The Knitting Diaries (18 page)

But no matter. He was an old man and his tastes were simple. He didn’t miss the money, and he loved the pets that he could save. He loved them
almost
as much as he loved Morgan McNeal—as he had loved her for decades now.

And he worried about Caro. From his conversations with
his orthopedist friend in Minnesota, he knew that Morgan’s granddaughter faced a grueling ordeal. Peter had already arranged for his friend to visit Summer Island during his yearly vacation. Peter wanted his opinion on Caro’s case, and he didn’t want Morgan to feel responsible for any cost involved. She had enough on her plate right now.

And if Morgan, stubborn as she was, didn’t like his interfering, so be it. When you loved people, you meddled. Peter Lindstrom had grown up in a big and close-knit family. Now his siblings and nieces were spread all over the globe, but they still meddled.

Out of love and caring, they protected their own. They argued and laughed and bullied. So would Peter.

But he was a wise man at seventy-two years old; he knew when to keep his meddling to himself.

His lanky teenage volunteer knocked on the door. “Sorry for the noise, Dr. Lindstrom. The Doberman escaped again. I barely caught him before he raced across the road in front of a truck. He’s in his cage now.”

The loud, incessant barking was noisy testimony to that fact.

The boy cleared his throat. “And the mail came. I…I put it on your desk.” He didn’t meet Peter’s gaze, which probably meant there was a new pile of bills. Another hit to his savings.

“No problem. I’ll have a look later.”

The tall vet rubbed his neck, pulling his thoughts back to the rear operating room, where the injured puppy was in recovery. It had been a straightforward operation. With luck and good care, the little dog would be active and ready to tackle the world again in a week.

He prayed that Caro McNeal’s outcome would be equally successful.

One week later

T
here was too much to do and not enough time to do it.

First Lieutenant Gage Grayson had three days left before his return flight to Afghanistan, and he had every second planned. He had visited his sister, who was suffering through her first bout of chemotherapy and had no other relatives. Because of the advanced stage of her cancer, Gage had asked for and been granted emergency leave to accompany her for two weeks at the beginning of her treatment.

After his stay with his sister in the hospital, Gage had made a bereavement call to the family of one of his youngest men. His sergeant had given his life to save four civilians under fire, and his heroism would never be forgotten.

With that emotional visit done, Gage had two days left to transfer his pets to the home of an old friend, who was going to care for them during the remainder of Gage’s tour in Afghanistan.

Curled up on the seat beside Gage, a big white cat looked up and meowed. A golden retriever poked his
head between the seats and licked Gage’s face with happy abandon. Since his sister had been diagnosed with cancer, she would no longer be able to take care of two active animals until after her chemotherapy was complete. So Gage had scrambled, relieved when his friend had volunteered to take over.

“Jonas will take good care of you two, I promise.”

He scratched the retriever’s head. “You both be good.” Gage was taking Bogart and Bacall to their new home—assuming that he could find the way back to the interstate. Twice he’d lost his way on the narrow coastal roads and his GPS wasn’t picking up anything in this isolated region. Gage checked his watch. He still had one more errand before he could head north to Jonas’s place. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t take long.

Through the clouds he saw a glimpse of red roofs above a harbor dotted with trawlers and a few pleasure craft. He didn’t remember seeing a town on the map. Where was he?

Gage checked his rental truck’s GPS again and muttered an oath.

Out of service area.

Didn’t that just figure?

Caro sat by the window, watching the ocean churn and froth at the foot of Summer Island’s main pier. In the weeks since the collision, she had worked hard. She had worn a full arm cast and was recently upgraded to an elbow-to-fingertip cast. Then she had begun the complex therapy recommended by her specialist, making slow but steady progress with her grandmother’s help.

She was sick of getting by with one hand. She wanted her strength and her life back. She wanted to be able to manage by herself and not keep bothering her
grandmother for help with simple tasks. And she wanted, more than anything else, to knit again.

Caro closed her eyes, feeling a physical yearning for the touch of soft silk and springy merino wool sliding through her fingers. It had been too long since she had picked up her needles, too long since she had watched colors play and twist, caught in changing patterns. Knitting had become a deep solace, a meditation in touch and color. Every day that Caro didn’t knit seemed painfully incomplete.

You couldn’t explain the feeling to someone who hadn’t felt the lure of the yarn. Caro had long since stopped trying.

The unused muscles in her right hand strained as she squeezed the soft exercise ball her specialist had given her. The movement was uncomfortable, but Caro kept right on working.

The McNeals were fighters, and Caro swore that she would be knitting before the week was out, even if all she could manage was a few sloppy stitches.

