Last Chance Knit & Stitch

by Ramsay, Hope

  She hauled her groceries up the front walk and braced herself as she opened the door, expecting to find the living room in the same disastrous state as when she left.

  The scent of Febreze almost knocked her over. Someone had cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, and scrubbed the place. She hurried into the kitchen, laden with grocery bags, only to discover that it also sparkled as if Momma were still living at home. Not to mention that the carcass of the washing machine had been removed from the adjoining laundry room.

  That’s where she found Les, wearing battered jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, and an old, sweat-stained Atlanta Falcons hat. Les was in the last stages of hooking up a new washing machine. Of course, it wasn’t exactly new off the showroom floor, like the front-loader Allen had destroyed last night. It was obviously secondhand.

  She peered at the knobs. Oh joy, it had a delicate cycle. She wouldn’t have to go commando tomorrow.

  And then her joy faded. Because if she had a washing machine at home, she couldn’t justify hauling her laundry to the Wash-O-Rama where she could accidentally-on-purpose run into Simon and maybe get him to sort her darks from her lights.

  While she watched.

  She shook that image out of her head and focused on Les. “What are you doing here?”

  “Allen called this morning.”

  “And you came over and cleaned up his mess?”

  Les finished hooking up the water and then shoved the washer into its space by the wall. “I had nothing better to do.”

  “Did he help?”

  “Some.”

  “Les, you’re amazing. You’re sweet. I can’t believe you did all this. But you should have let Allen clean up the mess he made. You’re not doing him any favors, you know. Where is he now?”

  “I have no clue. About noon, he got a call, and he told me it was an emergency. He took off on his motorcycle.”

  “Typical. I bet he left right before you were about to clean the barf out of the schefflera.”

  Les shook his head. “No. As a matter of fact, I made him and his friends clean up all the vomit.”

  “Good for you, but I bet you did most of the work. You’ll need to tell me how much I owe you for the washer and—”

  “It’s okay. Allen took care of that.”

  “He did? Really?”

  Les nodded.

  “So you don’t know where he is?”

  Les shook his head. “Nope. I reckon he’s over at Kacey’s place.”

  “Kacey?”

  “Kacey Travers, she lives in Allenberg. She’s a grocery checker at the BI-LO. She’s pretty new in town. I think she was married to someone who left her high and dry right in the middle of Allenberg without a dime to her name. I think Allen’s been helping her out.”

  “Right. And sleeping with her on the side. She looks a little skanky to me. Who dyes their hair red and purple?”

  “Don’t be ugly, Mol. She’s an okay girl, just kind of young and down on her luck.”

  Molly held her tongue. Les was kind to a fault. And she loved him for it.

  “I heard you had a busy day,” he said, changing the subject. “I stopped by Lovett’s Hardware, and Arlene Whitaker told me all about Jane.”

  “Yeah, talk about having a mess to clean up. You know childbirth is not a very pretty thing to watch.”

  “No?” He was smiling now.

  “No. It’s terrifying. And Jane was freaking out, and … well … can we talk about something else?”

  “You hungry? I got a pizza in the oven.” Les headed into the kitchen and started pulling out glasses and silverware like he actually lived here. He slipped on an oven mitt and pulled the pizza out.

  It was another domestic moment in which Molly found herself the observer. What was it about the guys in her life? They didn’t seem domestically challenged, whereas she was a total bust when it came to cooking and cleaning and laundry-doing. She caught herself. Simon wasn’t actually in her life, was he? He’d only done her laundry.

  And seen her underpants.

  Humiliation exploded in her middle like a Molotov cocktail, burning her face and neck and all the way down her back. Those panties were a secret.

  Except, of course, Momma had seen her underpants plenty, because Momma did the laundry around here. Molly had never thought about that. Maybe Momma had misunderstood about those panties, and the matching bras. Maybe Momma thought her lacy underwear was a sign that Molly wanted to be more girlie.

  Which of course she didn’t. She just liked nice underpants.

  Les had a bottle of wine and a candle to go with the pizza. Holy God, this was shaping up into something terrifying.

