How to Knit a Heart Back Home (29 page)

Think only of Eliza.

Between a pattern for a raglan pullover and a cabled scarf was a page covered by a long paragraph.

We had to put Old Daphne down today. She was a good sheep, my sheep, one of my very favorites. She never liked Joshua, which set her apart from the other sheep. They always love him. Instead, she was ornery and grumpy and liked only me and warm, sunlit grass. And her wool was the finest we ever raised. Even spun in the grease, it was lovely, and when washed and carded, it practically spun itself. A breath was all it took to lock the twist, and it always plied up into a lofty, bouncy, strong yarn that over the years has made three of my most favorite sweaters, including the one I’m wearing in the barn as I write this. I’m watching Joshua clean out her stall, pretending the end of her life doesn’t matter to him. But it does. He’ll tell me so later, and I won’t say I told you so.

Another page, a sketch of a cardigan with a crazy zigzag collar at the top, and below:

We had to call the fire brigade out yesterday afternoon.

Lucy’s heartbeat quickened, and she held the paper closer to her eyes. What were the chances of this?

Joshua has a stronger nose than I, and he smelled smoke while we were having coffee on the back porch. We thought it was Hooper’s controlled burn up on the ridge at first, but it turned out to be a small fire in my kitchen. It started in the electrical outlet next to the stove. I can’t remember, in all my years of living on this ranch, and everything we’ve gone through, ever being that scared. I felt like a goose. I still do. Joshua was perfect—threw baking soda on it, when I would have thrown a bucket of water. The brigade came out, volunteers, all of them, and they tromped around my parlor, and they couldn’t tell us anything that Joshua didn’t already know, since he put the wiring in this house with his own two hands, but it was them being here that mattered. It calmed me down like hands on a skitterish lamb. They were exactly what I needed. I can’t imagine this valley not having that brigade, and the town would be less without their bravery.

Lucy put the paper down slowly, reverentially. It felt like a sign.

A benediction.

The next page was less yellowed, and the date seventeen years past. When Lucy saw the names mentioned, her eyes moved faster across the page than she could keep up with, and she had to reread it.

Ruby thinks her granddaughter Lucy will take over the Book Spire someday, but I’ve told her she must let her find her own way. Give her a nudge and let her make mistakes, let her make a big mess. They’re so alike, I think: Ruby never makes a single error, never shoves things around, never mixes up the colors when we’re dying fiber until she gets a big accidental brown blob like I do. Sometimes you have to mess up. I hope they both learn that. Joshua always said I mustn’t meddle, though. Let me sit here in the sun like the cat next to me and think for a minute about meddling. I like that girl and I think she’s strong and a good little writer, from what Ruby’s shown me, stories and poems. Maybe I’ll meddle, just a tiny bit. Or perhaps I’ll fall asleep in this puddle of warmth instead.

Eliza Carpenter. Writing about
her
. Lucy felt herself blush. Immortalized by Eliza Carpenter. She wanted to frame the page, and show everyone, and she wanted to keep it a secret at the same time.

The bell on the door jingled. Lucy jumped. A real customer.

“Hi, kids,” said Molly as she entered the store. “How’s everyone?”

Lucy smiled. Okay, not a real customer, but a friend, at least. Maybe they’d be able to talk about Jonas.

Molly hugged Mildred and Greta and kissed Elbert on the cheek and then approached Lucy at the counter.

“Here, your swift and ball winder. Thanks for the loan.” Molly’s voice was warm. Normal. Maybe Lucy had imagined it all the other night at the bar. Molly was flirtatious. She and Jonas were friends. There was nothing wrong with that, nothing at all.

“You’re welcome. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too.” Molly gave her a hug, hard, and she smelled of her normal citrus shampoo and jasmine body lotion. Lucy felt like she was home.

Sitting in her regular perch, the stool on the other side of the counter, Molly said, “Tell me everything. What’s up with Owen?”

Lucy hadn’t even been aware how much tension she’d been holding in her neck and shoulders but as she leaned in and caught Molly up on everything that had happened, she felt knots loosen as she spoke. Molly gasped in all the right places and said all the right things. How had Lucy gotten through all this without her best friend?

