The Sweethearts’ Knitting Club (21 page)

“Yes, exactly.”

“How about if I help you?”

Flynn laughed. “Please don’t tell me you know how to knit baby booties.”

“Not my specialty, Dimples, but causing a commotion, yeah I can do that. What if I make a distraction, or somehow destroy your projects. Big bottle of red wine dropped by your knitting basket?”

She laughed. “Okay, you made your point. I see how ridiculous I’m being.”

He reached over and chucked her under the chin. “I got your back, MacGregor, all you’ve gotta do is say the word.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, her skin tingling from his touch. “I appreciate the offer, but you’re right. I guess this is fate’s way of telling me I need to stop lying about my knitting abilities and just take my lumps.”

“How do you intend on handling it?”

“I’ll set up and start knitting. When everyone
sees my work with the dropped stitches, backward stitches, and accidental increase, and asks what happened, I’ll just fess up.”

“Okay,” he said, “but if you change your mind and need me to bail you out, just give me the word and I’ll be there.”

It felt good knowing he had her back, but there was something in his eyes she couldn’t discern, something wistful and sad that made her want to crawl into his lap and wrap her arms around his neck. Then he blinked and the look was gone.

“Ms. MacGregor?” the ER nurse said from the doorway. “You can take your sister home now.”

Two hours into the knit-a-thon, Flynn had managed fifty rows of knit stitches. They were sloppy, they were loose, but dammit they were perfect. No dropped stitches, no accidental increase, nothing looped backward. It was a glorious accomplishment and she couldn’t share it with anyone.

The only two who could appreciate her victory were out of range. Carrie was snoozing at home, gorked on Demerol. Jesse manned his lemonade booth across the street. Flynn peeked over and saw him gabbing with middle-aged businessmen—doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, playing at being badass bikers in their do-rags, chains, leather pants and vests, motorcycle boots, and wrist studs.

One gray-haired dude with a ponytail to the middle of his back wore a tattered black T-shirt that proclaimed: “Ride Hard, Die Young.” Clearly he’d missed the boat on the dying young part.

“Uh-oh,” Marva said. “Look who’s headed our way.”

Everyone glanced over to see Beau sauntering up the sidewalk toward them. Oh geez. Flynn ducked her head and concentrated hard on making a fresh row of stitches.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He greeted them with a tip of his Stetson.

“Afternoon, Beau,” the Sweethearts answered in unison.

Flynn felt his gaze on her, but she didn’t glance up.

“You’re looking fit, Sheriff,” Terri said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Longoria. I’m feeling fit.”

Go away!
But of course he didn’t. He just kept standing there right next to her rocking chair. She could see the tips of his boots.

“Flynnie?” His voice was soft.

“Yes?” Realizing she had no choice, Flynn raised her head and met his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Quickly she dropped her hands into her lap to hide her knitting. “Um…nothing’s wrong, Beau.”

“I know you, Flynnie.” He lowered his voice. “Something’s bothering you.”

“No. Nothing.”
You, you’re what’s bothering me
. “I’m fine. Super, in fact.”

“You know, just because you broke up with me doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. I still care about you.”

“And I still care about you.” It was true, she did. She cared about a lot of people. She tried her best not to glance over at the lemonade stand to see what Jesse was doing. She plastered a big fake smile on her face. “But honestly, nothing’s wrong.”

Beau cleared his throat, but didn’t budge.

Seriously? Was he going to stand there all day?

“You can’t lie to me,” he said. “I see the signs.”

“Nope, no signs.” The smile was frozen on her teeth.

“It’s in your knitting.” He leaned over and tugged the scarf from her lap. “Look at this.”

Yeah, isn’t it cool? I did it all by myself
.

He clicked his tongue. “Flabby stitches. That’s not like you. Not like you at all. Normally your stitches are tight and controlled, just like you.”

“I’m not tight and controlled,” she snapped, feeling decidedly waspish.