  “Les, what on earth are you doing?”

  “Sit down, Molly. I want to talk to you.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure I want to sit down.” But she sat in one of the kitchen chairs, and he sat facing her.

  “Arlene told me something else when I ran up to the hardware store for a new doorknob.”

  Oh boy, she knew what was coming. “Uh, Les, honey, I know Arlene probably told you about what Savannah said to me the other night at the book club. But honestly, you can’t put any store in that nonsense about Miriam Randall. I mean, of course she’s going to tell me to go look for someone I’ve known my whole life. I mean, I live here in Last Chance. So it stands to reason that, if I ever get married, it’s probably going to be to someone I’ve known my whole life. But whoever it is—if I get married—I’m going to love him with all my heart.”

  He blinked, and Molly realized that she’d once again failed to cushion her words. Why couldn’t she be good at sweet-talking? Heck, every southern female seemed to be born knowing how to soften the worst of blows. Except her.

  Les’s bright blue eyes held steady and true. Which was unusual for him. Usually when she unloaded on him, he unloaded on her, and then the two of them were in an argument.

  But instead of unloading, Les gave her a moony look and said, “I love you, Molly. I’ve loved you for years and years, and I reckon it’s time to say it out loud. And before you point out that I’m unemployed, you should just know that I’ve got some real prospects. You know, irons in the fire and all that. So, anyway, when Arlene told me what Miriam said, well, I just knew the time had come.”

  Oh, crap.

  It took a moment for Molly to get her act together. Les’s words had more than merely stunned her. They’d rocked her world. And not in a good way. It was like she’d just been shaken by an earthquake registering eight-point-oh on the Richter scale.

  “Les, honey, you’re a great guy. Really. I mean, you’re way too good for me. Just look at what you did today. That was thoughtful. And I’m grateful. Sort of like that day Foster Boyd spit in my face …” Damn, she was babbling. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. It was really hard.

  She finally opened her eyes and gave him the most earnest stare she could muster. “I just don’t love you. I mean, I love you like a brother, not a husband.”

  He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Don’t be stupid, Mol. We’re perfect together. We’re friends. How many couples start out that way?”

  She looked down at his broad workman’s hands and couldn’t help but compare them with Simon’s. They both had very talented hands. Good-looking hands. But their hands were as different as night and day. It was wrong to be thinking about Simon right now. Or maybe the fact that she was thinking about Simon was the root of the problem. Because she found Simon attractive and sexy. And Les, not so much.

  “Uh, Les, you make a good point about us being friends. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  He let go of her hand and placed both of his on the table in front of him, palms down. He said nothing, but Molly could read his growing annoyance even though he was trying to hide it.

  She hated hurting him. He was her best buddy. “I’m really, really, really sorry. Please don’t be disappointed. It’s sort of like that old George Strait song, you know? ‘You Can’t Mak
e a Heart Love Somebody.’ ”

  “Is there someone else?” he asked.

  “Les. Come on. You know the answer to that without asking. In fact, if you thought about it, instead of getting all caught up in Miriam Randall’s mischief, you’d realize I’m the kind of woman who isn’t ever going to fall in love and get married. It’s not for me. I’d be a crappy wife all the way around. You’d be unhappy with me. Heck, any man would be unhappy with me. I’m not an easy person to love.”

  “That’s not true, Molly.”

  “Of course it’s true. I’m blunt, and I’m never ever going to be sweet. And I’m not comfortable around kids. I don’t think I’d be a very good mother. And we argue all the time. In fact, we’re arguing right now.”

  “That may be, but one day you are going to fall in love.”

  “No, Les, I’m pretty sure that’s not ever going to happen.”

  “You’re wrong, Mol. If Miriam tells you that there’s a soulmate waiting for you, you will find him. It will happen. I only wish you’d open your eyes and see that I’m the guy. Because, honey, you’re the only one I want.”

  “Les, please. Cut the drama. You don’t want me. A few nights ago, you were all over going out with Tammy Nelson. Be sensible.”

