”
“Knitters are famous?”
“A few of them are legendary. Elizabeth Zimmerman. Barbara Walker. And Eliza Carpenter. And these are Eliza Carpenter’s papers. The most important knitter of all.”
How to Knit a Heart Back Home Page 10
