How to Knit a Heart Back Home (8 page)

Lucy watched Owen’s face go from completely unguarded to totally closed and spitting furious in the space of half a second. It was frightening, like watching a lightning storm move in over the ocean.

Whitney was still snapping pictures, the flash bouncing around the room, making Lucy’s head hurt. She couldn’t smile. Probably shouldn’t smile. More people had followed Whitney into the room, kids laughing, carrying red plastic cups full of the toxic punch.

“What the
fuck
, Whitney?” snapped Owen.

“We heard you were in here with an A student, just wanted to document it for posterity,” she trilled. “Don’t worry, darlin’, it’s all in fun.”

Owen’s eyes met Lucy’s for one desperate instant, and for that one second Lucy was sure that he’d felt the same thing that she had, that his heart had been beating as hard as hers, with the same amount of passion that wasn’t just lust stirred by youth and hormones, but by something more.

Lucy covered her mouth with her hand and ran out of the bedroom just as Owen said, “Whitney, you’re a fucking bitch.”

He followed her out of the room and into the living room, Whitney on his heels.

And there, in the middle of the party, in the living room, where the only kids who hadn’t witnessed her humiliation had been, if not dancing, then swaying to the music, Lucy threw up, splashing Randall Lawson with green punch and bile.

Giggles followed, laughter turning to full-blown drunken roars. It would be legend by Monday morning and carved in stone by her senior year. Lucy’s head spun. Her eyes felt wobbly, and her legs followed suit as she stumbled outside into the front yard, desperate to go home.

“It was the lead photo in the
Moments We’d Like to Forget
section of the yearbook. Whitney submitted it. Me, in my fuchsia net dress, vomiting all over the outgoing seniors, the juniors watching. Me, with a whole year to go. I still can’t believe they printed it.”

Molly’s cup was suspended halfway to her lips. “But what about Owen? He took you home? And?”

“Oh, yeah. He took me home, all right. He put me in the front seat of his blue Mustang. Held my hand all the way to my house. I sat there praying for the courage to tell him that I loved him, that he meant everything to me, but instead I worried too much that he’d try to kiss me when I’d just thrown up, so when he pulled up, I ran inside and slammed the door. He left the next day, left town completely and pretty much never came back. Never called, never left a note. . . .”

“
Vile
.”

Lucy took a sip of her latte and shrugged. “I thought so at the time, but really, we were just kids. Right? But you can see why I was—”

“So madly in love with him? Oh, yeah. You’re in trouble, for sure. And . . .” Molly leaned sideways so that she was looking just to the left of Lucy.

“What?” asked Lucy.

“You might want to . . .”

Lucy turned, but she already knew. The front door was still swinging, and Owen was three bar stools down from them. He leaned forward, one hand on the top of the bar, the other stuck in the pocket of his black leather jacket that looked as well-worn as his jeans.

Her heart rattled like the dice in the cups Jonas carried toward them.

Jonas thumped them down in front of Lucy and Molly. “Wanna play?”

Molly shook her head. “I always lose at Bullshit. Which is ironic, because I’m so good at it in real life.”

“Nah,” said Lucy. “Too rich for my blood.” Then she waited for Jonas to go back and serve Owen.

Instead, Jonas started washing glasses.

Owen took his other hand out of his pocket and put it on top of the bar also. He cleared his throat.

“Jonas,” started Lucy. This wasn’t like her brother.

“What?” Jonas said.

“Can I get an Anchor Steam down here?” Owen’s voice was polite, but firm.

Jonas folded his lips together and nodded, without looking at Owen. He drew a beer and slid it across the bar, accepting payment without ever appearing to make eye contact.

“Thanks,” said Owen.

Jonas jerked his chin in response and returned to stand in front of Lucy and Molly.

“What’s your problem?” hissed Lucy, hoping the sound of the jukebox covered her voice.

Jonas shrugged. “Nothing.”

Lucy felt the pulse at the front of her throat beat wildly as she turned as casually as she could. “Hi,” she called down the bar stools.

“Hey there.” Owen half smiled, but there was a reserve to him, a set to his mouth that Lucy didn’t blame him for. Jonas had been deliberately rude, and Lucy was embarrassed.

Lucy wanted desperately to ask him to move down and join them, but she couldn’t seem to make her vocal cords say the words. Her mouth opened and closed. She knitted faster.

