Naomi doubted that. She couldn’t even imagine what Anna might do to their carefully filed system. “No. You’re not . . .”
Oh, God—she sneaked a look at her sister . . .
Anna’s face crumpled.
Shit. She’d done it again. “Anna, I’m sorry. I only meant that you’re not experienced enough in medical reception. That’s all.”
“No,” said her sister, sticking her chin out. “I’m not good enough. That’s what you meant. You didn’t have to say it for me to hear it.”
Anna didn’t speak to her the rest of the way home, and when they pulled into the driveway, Anna raced as fast as she could into the house, leaving Naomi to carry all the bags. Fine. She deserved it. As she put the bags onto the couch, she heard Anna slam the door of the guest room with a thud that made the pictures on the living room wall rock.
Naomi moved to where Eliza Carpenter’s book The Road Not Taken was lying next to the couch. She closed her eyes, flipped the pages, and placed her first finger carefully down.
Sometimes when we knit for family, we knit problems into our work—problems that we predict, expect, and bring in ourselves. It’s not the knitting’s fault, you already know that. Knots appear in the work. Stitches you know you didn’t drop race to the bottom as if they were on fire. It’s okay not to knit for family sometimes. To knit for yourself. Often, when you’re done, you’ll end up giving the work to someone you love anyway.
Naomi carried her knitting basket to the kitchen table slowly, as if her bones ached. Something inside her hurt, that was for sure. It felt as if her heart was bruised, even though the doctor part of her brain mocked herself for indulging in the thought.
Or maybe it was just her hands that ached, missing having the yarn in them, as if knitting was a physical need.
Spreading the soft lace on the table, Naomi leaned forward against her forearms and picked up where she’d left off. Knitting back. Just like in life, going back was always the same. It was when the pattern changed as it was moving forward that Naomi ran into trouble. It was good that she’d decided to make this for herself.
“Damn,” she said softly, to no one.
Chapter Twenty-six
Technically, the act of knitting looks a lot like relaxing. Sometimes, that’s the furthest from the truth.
—E.C.
Days fell into a rhythm at the office—Bruno was good at divvying up the appointments, and when Naomi passed Rig in the hall, she only thought about the kisses every once in a . . . okay, she’d admit she thought about them a lot.
Temporary loss of sanity, that day. Could she blame it on the fact that she’d been thrown because her sister had just arrived? That she was confused by it and had latched on to him because of it?
Considering that Anna hadn’t shown up until the end of their kiss, probably not.
But the last month had been smooth at the office. Rig was a good doctor. The patients loved him. Bruno adored him, and actually grinned when Rig came in every morning. She’d seen Rig leaving with Peter and Bruno on Friday afternoons, on their way to the Rite Spot for a drink, and she longed to invite herself along. She even practiced the words, under her breath, Hey, wait up. I’ll come, too.
But she didn’t say it. She worked instead, and when she wasn’t working, she fussed over Anna, who still hadn’t told her who the father was, who still hadn’t gotten a job, who still wouldn’t say what her plans for her life were.
Naomi had ideas about all of these things, but she tried not to dump them on her sister every time they were in the kitchen together. She bit her tongue, holding back 80 percent of the advice she wanted to give her. It was a little easier between them when they were knitting in the living room together—she’d taught Anna the basics of garter stitch, and now Anna was going to town on a simple baby blanket, made of soft, washable wool Naomi had picked up at an incredibly uncomfortable visit to Abigail’s shop. Abigail had acted normally, of course, because some people were able to do that. All Naomi could think of was whether Abigail thought she and Rig had something going on at the office.
Because they didn’t.
Not at all.