  “I don’t want to be sensible. I want you to see it my way. Marry me, Molly.”

  “No, Les. And one day, when you look back on this, you’ll thank me for saying no. You will, I promise.”

  He stood up, knocking over a wineglass. It shattered on the sparkling floor. “I don’t think so, Mol.”

  “Trust me, you’ll get over this. You’ll find some great woman who really appreciates you. Someone who’s girlier than me. Someone with a sweet temper who can bake and stuff. Someone who wants to get married, unlike me.”

  “You know, Mol, one day some guy is going to walk into your life and sweep you off your feet. And then you’re going to feel like you can’t live without him. I hope he tells you no, because then you’ll know exactly how I feel right this minute.”

  The Purly Girls had knitted a grand total of 103 poppies, all out of inexpensive crimson Red Heart yarn. And today, on the Sunday before Memorial Day, a few of the girls had gathered in the fellowship hall at Christ Church to sell some of the poppies on behalf of the American Legion. Similar sales were occurring this morning in every church in the county. Later this afternoon, a brigade of vets would be putting American flags on soldiers’ graves in every cemetery. There were four large cemeteries in Allenberg County, and at least a dozen small graveyards, some containing soldiers from as far back as the Revolution.

  Molly had gotten roped into organizing the sale and the flag distribution at Christ Church. This was something Momma did every year, and with Momma gone, naturally Molly was nominated. It wasn’t as if anyone asked either. They just assumed.

  Of course, with the Shelby still locked up, she had the time. And staying busy would keep her away from Les, who attended church with the Baptists. After he’d left last night, Molly had rattled around the house like a loose marble in a cigar box. She’d finally settled down with some knitting and watched TV for a while. But her heart was sore.

  Not broken, just bruised. She didn’t want Les to be mad at her. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to marry him just because Miriam had some idiotic forecast for her.

  She pushed thoughts of Les to the back of her mind and focused on the task at hand. Molly stood behind a card table where a couple of Purly Girls had showcased their poppy pins. Some of the poppies were a little misshapen, but the congregation didn’t seem to mind. Charlotte Wolfe and Luanne Howe were handling the sales, which had been pretty brisk. Charlotte was managing to make change without any problems. But Luanne, who was eighty years young, seemed to think she was at the kissing booth at the Watermelon Festival. She had already laid big ones on Reverend Ellis, Hugh deBracy, and Dash Randall.

  At least Luanne still had sense enough to know a handsome man when she saw one.

  At the moment, Luanne was making eyes at Simon Wolfe, who had come to church this morning dressed in a dark gray suit that looked like it had been hand-tailored for him. His tie was silk, his shirt starched, and his shoes shined. He sure didn’t look like a starving artist.

  He sauntered over to the table. “Oh, hello,” Charlotte said, smiling up at him. “I don’t know you, do I? Are you one of the new people who works for the textile mill?”

  Molly’s heart tumbled when she saw the hurt in Simon’s eyes. Jeez, he was always kind of self-contained, but if you looked really hard at his eyes, they gave him away every time. Now that she’d seen him in action taming toddlers and delivering babies, not to mention sorting laundry, he really didn’t seem to fit the mold of a hard-ass who would walk away from his family and never look back. Or the kind of man who would callously shut a business and throw people out of work.

  Luanne stood up. “Hey, honey, I’m going to enjoy kissing you. Kisses are only five dollars.”

  “Luanne, I wish you would stop saying that. We aren’t selling kisses now. We’re selling poppies, and they are only three dollars.” Charlotte gave Luanne the evil eye.

  It bounced right off Luanne, who leaned across the table and puckered up.

  Simon put a five-dollar bill on the table. “Ms. Howe, you make my heart sing,” he said. Then he stepped around the table, took Luanne into his arms and dipped her, like some Hollywood swain. He laid a pretty tame kiss on the old lady’s lips then put her back on her feet and steadied her.

  Luanne opened her eyes and smiled up at him, revealing a mouth shy of a few teeth. “Oh my, who are you?”