“Sure you are, it’s one of the things I admire most about you.” Beau rested a hand on her shoulder, and it was all she could do to keep from swatting him away. “You’re distracted. What’s up?”

Irritation flared along her nerve endings like a bad case of shingles. “Yeah, okay, I’m distracted. Satisfied?”

“I knew it.”

“What can I say? You’re all-seeing, all-knowing. We oughta call you Beau the Omnipotent.”

“I’m going to ignore that little bit of sarcasm, Flynnie, because obviously something’s upset you.”

“It’s Carrie,” supplied Dotty Mae, who was sitting to Flynn’s right, purling a row of stitches on her afghan. “Poor girl broke her wrist putting up the papier-mâché yarn ball display. Flynn and Jes—” Dotty seemed to realize who she was talking to and finished with, “Um…Flynn took her to the hospital.”

Beau’s eyebrows dipped downward. “I’m sorry to hear about Carrie.”

“Thanks for the sympathy, I’ll let her know.” Flynn ducked her head again, picked up her knitting, squinted hard at the stitches, hoping he’d get the hint and vamoose.

“Can I get you anything?” Beau asked. “Cold beverage?”

“I’m fine,” Flynn said.
Go away
. So much for the tiny little pleasure she’d taken in knitting a flawless—if somewhat flabby—partial scarf.

“I’d love a glass of lemonade,” Dotty Mae said. “Thank you so much for asking, Beau, you are a regular knight in shining armor, coming to the aid of thirsty damsels.”

“Anybody else?” Beau asked the rest of the Sweethearts, who were gathered in a circle, knitting as a team.

“I’ll have a lemonade as well,” Marva said.

“I’m in, temperature’s climbing and I’m already sweating.” Terri fluffed the front of her white cotton blouse for effect. “Thanks, Beau.”

“Raylene?”

Raylene held up a silver flask. “Got it covered.”

“Ray!” Patsy said, “It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Get your panties out of a bunch, Patsy. It’s five o’clock somewhere in the world, and if I’m expected to sit here and knit for two and a half days I need some liquid incentive.”

“Patsy?” Beau asked.

“What?”

“You want some lemonade?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’d like one too,” Belinda said, going for her purse. “How much is it?”

Beau put out a restraining hand. “Knitters drink free. I’ll be right back, ladies. Flynn, you sure you won’t have one?”

“I’m sure.” She nodded curtly and didn’t glance up.

“I still don’t understand why you broke up with him, Flynn,” Belinda said when Beau was out of earshot. “How many men would get lemonade for all of us?”

“Yeah, that’s just what I want in a husband, a man who waits on other women hand and foot.”

“Their breakup won’t last,” Terri predicted. “It never does. What’s the longest time you two were broken up?”

“The four years he was in Iraq,” Flynn supplied.

“But the minute he came back all wounded with that Bronze Star strapped to his chest, it was smoochie-smoochville again. Whatever is going on between you two, it will blow over. It always does.”

“Not this time,” Patsy muttered.

“Oh.” Marva leaned in close. “What do you know?”

“Jesse took Flynn and Carrie to the hospital,” Dotty Mae whispered.

“So is it Jesse?” Marva prodded Patsy. “Did he come between them?”

“People,” Flynn exclaimed, “I’m sitting right here!”

“Yeah, but you won’t tell us anything.” Terri angled her torso toward Patsy “So, Pats, what’s the scoop? Flynn and Jesse?”

As uncomfortable as the conversation was, it did take the focus off her knitting. Maybe she could
stuff the scarf in her purse while no one was looking and pretend she’d finished it. Slyly she slipped the half scarf from her lap, and she was just about to drop it in her tote bag when her father came loping across the courthouse lawn.

Floyd wore a dark green apron emblazoned with the Froggy’s logo, and he smelled of fried chicken. He looked good, really good. The best he’d looked since her mother died. His skin had lost the sallow cast and his face no longer looked bloated. His hair was neatly trimmed, his chin freshly shaved.

