Love through everything.
– E.C.
Lucy’s only regret was that Owen’s mother couldn’t make it to the launch party. They’d had a good day yesterday—a really good day. Irene had been strong and alert enough for them to bundle her up in the car and take her to the house. Owen had taken her carefully by the hand, and it had twisted Lucy’s heart to see them both leaning on each other as they moved around their old home.
Irene had shown little interest in anything beyond the garden, though, and only wanted to sit on the old metal bench at the back of the yard. She’d stared at the roses as tears rolled off her cheeks. She hadn’t said much besides “rugosa” and “Owen,” but they hadn’t needed much more than that. She’d also smiled, two heart-stoppingly huge smiles when she’d seen the way the Lady Banks was blooming again, scrambling over the support Owen had built for it. It was a smile they hadn’t seen for a long time. She was getting worse, of course, but days like this were good.
Out there, on the bench, Irene was the third person to see the finished book. Lucy put the gleaming, dust-jacketed copy of Eliza’s Road Not Taken into Irene’s lap.
“It’s my book,” Lucy said. “This is your copy.”
Irene nodded and turned the pages. On the front flap was a large black-and-white photo of Eliza and Joshua, both wearing homespun, hand-knit Ganseys, leaning against the barn wall. Irene touched the paper and smiled again. Then she’d closed both the book and her eyes, turning her face up to the sunset. The three of them sat in the garden, listening to the waves crash on the beach, two blocks away.
They’d taken her back to Willow Rock and put the book on her nightstand.
It had been enough.
Tonight, though, Lucy was almost sick with excitement that felt too close to dread.
“What if no one comes?”
Owen leaned against the bookstore register and laughed. “They’ll come.”
“No, really. They’re bored to death. Tired of hearing me talk about the book for a year and a half. No one cares anymore. Why should they? Why would they come to a book launch party for a knitting book? A novel, sure. Or when Bill Hildebrand self-published his memoir on sailing to Fiji, yeah. That was a party, but you know what? He roasted a pig in the ground, didn’t he? Yep. We’re not roasting a pig. All we have are cupcakes!” Lucy wailed, covering her face with her hands.
“Okay, now open your eyes and look at me.” Owen kissed her forehead.
Lucy shook her head. “I’m terrified.”
“You’re not terrified of anything. What about that three-alarm fire last week up in the valley when that firefighter fell off the ladder? You were on the rapid intervention crew, right? You can’t tell me you’re scared.”
“That’s different. I’m with everyone else when I’m on a fire. This is just me. Alone.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“What if they’ve published this book and they’ve made it look so gorgeous and we’re throwing this party, and no one ever buys it. No one, anywhere, ever.”
“I’m sure that’s what the publisher intended. A loss. You must have been a real fast-talker to pull that one off.”
“I wasn’t—”
“I know, heart. That’s the point.” Owen laughed again. “They had a plan. It will sell. It’s your book-launch party. This is your day. And Eliza’s. She can’t be here to enjoy it, and by all that’s woolen, if you don’t enjoy it for her, then you better have a good reason why not.”
Lucy gaped at the man she’d always loved. “Did you just swear by fiber?”
Owen shrugged. “What can I say? It’s catching.”
In the space of half a heartbeat, Lucy wrapped her arms around Owen’s neck and kissed the breath right out of him. When she was done, he was gasping and clutching the book cart behind him. “What was that for, woman?”
“Knitting is sexy.”
“I know that now,” he said.
“You really think they’ll come?” Lucy asked again.
Owen nodded.
Everyone arrived at once, of course.
Elbert Romo came straight from a bingo championship at the VFW, so of course he scuttled straight through into the bathroom without saying hello or looking at the book. But Mildred and Greta came in with gusto, arms raised high, tears already streaming down their faces.
Greta said, “Oh, look at all the decorations! It looks like a wedding, with the bunting on the pews and all the flowers and candles!”
