Last Chance Knit & Stitch (11 page)

She looked like a candidate for that reality makeover show Gillian used to watch all the time. Even so, there was something incredibly feminine about her. She looked utterly fetching standing there studying him with eyes that reminded him of the paint pigment called “ancient earth,” light brown with just a touch of tarnished copper green.

His fingers itched to touch her hair. He wanted to take her out into the sunlight and study its color. It was quite dark, but strands of burgundy and claret ran through it. She would be magnificent naked, her pale skin almost translucent except for a dusting of pale freckles.

“You going to answer my question or stand there looking shell-shocked? Because I’ll tell you something, I am definitely shell-shocked. Childbirth gives me the heebie-jeebies. So I’m kind of blown away that you just walked right in and took charge. Where did you learn to do what you just did?”

“From Coach.”

Molly rolled her eyes like a teenager. It underscored the vast difference in their ages.

“What is it about ex-Rebels?” she asked. “You all worship at Coach’s knee. And I know he’s a take-charge kind of guy, but the thing is, Coach doesn’t know crap about delivering babies.”

“Oh, that.” He looked away. He didn’t like talking about this. It was like excavating ancient pieces of himself long buried.

“Yeah, that,” Molly said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I studied medicine in college. For almost six years.”

“You’re a doctor? I thought you were—”

“I’m not a doctor,” he interrupted. “I never finished my internship or residency. And that’s all there is to discuss.”

“But—”

He held up his still-damp hand. “Molly, I didn’t do anything. When a baby has decided it’s time to be born, sometimes all you have to do is play catch.”

She chuckled. “Now you’re sounding like Coach. He’d
probably say you need a wide receiver with a good pair of hands.”

She glanced at his hands, and he had the sudden desire to hide them behind his back. Instead, he tore off a length of paper towel and dried them. “Yeah, well, as you may recall, I was not a wide receiver,” he said, dropping the damp towel into the trash can.

He checked his watch. Great. He was running late. Mother wouldn’t forgive him for being late. She had always told him that punctuality is the politeness of kings. He hadn’t really understood what she meant as a boy, but as a man, he’d learned. It was incredibly rude to waste other people’s time.

“I gotta go. I left Mother at Lillian Bray’s for the garden club meeting. But I need to pick her up before she starts to worry.”

He headed toward the front of the shop with Molly trailing after him. He got within three feet of the front door and realized he was in trouble. A surprisingly large group of females had gathered in the front of the shop. Their numbers were so large that they had spilled out onto the sidewalk. The minute he made his appearance, they started clapping.

Earlier this morning, he’d felt like a pariah in this town, blamed for things that he hadn’t done. Now they were applauding him for doing absolutely nothing but catching a baby. Jane had done the work this morning.

His face heated as he edged his way toward the door, checking his watch again. But he needn’t have bothered because the door swung open with a little jingle, and Mother came into the shop arm-in-arm with an ancient, white-haired lady wearing rhinestone-studded eyeglasses.
The old lady had been at Tuesday’s Purly Girls meeting but he didn’t remember her name.

Mother stared at him, blinking, as if she were trying to place him in time and space. The old woman with her gave him a sober look out of a pair of sharp brown eyes.

“Simon,” the old woman said, “looks like you didn’t throw all that medical training out entirely.”

“Do I know you?” he asked.

She flashed her dentures. “I’m Miriam Randall. You remember me, don’t you?”

He said nothing as the memories clicked. He remembered. Miriam Randall had been the eccentric and colorful chairwoman of the Christ Church Ladies’ Auxiliary. Which made the tableau in front of him all the more surprising, because Mother tended to look down on eccentric and colorful people. He was pretty sure there had been a time when Mother would have died before being seen arm-in-arm with Miriam Randall.

The little old lady reached out and grabbed one of his hands. Her palm was dry and slightly cool. Her hands were badly flexed with the telltale swellings common to rheumatoid arthritis, but her grip was strong and her eyes were darkly bright.

“Son, I’m mighty glad you’ve come back home. And it’s just a wonderful thing that you’ve arrived right on time.”

“Well, I didn’t do much. I—”

“Oh, I’m not talking about Jane’s baby, although I suppose it was handy that you were on the scene. Oh no, I’m talking about everything else.”