  “A friend of Millie Polk’s,” he said, the corners of his mouth displaying those sexy, adorable apostrophes that made Molly’s RPMs head into the red zone. But she wasn’t about to admit that to anyone. Simon wasn’t her type. For one thing, he was a snazzy dresser and she wasn’t. Who wanted to be with a guy who was always checking himself out in a mirror?

  Not that she’d seen Simon do that, but really, turned out like that, he probably was hopelessly vain.

  “Oh, I remember you,” Charlotte said. “You’re the hired help. You have no business kissing Luanne.” She picked up his money and handed it back to him. “We don’t do business with your type.”

  Oh, boy, Charlotte’s ugly side had just come out. “Now, Miz Charlotte,” Molly said, “we’re going to take his money because we’re selling poppies for the VFW. You remember that, don’t you? And it’s not your place to decide who Luanne kisses.”

  Charlotte’s frown deepened. She handed the five-dollar bill to Molly. “All right. For the VFW.” Then she turned toward Simon. “You’re fired, young man. You tell Millie I want someone else to take care of things. I don’t need a man in my house who goes around assaulting older women.”

  Simon’s smile faded. “All right, I’ll tell her,” he said in a calm voice. Then he turned and walked away without even picking up a poppy or his change.

  Half an hour later, Molly found Simon sitting on the bench by the big magnolia that screened the graveyard from the church parking lot. He was contemplating the red earth over his father’s newly made grave.

  “I’m sorry about the ugly things your mother said to you,” Molly said as she sat down beside him. She had a box filled with small U.S. flags. Her helpers were scheduled to arrive in about twenty minutes.

  Glorious May sunshine had sent the temperature up into the eighties. Distributing flags would be hot work, so Molly had changed out of her dress slacks and into a pair of comfy combat shorts and a Willie Nelson Farm Aid T-shirt.

  Simon was still wearing a suit, and he hadn’t even taken off his jacket.

  She handed him a knitted poppy and two dollar bills. “You forgot your poppy and your change.”

  He studied the knitted flower. “Why do people wear poppies on Memorial Day, anyway?”

  “It comes from that poem. You know, about World War One—In Flanders fields the poppies blow. Between the crosses, row on row�
� I had to memorize that poem in ninth grade, I think. Momma always organizes a poppy knit-along every year. I inherited it this year, since she ran away from home.”

  “Keep the change.” He pinned his poppy to his lapel. “Your mother ran away?”

  She put the two dollars in the envelope destined for the VFW. “Yeah. She took off a few days ago. And it’s mostly Coach’s fault.”

  “Coach, really? That surprises me. I always thought he was a stand-up guy. But I guess that’s marriage for you.”

  “Have you ever been married?” She had been dying to ask that question, because Simon had to be almost forty years old.

  He snorted a laugh. “No. And I never intend to be. You’d have to be certifiable to get married.”

  “And yet most people do.”

  “And half of them go on to get divorces, and God alone knows how many others are miserable.” He gave her a long look. “But I suppose a person of your age is probably out there looking for Mr. Right?”

  She shook her head. “Actually not. I’m much more interested in starting my own business. But that’s going to be hard to do if I’m permanently saddled with the Knit & Stitch. Honestly, Momma has seriously screwed up my life.”

  “Well, that’s hardly surprising. Parents are notorious for screwing up their children’s lives.”

  “Did your parents screw up your life? They seemed like pretty good people. I adored your father. And he adored your mother,” Molly replied.

  “You’re kidding, right? My parents were miserable. Living with them was like living through World War Three. I probably deserve medals for the crap I went through.”

  “Really? That surprises me. Ira was devoted to your mom.”

  “Yeah, well, he used to argue with her all the time when I was a kid. And I was always in the middle of those arguments, somehow.”

  “Is that why you left home?”

  He stared silently at his father’s grave, and then he changed the subject back to poppies. “You know, I haven’t worn a poppy on Memorial Day since I left Last Chance. It’s not a big thing where I live now. I’d forgotten all about it.”