“Hey, honey.” He greeted her with a kiss on the forehead.

“How’s Carrie?”

“She’s sound asleep.”

“Selling a lot of chicken?”

“Swamped.”

“That’s great.”

“Not so good, we’re running out of chicken.”

“You need me to go to the market?”

“I can’t ask that, you’re in the big middle of knitting. I thought maybe you could call Carlos—”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind.” Flynn was already up and out of the rocking chair, happy to have a bona fide excuse to abandon the knitting. “Be right back, ladies.”

“If you feel your ears burning,” Marva called out, “you know we’re gossiping about you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Flynn said, and made her escape.

Sheriff Trainer trod across the courthouse lawn, littered with knitters in rocking chairs, and headed straight toward him. A bad feeling trickled down Jesse’s spine. He squared his shoulders, looked Trainer in the eyes.

“How much did this bad boy set you back?” A ponytailed tourist caressed the Harley’s fender with his fingertips.

“Found it wrecked, bought it cheap, rebuilt it myself,” Jesse said, never taking his gaze off Trainer. He’d grown up in the desert. He knew you didn’t turn your back on a rattlesnake.

Ponytail whistled, hunkered down to examine it more closely. “Helluva good job, man.”

“My work is my best advertisement,” Jesse said.

“Afternoon.” Beau slid his Stetson back on his
forehead. His badge gleamed in the sunlight. Bastard probably polished it twice a day.

“What do you want?”

Beau rested his hands on his hips in that Wyatt Earp pose he affected. “Five lemonades for the knitters.”

“Man,” the ponytailed dude interrupted, “could you come over and take a look at my Ducati? She’s been sputtering like a kid with the croup. She got worse on the drive over here.”

“Could you hang on for just a minute?” Jesse asked Ponytail. “I have to find someone to take over the lemonade stand.”

“You go on and help your customer, Calloway,” Beau said. “I’ll man the lemonade stand.”

Something was up. He didn’t trust Trainer. Not for a second. “Now why would you offer to do that?”

“I’m community-minded.”

Jesse snorted.

“Besides, I know when I’m licked.”

“What’s that supposed to mean.”

“Flynn. She wants you, not me.”

Jesse’s heart twisted, skidding like a bike in an ice storm. “She actually tell you that?”

“I got eyes in my head, Calloway.”

“So she didn’t tell you that.”

“She didn’t have to. I can see it on her face every time she looks at you.”

“Does that mean you’re steppin’ aside?” Jesse tilted his head, tensing for an ambush.

“It means I’m calling a truce.”

Jesse narrowed his eyes. He had no use for lawmen in general and this one in particular. “Why?”

“I only want Flynn to be happy,” Trainer said, and he sounded sincere. “If she wants you…” Trainer swallowed, and his Adam’s apple slid down his throat. “Who am I to stand in her way?”

“Man,” said Ponytail, “can you help me or not?”

Jesse looked at Trainer.

Trainer shrugged. “I’m offering. Take it or leave it.”

He felt like he was walking through a field of land mines, uncertain of where the explosives lay, but absolutely certain they were buried there.

“Let him run the lemonade stand,” Ponytail said. “If you can’t trust the sheriff, who can you trust?”

Jesse’s thoughts exactly.

“Seriously, man, I’m scared to get back on the road on her. I’ll pay whatever you think is fair.” Ponytail slipped his wallet, which was attached to a chain linked to his belt, from his back pocket and started peeling off twenties.

“Yeah, okay. I’m coming.” Jesse turned to Trainer, tossed him his apron. “Yellow lemonade is to sell, a dollar a glass. The pink lemonade is free for the knitters and festival volunteers. It’s all yours.”

When Flynn returned an hour later (she’d stopped by the house to check on Carrie and ended up heating her a bowl of cream of tomato soup with Cheez-Its floating in it, just like their mother used to make), she was surprised—but happy—to see the Sweethearts doing more gossiping and drinking lemonade than knitting.