“Well, hell. And all I’ve done looking for a house for him to buy, too.”

Lucy spun on her stool and hit her elbow on the cash register. “
Ouch.
A house?”

“He said he wanted me to look.”

Raising her eyebrows, Lucy stared at Molly, who had the grace to look sheepish.

“Okay, okay, I might have badgered him just a little bit. But by the end, he did seem interested, and I told him I could get him into something fast. But there’s actually not much moving in town right now, nothing in his price range, just a Victorian with water damage, and a Craftsman on Clement that’s torn up and infested with rats.”

“Oh, God.”

“What?”

“That’s his childhood home. The one on Clement.”

Molly pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. And then, like Molly always did, she moved into devil’s advocate. “Okay. So he opened a door and looked out a window. That’s not cool, at all, but he wanted to make sure you hadn’t killed anyone. Of course, he probably knows as well as we do that going through your things isn’t going to tell him whether you’re trustworthy or not.”

“Why not just check my criminal record?”

“Wouldn’t you mind that just as much?”

“Well, yeah, but then I wouldn’t know. Victimless crime.” Lucy frowned. Molly wasn’t being very encouraging.

Greta said something at the table and Mildred hooted with laughter. Elbert clapped his hands, and then they huddled together again, whispering.

Molly went on, “And he doesn’t want you to run into burning buildings, but none of us do. That’s because we love you.”

“That’s because he’s a control freak.”

“Or . . .” Molly touched her arm. “Because he’s always been the one doing all the saving. And suddenly he can’t. You ever thought of that? That maybe that’s his real problem? That maybe he was looking for an external reason not to trust you to make it easier to justify his feelings?”

Lucy leaned back. “That’s not fair.”

“And holding a gun on Silas was just him trying to regain some of what he’s lost. Period. And he was showing off, just like any other man. Like when Jonas does that Tom Cruise flip of the tequila bottle before he pours a shot. Does he really need to do that? He wastes money in booze every time he does it, as the liquor hits the floor, but he does it anyway. . . .” Molly gazed up into the ceiling vaults, where the sun danced in motes of dust.

Lucy stared.

Molly was dating Jonas. She really was.

But Molly didn’t seem to notice Lucy’s sudden mood change. “Lord, I have to pee. I’ll be right back. You think about that man in the parsonage. I think he’s something different, and I think you could be good together. That’s all I’m saying.”

As Molly went in the back, the door opened for the next person.

“Yoo-hoo! Hello!”

Whitney. Fantastic. Just what Lucy needed. The sour icing on one crappy cupcake of a day.

Whitney looked like Donna Reed come to life. She carried a small red basket that matched her black dress covered in red cherries. Her hair was curled so that it made a delightful flip against her shoulders. Even her lipstick was perfect: a pale, pearly pink.

“I’m just popping in to—good grief, Lucy.” Her head swiveled slowly, looking around the store, which apart from the three gossiping quietly at the table, was empty. “Where are your customers?”

Lucy’s hackles went up immediately. “It’s a quiet time of day.”

“Well, it
shouldn’t
be. The ladies’ auxiliary just got out—you should know things like their routine and be offering them something for stopping by. And after three o’clock this afternoon, the Kiwanis let out, and I usually bake them something special. You could offer them a special discount on magazines or something. I’ll make you up a list of who does what in town.”

Lucy wanted nothing more than to let her knees bend, to fold herself into the small space behind the cash register and pretend she wasn’t even there, but instead, she didn’t. She imagined Eliza. Eliza never would have let her get away with that. Eliza had thought she was strong.

“I’d appreciate that, Whitney.” Instead of tasting like ash, as she’d thought the words would, the sentence made Lucy feel lighter, freer.

Whitney grinned. “Great. I’ll bring it to you. Anyhoo, I have a surprise and a bigger reason for being here than just bringing a basket of snickerdoodles. There should be . . . just behind me . . .”

She looked over her shoulder at the door, which flew open to reveal Thomasina, Whitney’s sole employee, who came in carrying plates and platters of cookies and baked goods. Lucy thought Elbert Romo’s eyes might pop out of his head.

