Last Chance Knit & Stitch Page 11

  Darn it, he wasn’t going to answer her question, was he? Her curiosity would go unsatisfied. She masked her disappointment by making small talk. “A lot of city people have forgotten the true meaning of Memorial Day,” she said.

  “I’m not a city person. Paradise is a small town about the same size as Last Chance. But they don’t knit poppies for Memorial Day there.”

  “Well, I reckon we hang on to our traditions harder than they do.”

  “Not every tradition is a good one.”

  They lapsed into silence. And she was just itching to turn the conversation back to his parents and their marriage. Because Simon’s perception of Ira and Charlotte was different from everyone else’s. If ever there was a man devoted to his wife, it was Ira Wolfe. When Charlotte started losing her mind, Ira had stepped up and cared for her in ways that would warm anyone’s heart. And Charlotte adored her husband. It was kind of cute the way her eyes would light up every time Ira came through the Knit & Stitch’s door to pick her up. That man spun her world. And Ira seemed to be the only one who could soften some of Charlotte’s snootiness.

  Just then the quiet of the late-spring day was shattered by the strains of “Livin’ la Vida Loca” supported by a bass so deep it rattled the church’s stained-glass windows. The sound swelled as a red Jeep Wrangler, trailing a U-Haul, pulled into the church parking lot. The driver killed the engine and turned off the radio. The day was returned to the birds and their much quieter music.

  “Finally,” Simon said as he got to his feet. He headed toward the break in the hedge that led to the parking lot.

  Molly stood up to get a better view. She knew most every car in Allenberg County, and no one drove a red Jeep Wrangler. The women of Allenberg were smart enough to want a car with a better suspension, and the men knew a sissy car when they saw one.

  Her gaydar started pinging even before the driver stepped from the Jeep. But once she got a good look at him, it went right off the scales. The fabric of his white guinea-tee stretched over a sculpted chest and exposed a pair of biceps that could only be achieved by hours in the gym. His dark hair looked perfectly tousled from his drive with the top down. His skinny jeans had neatly frayed slashes across the knees and backside. And jeez, he had one tight-looking behind.

  In short, he was so pretty he might as well be a girl. But when he walked up to Simon and gave him a hearty slap on the back, everything kind of slowed down. No way. Simon was gay?

  Boy, her gaydar must be slipping. She had never once considered the possibility that Simon was gay. But it looked like she had missed something important.

  Maybe Simon wasn’t some idiot who left home and broke his parents’ hearts. Maybe it was the other way around. She doubted very much that either Ira or Charlotte would have been pleased to discover that their darling son was a homosexual.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Molly spent Memorial Day in bed. She almost never did anything like this, but there was no point in getting up. She didn’t want to run into Les at the Memorial Day parade, she couldn’t do any work on the Shelby, and she was not about to open up the yarn store the way Momma did every year, hosting a little sidewalk sit-and-stitch while the parade passed them by.

  She turned off her phone because the knitters of Last Chance were upset that she’d blown off this tradition. She didn’t want to explain to anyone that this was Momma’s tradition. Not hers.

  So she stayed in bed and consumed an entire package of Oreo cookies while reading Little Women.

  Molly’s frame of mind suited the book. Jo March, the book’s heroine, valiantly battles for her independence through the first half of the book. And from Molly’s viewpoint, the novel would have been perfect if the author had just stopped right there.

  But no, Louisa May Alcott had to write part 2, which chronicles Jo’s slow, inevitable slide into marriage and domesticity. Cathy Niles probably loved this ending, although, knowing Cathy, she would probably be unhappy that Jo tells the young and passionate Laurie to take a hike and then turns around and marries the stodgy old Professor Bhaer. As far as Molly was concerned, Jo was an idiot to get married at all. And to give up her dreams of writing for a living so she could have babies was a big disappointment. No way that would happen in the twenty-first century.

  Molly was just turning over the last few pages when Coach came stomping through the back door. “Hey, darlin’, I’m home,” he shouted.

