How to Knit a Heart Back Home

by Rachael Herron

  Owen didn’t lose control. One more second, one more taste of her, and he’d have wanted all of her, damn all the consequences, damn what her family thought, damn what town he was in. She’d been right there with him, too. He’d felt it.

  But God.

  Owen didn’t lose control with any woman, especially not the girl next door who happened to be his high-school tutor, current landlord, and worst of all, firefighter, not even if she was white-hot, which Lucy was. Only she didn’t seem to know how hot she was, which made her even more appealing, if such a thing were possible.

  A date with a firefighter.

  God, what a joke. The guys at work would have his head if they knew. Contrary to popular citizen belief, in many cities, cops and firefighters didn’t always get along. Cops thought firemen had too many rules and took too long getting water on a fire. Firefighters thought cops were dangerous cowboys.

  And she was an EMT, too? Sheesh. He just hadn’t seen that one coming.

  Minutes after driving up the dirt road and hitting the highway back into town, an even worse reality hit Owen. Lucy Harrison had just been being polite. Probably. Yeah, she was attracted to him, he could feel it in her kiss. She couldn’t fake that. That was real.

  But she didn’t date? Of course she did. She just didn’t date guys without jobs. Without a career.

  Without direction.

  He parked in front of Tillie’s and yanked up the parking brake. The diner would be as good a place as any to kill time until he picked up Lucy for their date. He supposed he should figure out where to take her.

  On their date. He hadn’t taken anyone out since his last girlfriend, Bunny. He’d loved her, in his way. They’d spent many nights together, usually at her place, and he’d even let the discussion turn to kids every once in a while, before he shut it down. But a year into it, he’d found out from a friend that she was seeing an Oakland officer, too, earning her the name “Badge-bunny Bunny.” The worst part had been realizing that while he’d been embarrassed, he hadn’t been brokenhearted.

  Staring through the window of the boarded-up old movie theater, he switched his memory search to Cypress Hollow again, for the thousandth time.

  Memories from high school were a jumble—there’d been a lot of late nights and a shitload of parties, nights that he couldn’t really and didn’t want to remember. Before that final fight, Owen’s father had been more than willing to provide booze to Owen and his friends, and the only way Owen had managed to graduate was to hire Lucy as his tutor. He’d never have passed math without her, no way in hell.

  And then there’d been that kiss at the graduation party, the kiss that hadn’t been like any other before it, or if he really admitted it to himself, like any other since, not until he’d kissed Lucy again. She’d always done something to him. . . .

  Dammit. How was this for justice? He’d come back to Cypress Hollow hoping to figure shit out. Not to get confused all over again. Time to make a list while he waited for it to be time for him to pick her up. Lists helped.

  Owen strode into the diner. This place never changed—Old Bill, rag in hand, nodded at him from the register. That was Owen’s cue to pick his own booth. They didn’t stand on ceremony here—it was the one place the beach tourists had never taken over. The side room was still unofficially reserved in the mornings for the ranchers who drove into town after their chores were done, and God help the random tourist who sat themselves there. Owen had seen the ranchers actually pick up the tourists’ plates and move them into the front room. Old Bill would only stare and wipe the counter again with a grin. Tillie’s was a self-policing place.

  Owen sat at the window, two booths away from Mayor Finley—he’d dated her briefly in high school, and knew that her brother had been drinking heavily, even back then. He nodded at two women in the booth behind him. They looked familiar, but he couldn’t place them.

  The whole town felt like that. Like he knew it but couldn’t place it yet. It was like putting on old pair of jeans that didn’t quite fit anymore.

  Would it ever fit again?

  Shirley nodded at his request for extra cream for his coffee, but didn’t smile at him like she did the other customers. Screw it.

  “You mind if I borrow a piece of paper?” Owen asked.

  Shirley raised her eyebrows but tore off a sheet from her order pad and left it on his table with the creamer.