A barbershop quartet had taken to the stage
outside the ice cream parlor, and they were belting out a surprisingly decent rendition of “Sweet Adeline.” The crowd thickened. A beaming Moe pushed the tote board numbers up to two thousand dollars. It was going to take a lot more pledges and a lot more knitting to reach their target goal, but it was a great start.

“Hey,” Marva called out. “Here’s Flynnie, she’s back.”

“Come on,” Flynn said, parking her butt in the rocker she’d vacated. “Don’t call me Flynnie, I don’t like it.”

“You like it when Beau calls you Flynnie.”

“No, I don’t, but he does it anyway.”

“So now that Flynn’s back, who are we going to talk about?” Terri clacked her knitting needles together as swift as an iron chef sharpening cutlery.

“Oh, you know what I heard?” Belinda leaned in toward the group, her eyes bright.

“Don’t tease, matchmaker,” Raylene said. “If you know something juicy, spill it.”

“It’s about Emerson Parks,” Belinda murmured.

“Who’s Emerson Parks?” Flynn asked.

“You probably knew her as Trixie Lyn Sparks.”

“I remember Trixie Lyn,” Marva said. “Impulsive little thing. All red hair and freckles and spirit. She played the lead in
Annie
her freshman year.”

“I really don’t remember her,” Flynn said.

“She was three or four grades ahead of you in school,” Marva said. “And she was only in Twilight a few years while her daddy was working at the nuke plant in Glen Rose. It was the same time your mama got diagnosed with ALS. You had so
much on your plate, you wouldn’t have noticed if Santa Claus had moved in next door.”

Flynn tried to picture who they were talking about, but couldn’t.

“She was always telling everyone she was going to New York and make it big on Broadway. I’m guessing she changed her name to Emerson Parks.”

“She went to New York and she made it all right, but not in the way you’d expect.” Belinda nodded.

“Where you’d hear this?” Patsy said. “The
National Enquirer?
”

“What if I did?” Belinda was sensitive about her guilty pleasure. She loved reading the tabloids and took them at face value.

“Someone from Twilight is in the
National Enquirer?
” Raylene said. “Dish it up, woman.”

“It’s juicy gossip about hometown girl gone wrong in the big city.” Belinda paused for effect and finished off her lemonade. “This is really good. I’m going to have to get another one. Anybody else want one?”

“I do!” Dotty Mae called out. “I don’t know what Jesse puts in his lemonade, but it has some kick to it. What’s he put in it, Patsy?”

“I don’t know. That boy doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Get me one, too.” Marva licked her lips. “It
is
tasty lemonade.”

“Patsy?” Belinda asked.

“Oh, why not?” Patsy nodded. “Since it’s free for knitters. Oops, looky there, I dropped a stitch.”

“You can’t leave us hanging,” Flynn said to Belinda. “You haven’t told us about Emerson Parks.”

“Didn’t I?” Belinda giggled, her eyes shining bright. “Well, remind me and I’ll tell you when I get back.” She waved a hand and toddled off toward the lemonade stand.

“Ladies, ladies.” Moe strolled over. “Less talking, more knitting. We’ve almost sold out of all the items you’ve already made. We need more inventory.” He clapped his hands. “Chop, chop, hop to it.” Then he wandered off to roust another group of knitters with the same spiel.

“I can think of something I’d like to chop, chop,” Raylene muttered, and stabbed her knitting needle through a loop. She was knitting with chenille, making a baby blanket.

“I can just see him as a sweatshop owner,” Flynn said. “Cracking the whip over underage workers. Paying them in bananas instead of dollars.”

“Sounds just like Moe. I worked for him as a teller when I got out of high school,” Terri said. “He’s docks your pay if you’re one minute late coming back from break.”

“Darn it, I dropped another stitch,” Patsy said. “Anyone have this pattern?”