  Obviously Coach hadn’t noticed that Momma’s Ford Fusion was not in the garage. He shouted again, and Molly lay there in bed wondering if she could hide in the closet and pretend she wasn’t home. She didn’t want to be the one to tell him that Momma had gone AWOL.

  But who else would do it? Allen? Not likely. Her younger brother hadn’t been home for a couple of days. She’d called his cell phone, and he’d curtly told her that he’d moved in with Kacey.

  Molly brushed the cookie crumbs from her T-shirt. There was no point in putting off the inevitable.

  She headed into the kitchen, where she found Coach staring at the replacement washing machine.

  “Where’s the new washing machine?”

  “It broke,” she said vaguely. She’d given the whole washing machine incident a lot of thought over the last couple of days. She understood why Allen had destroyed the washer. He’d been angry. And while his behavior had been immature, she wasn’t about to tattle on him. Siblings stuck together when it came to stuff like this.

  “How could it break? It was only a few months old.”

  She shrugged like a guilty teenager. “It did.”

  Coach put his gigantic hands on his hips. He was a big man who had once played football for Georgia Tech. He stood a good six foot five, wore a size thirteen shoe, and had not let his belly go to fat. His real name was Fredrick, but he’d been called Red from the time he’d been a toddler on account of his flaming red hair, which was fading to ginger these days. He’d broken his nose at least five times playing one sport or another, and now it meandered down his freckled face and gave him a truly intimidating demeanor.

  Especially when he glowered, which he was doing right now.

  “Where’s your mother at?” he asked.

  Molly swallowed. “Uh, well, um, see … Daddy, she’s gone.”

  He blinked, probably because Molly almost never called him Daddy unless she was trying to weasel her way out of a misdeed. Only in this case, she was trying to weasel her way out of Momma’s misdeed, which was really screwed up.

  “What have you done?”

  “I haven’t done anything. Momma’s gone to see the world.”

  “What?”

  Molly turned and padded across the kitchen in her hand-knit slipper socks. She found Momma’s peanut-butter-smeared note and handed it to Coach.

  She watched the red flush run up his cheeks as he read it. His hands were shaking by the time he finished.

  He looked down at her out of a pair of bright blue eyes. “This is all your fault,” he said. “She left so that you would quit all this nonsense about starting a car-restoration business and start helping her with the store.”

  Coach’s words poked at the unhealed wound that had been there since Molly was five. And for once, Molly wasn’t going to let him get away with it, even if what he said was sort of true. Momma’s note had made it clear that she was unhappy with Coach, too.

  “No, Coach, this is not just about me,” she said. “Momma’s been saving up money for a world cruise for a long time. Anyone who was paying the slightest bit of attention to her would know that she really wanted to go see Europe. Hell, she thought you were going to give her a cruise or something for your anniversary this year. But instead you gave her a washer and a dryer so she could more efficiently wash your dirty underwear. And then you disappeared for two weeks with your fishing buddies like you do every year.

  “And, by the way, while you were out with your bass-hole buddies, Ira Wolfe died, and no one could even reach you. You missed the funeral.”

>   “Ira’s dead?”

  “Yeah. He is. And the dealership is closed, and Momma is gone. You know, Coach, you can be a real idiot sometimes. And I resent the fact that your idiocy means I have to turn myself into Momma for you and Allen and everyone else in town.”

  She turned and headed back to her room, the tears she’d been fighting all day suddenly filling her eyes. The last damn thing she wanted Coach to see was her having a big, fat, girlie crying jag.

  So she slammed and locked the door and had a good cry anyway.

  Molly’s life completely unraveled on Tuesday morning when she showed up for work at Bill’s Grease Pit only to find Les there, wearing work overalls and a guilty look on his face.

  Before she could even say good morning, LeRoy called her back into his office. He didn’t mince words. “Molly, I know you’re a good mechanic, but since your momma left town, you’ve been less than attentive to your job. Last week was an unmitigated disaster.”