Mildred and Greta started giggling. They were in on something, the sneaks. Lucy felt something sneak up the back of her spine, a warning.

Trixie Fletcher, the local reporter for the
Cypress Hollow Independent,
came in next, mumbling into what looked like a voice recorder.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Lucy didn’t like surprises. She didn’t even like going to other people’s surprise birthday parties, because she didn’t like the feeling of stress it gave her waiting for the guest of honor to show up.

And exactly
where
had Molly escaped to? Lucy realized she hadn’t heard the telltale creak of the bathroom door.

Whitney placed a huge plate on the table and whipped off the fabric covering it, revealing a staggering pile of chocolate-chip cookies, steam still rising. Lucy felt her traitorous stomach growl.

Lucy walked toward the plate of cookies that called louder than the town’s volunteer fire brigade siren. They smelled better than anything Lucy had ever smelled before, creamy butter and intoxicating vanilla, and deep, dark chocolate.

And even while her head screamed at her to stand up for herself, to not roll over like this at the first hint of chocolate chips, she couldn’t stop herself.

Whitney was a drug dealer. That was it.

And she still didn’t know what was happening. But it didn’t matter.

Whitney knew it, too. She smiled and appeared totally satisfied. She pushed the cookie plate out of Elbert’s reach, who already had a cookie in his mouth and one in each hand, toward Lucy.

“Still warm.”

Lucy nodded and reached for the closest one.

This was the best cookie she’d ever had. It was so good that it was totally worth making nice on a permanent basis with Whitney. In fact, why weren’t she and Whitney closer friends? She couldn’t remember now.

“Honey,” Whitney said as she put one long, slim arm around Lucy’s shoulders, “You remember when I told you that you and Owen were heroes?”

Lucy choked on a cookie crumb and nodded.

Trixie walked up to them, holding the recorder almost under Whitney’s chin.

“And remember when I said that you and I should partner up and do more things together, the bookstore and the bakery? Together, as a team?”

“Um . . .”

“Today is that day!”

And the marching band entered the store.

Chapter Twenty-seven

One of the nicest things about knitting is that you can hear all the wonderful sounds going on around you.

—
E. C.

B
oth the front and side doors burst open at the same time and a blast of noise entered as two halves of the high-school marching band played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” meeting to convene in between Self-help and Literary Fiction.

“Whitney’s Bakery brings a hero’s celebration to the Book Spire, in honor of Lucy Harrison and Owen Bancroft!” shouted Whitney over the music.

“Are you
insane?
” Lucy yelled.

Whitney beamed as Mildred, Greta, and Elbert climbed carefully up onto the nearest bookstore pew, holding onto one another, to watch. The marching band filed in, filling up the children’s section. The tuba player took out a spinner rack of Richard Scarry books without noticing.

Behind the band, a line of people entered the store. First came Lucy’s family—all of them. Toots and Bart, huge smiles wreathing their faces. Her father, in particular, looked as if he might fall right over, his chest was so puffed full of pride. Lucy knew it was all for her. And in the midst of a wave of what felt like near panic, she realized she’d never, ever seen her father look like that before. A lump centered in the middle of Lucy’s chest and then moved to her throat, and when Whitney put her thin hand in hers, she clutched it gratefully.

Behind her parents came her brothers. Jonas winked at her and stood behind their mother near the metaphysical section. Silas winked at Whitney—
Whitney
?—and stole a cookie from the table before grabbing a book from the gardening section and starting to read.

More people flowed in. It was as if Tillie’s and the ice-cream shop and the drugstore had been tipped on their sides and emptied all at once into the Book Spire, as if all of Main Street had been lured in by the scent of Whitney’s baking and the oompah-sound of the band which had now switched, for whatever reason, into playing the theme song from
Rocky
.

Then Cade MacArthur entered, carrying little Lizzie on his shoulder. Behind him came Abigail. A cheer went up as she entered.

Lucy went even redder than she already was. She felt her hand going clammy in Whitney’s, but Whitney held tight.