Last Chance Knit & Stitch (22 page)

This time, the house was quiet. Daddy’s Taurus was in the driveway so he knew Mother had gotten back from her meeting. As usual, Angel had everything under control. Simon entered the big, formal foyer. It was dark in here, but a light gleamed from the kitchen. And the sound of laughter was coming from that general direction.

Simon stood riveted to the wide, butternut plank flooring for the longest of moments, listening to his mother laughing. Out loud. With abandon.

He had to investigate. Mother had never been a big fan of people who laughed out loud, not even in private. Mother always kept her emotions under wrap.

The kitchen in the house bore little resemblance to the one Simon remembered. Mother had spared no expense redoing it. The place gleamed with stainless-steel appliances, granite countertops, slate flooring, and white farmhouse cabinets. Arlo Boyd had practically salivated over the kitchen. He’d said it made up for the pitiful laundry room, with its ancient washer and broken dryer. He said the house would bring good money when Simon was finally allowed to list the place for sale.

Right now, Mother was sitting on a stool at the center island. She was sipping what appeared to be a strawberry milk shake through a straw. And in between sips, she was giggling—giggling!—at Angel, who was juggling three bananas.

Simon had seen Angel’s juggling prowess before. It was impressive. His assistant had a dream of running away one day and joining Cirque du Soleil. Angel said the circus costumes were to die for.

Mother startled the minute Simon walked into the room. Angel stopped juggling.

“You’re early,” Angel said.

“Who are you?” Mother said.

And something snapped. “Mother, you know good and well who I am. It’s Simon, your son. Angel, here, is my assistant.”

“You are not my son.”

“I most certainly am. I’m sorry you don’t remember me. Probably because you never had much time for me after I reached the age of eight or so, unless it was to tell me what was expected of me. And when I failed to do the expected, you simply forgot I existed.” The last words came out hoarse and angry.

He took a giant breath, turned, and walked out of the kitchen. The moment had come and gone. And he’d been the one to destroy it. This is what came from getting angry. But who the hell was he angry with? Mother? Luke? Coach?

Or was it only himself?

Molly slipped into the side door, intent on reaching her bedroom before running into Coach. Because if she ran into him she might just give him a piece of her mind. He seemed to think she was still a little girl or something. What gave him the right to warn Simon off? If she wanted to have a fling with a handsome, older, experienced man, it was her own damn business, not Coach’s.

Of course, she’d be an idiot to have a fling with Simon, but lust was pretty toxic to brain cells. And there wasn’t any doubt that she had developed a first-class case of lust. And that meant it couldn’t possibly be anything so childish as a crush. Like that time in high school when she’d become infatuated with her English teacher.

Crushes were not usually mutual. But Simon had enjoyed that kiss as much as she had. Not to mention the way he’d sweet-talked her out of her panties.

And that just wasn’t fair—not if he had already been warned off by Coach. Heck, he was the one who started it by getting naked. Where did he think it would go?

Damn. It was really a toss-up as to whom she was most annoyed with. Either way she just needed some alone time in her bedroom. Maybe she could sit quietly, like the book said, and empty her mind, while simultaneously achieving a transcendent moment of mindfulness. Or maybe she could find something unbreakable to throw.

Her plans unraveled the moment she walked through the door. Coach was sitting at the kitchen table all alone. The kitchen was semi-dark, illuminated only by the small utility light above the stove. He had a shot glass in front of him, and he was drinking from a bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon.

Molly’s anger-filled balloon deflated.

Coach drank an occasional beer or glass of wine, but Molly had never seen her father with a shot glass in his hand. This was shaping up like something from out of one of those sad country songs, about cheating women and drinking men.

This was not supposed to be happening in her family. Her parents loved one another. They were good, churchgoing people. And Coach was a role model for just about every male in Allenberg County, even Simon who had just delivered a sermon to her on the wages of sinning with an older man. Coach preached personal responsibility and abstinence. And his players toed that line, to a man.

He turned and looked up at her. His eyes were puffy
and bloodshot, like maybe he’d been crying, which was a really disturbing turn of events.