Mildred was already flipping pages frantically, her handbag forgotten at her feet. “But look at the book! And Greta, just look at this picture of Eliza! Oh, turn to page seventy-nine! Do you remember that day? I know just where that was.”
“You’ve outdone yourself, Lucy.” Greta’s smile was quiet and lovely.
Lucy stood straighter in her red dress and touched the front of her yellow cardigan. It was the prototype for Ruby’s Bookstore Cardigan, and she loved it more than any of the other sweaters in the book—the soft, old-fashioned curved edging, the waist-shaping, the pearl buttons. The sleeves were shorter than the ones on the sweater Ruby had made—Lucy’d had to make up the pattern for them herself, and they’d turned out perfectly. The sweater made her feel pretty and feminine. It made her feel like she was continuing something important, like she was continuing both Eliza’s and Ruby’s work, and that both of them had their arms wrapped around her at the same time.
Whitney and Silas came in carrying huge trays of more goodies than Lucy thought she’d ever need. And even though it was still almost eighty degrees outside on a warm fall evening, Whitney was wearing the red earflap cap Silas had knitted for her. She took it off and folded it, placing it carefully in a side pocket of her bag.
“You’re going to be fine. Remember the other night at the ganache class? Every single woman was planning on being here tonight, and you didn’t even know all of them. And some of them didn’t even knit, if you can imagine. They’d just heard the buzz.”
“About a knitting coffee-table book.”
“About the knitting coffee-table book. Now I have to go guard the goods before our men devour it all.”
Lucy grinned at Owen and Silas, hovering over the trays, sniffing ecstatically. “They’re good together, huh?”
Whitney nodded. “Did Owen tell you yet about the job they got today?”
Lucy bit her bottom lip. “I’m the worst person in the world. I forgot to even ask.”
“Today is your book release day. I think he’ll forgive you. Silas said the house was in such terrible shape that they’re going to have gut the place and fix everything, do a complete overhaul for the owner.”
“So they’re in heaven.”
“Utterly.”
“Good.” Owen and Silas were perfect together. Owen handled the visible stuff, the counters and floors and walls, and Silas did the insides, the plumbing and the wiring. The only gun Owen ever pulled on Silas was a finger gun every time they got paid.
Molly and Jonas came in through the front doors, Toots and Bart hot on their heels.
Toots’s voice rang out, clear and strong. “Bart, I told you, if we lead a Tantric class, you have to be naked. At least part of the time.”
Bart walked past Lucy, shaking his head. “You may have hit the point where I draw the line, wife. I never thought I’d say it, but this might be it.”
“You knew when you married me—”
“We can discuss this later, Toots.”
“The kids don’t mind.”
Jonas shouted, “Yes, they do mind, Mom. They really mind. We’re at Lucy’s party now. Look, Mom! Lucy’s book!” He held it up and waved it like a red flag at a bull.
Toots scowled at Bart. Then she beamed at the book and then at Lucy. “Darling. My clever little rutabaga. How gorgeous is that book? And you did this? With Eliza? And Abigail? Where is she, by the way?”
“They’ll be here soon,” said Lucy. “Lizzie woke up late from her nap and little Owen is teething, but they’re on their way.”
Molly came up next to her and squeezed Lucy until she could barely breathe. “It’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you. Show me your author photo.”
Lucy blushed but turned to the back flap to show her the small black-and-white photo that Owen had taken of her down by the pier.
Molly touched it with her finger. “Lucy Harrison. That’s you.” She glanced up into the rafters of the store. “And this is you.” Looking around the store that was rapidly filling up with people, the door opening and closing almost constantly, she said, “Honey, I see people from three different knitting groups, from the fire department, from Willow Rock, and from City Hall. This is all you. I’m so proud of you, Luce.”
“Thank you,” Lucy whispered, and she kissed Molly’s cheek. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. That would be silly. Instead, she grinned and said, “How’s my brother?”
Molly shrugged. “Good. We’re hanging out tonight.”