  At the top of the page he wrote Reasons For Staying. Under it, he drew a heavy line and then sat thinking. He wanted to write Lucy’s name but he wouldn’t. That would be stupid. His mother. Of course. Her name went first. Then he wrote the word Home.

  Owen looked at the word and scratched it out. That was ridiculous. Home. He barely knew what that was. The people in Cypress Hollow who remembered him certainly didn’t want him back. Why, then, was he so drawn to this place? Why was he lured back here? Why was this the only place he could think to come when he was injured enough that he’d never work as a cop again?

  He drew an X through the entire top half of the page and wrote on the lower half Things To Do.

  1. Handyman

  He could fix just about anything. It had always been a talent of his. He could get a business license, like he’d told Lucy, and set up a little shop somewhere. Hang a shingle. Fix things for little old ladies and pretty single ones. Wear a tool belt.

  But the tool belt would hang sideways, wouldn’t it? Off his damn crooked hip, and he’d probably fall off a ladder working some job alone trying to compensate for his aches and pains, and he’d break his neck and not be able to reach his cell phone and die alone in someone’s backyard while trying to paint a trellis or something.

  2. Fisherman

  Owen stared across the street at the surf pounding the shore, and at the pier that made a long, straight line into the cold water. Men stood in the wind, their rods leaning against the railing. They stood there for hours, watching, waiting. Didn’t look like a bad life.

  It did look like a cold life, though, and God knew that Owen felt the weather in his joints now like he never had before.

  3.

  All right. He didn’t even have a number three. He was shit out of things to write down. He couldn’t be the only thing he wanted to be: a cop. Cops had to be in good physical shape, able to run, jump, leap.

  And he hadn’t passed the testing. That moment, when the doctor had denied his back-to-work clearance . . .

  The pier swam in his vision, the ocean blurred by fog. Owen gulped his coffee like it would save his soul.

  Molly, Lucy’s best friend, entered the diner. She waved at a couple of people, touched Old Bill on the shoulder, and walked to his table.

  She was all smiles. “Ooh, I love lists. I’m one of those organized types. I have to be. Can I sit down?”

  Owen said, “Sure.” And why not? She was one of the few people in town who didn’t look at him like he had three heads.

  Man, she was his type. Long black hair with a dyed red streak that looked like a racing stripe, and a rack that entered the room three minutes before she did. Gorgeous smile, dangerous laugh, sexy red heels.

  And she wasn’t doing anything for him. He kept seeing Lucy’s wavy brown hair and funny blue-and-green canvas shoes instead.

  Focus. Molly was saying something.

  “What are you doing that for?”

  Owen flipped the paper over. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out what I’m going to do next.”

  “I love that kind of thing. Lay it on me. Let’s brainstorm. Shirley, can I get a cup of coffee, please?”

  Molly was hard to resist, Owen could tell. She was one of those girls who could bed a man and fix his life by morning. But not him. Shaking his head, Owen said, “I’m good, but thanks anyway.”

  “No, you’re not, but okay. Just let me know. I’m kind of an expert on getting people back on track.”

  “What is it you do again?”

  “What don’t I do is the question. I don’t bake, I suppose. I leave that
to the Whitneys in town. I do anything that keeps me in the house I love here. Couple of real jobs, and then I pick up odd jobs, too.”

  “How are the odd jobs treating you?”

  She shrugged. “Those are the ones that are harder to find.”

  “Oh,” he said. Damn. If he stayed, those would be the ones he wanted. It wasn’t like he really needed the money. His retirement and careful investments had left him enough money to live on, and the sale of his mother’s house left enough to take care of Willow Rock. But he would need something to do.

  If he stayed. He couldn’t believe he was thinking long term.

  Two older women at the counter started arguing about something, one of them holding a green ball of yarn, the other one trying to pull it out of her hands. The discussion ended when Shirley said something sharply to them, but it led Owen to ask Molly, “Are you a knitter? Like the rest of this crazy town?”