“Come down here and sit with us,” said Molly.

Lucy smiled.

Jonas harrumphed and went into the back room, where he started rearranging kegs with thumps and bangs.

“I’m Molly,” Molly said, turning on her signature full-wattage smile, “and that’s Silas over there.”

Silas barely looked up from his book before dropping his eyes back to the page.

Lucy found that her voice worked again. “You’ll have to forgive my brothers,” said Lucy. “One has no social graces. And the other one, well, he has no social graces either.”

Molly smiled. “Silas wouldn’t notice if a bomb went off in here.”

“If the bomb made him lose his place, he’d notice. But not until then,” Lucy agreed. She turned the row on her sock, flipping the yarn, and noticed that Owen was watching her hands. She was conscious of the way her fingers were moving in a way she usually never was.

“So Owen, I hear you’re the local black sheep, returned to pasture.” Molly cocked an eyebrow.

Owen’s eyes darted to Lucy’s, but then he nodded. “Yep. The proverbial bad penny.”

That wasn’t right, thought Lucy, but correcting Molly would make it worse. Owen was neither of those, not a black sheep returning nor a bad penny turning up. He was just a man coming home.

But before she could say something, the door to the bar swung open with a bang. Whitney Court entered, holding a large plate covered with cookies.

“Hello, darlings!” Whitney’s voice was a trill. “I went a little overboard in the butterscotch-pecan-cookie department tonight right before I closed, and I thought you all might like a little sample of my wares.”

Silas’s head rose from his book so fast Lucy thought he might get whiplash. Owen said, “Cookies?” Molly grinned. Jonas poked his head out from the back room. And the two drunk college guys who had been arm wrestling over who got to break the rack on the next game of pool unlocked hands and tripped over each other in their haste to get to Whitney.

The eponymous Whitney’s Bakery sat next door to Lucy’s bookstore. Lucy was used to people tromping through her store, a muffin in one hand, a fancy caramel latte in the other, browsing books with sticky fingers. And even though she kept trash cans at the front of the store just to catch their empty wrappers, she still found cookie crumbs behind the biography section and empty coffee cups perched on the romance shelves.

The college boys slapped each other’s hands in their rush to grab a cookie, elbowing each other out of the way. They were obviously drunk and they were making Lucy uncomfortable, but Whitney seemed relaxed. She always seemed at home around men. It drove Lucy crazy.

“Oh, now, boys. There’s plenty for everyone.” Whitney’s laugh was gorgeous, light and silky. She wore a sweet pink dress with a full skirt, cinched with a red belt. The wide red headband that held back her long chestnut brown hair matched her red belt, as did her red patent kitten heels. She looked perfectly sexy and wholesome at the same time, and as usual, Lucy felt a mixture of both admiration and jealousy, and didn’t like either feeling.

Whitney held the plate in front of Silas, who was still seated at his booth. “Cookie, Silas?”

He nodded, the bobbles on the end of the earflaps on his cap bouncing up and down.

“My darling, you have to say the magic word.”

Lucy felt heat rise to the top of her head, and she inhaled sharply. It wasn’t that Silas had a speech impediment, or that he stuttered. He just didn’t like to talk. And no one made him, no one
told
Silas he had to talk.

No one, that was, except for Whitney, who was drawing the plate back away from Silas’s outstretched hand.

“What’s that teensy little word, you handsome brute?”

Lucy looked at Jonas for help, but he only seemed amused, the traitor.

Silas frowned, a deep furrow across his forehead. Then he finally muttered, “Please.”

“That’s it! There, now was that so hard? You can have
two
cookies for that, you sexy thing, you.” Whitney smiled in triumph and looked up at Lucy.

“Oooh! The gang’s all here! Goodie! You have to have one of these.” The skirt of her dress swayed, a full bell, showing off her shapely legs to full advantage as she brought the plate to Lucy.

Whitney’s eyes never met Lucy’s, though—she was too busy staring at Owen. Holding the cookies dangerously high under Lucy’s nose, she said, “The rumors are true, then.”

Owen leaned backward, his elbows resting against the bar, his head at an angle. Lucy couldn’t read his face. “Depends on what they’re saying.”

“That Owen Bancroft is back in town to stay.”