Today it was lunchtime before Naomi saw Rig. He wore a crisp tan-colored button-down shirt, a tie, jeans, and cowboy boots—would the man ever wear work pants? A white coat at the very least? Rig looked like a cowboy at a wedding. The only thing missing was his hat. He was bent over the back desk where Bruno placed recent lab results. He looked good, the taut muscles of his back delineated through the thin cotton of his shirt. She could practically see the muscles ripple, and she had to admit that his rear end looked amazing from this vantage point. And how he managed to look like that in regular clothing was beyond her. It must be something about the corded muscles running up his neck . . . the width at his pecs . . .
No. She wasn’t looking at him. Not like that.
She cleared her throat. Rig turned, jumping a little.
“Hi, there.”
Rig shook his head and smiled. The way that dimple in his left cheek pulled in when he grinned made Naomi’s ribs feel tight, as if she could almost get enough air, but not quite.
“Hey, how are you?” he said. “Get some rest over the weekend?”
Why? Did she look like she hadn’t? It was true, she hadn’t slept well. Again. She put a hand up to make sure her hair hadn’t come down.
“Yeah, great. Lots.” Her mouth felt tongue-tied. Did he ever think of those kisses, too? The way her lips had felt, the slick rasp of his tongue touching hers . . .
Bruno interrupted her inane thoughts, thank God, coming back from reception. He carried a stack of opened mail.
“Have you seen the bill from PG and E? The one they said was late? You said you had the canceled check, right?” asked Naomi. Bruno started to answer but Rig interrupted.
“You look different. What happened?” Rig sat on the edge of the filing desk. Naomi wished he wouldn’t—it was organized so that she knew where everything was, and desks weren’t for sitting on, anyway.
Bruno beamed and set the bills down on top of the morning’s lab results. “We talked.”
“Dude,” said Rig. “And?”
“I was right. He bought a ring.”
Were they gossiping? Naomi felt suddenly left out. “Peter did?”
Her voice was too loud. Not casual enough. She didn’t have a desk to lean against, like Rig. She crossed her arms, knowing she looked stiff, but unable to figure out how to soften her stance.
“Umm,” said Bruno. He fiddled with the edge on an envelope. God, she’d been his boss for over a year now, and he still couldn’t trust her with his personal life?
Well, truthfully, what did he know about hers? What did anyone know about hers? Nothing. Which was just about what she had to say when it came to his. Her stomach hurt.
“Good,” she said lamely. “Good for . . . you.” She walked toward her office in defeat. Let Rig handle it. He knew how to talk to people, to care about them. She just knew how to fix them, only knew how to care when the person in front of her was a patient. So far today she’d seen an arm in a cast, a raging case of strep throat she’d given antibiotics for, and one case of whooping cough that she’d have to keep an eye on. Just normal, small-town aches and pains, people who needed simple care—she prayed they’d felt the connection she had when they were in the room with her.
It felt like the only real connection she had these days.
Rig and Bruno let her go, not stopping her. Naomi heard their dropped voices, and she wondered what Rig was learning about the man who had been her right hand for a year now. Falling into her father’s office chair, she touched the light purple flowers of the African violet on her desk. In the last year, she’d never watered it, not once. She’d trusted Bruno to take care of it. Paid him to do it.
Damn.
She had to go over some charts anyway. Screw eating. Naomi wasn’t hungry for lunch. Pulling out a stack of files she needed to update, Naomi lost herself in work f
or the next half hour.
She didn’t notice the time until Rig rapped on her partially open door and stuck his head in.
“Hey, Naomi?”
“Yeah?” she said, slapping together the file folder she’d just finished. A completely nonprofessional rivulet of heat ran from the top of her head to her groin at the sight of him.
“I just gave Bruno the week off.”
Her thoughts about the way the underside of his jaw looked, and what it would taste like, dissolved. “You what?”
“He needed some time off. I thought it would be good for him to go get ready to see Peter, and then have some real time to spend with him.”
Naomi could only repeat herself. “You what?”
“They’ve got big plans. Engagement is a serious business.” Rig grinned.
“But . . . we need him. He does everything around here.”
