Last Chance Knit & Stitch

by Ramsay, Hope

  Simon was also pretty sure Uncle Ryan wasn’t out there disturbing the early-morning peace. Ryan kept banker’s hours.

  By the violence of the pounding, his morning visitor was in a most unfriendly mood. So Simon ignored this interruption of his working day.

  The banging stopped, thank goodness, only to be replaced by a rather urgent tapping on the front window. “Simon, open the damn door,” his visitor shouted in a slightly husky voice.

  A jolt of recognition marched through Simon. He would know that voice anywhere. He looked up. Coach Canaday stood on the sidewalk glowering at him through the big picture windows.

  Coach had gotten older and a little grayer, but his face, with its wandering nose, looked the same. His eyes were still piercing, and he still commanded immediate respect just by standing there.

  Coach was an early riser, too. Simon had learned the value of getting up at the crack of dawn from the man himself.

  He hurried to the door and let Coach in. He expected a slap on the back, or a handshake, or at least a “Hey, how’ve you been?” But he got none of that.

  Instead, Coach stalked into the middle of his makeshift studio, glanced at the disaster on the easel, and then turned toward Simon with a scowl.

  Simon remembered that look. Coach could be a hard man at times. But he was always fair. Coach praised more often than he scolded, which was why his players loved him. But Heaven help the player who got on his wrong side.

  “I have a bone to pick with you, boy,” Coach said.

  “Sir?” It was funny how Simon immediately dropped back into old ways in the face of Coach’s disapproval.

  “Don’t you act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  Simon didn’t have a clue, so he said nothing. Silence was always a good policy when Coach was on the warpath. Ducking worked, too, because Coach was known to throw things when he got mad.

  “I’m talking about my daughter.”

  “Oh.” Of course he was. Molly had even warned Simon that this was coming. How could he have forgotten?

  “Don’t you ‘oh’ me. You know darn well I have a policy that no player of mine messes with my daughter.”

  “Sir, I don’t remember that policy. As I recall, Molly was about four when I was a member of the team. She was our good-luck charm. I used to rub her head before every kick.”

  “Exactly my point.” The look on Coach’s face could only be described as “furious father.”

  “She’s not four now, sir. She’s a grown-up. And I’m not messing with her.”

  “No?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why is it all over town that you got her involved in some kind of fight with Ryan Polk? She doesn’t need that kind of trouble.”

  “Sir, my uncle stole her car. I only helped her get it back.”

  “You know, it might have been better if you hadn’t.”

  “But—”

  “Look here, there are things going on that you don’t have any idea about. My wife walked out on me because of that car. And now I’ve got my daughter’s name being run down by the town’s biggest banker. And to make matters worse, she’s here camping out with you.” Coach pointed a finger at Simon’s chest.

  Simon held his temper. “She’s not camping out with me. She’s working on her car whenever things at the Knit & Stitch give her time. And it’s only temporary. I’m leaving just as soon as my daddy’s will is probated and I can put Mother’s house on the market.”

  “Son, maybe you don’t get it. My daughter has been talking about you nonstop for two days. She’s pretty naive. And a guy like you, who is still a bachelor at forty, is either not playing for the boys’ team or you’re hard on women. Either way, I don’t want you messing with her head. And that doesn’t even count the fact that you’re thirteen years older than she is. Back off! She belongs to Les Hayes. At least Les is her age, and from what I hear Miriam Randall has predicted that Molly and Les belong together. You’re messing things up around here for her, and I won’t have it.”

  Well, this was disconcerting news. Not the part about Molly and Les, but the part about how Molly had been talking about him. Because Simon had been thinking about Molly. More or less nonstop. In particular, he’d been thinking about the way she’d felt in his arms for that one brief moment when she’d kissed him on Tuesday. That had not been a thank-you kiss. It had not been a kiss between old friends. Simon’s lips may not have been involved in that kiss, but that kiss had been sexy as hell.