“Like last night. And the night before.”
“Like we always tell you, it’s not a big deal.”
“Right, right.” Lucy said. “You’re just hanging out. Dating other people.”
“Whenever we want to. We can totally see anyone else.”
“Totally. And the last time you slept with another person was…”
Molly turned a page in Eliza’s Road Not Taken and said, “Did you know there’s a typo on page eighty-seven?”
She didn’t fall for it. “No, there’s not. And it was like a year ago, right?”
“But we could. Any time we wanted to.”
“You just keep telling yourselves that.” Lucy loved the flush that stole across Molly’s face.
“But there is a typo.”
“Oh, crap.”
Thirty minutes, half a glass of champagne, and many congratulations later, Owen caught her eye as he slid two snickerdoodles at the same time into his mouth. He didn’t look repentant at all. He looked delighted.
He looked delicious.
And looked like the man she woke up next to every morning and fell asleep next to every night. It had been the busiest year and a half of her life, but what with editing the patterns and Eliza’s vignettes, what with moving out of her house and into Owen’s, Lucy’s life had gone from peaceful and stable to unpredictable, loud, and filled with love. With the money she made renting out both her house and the parsonage, she was finally making enough money to feel comfortable experimenting a little with the bookstore. The cooking nights with Whitney and the craft nights in the store were going like gangbusters, the waiting lists always long. Word of mouth sold out each class. During her evenings and days off, she wore the brigade pager and responded for station coverage, medicals, and the occasional fire. It was exciting and sometimes terrifying, and she loved it.
Owen, in the meantime, was intent on making his childhood home into a house that would be for both of them. Not a repository of memories, but a place for the two of them to make new ones. He was always trying something new in the living room or kitchen, adding an island, or building a bookcase. When she got home from work in the evening, the furniture was never where she’d left it in the morning, and she was getting used to it.
Kind of made things fun, actually.
Just like he did.
Owen winked, a promise. Lucy’s toes curled inside her blue and green Keds.
She winked back.
The End
✨
Dearest Reader,
THANK YOU for reading Lucy and Owen’s story! Now, as a wee gift to thank you, here’s an exclusive sneak peek of the next book in which Eliza is (again) a meddlesome and delightful matchmaker: Naomi’s Wish.
✨
Naomi’s Wish – CHAPTER ONE
A knitter completely devoted to her task never drops her stitches, never makes a mistake, never miscrosses cables. She’s also probably not as much fun as the knitter distracted by the goings-on beyond her needles.
– Eliza Carpenter
In Tillie’s Diner, Naomi’s scrambled eggs were cooling fast. She stared with blank eyes at the crossword puzzle tucked under her cup, the coffee ring on the ink spreading each time she set it back down.
Come on. Focus. These jangled nerves and distracted thoughts weren’t like her. The diner was normally a place of calm where people nodded to her but didn’t bother her—the townspeople talked among themselves, letting her work the puzzle in peace as she eased into the morning, writing down the last word before leaving for the office.
But today, Naomi’s thoughts flew everywhere, all over the place, most specifically to the one thing she was trying to not remember.
“How you doing, hon?”
Naomi jumped. “Fine, thanks.” Shirley was a good waitress, fast and accurate, and one of the few friends Naomi had made in this first year of living in Cypress Hollow. On days off, they went to the movies or walked the coastal trails while Shirley scanned the beach for people engaged in shocking behavior, which she pointed out at the top of her lungs. But she wasn’t usually much for checking back in with Naomi after she’d served her breakfast. She’d just cruise by her table, refilling her coffee cup, never spilling a drop, already moving on to the next table. Shirley wasn’t big on small talk. That was fine. Naomi had never been great at it herself.
But today Shirley lingered, the pot still hanging over Naomi’s cup. “You look different,” she said. “You get a haircut?”