Mother cocked her head. “Simon?” she said in a quavery voice.

“Yes, Mother, it’s me.” Something eased in his chest, but not all the way. Mother stood there looking uncertain and confused.

“You know,” Miz Miriam said, “you might take down your defenses, son.”

“What?”

The old woman leaned in, and Simon felt an uncanny tremor move through him. Like when kids sit in a darkened room conjuring ghosts from out of their imaginations. He went cold for a moment.

“Sometimes,” Miriam said, “it’s not the things we’ve done that lead to regrets. It’s usually all the stuff we didn’t do.”

Her words cut a swath through him, triggering memories he had locked behind a steel door. He glanced away, right into Molly Canaday’s greeny-brown eyes. She was angry at him, he knew, but in spite of that, he found kindness there. He’d always found kindness in Molly’s eyes. Even when she’d been a little girl.

Miriam turned toward Mother. “You should be proud of your boy, Charlotte. He delivered a baby right here at the Knit & Stitch not twenty minutes ago.”

“Simon?” Mother, who never showed much emotion, had tears in her eyes. Simon didn’t know what to make of that. His own insides were threatening to unravel.

Mother took a couple of steps forward and ran her hands over his shoulders. It wasn’t a real hug. Mother didn’t do that sort of thing, not even in private. But she got close enough for him to inhale the scent of the floral soap she’d always used. It was some interesting blend of lavender and herbs, and it triggered even more memories.

But like everything in Last Chance, time had moved
on. She wasn’t really the Mother he remembered. That Mother would never cry in public. This Mother was like some facsimile of the real one. Or maybe just a memory-induced artifact of the past.

She backed away from him, her eyes suddenly alive and bright. “I’m so glad you’re home. Maybe you could talk to Doc Cooper and get a job at the clinic.”

He said nothing. Mother may have recognized him, but she was still living in that past he’d escaped a long time ago.

“Now, don’t you fret, Charlotte. I’m sure Simon will figure it out. It’s all about timing, you know.”

“What’s about timing, Miriam?” asked one of the other ladies, whose name Simon didn’t know.

“Well, love for starters. And marriage, too. In fact, you could say life is a matter of timing.”

All the ladies turned their attention toward Miriam, and that’s when Simon remembered that Miriam Randall had a reputation as a matchmaker. Oh, boy, he needed to get out of this shop and fast. The estrogen level was so high it was practically toxic.

“Uh, ladies,” he said in a big, announcement-type voice, “if you don’t mind, Mother and I have an appointment that—”

“I don’t remember an appointment,” Mother said. She turned toward Miriam. “Do you have some advice for Simon?”

“I do,” Miriam said, turning her bright eyes on him. “You know son, hindsight isn’t always twenty-twenty. Sometimes what you think you know can box you in. So even though something seems improbable, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take a risk. Like I said, sometimes it’s
not the things we do, but the things we choose not to do that make all the difference.”

Another tremor rushed through him. The old woman had just laid him bare in a couple of sentences. He needed to escape. Now.

But Mother had other ideas when he tried to steer her toward the door. She took a step and then looked back at Miriam. “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” she said. “What kind of wife should Simon be looking for?”

“The one who can change his mind,” the old woman said.

The women in the room started talking, but Simon breathed a huge sigh of relief. There wasn’t a woman alive who could change his mind about marriage.

Hours passed before Molly could extricate herself from the Knit & Stitch. Word of Jane’s delivery spread like wildfire, probably because Ruby Rhodes, the proprietor of the beauty parlor, was the new baby’s granny, and the Cut ’n Curl was the hub of all real news in town.

And then there was the surprise of the baby’s sex.

The child was not supposed to be a boy. And his arrival precipitated a run on the yarn store, not merely to see the freshly shampooed carpet where the blessed event had transpired, but mainly to buy blue yarn.

The knitters of Last Chance were in a complete dither. Pretty soon a dozen of them had congregated. They sat around the table or relaxed on the battered couch in the front of the store while they cast on projects from booties to blankets. Of course, Ricki was not that much help, except for ringing up sales and keeping Muffin, her yappy and clearly psychotic dog, from treating the skeins of cashmere as chew toys.