  And kind of scary. Because Coach was right. Simon was too old for her. He knew this without being told. And the last thing he wanted was for Molly to get a crush on him. Because he didn’t think he could resist. And he sure as hell didn’t want to hurt Coach’s daughter.

  He forced a smile to his lips. “I understand, sir. And I promise that I’ll discourage her attentions. But I don’t think it’s possible to discourage her about the Shelby. And I think if you talked to Molly, you’d discover that she thinks she belongs to her own self, not Les or you or me or anyone else. All she wants is to restore that car, sell it, and start a business. In that way, she’s a whole lot like your wife. And I screwed up her plans by leasing this place, and my uncle tried to steal her dream. So it was the least I could do to help her get her dream back and give her a little space where she could work on her car. I guess in that way, I’m a little like my daddy.”

  This was not the right thing to say to Coach. “You were a huge disappointment to your father. You have no right to even claim kinship to Ira in my book. You walked out on him. Same as my wife has walked out on her family. So don’t you go comparing these things, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir.” What else could he say? He’d burned his bridges eighteen years ago. And he knew, good and well, that he’d disappointed his parents. But his parents’ dream for him was not his own. Any more than Coach’s dreams for his daughter bore any resemblance to what Molly wanted for herself.

  And this, pure and simple, was the most important reason that Simon never, ever wanted to be anyone’s parent.

  “You keep your hands off my daughter, you hear?” This time Coach pushed his index finger into Simon’s chest like he was arguing with a referee.

  “I promise. I will.”

  Simon’s life settled into a certain equilibrium in the week after his confrontation with Coach. He ignored Molly to the best of his ability. He tried to concentrate on the Harrison commission, and he waged a silent war on Uncle Ryan, using some basic but stealthy tactics in the form of the master gossip Angel Menendez.

  It only took Angel four days before every single soul in Allenberg County knew that Ryan Polk, the receiver for Wolfe Ford, was more interested in liquidating the business than finding a suitable buyer.

  It was almost funny to see Last Chance’s own version of the Occupy movement set up camp outside Ryan’s office at the bank. Of course, Occupy Last Chance had a large number of middle-aged church ladies in its ranks who had probably voted steady Republican in the last five elections. But they had one thing in common—they all owned Fords.

  The public demonstrations did the trick. The dealership’s creditors put pressure on Ryan to quit trying to liquidate and start trying to find a buyer. And bless Stone Rhodes for being completely unwilling to arrest anyone for the removal of the Shelby from the Wolfe Ford premises—especially when Molly produced a bill of sale and a South Carolina title.

  Not everything was rosy in Simon’s life, though. Mother continued to think he was some kind of thief or murderer. The probate courts moved like molasses in January. And the vast majority of citizens were convinced that Angel was his lover—no doubt a rumor spread by Coach. A rumor Simon made no attempt to dispel. It was hard to prove a negative. And besides, maybe if Molly thought he was gay, she might keep her distance.

  So Simon spent his days staring at the monstrosity on his easel, trying, vainly, to find the enthusiasm to finish it. Which might have come more easily if he didn’t have to contend with
the noise coming from the back of the Coca-Cola building, where Molly—wearing safety goggles, her hair in complete disarray, her body hidden in oversized jeans—was having the time of her life taking apart an automobile. Just knowing she was there was a huge distraction. He kept peeking in when she was welding or sanding or doing other amazing things.

  Today he was trying not to peek. Today he was sitting on the stool in his studio, flipping through photographs on his iPad trying to find some inspiration.

  He’d been with Gillian when he took these photos of the Painted Desert, the Grand Canyon, and the Petrified Forest. Gillian hovered at the edges of each photo like a ghost.

  He resented her. Gillian had negotiated the deal with Harrison. Simon should never have allowed her to take the lead. Harrison had dictated elements of the painting he wanted, and Gillian had agreed to all of them without even consulting Simon. And when Simon had learned the details, he’d been upset. But he’d sucked it up and signed the deal anyway. Because, as Gillian pointed out, Harrison had put a lot of money on the table.