Blinking, Naomi reached up to touch her curls. “No…” She suddenly felt shy. “But I’m using a different conditioner—”
“Nope. Something else.” Shirley set the coffeepot on the edge of the table and crouched, so she was on Naomi’s eye level. She lowered her voice. “You got some.”
“Excuse me?” Naomi stiffened.
“Action. At that conference you went to. I can tell you got some because you got this high color right here.” Shirley pointed to the top of her own cheekbone. “And because you’re way less uptight than normal.”
Naomi shook her head. “I can’t—no, you must be imagining that.”
“I don’t mean no offense by it, you know that. I’m just saying. You look good.” Shirley puffed a breath of air as she hauled herself back to standing, using the edge of the Formica for purchase. “Did you have fun, though? Just tell me that.”
Naomi felt the spots of color Shirley had noticed burning on her cheeks. “I… yes.” Yes. I had the best time of my life, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
“Good girl. Keep it up, then.” Shirley walked away, taking the coffeepot with her.
Did a one-night stand really show on a person like that? Was Naomi wearing the equivalent of a neon sign? Was it flashing above her as she walked? Got laid. Best sex ever. Ask me how.
Oh, damn. She would not think about it. Instead, she fiddled with her phone, staring at it with unseeing eyes until she almost dropped it in her plate.
Her normal booth in Tillie’s was the one farthest from the door, next to the entrance that led to the side room where the old ranchers sat in the morning. It was the booth no one else wanted—the vinyl was torn in such a way that it always poked her legs uncomfortably, and the center table leg tilted, even though it was bolted down. Naomi was used to resting her newspaper so that it covered the burned stain on the Formica, and she didn’t set her pen on the tabletop, lest it roll off the table. Again.
At least Naomi normally got a booth. Half of it was luck, the other half was getting there early enough. It seemed like everyone in Cypress Hollow came through Tillie’s in the mornings, and lots of people had their favorite seats that no one else would dream of sitting in. Mayor Finley sat in the booth closest to the door saying hello to everyone, local and tourist alike. She was tall, always dressed in yellow, and reminded Naomi of a pencil. Officer John Moss, who Naomi thought looked like he should be working for Boss Hogg, sat on the stool nearest the cash register, peering into open wallets like he expected a tip.
She tried eavesdropping on the room behind her, her favorite part of Tillie’s. The ranchers gathered there—tourists were strictly not allowed. Naomi loved to hear the rhythm of the stories they told, the way they held on to vowels longer than anyone else in town. She couldn’t quite hear them today, though.
If only that group back there would come in to the new health clinic.
She drew small circles along the bottom of the paper and then made a note to remind herself to call the paper to advertise the free blood sugar check she was offering next week. Maybe that would bring a nibble or two.
A nibble. Like she’d gotten along her jawline, the curve of her neck…
That fling had not been like her. She’d sure as hell never have one in Cypress Hollow, that was for sure. Word would spread like a seasonal virus, and Naomi valued her privacy above all. But at the medical conference in Portland last weekend, in a city where she knew no one, it had turned out to be as easy as tripping over the uneven curb in front of Tillie’s.
Naomi had seen him when the conference attendees moved from the opening session over to the bar. His eyes had met hers across three crowded tables. Next to the men who had typical doctor-style clean haircuts and ties neatly knotted under their chins, he’d looked rugged. His dark brown hair was a bit too long, parted unevenly as if he’d just run his fingers through it after showering, and he leaned against the hotel’s tall iron and glass table as if it were a tree. The long planes of his jaw were softened by a mouth that was perhaps a little too big, but the proportions worked—he stood out from every other man in the room. The others looked like they were in soft-focus black and white to Naomi. He was drawn sharply in color. He’d taken his tie off, if he’d even had one on that day, and the top two buttons of the soft blue shirt he’d worn were open.
His eyes, dark and smoky, met hers, and he grinned at her. His expression told her he’d caught her—he knew she’d been checking him out. And the wink he’d dropped, the one that made Naomi’s heart race, told her he liked it.