  Molly dug into her purse and pulled out a tattered ball of pink yarn. “Yep! I’m making socks. Or I was. A while ago. I’m not as good as they are, but I’m always trying. If you stay, you’ll have to learn.”

  Owen’s laugh surprised him.

  “And you’ll have to buy a house,” said Molly. “That’s where I come in.”

  “Ahhh. I see.” But he didn’t mind. “No, I’m fine living in the parsonage.”

  Molly shook her head, and said, “Oh, no, you’re not. You just don’t know it yet. Do you want a big house, a little one, a new one, an older one? Do you want a backyard? A condo? A Victorian? What’s your price range?”

  She had balls, and he liked that. “I guess, if I had to say, I like those older big houses, like on Encinal. They look comfortable. Maybe a fireplace would be nice.”

  Lucy in front of a fireplace, yarn cascading around her. Kissing her in front of the flames so that she lost count of her stitches.

  Pull it together.

  Molly gave him an inquisitive glance. Had he gone red? But she only said, “Okay. That’s a starting place. So you like a multi-storied Craftsman, huh? That’s kind of rare here, but it’s out there.”

  She made a note in a small notebook. “You were a cop, right? I used to date a cop.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are they all like that?”

  “Almost all of them. When it comes to women.”

  “That’s a bad way to be.”

  “I’m reformed. Don’t hold it against me.”

  She gave a smile that read both professional and sexy. “Price range? What are we talking?”

  “I’d have to be able to afford the mortgage on my pension.” He named a price that made Molly nod.

  “Even around here, we can do that.”

  A male voice boomed behind his head. “What’s going on here?” Owen instinctively stood and turned to face the man, his hip and knee screaming in protest at the sudden move. His right hand twitched to his side automatically.

  Jonas laughed. “I’m just kidding. What are you two kids up to?”

  Owen pretended to be stretching, rubbing a muscle in his back. He hoped liked hell he’d played it off, and that Jonas didn’t know that for one short second, Owen had touched the butt of the gun he still carried concealed.

  He’d been startled. That was all.

  Molly waggled her fingers at Jonas in a shooing motion. “Get out of here. I’m working.”

  “Teaching him Chinese?” Jonas seemed more relaxed this morning, almost human, and Owen was grateful for it—he didn’t want to be eternally on guard around Lucy’s brothers.

  “No, selling him a house, dumbass. Now, go away.”

  Instead, Jonas pulled up a chair from the four-top behind him and straddled it, backward, scooting up to the edge of their table.

  “Whatever.” Molly tossed her hair and made another note on her pad. “All I know is this: I’m going to find Owen a house he can’t live without, and I’ll have him into it in a matter of weeks.”

  Owen felt too much caffeine sloshing in his veins. “Hey. I’m not committed to staying yet, anyway.”

  Molly shook her head. “Not with me as your new agent. We’ll get you into something fast. I can bang any escrow through quicker than anyone else.”

  Jonas leered, looking younger than he had tending his bar. “Ha. You said ‘bang.’ ”

  “Ew. Shut up, Jonas.”

  “Make me.”

  Molly said, “Seriously, why are you so annoying? You’re not helping anything.” But her cheeks betrayed her: they colored, and she was smiling weirdly.

  Lucy’s best friend and Lucy’s brother? Huh.

  Jonas said to Owen, “Watch this one. She’s a little too busy, if you know what I mean.”

  Molly made a whining sound and hit Jonas lightly on the arm.

  They were flirting. Owen didn’t know why he felt surprised. He didn’t know them, after all. Did Lucy know about it? Somehow he thought she didn’t.

  “Just because I have a bunch of jobs, just because I’m trying to get ahead in this poky little town, that isn’t a bad thing.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your jobs, but now that you mention it, sure: Chinese translator.” Jonas held up one finger. “Realtor.” Then he put up another. “Dog walker. Are you still selling makeup?”

  Frowning, Molly said, “I’ve got a garage full, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m good, thanks. The only thing you don’t do in town is tend bar.”

  Owen just sat and watched. It’s not like he could do or say anything that would drag their attention away from each other.

