Heath's Hope (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 5) (6 page)

Miss Sticky gave her a knowing look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get back into Heath’s good graces.”

Ridiculous.

Miss Julia clapped her hands together. “Well. We’ve all got a lot of work to do. Sticky and I have to design six projects, and you”—she met Hope’s eyes— “have to learn to knit.”

Knit? Her? Oh, no. No. Not going to happen.

An hour later, Hope sat on the sofa in front of String’s fireplace knitting. Damn it all to hell. She needed to be working on an ad, checking with Robin over at The Café Down On The Corner about soup lunches, and calling Valerie about the website. But here she sat, jamming her needle into one loop after the other.

“Don’t attack the yarn, Hope.” Miss Sticky’s voice was low and smoothing. “Find your rhythm. Let it relax you. Yes. That’s better.”

Almost against her will, Hope let herself go with it. Gradually, she pushed the knitted stitches off her needles until they became a solid piece.

• • •

Heath stared at the small jack-o’-lantern on his worktable. He ought to put it away and work on the feather chandelier. Why he was bent on finishing it, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t as if he was going to give it to Hope after she’d lent the sisters money to spite him, and especially after she’d run out on him after they’d had sex. Still, he hated to leave something unfinished. He was reaching for his soldering iron when his cell phone rang.

He checked to see who was calling, since only about a dozen people had the number. Bradley Stanton. No choice but to answer that.

“Hello, sheriff,” Heath said.

“I hate to call you during shop hours,” Brad said. “I tried to run down one of the Beaufords, but Jackson’s in Nashville, and Gabe and Rafe aren’t answering.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got help today.”

“Jimpson’s over on the library steps. You know that if I see him, I’ll have to arrest him, and I don’t want to.”

Jimmy Simpson, the high school janitor, had left town an eighteen-year-old golden boy and returned from Vietnam broken in ways that would never be fixed. He was known for disrobing in public places from time to time.

“I’m on it.”

Heath reached into his filing cabinet drawer for the T-shirt and sweatpants that he kept just for this recurring occasion.

“Got to go,” he said to his new apprentice, Wynn. “Close up at five. Work on your window. I’ll look at it in the morning.”

She was probably frustrated. He knew that because he’d been where she was. It couldn’t be any fun dusting the shop and cleaning up after him, but that was a personal problem and one he didn’t have time for.

Heath pulled his Jeep in front of the library, all the while praying that Jimpson hadn’t chosen to go on walkabout this time. The townspeople were used to it, but the tourists who came to Beauford to shop tended to find a naked man tricked out like a Greek statue unnerving.

Ah, there he was. Today, he was posed with a Frisbee in his hand like the
Discus Thrower
—which meant he was partially bent over with his left hand on his right knee, which somewhat hid his genitalia. When Jimpson was in a
David
or
Hermes
kind of mood, nothing was left to the imagination. Really, when you thought about it, it was pretty clever of Jimpson to cover himself in chalk powder to mimic alabaster.

Not that he really looked like alabaster. But he didn’t move, even though Heath stood a foot from him; you could give him credit for that.

“Don’t you think it’s getting a little cold for this?” Heath tossed the sweatpants and Jimpson caught them. Generally, when addressed directly, he’d respond.

“Maybe.” He put the pants on and reached out for the shirt. “I guess you’re here to take me home.”

“I guess I am. Where’s your stuff?” Sometimes Jimpson knew where he’d left his clothes and jar of chalk powder, and sometimes he didn’t.

“Behind that tree.” Jimpson pulled the shirt on, and Heath retrieved Jimpson’s faded red and gold gym bag that was so old you could barely make out “Beauford High Broncos” printed on the side.

“Are you hungry?” Heath asked as he started the car.

“No, thank you,” Jimpson said. “The lunch ladies made chicken pot pie today, and I put chili in the Crock-Pot before I left for work this morning.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it better than I do,” Heath said.

Jimpson nodded. “In so many ways.”

Most people said things like that and waited for a response, in which case they would have to wait forever because Heath never responded. But he knew Jimpson would say what was on his mind, or he wouldn’t.

“I saw you leaving Piece by Piece last night, but you didn’t see me.”