After watching each other from their respective circles of acquaintances for an hour, they finally met in the bathroom line.
He said, “You have gorgeous eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen greener eyes in my life.”
“Nice line,” said Naomi, smiling and leaning backwards against the wall. She was trying desperately to remember this game, but it had been a long time since she’d played.
“Rig,” he said.
“Seriously?” She couldn’t help it. Of course, his name was Rig. If he got into trouble in here, he could probably jump off the hotel roof and land on his waiting black horse and ride off into the wilderness. She shook the thought from her head and said, “Sorry. Naomi.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said.
“There’s a minibar in my room.”
Naomi swallowed her gasp and nodded as coolly as she could.
They never got around to opening the minibar—there had been other, more relevant things to open: her blouse, his slacks, her skirt, and then, her legs.
Even though she hadn’t planned it, Naomi remembered how to get what she wanted, and Rig had known how to give it to her. Those long, sensitive, talented fingers would be wasted on a GP; he had to be a surgeon. But that was yet another question she didn’t ask. In the dark, they didn’t ask many.
After round two and more kisses, she’d felt the warm flush of pleasure that had nothing to do with where his hands were going. She did still know how to work this—thank God. It had been one of the most interesting things she’d studied in medical school—the sexual act and how people could fit together, physiologically.
If only everything else was as straightforward and easy to control.
She’d flown home, feeling the heady flush of a new secret. She kept picturing Rig’s fingers, kept feeling the shape of his mouth on hers. She held the knowledge of him carefully to herself, something to bring out later and remember when her spirits needed a lift.
Naomi sighed, moving her coffee cup slowly across the Formica. She doodled on the edge of her paper. She needed to get Rig’s hands off her mind. She could think about them later, but not here, where Shirley was still glancing curiously at her. It was a secret she wouldn’t tell, not even to her only friend in town. She trusted Shirley, yes. But Cypress Hollow was a small town, and it was hard for the residents to sit on good gossip.
It was such a close-knit town that it had been hard for Naomi to gain her footing, to make friends. She had Shirley, of course, thank God. And Lucy Bancroft at the bookstore was sweet—they’d had coffee twice, and Naomi kept meaning to call her again, but time had slipped away from her while she was getting the health clinic up and running. Every once in a while, one of the locals would notice she was sitting in Tillie’s and would nod or give a half-smile, but no one stood next to her table chatting like they did over by Mildred and Greta’s booth. No one impeded the flow of customer traffic while catching up on her week. Mrs. Irving had never laughed while standing at her table like she did at others, her head tipped back, lipstick on her teeth, laughing so that her belly shook under her blue plaid dress.
It was okay. Naomi had known it would take a while to fit in here, and that was okay. Besides, she was awful at small talk. Terrible. She was the opposite of her mother, who could charm a bluebird out of the sky, and exactly like her father, who’d thought meaningless chat was a waste of time that could be better spent elsewhere.
“Hey, you!” The voice was happy, and a hand gripped her shoulder. A smile crept onto her face as she turned her head. Maybe, just maybe, today it would be different? She’d get that casual chitchat, right?
Elbert Romo’s engineer’s cap bobbled on the back of his head, and his blue denim shirt was missing a button. “Sorry,” he said to Naomi. “I lost my balance there for a second.”
“Oh,” she said.
Elbert steadied his hand on her table. It wobbled precariously, spilling her coffee. “How are you?” she asked. She didn’t mind the new puddle.
“Oh, sorry,” he said again to Naomi, not looking at her. “I’m just trying to get his attention.”
He pushed off and wobbled on his cane toward the front of the diner. “Hello there!” he called. “Over here!”
Naomi dropped her eyes back down to the table, then picked up her phone again and checked for nonexistent emails that she knew hadn’t come in since the last time she’d had it in her hand.
Okay, so she hadn’t broken in to Cypress Hollow society yet.