She pulled a ball of teal yarn from her knitting bag and took a deep breath. Eagerness mixed with fear as she lifted a pair of wooden needles. She had been depending on her grandmother for everything during these past weeks. It was time to push herself a little harder and see if all her exercises and therapy had begun to pay off.

Sunlight played over the big wooden table and the boxes stacked at one end. Her grandmother had been unusually frazzled on her way out that morning, turning at the door to warn Caro that she was expecting two more packages today. Or maybe she had said someone was coming to pick up two packages. Caro couldn’t remember.

She would call her grandmother to be sure. But first she had to find out how much she had lost and how far she
had to go. She needed to do that alone, without anyone who could see her frustration and fear.

Would she ever be strong again, able to do the things she had once taken for granted? She stared down at the neat rows of stitches, caught exactly where she had left them on the needle during her last project. Her hands trembled, touching the row of knitting. Every movement had seemed so easy. It had been part of her life for years. What if she never regained these soothing skills that she had taken for granted for so long?

Push, wrap and lift. Then slide off a new stitch.

Caro’s hand clenched as she slid her needle into the first stitch. But she couldn’t control the movement and, to her dismay, knocked all the stitches off. Her needle slipped free and plunged to the floor.

Never mind,
she told herself fiercely.
Try it again. Just keep going. Each time you’ll get better.

Ten minutes later Caro knew the sad truth. Even the simplest kind of knitting was beyond her. All she had to show for her struggles was an aching right hand and a pile of dropped stitches. Her fingers wouldn’t work the way they should. She had no strength and no control.

She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples with her good hand as a headache boiled across her forehead. Maybe a cup of tea would help. Her gran had left a pot with Caro’s favorite Earl Grey on the middle of the kitchen table, inside a wool tea cozy. Maybe a break was all she needed. Feeling a little more optimistic, Caro bent to lift the handle. As she did, her sleeve caught on the spout, and the beautiful blue-and-white Royal Copenhagen teapot shot across the table, fell on its side and tumbled off, shattering into pieces on the tile floor.

Caro blinked, stricken by the sight. The teapot had been her mother’s favorite, part of her parents’ wedding set. Her grandmother had wanted to use it that day to celebrate Caro’s progress and growing strength.

Now Caro had broken it, shattered it in her clumsiness and determination to do too much too soon. Maybe that was the story of her life, always pushing, always racing to be at the next destination without taking time to appreciate the place where she actually was. How strange that she had never really learned how to slow down.

Her eyes blurred with tears. She still had dim memories of the last time her mother had used the tea set, during one of her grandmother’s visits. It had been a magical afternoon, and none of them had imagined the terrible loss in their future.

Kneeling carefully, Caro collected the broken porcelain. The teapot would never hold tea, but with care and patience Caro could glue it back together, making it look like the lovely piece that her mother and father had used every Sunday afternoon. But it would be only an illusion—pretty, but unusable.

Worthless.

You couldn’t put the pieces back together again, not in any way that was functional or true. What was the point of holding on to an illusion when a thing was shattered beyond repair?

Just like her hand.

She felt blood on her finger. Tears burned her eyes as she remembered Sunday dinners around the big wooden kitchen table with the faint smell of her mother’s lavender perfume and the low boom of her father’s laughter. So many years ago, yet the pain still lingered.

The sound of a car on the driveway made her turn. She
didn’t move, clutching the small porcelain fragments in her hand. Footsteps crunched over gravel, and the front doorbell pealed a long cadence from Chopin, one of her grandmother’s favorites. Caro used her left hand to shove back her hair. Was this one of her grandmother’s friends? It wasn’t unusual for an islander to drop by without notice.

But the shadow in the window looked very tall, and when Caro opened the door the floor seemed to tilt. The man on the steps was well over six feet, his hair touched with hints of warm brown and dense mahogany. Yet what drew Caro in were his eyes, focused and clear, as if he looked at you and saw everything but judged nothing. His gaze seemed to say that he was someone you could trust to hold your life’s secrets—even your life. All of this flashed through Caro’s mind as he stood at the front door. She stared at him awkwardly, with the doorknob gripped in her left hand as a bar of sunlight fell around them.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat, frowning at her. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because that looks like an awful lot of blood on your finger.” His voice was just as calm and focused as his eyes, yet there was warmth in his low tones.

“Bleeding? Me?” Startled, Caro looked down and saw a line of blood on her palm.
Must have cut it on the teapot fragments. Funny, it didn’t hurt.
But her hand was throbbing now and she felt a little queasy. “I guess you’re right.” She opened her fingers, staring at the handful of broken porcelain pieces, angry that she had broken something so beautiful.