“Why’s your hair wet?” he asked.

Well, of course he noticed. Coach might be buzzed or drunk, but Molly’s wet hair was waist length and had pretty much soaked her T-shirt.

“I went swimming,” she said, while simultaneously trying to decide just how honest she wanted to be. She had a bone to pick with him. But picking it while he was consuming bourbon was maybe not a smart idea. Not that Coach was likely to become violent or anything. It was just that he seemed so lost without Momma.

“Who were you swimming with?” he asked. Coach was a mind reader. Everyone said so.

She decided not to lie. Lying would just make a bad situation that much worse. So she stared him right in his bloodshot baby blues and said, “I was swimming off the public pier with Simon Wolfe.”

He looked up. “You went swimming with that old queer?”

Rage tickled her backbone, and she could practically feel it snap upright. Any sympathy she’d been feeling for him evaporated. “Coach, you should know better than to use a word like that. It’s demeaning. Don’t they teach you sensitivity or something down at the high school? And besides, Simon is not gay.”

“Ha! Shows how much you know. You’re infatuated with a queer, who isn’t really interested in you. You’re making a big mistake. Les is the guy for you.”

Well, this was a fine kettle of stinky fish, wasn’t it? It was irritating as hell that everyone thought Simon and Angel were together. Not that Molly had any problems
with guys being with guys. But Simon was clearly not gay. And more important, Coach was acting like a bigoted idiot and a bully.

“Daddy, just use the word ‘gay’ or ‘homosexual,’ okay?”

“Okay, why the hell were you swimming with a homosexual?”

“Because he dared me to take my clothes off.” She put her fists on her hips. If Coach wanted to have this fight, well then, bring it on.

“He what?” Coach looked up from his bourbon.

“We went skinny-dipping in the river. And Simon is not gay. And I resent the fact that you warned him off. If you really thought he was gay, why’d you do that?”

“Did you and he …”

“That is none of your business.”

He hit the table with the flat of his hand. “It damn well is my business if you’re living in this town and in my house. I’m not going to have a daughter of mine sleeping around or getting naked in public. Especially if she’s doing it with someone who is old enough to be her father.”

“Simon isn’t old.” The words escaped Molly’s mouth before she really thought about them. But once said, their truth was self-evident. She didn’t think about Simon’s age. She’d completely forgotten about it. He was a guy she wanted to get to know better. He was interesting, but more important, he was kind. She’d seen that innate kindness in everything he did, from playing with Junior Griffin, to remembering sweets for the Purly Girls, to folding her laundry, to helping her liberate the Shelby.

He’d gone out of his way to make her feel powerfully feminine today. And the feeling was exciting and intoxicating.
She didn’t see him as an old man, even if he was thirteen years older. Even if he was more than forty and she was twenty-eight.

“I should tan your hide, girl, for behaving like that. And I sure as hell need to have a man-to-man with Simon.”

Like Coach had ever spanked her in his life. She wasn’t really worried. But she knew for certain that Coach was going to give Simon a piece of his mind. And Simon, being an ex-Rebel and all, would listen to him. Rebels, ex- or otherwise, always listened to Coach. Honestly, being Coach’s daughter was murder on her social life.

Molly folded her arms across her chest. She was tired of this crap. And besides, Coach was the one sitting there getting drunk. All she’d done was go skinny-dipping and kiss a guy in the middle of the freezing Edisto River. It wasn’t like she’d gone off to the Peach Blossom Motor Court with Simon, as much as she might have liked to. Nothing had happened today. And Simon had made it clear that nothing was ever going to happen. So it was done, over, finished. And Coach was going to get his way. Again.

And she’d go along with the rules because she was a good girl and always had been.

And then it occurred to her that she wasn’t the only person who had misbehaved in this room.

“Daddy,” she said, knowing that calling him that would get his attention, “why are you sitting here in the dark drinking liquor?”

Muscles bunched along his jaw but he said nothing. Coach was not going to give her any kind of explanation. She might as well give up.