Rig twirled the retro globe she’d picked up at an antiques shop a while ago. He stopped it, his finger landing on what looked like England. “So he had the time, right?’
“He has time on the books, yes.”
The globe spun. Rig poked Guatemala. “And he needs it. We can answer phones and clean the head for a week.”
That wasn’t it. Naomi looked at her nails. “I wish I’d been the one to give it to him. He hardly ever takes time off, even when I’ve asked him to.” If Bruno needed time off, he deserved it, more than anyone she’d ever worked with. He was loyal to a fault, and he was great at his job. She leaned forward. “How much time did you give him?”
“It’s Monday today. I gave him the rest of the week. He didn’t want more.”
Folding the corner of her desk calendar, Naomi paused. Then she said haltingly, “Was he . . . happy? About that?”
“He hugged me three times. He said he was going to check in with you but I said that I was giving him a direct order to get the hell out. Nicely. As one of his bosses.”
A chime filtered through the back office, indicating that someone had come through the front door.
“You going to get that or should I? That might be a walk-in,” said Naomi, crossing her arms in front of her.
“They’ll wait till we’re done here,” said Rig, folding his arms to match hers. “We’ve been needing to talk. Are you avoiding me because of what happened between us?”
How could he be so direct? Naomi had been prepared to ignore the fact that Portland had ever happened, that their flirting here had never occurred. They were just going to work together. Like adults. She looked at her desk calendar. Almost a full month had passed without them referencing what had gone on between them. Not exactly the lifetime she’d hoped for.
“Of course not.”
“I think you are,” he said, his voice calm.
Naomi gripped the armrest of her chair and bit the inside of her lip.
Rig went on, “You hate the fact that you kissed me and almost lost control outside your house that night, and you’re going to do everything you can to avoid thinking about it again. That’s without even mentioning Portland.”
She heated, instantly. He was being ridiculous. She didn’t hate the fact that she’d kissed him, she hated the fact that now she couldn’t get away from him. Kissing him had shown terrible judgment. How had she not thought it all the way through? Naomi was nothing if not a planner. She looked down at her desk again and saw, on the right-hand corner, a list of her lists. Taking care of things, that’s what she was good at. Getting things done. Helping people feel better physically. That was her job.
“Come on,” said Rig. “You can’t deny we have great chemistry. We have to at least admit it to clear the air.”
“Chemistry. Yes. That’s what it is.” Naomi grasped at something she could name, categorize. “A physical response to external stimuli.”
Rig laughed, a low, rich sound. It wasn’t fair that he had that kind of laugh, the kind she wanted to wrap around herself. “Yeah. Kissing lowers cholesterol, did you know that?”
Naomi did, actually. “It uses thirty-four facial muscles.”
“One hundred and twelve postural muscles, most important, the orbicularis oris muscle.” His eyes dared her.
“It’s also a good vehicle for transmitting diseases.”
Rig’s dark eyes danced. “Stress reducer.”
“Vestigial premastication technique.”
“Hot,” he drawled, daring her with his gaze.
The word hit her like a blow. And damn, had he gone to school to learn that look? That intense focus that made her feel like he was seeing no one but her . . .
She stood, feeling warmth flood her kneecaps. She would not sway. This was ridiculous. “If you’re not going to check the reception area, then I am. Since we have no one to help us.”
Sweeping his arm forward, Rig motioned her to go ahead of him. “I’ll go, too.”
“Fine.”
It wasn’t fine. He was behind her now, and she was aware of only one thing: his scorching gaze resting on her rear end.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Knitting lace is a dance of air and fiber, intricate in motion, diaphanous in nature.
—E.C.
Elbert Romo stood on tiptoes at the desk, trying to peer over it. But he was so short, even with his bushy gray buzz cut standing at attention, and the desk was so tall that he looked like a child trying to peer into a high candy counter.
“There’s no one out here! Where’s Bruno?”
“He’s on vacation,” said Naomi.