His eyes narrowed. “You’ve got blood on your cheek, too. Are you okay?”

“Sure.” But the truth was everything hurt suddenly. Her hand and wrist and elbow and the little spot below her shoulder blade that had been tight and knotted for weeks. Caro wondered whether they’d always hurt. She felt a little dizzy, so she put her good hand on the wall, staring at the man in the plain black turtleneck. For some reason she couldn’t stop the words that tumbled out next. “You’re very handsome.”

“Me?” He laughed good-naturedly. “No way. I’m as average as blown sand.”

Caro shook her head and tried to stop feeling so dizzy. “Sorry to be rude, but why are you here?”

“To pick up a package. This is Morgan McNeal’s house, right?” When Caro nodded he pointed down the driveway. “Look, I’ve got a medical kit in the truck. If you want, I can clean that cut for you, ma’am. I’ve got some field medical training.”

“You’re a doctor?” Somehow the image didn’t fit.

“Not a doctor. U.S. Marines.”

The air seemed heavy, charged with energy. Caro tried to clear her sluggish thoughts. “Well, thanks, but there’s no need to bother. I’m…fine. So what kind of package are you looking for?”

She saw his hands open and then he shoved them into his pockets. “A painting. I was told this was where Morgan McNeal lived, and I’ve come to pick up a painting she made for my friend. My name is Gage. Lieutenant Gage Grayson.”

The name suited him. Strong, and a little unusual. So he wasn’t actually a total stranger knocking out of the blue. But she still wasn’t ready to let him inside.

“I think my grandmother mentioned it, but I’m afraid
I wasn’t listening too carefully. Let me go look inside on the table.”

As she turned, the screen door shut, bumping her arm and making her wince. Still so clumsy. Maybe she’d always be clumsy. Maybe this was as good as it would get.

“Are you
sure
you’re okay?”

“Oh, I’m great. Just perfect, Mr. Grayson.” Caro realized her voice sounded hoarse, even a little desperate. “I mean Lieutenant. Really. Perfect.”

“How long has it been?” he asked quietly from outside the door.

“How long has
what
been?”

“Whatever happened to leave your arm in that cast and make you feel so frustrated.”

“I don’t feel—” Caro stopped and then turned back toward him. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me. Maybe not to others.”

“So why do you notice things that other people don’t, Lieutenant Grayson?”

“Just a habit. And the habit has turned into a survival technique where I’m headed.” He sighed and then glanced over at his truck. “Look, ma’am, I could come back at another time, but my schedule is tight. I fly back in forty-eight hours and I’ve got a list of things I need to do first.”

“Back where?”

Gage gave a little roll of his shoulders. He looked as if he didn’t particularly want to talk about this. There was a movement in the blue truck on the driveway and his mouth hiked up in a sudden grin. “I’m almost done, Bogart,” he called out loudly. “Hold on, boy.”

A furry head rose over the driver’s seat. A wet nose pressed against the window.

“Sit, Bogart,” Gage called.

Loud barking came from the truck.

“Sit and be good,” Gage ordered.

The barking just grew louder.

Caro hid a smile. “He’s very well trained, I see.”

“He used to be and that’s a fact. But I’ve been away for a while and he’s…excited to see me.” Gage looked a little harassed as a cell phone chimed in his pocket. When he scanned the number, his smile faded. “I need to take this. Sorry. It’s my sister and she’s been sick.”

“Of course.” Caro hesitated, watching the sun play over his shoulders. When he was done with his call, Caro held open the door. No point in being rude, she decided. “Why don’t you come in while I find your painting?”

“Glad to, ma’am.”

He had a rich voice, the kind that seeped under your skin, and Caro liked the direct way he met her eyes. But if he called her ma’am one more time, she was probably going to scream.

She was picking up the last pieces of broken pottery when he crossed the room. “Need some help with that?”

“I’m good, thanks. I’d offer you some tea—but I just smashed the pot.”

“What happened?” Gage gestured to the cast on her right arm. “Accident? Or a motorcycle crash?”

“Car. It’s been a while now, but I’m still kind of a mess.” Why had she told him that? “Sit down, Lieutenant Grayson.”

Instead of sitting, he paced the room, looking restless. He moved to the window, studying the blue stretch of the sea below. It was an arresting view and visitors almost always stopped there. While his back was turned Caro had a chance to study him closely. His military bearing
was unmistakable now, and so was a sense of contained energy. But he looked worried about something.

“Is your sister okay?”

“About the same.”

“I’m sorry.”