Oh, hell. This was one of the times he was going to say what was on his mind.

“You were storming down the street,” Jimpson said cheerfully.

How did one storm down the street? Heath didn’t ask.

“Yep. You were mad. I take that as a good sign. I got to thinking. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you demonstrate much of any emotion. I know Hope’s back in town. She didn’t go to Beauford High, but she grew up here. She was always real sweet.”

Yeah. He’d thought so, too until he hadn’t.

“Nickolai told me she moved into Noel’s old apartment.”

Thank you, Nickolai, for demonstrating once again how effectively you can spread the news of the world.

Jimpson didn’t say anything for a few blocks—for so long that Heath began to believe he wasn’t going to say anything else.

But then Heath pulled up in front of the neat little frame house Jimpson had grown up in, and as he opened his door, Jimpson got the last word. “I figure if Hope has the ability to make you that mad, she has the ability to make you happy. That would be good to see.”

Jimpson might be damaged, but he damned sure wasn’t stupid.

But neither was Heath; there was no way he was risking his heart again.

After leaving the bank on Thursday, Hope went straight to the hospital to visit her father for a few minutes before eagerly going to String, where Miss Sticky and Miss Julia were waiting to give her another lesson.

By now, she had a respectable knitting sampler—rows of knits, purls, and mixtures of the two in different combinations. She was most proud of the cable stitch Miss Julia had just taught her. Oddly, knitting wasn’t so different from making a spreadsheet. Everything was methodical and orderly. If you followed the rules and didn’t make mistakes, you ended up with something functional.

“I want to make something hard,” she told Miss Julia. “A sweater. I can do that. I know how to do that cable stitch now.”

Miss Julia shook her head. “No. You aren’t ready for a sweater—though you have made good progress. Maybe we’ll start you on a pair of these tomorrow.”

Miss Julia held out a picture of what looked like gloves, but they didn’t have fingers.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Hope said. “Half gloves?”

“Fingerless mitts. They’re called
Must-Have Mitts
[e-developer: insert link to free knitting pattern in back of book
] because they’ll keep your hands warm but leave your fingers free to text. And look how cute they are with the cable stitch running down the side.”

“That’s brilliant! And I can start right now. I already know how to do the cable stitch.”

“You do,” Miss Julia said. “But you need to practice some more before starting a project. Why don’t you cast on and do that now?”

“Fine!” Hope said defiantly. “But I don’t see why I can’t go ahead and start the mitts. After all, I
Must-Have
them.”

“Yes, you must. I can see that but Julia’s right,” Miss Sticky said. “It’s not time yet, but you can choose some yarn for them.”

Hope rose and went to survey a display of soft pastels. She picked up a skein of baby pink that was so soft it almost whispered.

“No,” Miss Sticky said firmly and took it from her. “That isn’t your yarn.” She held out a different skein. “This is your yarn.”

And it was. Hope knew immediately that the variegated yarn in rich, autumn tones was hers. This yarn didn’t whisper anything. It laughed, loved, and jumped into piles of leaves.

“Merino wool and mulberry silk,” Miss Sticky said. “Delicate and fine, but strong, too.”

“I’ll take it all,” Hope said.

Miss Sticky shook her head. “You don’t need it all. You only need enough for the Must-Have Mitts. By the time you finish, another yarn will find you. Do you see now? How the yarn has a life of its own? How you partner with it to making something beautiful?”

She did see.

“Can I have one more skein than I need for the mitts? I need to make my practice piece with that.”

“Yes.” Miss Sticky nodded. “I understand that.”

• • •

What the hell. Hope was
knitting
? Heath could see her through the window of String. And she had her shoes off.

He ought to walk on by. Really.

But like a robot, he knocked on the door. Hope didn’t look up, but Sticky unlocked the door.

“Ah, Heath. I’m glad you’re here. Julia and I have a couple of bookkeeping questions. We’ll go back to the office and get that paperwork together. Why don’t you visit with Hope for a few minutes before you come back?”

“What do you want?” Hope asked when he went to stand over her—but she didn’t look up.

You.
And maybe he would have her—in his bed, if not his heart.