Elbert’s bushy eyebrows jumped. “I didn’t know he was going on vacation,” he said.
Neither did I. “He had some things to take care of.”
“And we’re here now,” said Rig. “What can we do for you?”
Elbert smiled widely at Rig and said, “Well, now. You’re gonna love this, Doc.”
Again with the Doc thing. She’d never be called that, not with that level of affection. Naomi looked at the ground.
Elbert went on, “Every year we have a contra dance here in town. New England line dancing, only we do it here on the West Coast and have a live band, and the whole town comes, and it’s just like old times, when I was a kid on the ranch. It’s a week from Saturday. Dr. Fontaine, you’ve never been, have you?”
Naomi opened her mouth to speak, but Elbert went on without waiting for an answer. “It’s a great time. Only this year, we’re looking for donations from local businesspeople like yourself. We generally use the Eagles Hall, but because of the bathroom flood that Pete Wegman caused this week, they’re still gonna be repairing the woodwork. We on the organizin’ committee gotta find somewhere else to have it, fast, and we’ll need money to rent the place. So I’m askin’—”
Naomi interrupted, her heart in her throat. “You can have it here.”
Elbert looked around the office and laughed. “I don’t think you know how many people I’m talking, ma’am. I mean, Doctor.”
“In the health center.” A restless feeling of excitement filled her as she crossed the room to the connecting door. “In here. Look.”
Elbert and Rig followed her into the massive room. Both were quiet as she flipped on the lights.
Spinning to face Elbert, she said, “Here! Look at all this room! We can clear the tables and push them to the side, and you can put your refreshments on them, and you can have the raffle over there, by the desk, and the rest of the room for dancing with the caller and the band at the back!” Oh, yes. It really could work. It was completely unlike her to do this—something without planning, without knowing if it was really the right thing to do, but it felt good. Exciting. She wanted this.
Elbert gave her a look that was difficult to decipher until he spoke. Slowly, he said, “How did you know there was a raffle?”
Crap. She had been to the dance last year, when she first moved to town. It had sounded so wholesome, so very Cypress Hollow. Several times while they’d knitted together, Eliza had spoken of the annual town contra dance in a way that made Naomi ach
e with longing.
But going to the dance had been excruciating. She’d entered the Eagles Hall during a song, and everyone seemed to know just which way to turn. Even though the caller had been telling them what to do, Naomi didn’t even understand the language he’d been using, “Alemán left and round you go.” The dancers whirled in long lines that twisted around each other more intricately than the yarn in her lace shawl did. At the end of the song, she’d wondered if she’d be invited to dance, but she’d hung back, too nervous to step forward. In what seemed like seconds, people had switched partners, men asking women to dance, the women nodding or laughing in acceptance, and they’d re-formed, dancing again, Naomi still alone in the darkest corner of the room.
She’d escaped before anyone had said even one word to her.
She said to Elbert, “Raffle? Oh, just a good guess. Everything this town does includes a raffle, am I right?”
He nodded, then looked around the room. “It’s big, all right. And damned empty. What do you use this for again?”
“The free health center, where people can come for . . .” Her voice trailed off. “We don’t use it for much, I guess.”
Maybe it was time she started to admit that.
Naomi took a deep breath and watched Rig reexamine the room. He tugged on his chin in a way that made Naomi forget momentarily about the center and wonder what he’d look like with a beard instead of that light layer of stubble.
Probably incredible. Probably even more rugged than he did now.
Damn. He’d said something while she was staring, and she’d missed it, too busy watching his mouth move to listen.
Elbert answered him, “Well, that’s something I don’t think anyone ever asked about. Dr. Fontaine?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What was that again?”
Rig smiled at her as if he knew what she’d been thinking. “I was just asking Elbert here that if you donate the use of what’s technically your space, then would they also allow me to donate a little something.”
Elbert rubbed his hands together, his deeply lined face delighted.
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