She stole a glance toward the front where Elbert was pumping the hand of a man who dwarfed him. The brown, scuffed cowboy boots caught her eye first—the man wore them just like everyone else in this town did, and they looked great on him. His legs were long in his well-worn jeans, and his chest was broad under a red plaid shirt. His light brown hair was thick and a shade too long and it stuck up in places as if he’d just woken up. He had a scruff of beard on his jaw. If he yelled Timber, she’d move out of the way of the tree.
And she was damned if he didn’t look exactly like… Rig.
CHAPTER TWO
What is lace but a series of attractively arranged holes? They’d be mistakes anywhere else.
– E.C.
Naomi sloshed even more coffee onto her paper as she set her cup back down, gripping the handle tightly.
What the hell was he doing here? She hadn’t said where she lived, and she hadn’t asked him, either. One-night stands did not show up at breakfast the next week. Oh, no. He’d see her…
“Good to have you here,” she heard Elbert say. “Come on back and meet everybody.”
Meet everybody. In a year, she’d never been invited to do that. How on earth did Rig rate?
Elbert introduced him to Mayor Finley, who nodded and said something to him that Naomi couldn’t catch. Mildred and Greta both leaned all the way out of their booth to stare at Rig’s rear end after he passed their table. Mildred’s ball of sock yarn bounced out of the booth and down the aisle, as if chasing him.
Elbert didn’t glance at Naomi as he stomped past, but Rig did. He smiled and nodded, and somehow didn’t look surprised, the way she knew she did. The corners of his too-wide mouth twisted, eyes crinkling as he paused next to her table.
Naomi was too flustered to smile back. She had the same thought she’d had in the bar when she’d first seen him: he didn’t look like a doctor. He looked like he belonged on a motorcycle, illegally crossing borders.
“In pen, huh?”
She’d forgotten how deep his voice was. She nodded and twiddled the pen’s cap.
“I would have guessed that about you. I use erasable pen, myself,” he said. He reached out one of those huge, gorgeous hands—yep, it really was him—and touched the edge of the paper.
“Why not just use a pencil, then?” she asked. Her voice felt like it would shake, embarrassingly, but instead it came out strong.
Rig shrugged, and Naomi noticed again how broad his shoulders were. “Not as much fun that way.”
“So, stalking me already?” Was it possible that she was flirting again? Just like that?
He laughed. “That’s me. Stalker guy. I think I’ve done pretty well given that we didn’t even exchange last names, don’t you think?”
Naomi bit her bottom lip as she grinned. She’d forgotten how easy conversation was with him. “What are you doing here? I mean, besides the obvious stalking thing. Surf’s up?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Doctor Hang-loose, hanging ten, or whatever it is that they hang.” His tone was light, but she could imagine it, actually—his wide thighs and broad chest in a black wetsuit, his hair slicked back, face turned to the sun as he rested on the waves, waiting for a set…
Naomi said, “They say the surf’s great here. There are always people out there, even at night.”
“Maybe sometime I’ll get a chance to try it.”
“You’d be good, I bet. You’re strong.” She felt color rise to her cheeks, but she held his gaze.
This was fun. She still had no idea why he was here, but Naomi was glad that he was.
His eyes turned serious. “Naomi, I didn’t plan on this. My brother lives here, and I just found out yesterday that you—” He stepped forward as if he were going to say more, but her phone buzzed, clattering on the table. He looked at it and then looked at Elbert, who was yanking on his sleeve.
Picking up her cell phone, trying to act cool, Naomi said, “We can talk later. Go with him, he wants you.”
Rig nodded. “Soon. We’ll talk.” His voice was a promise. Then he was herded toward the side room, and Naomi unlocked her phone.
The message was a spam email advertising Viagra. Naomi’s scrambled eggs were stone cold now, no hope for them. She pushed the plate away and looked around for Shirley. More coffee was the only thing she needed. But Shirley had followed Elbert and Rig into the ranchers’ room, and if Naomi leaned her head back a little, she could just hear what was being said.