“I don’t want anything. I came to go over the books.”

“I thought you did that Tuesday.”
The night we made love.

“No. I came here to do it then, but I didn’t stay. I came to find you instead.”

She glanced up at him briefly before looking back at her knitting. “And that went well, didn’t it?”

Heath made it a practice to never respond to what he perceived to be sarcasm, because his perception was far from foolproof.

“Since when did you become a knitter? You always said it was a waste of time to make things.”

She finally looked up at him. And she did that thing where she dropped her head and looked up until she forced him to meet her eyes. “A few days ago. You might want to tell Miss Sticky and Miss Julia if a customer offers to buy all of something, it’s bad business to tell them that they don’t need it.”

“No. Artisans don’t take advantage of their customers’ enthusiasm. It breaks trust.”

“Even if it’s bad for business?”

“Even then.”

“I don’t understand you people.”

“You never did. I could be the star witness at a congressional hearing about that. Did
you
offer to buy all of something?”

She stuck out her bottom lip and her eyes went mean. “Maybe. What if I did?”

“Why are you knitting?”

She sighed and finally laid her needles and yarn aside. “If you must know, I have talked the ladies into doing a series of lunchtime classes where the customers will leave with a finished Christmas ornament—hopefully one they like so much that they’ll buy the supplies to make a few more before the next class.”

Not a bad idea. “Good luck getting them to charge for the classes. I’ve been preaching that for years.”

She set her mouth in a hard line and jutted her jaw out. “They’ll charge. I’m running this show, and I’m going see to it.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re knitting.”

“Blackmail. They’re making me learn. Though I admit, I don’t hate it. I might even make something. Someday. Possibly. When I get time.”

She was itching to make something. Dying to. He could see it in her eyes.

“Why are you doing all this?” he asked. “Not the knitting. Helping Sticky and Julia.”

She closed her eyes. “I owe it to them to help recoup the money I lent them. You were right. I was mad at you for giving away my jack-o’-lantern, and I wanted to spite you. I can’t even pretend I meant well. I didn’t think it through enough for that. I shouldn’t have done it.”

This left Heath lost at sea. She’d said she was sorry before, but
sorry
never impressed him. Words were cheap and overrated. Taking action and carrying through was what counted. And for all Hope’s faults, it wasn’t in her to fail to carry through. Well, except for that one time when it meant the most.

But he couldn’t say all that, couldn’t have found the words even if he’d wanted to.

So he went for the knife to the jugular. “That wasn’t your jack-o’-lantern anymore. You left it.”

She nodded. “You’re right. I did.”

She was clearly waiting for his response. It would be a long wait, because he was not having this conversation, even if he had started it. Most people thought if you opened a can of worms you had to deal with the fallout, but really all you had to do was refuse to participate and change the subject.

“I need to hear about these classes.”

“Hear what?”

“The cost analysis. The other particulars. I want to be sure it’s feasible.”

“Why do you get to decide that?”

“Because I have a successful artisan business and you don’t. Because I’ll be here worrying over String when you’re gone.” And that’s all the
becauses
he intended to give her.

To his surprise, she nodded. “That’s fair.”

“Then let’s get on with it.”

She went back to her knitting. “No. I’m not doing it right now. I have knitting to do. Go answer Miss Sticky’s questions.”

What?
Heath rarely dealt with people who told him no. Not only had she told him no, she wasn’t looking at him or thinking about him.

“When?” he asked.

She looked up from her knitting, like she was startled to find him still there.

“When what?”

“You damned well know. When can I see this marketing plan of yours?”

She knitted a few more stitches. And then a few more. Fine. He’d stand here all night if he had to.

Finally, she spoke, though she didn’t look up. “Meet me here tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. I’ll run it by you then.”

Later, when he came out of the back office, she was gone.

He wanted to kick the wall.

I’m not nervous. I have no reason to be nervous.

Hope sat at String knitting. Miss Julia had let her start the Must-Have Mitts, and she had knitted enough that the pattern had established itself. It would be so easy to get lost in the magic of watching simple yarn fall off her needles into what would be a garment that, if cared for properly, would last for generations.