  Why had he agreed to do this painting? Money had never motivated him before.

  Short answer: to make Gillian happy. And he had, for some strange reason he couldn’t quite understand, wanted to please her at that particular moment in his life.

  But she’d read his actions all wrong. Three weeks later, on the grand tour of the Grand Canyon, she’d laid down her ultimatum. She wanted a wedding ring. She wanted kids. But Simon had been honest from the start. No marriage. No kids. Ever.

  The final argument had been practically historic in its dimensions. But Gillian had finally believed him. And the next day, she and her ticking biological clock left him to deal with Rory Harrison all by his lonesome.

  “So, are you ever gonna actually work on that? Or do you get your kicks standing there giving it the evil eye?” Molly strolled into his space sipping on a Diet Dr Pepper, her face just a little dirty, her clothes a little dusty, and her amazing hair tempting as always. He both loved and hated these moments when she wandered into his studio. He had promised Coach that he would discourage her friendship, but damn it, he enjoyed spending stolen moments with her.

  “I was not giving it the evil eye,” he said.

  “Yes, you were. So are those photographs of the ex-girlfriend? By the look on your face she must have done you wrong.” She strolled over to peek at his iPad. He powered it off before she could see the image of Gillian, smiling into the camera with the Painted Desert behind her. Like every woman he’d ever known, Molly knew darn well he was heterosexual. So the whole hiding-behind-Angel thing wasn’t working.

  At all.

  He glowered up at Molly.

  She responded by grinning. He almost fell off the stool. Molly’s smile was like a weapon.

  He held her gaze, forcing her into an impromptu staring contest which he ultimately won when she turned away, strolling over to his stereo. She unplugged his iPod and began searching through his music.

  “Don’t you have anything a little livelier than Bach?” she asked.

  “No.” Being blunt with Molly was a tactic he was employing to absolutely no effect.

  Molly returned his iPod to the speaker dock, where she flipped through his playlists. A moment later the soft baritone of David Wilcox singing “Rusty Old American Dream” filled the room.

  She laughed. “It’s a song about a car that needs to be restored,” she said.

  “Yes. It’s also a song about growing older.” He refrained from pointing out that Wilcox’s music could never be taken quite literally. There was a haunting metaphor in every song. And right now Simon was like that rusty car, and Molly was like the young man who wanted to bring it back to life. And he kind of wanted that to happen, only it couldn’t. It would be so unfair to Molly.

  She studied him with her head cocked, as if she were thinking deeply. He had trouble not looking at those tarnished-copper eyes. “Simon, you need some fresh air.”

  “I do not.” He stared at his painting. It made his stomach churn. Damn, he’d run out of Rolaids. He’d been popping a lot of them lately. “I need to make an end of this …” Words failed him.

  “It’s crap. You know it. I know it. Angel knows it. Heck, anyone walking by and glancing in your windows knows it.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “You know, the painting would probably be ten times better if you didn’t try to paint the woman out of the scene.”

  He tried to pretend he didn’t understand her meaning. “What are you talking about?”

  She gave him a squinty-eyed look that was utterly adorable. “Your attempts to hide the photographs you’re working from have failed. So is that woman the one who dumped you?”

  “Dumped me? Who told you—”

  “Angel. He says you’re heartbroken. Are you?”

  Oh, great, his assistant had blown his cover. No wonder Molly wasn’t buying the whole gay thing. “No, I’m not heartbroken.”

  “No?”

  “No. And I wasn’t dumped. I walked out on her.”

  “Ah. And why was that?”

  “None of your business.” He put his iPad down with more force than was necessary. He turned and gave her his own rendition of a squinty-eyed look. “Don’t you have something to do?”

  She took a swig of her soda. “Yeah, but I’m feeling antsy today.” She nodded toward the windows. “It’s a beautiful June day out there. Angel and Ricki have the Knit & Stitch running like a well-oiled machine. And I don’t have LeRoy breathing down my neck. So I was thinking of knocking off early.”