  Molly tossed her head. “I’d be a kick-ass bartender.”

  “No way. You wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

  “You kidding me? I mixed every drink my parents ever had. I know how to make everything. I can make a green-apple martini with my left hand while shaking a screaming orgasm with my right.”

  “Nah, I’m not buying it. Show me. Tonight. It’s been way too busy for me lately, but I don’t feel like interviewing anyone.”

  “You’re on. I’m gonna kick your drink-mixing ass.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  Owen cleared his throat.

  They didn’t notice.

  It was Shirley who broke their eye-flirt showdown. “Jonas, you want something else, or are you gonna get out of my way?”

  Jonas scrambled back in the chair and stood. “Sorry, Shirl. No, I’m good.”

  Shirley held up the pot. “You kids want a refill? Any food?”

  Owen seized the moment. “No, we’re about to get out of here. Thanks, though.”

  “Yeah, okay,” said Jonas. “See you tonight, Molly. Bring your best game.”

  Molly just gazed at him as he left.

  Owen said, “She know you two feel that way? Lucy?”

  “What way?” Molly’s finger went up to fuss with her hair.

  “Come on.”

  “He’s like a brother to me. It would be way too weird.”

  “And illegal if true.”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s obvious.” Molly sighed and touched her hair again. “This weirdness is new.”

  “Looks like it’s mutual.”

  She leaned forward eagerly. “You think? Do you really think?” Then she leaned back and took a deep breath. “I mean, I date a lot. He knows that. We’ve always been friends. We talk about . . . stuff. You know? Everybody needs a Jonas. A pal. No, he doesn’t look at me that way. I know he doesn’t.”

  Owen picked up his spoon and put it back down. “So you really think I could afford something in town?”

  “Why would you say it’s mutual?”

  This was why he didn’t talk about these kinds of things with women, especially not women he barely knew. “I don’t know. It just looked like he enjoyed talking to you.”

  Molly nodded. “Yeah. That’s all it is. He enjoys my company. He’s not attracted to me. Not like that. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. Isn’t it stupid?”

  “
What?”

  “You know, when you’re attracted to someone who could never, ever work out?”

  Owen pulled his debit card out of his wallet and avoided her eyes. “Yep.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Knitting is a quiet art.

  —E. C.

  Lucy, by six o’clock, had done just about everything she could think of to calm herself down. She’d dug through the boxes in the coat closet and found her old journal and sat with it on the front porch, pen in hand, waiting for inspiration. She’d scribbled a few words before feeling stumped and frustrated. She used to love writing—she’d wanted to be a writer, as a kid, all the way through high school, before she’d decided to sell books instead. But she hadn’t thought about writing in years. And now she was going to edit a whole book? Nerves danced in her belly again at the thought.

  She’d gone for a walk around the block, but had turned her ankle twice because she’d forgotten to watch where she was going. She’d taken a bath with a lavender bomb that had cost a ridiculous amount of money when she’d been out shopping with Molly, but the scent had put her into a sneezing fit.

  Wrapped in an old yellow flannel robe, she wandered from room to room, picking objects up and putting them down again. She knocked over a vase that held knitting needles in the living room, sending them flying with a clatter that brought her back to herself.

  Holy crap.

  Owen. A date.

  It came down to two things.

  First thing: She had nothing to wear. Absolutely nothing. She had overalls. Jeans. Sweaters. A green dress that she’d worn to Abigail’s wedding, but it was gauzy and way too sheer for a cold spring night. Owen was probably used to girls who wore high black boots and black tops that fell casually, perfectly, off the shoulder at just the right moment. Girls who knew how to walk in heels. Lucy wasn’t that girl.

  Second thing: Lucy couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. The way he’d just walked over to her. Grabbed her. Kissed her like that. In front of everyone. It should have embarrassed the hell out of her, or pissed her off, being manhandled like that, instead of making her melt, instead of heating her up inside in a way that she still hadn’t recovered from.