With all that knitting going on, of course Ricki wanted to learn, and it was in Molly’s best interests to teach her. Before she knew it, Molly was ensconced at the worktable, giving knitting lessons and answering questions about the morning’s events.

“Is he really as handsome as everyone says?” Kenzie asked.

“Who? Simon or the baby?” Molly said, feeling trapped. This is precisely what Momma wanted for her. And it was like the gods and Simon Wolfe had conspired to put Molly in her place. Although it was true that they were ringing up a lot of sales that afternoon. Heck, she was going to have to reorder more baby blue Ull superwash.

“Did you hear what Miriam Randall had to say?” Lola May asked.

“Uh, well, sort of. I mean she kind of dissed him for staying away so long, which he so deserves.”

“How can you say that? He saved Jane’s life and the baby’s, too,” Cathy Niles said.

“He didn’t save her life. He just caught the baby. Although he did that with a lot of competence and calm. Babies scare the willies out of me, but apparently they don’t bother Simon.” Molly leaned toward Ricki and pointed at her knitting. “Honey, you should be purling that row.”

“Well, I don’t want to know about his competence,” Cathy said. “I want to know what kind of woman he’s supposed to be looking for.”

“The woman who can change his mind,” Molly said.

“Huh?” All the women around the table looked up from their work.

“That’s what Miriam said. It’s not really much to go on. If you ask me, Miriam’s losing it.”

“What makes you say that?” Cathy asked. “Her forecast for Simon is probably true. He’s got to be pushing forty pretty hard, and he’s never been married. So either he’s gay or he’s just never met the woman who could change his mind.” Cathy had such a sweet faith in romance. It was sort of pitiful, really.

“Well, that’s my point,” Molly countered. “Miriam’s forecast is so vague it could be anyone. It’s hardly even advice.”

“You don’t know. It might have some deep inner meaning to Simon.”

“Right. Well, if Miriam isn’t losing it, then why did she send Savannah to deliver her forecast to me, instead of delivering it herself?” These words popped out of Molly’s mouth before her brain caught up with them.

But Molly realized her mistake a nanosecond later. All the knitting needles and crochet hooks stopped, and every single customer looked up at her.

“Miriam gave
you
matchmaking advice?” Cathy said.

“Well yeah, but it came from Savannah who said she was delivering a message from Miriam, but since when does Miriam use Savannah as a messenger?”

“What did she say?” asked Lola May.

The avid look on the faces around the table made it clear that Molly wasn’t ever going to keep this a secret. Half these women were members of the Christ Church congregation, and the other half were members of the garden club. If she didn’t tell them what Savannah said, they would ask Savannah directly, and the truth would be told.

She sighed. “All right, she told me I was destined to marry someone I’d known all my life.”

Laughter exploded around the table. “Well,” Cathy
said after catching her breath, “that’s not exactly a very startling marital fortune, is it? I mean, everyone knows you and Les are going to get married one of these days. We’re just waiting for Les to get around to making
you
change
your
mind.”

Molly stood up. “Ladies, I hate to disappoint you, but I am not going to marry Leslie Hayes. But I
am
going to go next door and see about doing my laundry.”

Molly escaped the Knit & Stitch with the laughter of her mother’s best customers still ringing in her ears. Well, they could laugh all they wanted, but Molly was not marrying Les. In fact, she wasn’t marrying anyone if she had her way. She was too busy trying to build a business to be sidetracked by romance.

Besides, she was a dunce at romance. Sex was okay, but romance was kind of icky.

She strolled into the Wash-O-Rama and started looking for the laundry she’d abandoned this morning. She eventually found it in three of those rolly metal baskets supplied by the Laundromat. It was her lucky day. She’d busted a window with a baseball bat, witnessed a birth, and no one had stolen her abandoned dirty clothes.

She rolled the laundry over to a bank of washing machines and started to fill them.

“You aren’t going to wash the jeans with the whites, are you? If you do, that handkerchief I loaned you will end up blue and that would be embarrassing for you.”

She looked up from the hankie she was holding to find its owner standing a few feet inside the Wash-O-Rama. He had changed clothes, no doubt because of the blood from this morning’s events. But the jeans still fit perfectly
and the sleeves of the blue oxford cloth shirt were turned up over his muscular forearms.