Elbert introduced him, and a volley of greetings was exchanged.
“Rig!” said Pete Wegman, one of the old ranchers. “You’re Captain Keller’s brother, ain’tcha?”
A mumble of something Naomi couldn’t quite hear. Dammit. She wanted to catch this.
“That’s Jesse, and Landers, Hooper’s over there. That’s Cade, on the right.”
“Howdy.” Naomi recognized Cade MacArthur’s voice. She’d treated him for a knee injury a few months ago. He’d been what she privately termed an im-patient, but his wife Abigail had seemed kind. Naomi had ached, then, to tell Abigail who she was, but it hadn’t seemed like the right time.
Naomi missed something else said in the back room, and then heard, “Nah, it’s just a dumb nickname my brother gave me when I started working on the oil derricks. But it stuck, and I guess I don’t hate it.” Then he said something she couldn’t hear, and an appreciative wave of laughter rolled through the rancher’s room.
Good Lord, what if he stayed?
Naomi missed something under the clatter of Shirley picking up dishes and putting them in the bus tub, but then she heard Rig go on.
“No, not with my brother. Staying with Shirley here, actually.”
Shirley? She hadn’t mentioned she’d rented out her back unit, although Naomi knew she’d been advertising it. Not that she was required to tell Naomi anything at all, of course. Naomi heard Shirley, sixty-five years old next month, giggle like a schoolgirl.
“Oh,” said one of the older men. “We were sure sorry about your brother’s wife a few years back.”
The rumble of a trash truck going by the window covered Rig’s response, and Naomi suddenly felt guilty for eavesdropping. She wished for the hundredth time that she was comfortable knitting in public, but she wasn’t. That was just the way it was. So she fiddled with the cord of her headphones—she never listened to her iPhone while she was at the cafe, knowing that would be too antisocial, but she kept the device near her. One of these days, with the way she worked the cord between her hands, she’d end up finger-knitting it into a tiny plastic noose. And what then?
So what if Rig was in Cypress Hollow? So what if he’d been introduced to the ranchers, and she had never actually met any of them in person, just knew them from eavesdropping? Dr. Pederson and she were going to hire a new doctor soon, and then she’d watch that person—see if she or he fit into the town better than she did. Until then, she’d try not to worry.
Old Bill trundled by, rag in hand. Naomi couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen him anywhere but behind the cash register. She hadn’t really been aware he had legs.
Naomi disentangled her fingers from the headphone cord and held out a hand. There was no time like right now to be friendly. Right? It had been easy with Rig—maybe it would be with the owner of the diner, too.
“Bill?”
Old Bill stopped, stock still, as if he didn’t quite believe she was speaking to him.
Naomi’s pulse fluttered at her throat, and she felt breathless. But she spoke anyway. “Hey, if you’re going back there, would you mind telling everyone that I’ll be having a free blood sugar check on Friday night? At the health clinic I just opened next to my office. They might…” She ran out of smart ideas. “They might want to get that done. You, too.”
Old Bill stared at her. “You sayin’ my food isn’t healthy?”
Naomi sucked in a breath. “Oh, no, that’s not what—it’s just that—”
“Because I buy them free-range eggs from Hooper. That’s good cholesterol. And if them boys want bacon, I figure they’ve worked hard enough in their lives to deserve it.”
“But… low-fat isn’t a bad—”
Looking ahead deliberately, the conversation obviously over, Old Bill stomped forward. In the back room, she could hear the introductions being made all over again.
Swallowing hard, she filled in eleven down. Eight letters, one who is a foreigner. Easy. Stranger.
She wrapped the headphone cord around her phone, put them in her pocket, folded up the paper, left correct change and a healthy tip on the table, and walked out, leaving her eggs behind her. She didn’t look back to see if Rig watched her go. One night was one night. And that night was over.
Keep reading Naomi’s Wish!