“Sounds like a rumor to me.”

“So you’re only passing through?”

“Not planning on sinking my roots in too deep.”

Whitney said to Lucy, “Do you mind?” and gave her the plate to hold.

Lucy looked at Molly, who rolled her eyes. Twisting, Lucy placed the cookies on the bar behind her. Jonas snatched three of them, scarfing two before Lucy could even snarl at him.

Whitney stood directly in front of Owen, placed her hands on her hips, and struck a pose. “Do you remember me? I’m sure you do. I’m positive you couldn’t forget.”

Owen pressed his lips into a thin line and crossed his arms. “Can’t say that I do.”

Lucy felt a wild surge of relief. He didn’t remember that party, then, if he didn’t remember Whitney. Maybe he didn’t remember that night. Or that kiss at all.

“Oh, you! I know you do.” Playfully smacking his knee, Whitney said, “Come on, remember the tree house?”

A grin broke across Owen’s face. “I’m just teasing you. Of course I remember you, Whitney. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh!” Whitney gave a small, well-pitched noise that sounded like something Cinderella might have intoned if the prince had slapped her bottom. “You’re so bad. I believed you for a minute! That was just awful of you. I shouldn’t let you have a cookie at all. But it is good to see you again. We have to catch up. Maybe all of us can go out sometime. Get some dinner?” She looked at Lucy and Molly. “Wouldn’t that be fun?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to Owen and said, “Now, tell me everything you’ve done since I last saw you. I have all the time in the world.”

Lucy spun around on her bar stool. It was enough that she was going to have to hear it, but to have to watch it was just too much. Sure, history repeated itself, but did high-school history have to? Because that wasn’t fair for anyone.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she said to Molly, who was texting someone on her phone.

“What?” Molly glanced up, smiling. “Okay.”

“Are you setting up a date for after I leave or something?”

Molly looked guilty.

“Oh, my God,” said Lucy, “I was kidding.”

“I’m sorry. Theo’s into me right now. I mean, he will be,” Molly looked at her watch. “In about . . .”

Lucy held up her hand. “Stop. I don’t want to know. I’ll be right back.”

In the bathroom, Lucy took a minute to compose herself. It was fine that Owen was out there with Whitney. They were all adults now. Lucy was used to dealing with Whitney—they had to work on the Chamber of Commerce together, and they were co-chairs on the Christmas Lighting Committee every year. Whitney’s saccharine smile was something Lucy had learned to suck up as a responsible member of society.

Just because Whitney had been instrumental in her humiliation on what had been the worst night of her high-school career didn’t negate the fact that the same night had also been the night that Owen Bancroft had kissed her.

Lucy leaned in toward the mirror. Same brown eyes, flecked with hazel bits at the edges of the iris. Funny, she’d had these eyes then, when he’d kissed her, when he’d taken her hand and moved her firmly across the line from girl to woman, with just that kiss. It hadn’t taken more than that. Maybe she was extra naïve, but when her other friends were busy giving their boyfriends hand jobs and having sex in the backs of their parents’ cars, Lucy had been content in the knowledge that the one thing she had that they didn’t have was the one perfect kiss.

And now, seventeen years later, looking into the same plain brown eyes that hadn’t changed a bit, she wondered the same thing she’d been wondering at random moments over the years—how many other girls had felt the same way about a kiss from Owen Bancroft? Was the Central Coast of California littered with them? Girls who still, years later, pined for the perfect kiss?

Or on the other hand, maybe the coast was littered with girls who had figured out way back then what Lucy hadn’t—that it had just been a plain old regular kiss, nothing to write home about, and Lucy had made too big a deal about it then, just like she was doing now, thinking about it at all.

God, she was pathetic.

Lucy pulled open the door of the bathroom.

In the small hallway, Owen leaned against the wall, as if he was waiting for her.

“What are you doing?” Lucy hated the thin sound of her voice.

“I was wondering if you’d decided whether or not to rent to me.”

Even the very rumble of his voice did things to her insides. She remembered that from tutoring him. She hadn’t grown up at all, had she?

“Why my parsonage? Have you looked at other places?” Lucy felt cornered, and gauged whether she’d be able to slip past him, whether she’d fit around him in the narrow hall. Or whether she’d touch him moving past, and what that would do to her . . . No, better to stay here.