  “C’mon LeRoy, that’s not fair. I was here on Friday until four in the morning, and—”

  He held up his hand. “Look, Molly, the last week has been hell. Ricki’s been calling you every five minutes. You’re constantly running up the street to unsnarl some yarn tangle, and the only reason you had to put in the overtime was because you were hardly here during working hours.”

  Molly didn’t say anything. What could she say?

  “Look,” LeRoy continued, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a chance of a lifetime to pick up some Ford customers who have never done business with me.”

  “So that’s why Les is here.”

  “Yes. He’s got a file with the names of Wolfe Ford customers in it. Those folks are angry about the dealership closing. Les has been working on those people’s cars and trucks for years. They trust him. Do you have any idea how many people own Ford trucks in this county?”

  “So you hired him.”

  “I did.”

  “He’s good at what he does,” she admitted.

  “I know. But the thing is, I can’t afford to have him and you here at the same time.”

  “Why not? We argue a lot, but then—”

  “Molly, it’s not because you argue. Les is worth more money than you are, and if I pay him what he was getting over at the dealership, I just can’t afford you. And besides, there are folks around here who don’t want you to touch their cars. They don’t trust you. And I’m always having to argue with them about your qualifications. With Les, I don’t have that problem, plus he brings in customers I couldn’t get otherwise. And besides, it’s not like you don’t have something else you could do, now that your Momma’s gone. Honestly, T-Bone Carter and his customers would be thrilled if you took over your momma’s shop and sent Ricki back to the Kountry Kitchen. In fact, there’s a whole mess of people who would be overjoyed.”

  Molly seethed. Her face burned, and her heart raced, and she wanted nothing more than to sock LeRoy right in the face. In fact, her fists balled up so tight that her short fingernails almost dug holes in her palms.

  But socking LeRoy was out. Not only was he bigger than her, she couldn’t afford to burn any more bridges.

  She forced herself to stop feeling and to start thinking. This was the sort of thing Momma was always telling her to do. It’s what she meant about being mindful.

  So Molly tried to bring logic into play. She tried to think things through for once. Thinking calmed her, just a little bit.

  LeRoy was only being a sensible businessman. Les had a better reputation as a mechanic than Molly did. And truth to tell, Les was a better engine man than Molly would ever be. Molly’s gift was with body work. That’s why they were such a good team when it came to restoring old cars. Their strengths fit together. Until Miriam Randall had messed up everything with her marital advice.

  So she couldn’t even argue the point, because LeRoy knew the truth as well as she did. “Yeah,” she said in a surprisingly calm tone of voice, “everyone in town will be overjoyed … except me and Ricki.”

  “C’mon, Molly, don’t be that way. It’s just business.”

  She turned on her heel and stalked into the garage, wondering if Ira Wolfe would have ever conducted his business this way. The answer was a resounding no, but then Ira’s business had ended up in receivership.

  She found Les in the pit doing an oil change on Thelma Hanks’s SUV. “Did you know you had stolen my job when you came over on Saturday and installed that new washer and asked me to marry you?”

  “C’mon, Mol, don’t take it that way. You’ve got an alternative job, and I don’t. I needed this job more than you did.”

  Her anger spiked again. “I asked you a question, Les. Did you know you’d stolen my job when you asked me to be your wife?”

  “Yeah.” At least he had the dignity to sound a tiny bit contrite. Like maybe the idiot understood how badly he might have hurt her.

  The calm feeling she’d almost managed to find disappeared. “So when, exactly, were you going to tell me about that?”

  His face got red. At least he felt some shame. “Look, Molly, you’re the one who encouraged me to talk to LeRoy.”

  She had. She knew it. “Yes, but I had no idea it would cost me my job. And besides, you weren’t honest with me on Saturday night.”

  “Unlike you. You were brutally honest.”

  “Why are you being such an a-hole?” she asked.

  His blue eyes stilled, and he gave her an earnest stare. “I know you think I’m to blame for this. Or at least that I’m being a jerk. But the thing is, Molly, if I didn’t do something to wake you up, how on earth was anything ever going to change? I know you don’t believe it. But I love you.”