“Have you had dinner?” she asked, taking pity on him.

“No.” There was a peeved note in his denial. Molly refused to feel guilty. But she decided to show him mercy.

“I’ll see what we have in the fridge.” She turned away from him and hit the lights. Coach flinched in the sudden brightness.

“So, how did the second day of football camp go?” she asked as she opened the fridge. The cupboard was kind of bare. But there was a carton of eggs. Molly had very few skills in the kitchen, but she could scramble eggs.

“I stayed home today. Dash Randall covered for me,” Coach said.

She turned, egg carton in hand. “You missed football camp?”

“I wasn’t feeling too good. I had a headache.”

“Daddy, did you drink last night, too?” Molly had been very late getting home. She’d been putting in some serious hours on the Shelby to make up for lost time.

Coach made no reply to her question.

“You
did
get drunk last night, didn’t you?”

Coach looked up at her with bleary eyes and echoed Molly’s own words of a few moments before. “It’s none of your damn business.”

She put the eggs down on the counter with a little more force than was entirely necessary.

“Yes, it is my business.” She put her fists on her hips.

“How you figure that?”

She was momentarily stumped by this question. Because, really, if Daddy and Momma wanted to ruin their lives, it was their business. Just like it was her business if she snuck off to the Peach Blossom Motor Court with Simon for an afternoon of sin.

She and Momma and Daddy were all fully grown adults.

But it was still her business if Coach went on a bender. Because she loved Coach. And Momma, too. Even when they misbehaved.

“It’s my business because we’re family,” she said at last.

“Some family,” Coach muttered. He snatched the glass off the table and downed a big swallow of bourbon.

She held her tongue and concentrated on scrambling up some eggs and cheese for the two of them. She snagged a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator and joined Coach at the kitchen table. “Here, you need to eat something.”

He looked down at her offering, which was admittedly a little browner than it should have been. He gave an indifferent sniff.

She dived into her own eggs. They tasted okay, even if they didn’t look all that appealing.

“Why don’t you know how to cook?” he asked. His words were just a little slurred.

“I’m not interested in cooking.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know. I’m just not interested.”

“You should be interested.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“You know this whole thing is your fault.”

Molly continued to chew her rubbery eggs. For once, she decided not to rise to his bait or mouth off. She was going to be as calm and rational as she could be. She was going to be mindful of what came out of her mouth.

She looked up from her food. Coach was staring down at his bourbon. “You know, Daddy, you’re kind of right.
Momma wants me to be different. She wants me to learn how to cook and to help her mind the store. And I guess I’ve let her down in that respect. But it isn’t all my fault that she’s gone. Her note made it clear that she was tired of waiting on you, too. She wanted to go on a vacation with you, but you went fishing.”

“I’ve been a good and true husband to her. I love her. How could she walk out?”

“Do you love her, or do you just like clean laundry?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You gave her a washer and dryer on your wedding anniversary. That’s not a very romantic gift, you know?”

“But—”

She held up her hand. “Daddy, listen to me. Since she’s been gone I’ve come to realize just how much Momma does around the house. She washes the clothes, gets food on the table, and she’s also the sole proprietor of a successful business. She’s an amazing woman. And none of us really appreciates her.” Molly let go of a big breath. “So if she took off to tour the world or whatever, it’s because none of us gave her a reason to stay.”

Her father pinched the space between his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. And then he burst into sobs. And for the first time in her life, Molly comforted Coach instead of the other way around.

I
t was Tuesday evening. The Purly Girls had come and gone, and Ricki was feeling happier than she had in a long, long time. Molly had trusted her enough to let her handle the meeting alone.

Almost. Angel had been there to help the girls with the actual knitting part of the meeting. But Ricki had been in charge otherwise and that made her feel a million times better about herself. Being a clerk at the Knit & Stitch was way better than waiting on tables. And there were fringe benefits—she was learning how to knit. And it was fun.

She tidied the shop then snapped a lead onto Muffin’s collar, locked up, and headed for her apartment behind Dot’s Spot.