  “Well then, don’t let me stop you.”

  “You don’t want to knock off early? Heck, you started at the crack of dawn. It’s amazing how much time you waste in here, Simon. Really. And all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. So come on, live a little. Let’s play hooky.”

  “No.”

  She glanced at the painting. “Really? I would think you’d want to escape from that monstrosity.”

  “Everyone’s a critic,” he muttered. “And I don’t have time to play hooky.” He said this forcefully, even though deep down he wanted to escape from the Harrison commission.

  Which was probably why Molly refused to give up. She had this uncanny ability to read his mind or something. Instead of leaving, she threw her Dr Pepper can in his wastebasket and then picked up his most recent sketchbook. She flipped a few pages, while the tiniest of enigmatic smiles played around her mouth. God, she was beautiful.

  And young. “Do you rifle through my things when I’m not around?”

  She shrugged but didn’t look up from the sketches. “Not often. You’re usually around. But a girl’s gotta satisfy her curiosity one way or another, doesn’t she?”

  Something stirred in his belly. He was insanely flattered that Molly was curious about him, even though he knew it was madness to feel any curiosity about her. He said nothing in response to her obvious bait.

  “So,” she said, “I’m trying to figure out why every sketch in this book—even the ones dated before you got here—appear to be scenes from down on the river. And yet the big official painting looks like something you’d find at a roadside art stand somewhere in Arizona.”

  The critique stung. Especially because it was true.

  “Good question,” he said.

  “Right. So, see, I’ve got a couple of fishing poles in the back of my car and a cage full of crickets. I think you need to go down to the river and do some fishing. It’s guaranteed to clear your mind.”

  Or overwhelm him with sad memories. Those memories had been trying to claw their way into the sunshine for some time—ever since he’d picked up Lark’s coffee table book.

  “I’ve never been overly fond of fishing,” he said. “To be honest, all I ever manage to catch is mosquito bites.”

  She laughed. “Okay, you bring your sketch pad, and I’ll bring the fishing poles and bug spray. It’s June, the days are long, and the fishing is good
in the afternoon. Then afterward we can stop off at the Red Hot Pig Place for dinner. I’ll buy you a beer.”

  It sounded like a wonderful way to end his day. “I can’t, Molly. I have to pick up Mother after her meeting.”

  “Not to worry. Angel has everything taken care of. Your momma’s in expert hands. In fact, I’m letting him and Ricki handle the Purly Girls all on their own this afternoon.”

  He knew when he was being railroaded. “You and Angel have consulted on this, haven’t you?”

  “Sorta. We’re both of the opinion that you should burn this canvas and start again with something like this.” She looked down at the sketch pad.

  He hesitated, caught between his promise to Coach and the knowledge that he probably needed to go down to the river and wash away the bad memories. Maybe that was the only way to make peace with the past. And of course, it would give him time with Molly. Innocent time. She’d be fishing. He would sketch. They would hardly talk. Nothing else would happen. Nothing else could happen.

  “So,” Molly said in her siren voice, “are you game?”

  The setting sun gave definition to the river’s current. It gleamed on the surface eddies like flickering sprites. It edged the Spanish moss cloaking the cypresses. And glowed like a halo on Molly’s dark mane of unruly hair.

  She looked like the essence of summertime, standing on the public pier, barefoot with a fishing rod in her slender hands.

  Simon’s heart pounded as he captured the moment with his pencils. His hands, his eyes, his insides suddenly remembered how it felt to have passion for his work. It had been so long. It felt as if this place of haunting and mysterious beauty had been waiting for him. That surprised him.

  He had expected the place to depress him. To remind him of things he wanted to forget. And it did, in some ways, but like everything here in Last Chance, his memories were like artifacts, overlaid with something else. The place wasn’t exactly the same as when he’d last stood here.