  “Wake me up?” God, he was sounding like the stupid note Momma had left on the front door of the Knit & Stitch.

  “Molly, listen,” he said in a voice that was obviously struggling for calm, “this is going to work out. Just you wait and see.”

  “How? By me giving in and marrying you like Jo March married Professor Bhaer?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. I’m not ever going to marry anyone. And whatever kindness I was feeling toward you is now utterly gone. You stole my job. And Simon Wolfe stole my building. And his greedy uncle stole my car. What the hell did I ever do to deserve this?” She screamed the last bit and then turned and headed up Palmetto Avenue toward the yarn store. She was out of control.

  She desperately needed to knit something. Maybe if she started knitting she could regain her composure.

  She looked up from the pavement just in time to see Simon’s pretty boyfriend maneuvering a dolly with a big wooden crate on it. He was moving the crate into the Coca-Cola building.

  Her building.

  Crap. Double Crap.

  The only thing left to her was the damn Knit & Stitch. Only now she had to fire Ricki. Because if Molly was out of a job, then she’d have to rely on the yarn shop income to get by.

  It just wasn’t fair.

  It felt a whole lot like that time right after the twins were born. She’d been five years old, the apple of Coach’s eye. He took her to every football game, even the away games. She had labored under the mistaken notion that she was actually an essential part of the team.

  And then her brothers were born.

  And it was over. Coach wasn’t all that interested in her anymore. And to make up for it, Momma had stepped in with her knitting needles and her embroidery and her sewing machine. Molly would never forget the day when the twins were about four months old, and she came home after a weekend at Granny’s to find her bedroom transformed. It looked like someone had vomited Pepto-Bismol on the walls.

  She might have forgiven Momma for doing that to her. But it was Coach who had painted the room. With that room, Coach had made his position clear: Molly was supposed to become Daddy’s little girl instead of a stand-in for the son he wanted. But she had shown him, all right. She’d gone right on being herself. She had decided to do the things she liked. And tha
t included watching sports, and working on cars, and knitting. Everyone thought it was crazy for a tomboy like her to love knitting, but Molly didn’t see how one thing excluded the other.

  She unlocked the door to the shop and went inside. The lanolin-rich aroma of the wool comforted her. She actually loved being here at the shop. But she didn’t want to manage it or make it her whole life. That was what Momma never could understand.

  It was early still—an hour before opening. She headed through the shop’s dim interior to the cubby behind the counter where she’d stashed one of her many knitting projects. This one was a raglan-sleeved baby sweater she’d started on Saturday, when Jane’s baby had turned out to be a boy instead of a girl.

  She settled herself into the couch at the front of the store and started knitting, her needles clicking in the early-morning quiet. The repetitive motion soothed her. And she almost achieved that state of mindfulness that Momma was always talking about.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed when someone knocked at the shop’s front door. She checked her watch. It was nine-forty, just twenty minutes until opening. Ricki was nowhere to be found, which was almost a blessing in disguise. Molly was dreading the moment she was going to have to let Ricki go. She hoped LeRoy was right, and Ricki could get her old job back.

  She hopped up from the couch and peered through the front window. Simon’s boyfriend was at the door. There was no way he wanted to buy yarn, was there?

  She opened the door and looked into his perfect face. He had dark, almost blue-black hair that fell, just-so, over his forehead. His cheeks were like blades, his mouth as puffy as a porn star’s, his nose narrow at the bridge and manly at the tip. No wonder Simon was hot for him. He was movie-star handsome.

  “The shop doesn’t open until ten,” she said. She knew it was bitchy, but for some reason she wanted to lash out at him, even though he was merely an innocent bystander in the train wreck that had become her life.

  He gave her a wink. A wink! Wow. “Do you carry Jamieson’s Spindrift?” he asked in a voice that had just a little Latin lilt to it. “Please say that you do. I ran out of one of the colors for a sweater I am knitting. And I have been driving across the country and didn’t have time to find a good-quality yarn shop.”