“You? Since when do you need a pattern for anything?” Raylene asked. “You’ve been knitting for fifty years.”

“Since I started dropping stitches all over the place. I can’t seem to remember what I’m doing. Where’s my focus?” Patsy groused.

“Watch out, you might be getting Alz—” Marva bit off her words, looked chagrined.

Everyone’s eyes widened at Marva’s gaffe. Not cool to joke about Alzheimer’s to a woman whose
husband was afflicted with it. Patsy didn’t looked up from her knitting, didn’t react.

“My, my.” Dotty Mae jumped in to pull back the awkward curtain of silence. “Since when did little Tommy Ledbetter get such a nice ass?”

“Dotty Mae!” Patsy said, sounding scandalized, but looking relieved at the change in subject. “He’s barely twenty.”

“I’m old, not dead. I can still appreciate God’s work of art.” Dotty Mae cocked her head and stared at the blue-jean-clad young man bending at the waist and dragging flour sacks from the bed of his pickup parked parallel to the courthouse lawn. Tommy worked as a delivery boy for Pasta Pappa’s.

“Dotty’s got a point,” Raylene said, craning her neck for a better look. “Those biceps aren’t so bad either.”

Flynn took a gander at Tommy’s rump. Meh. Not bad, but it wasn’t in the same league with Jesse’s. At that thought, she let her gaze wander back across the street toward the motorcycle shop/Yarn Barn. She couldn’t see Jesse for the long line queuing up at the lemonade stand.

“Tommy joined the gym,” Terri explained. “He’s got a crush on Mr. Ivey’s youngest daughter and he’s buffing up to impress her. I’ve been training him.”

“Well, it’s working,” Marva said. “You’re a good trainer.”

“You’re a lucky duck.” Dotty Mae sighed longingly.

“Who’s lucky?” Belinda asked, coming back
over with a corrugated cardboard tray filled with cups of lemonade.

“Terri. She gets to train that.” Raylene jerked a thumb in Tommy’s direction.

“Ooh, seriously? You are lucky, Ter.” Belinda handed out the drinks, and then returned to her rocker.

Dotty Mae sucked down half her lemonade in one long swallow. “Whew, this heat is really getting to me. My head’s spinning.”

“Flynn, you should try some of this lemonade. It’s fabulous.” Belinda extended her glass to her and then hiccupped loudly. “Excuse me.”

Flynn waved the glass away. “I don’t like lemons.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot.” Belinda giggled and hiccupped again. “That’s good, leaves more for me.”

“Hey,” Raylene said, “how come I’m the only one knitting, except for Patsy, who’s dropping stitches like a relief aid plane tossing care packages into a quarantine zone. Shake a leg, ladies.”

“What’s the deal, Ray? You applying for a job as Moe’s manager?” Flynn asked. She hadn’t even dug her half scarf out of her knitting bag since she’d returned from her errands.

“No, I’d like to see us raise enough funds to rebuild the Twilight Bridge, but at this rate, we won’t make enough money to build a fence stile.”

“What is wrong with this picture?” Flynn teased.

“That Ray is the one actually doing some work for once?” Terri hooted, her cheeks flushing a high pink.

Marva giggled.

Belinda hiccupped.

Dotty Mae snored.

Patsy dropped another stitch.

Raylene narrowed her eyes. “What is wrong with everyone? Excluding Flynn, you’re all acting…” She trailed off, snapped her gaze from Patsy to Marva to Terri to Belinda and then over to Dotty Mae, who was sound asleep with her chin resting on her chest. “You’re all stinking drunk!”

“Whoop, another first,” Terri said. “Raylene’s the sober one and the rest of us are tipsy. Hey, how come we’re all tipsy?”

“I’m not tissy,” Patsy slurred. “You tissy, Marva?”

“Not me.” Marva shook her head.

“Me neither.” Belinda hiccupped.

Dotty Mae sawed a few more logs.

Flynn stared. Raylene was right. They were all drunk.

Raylene grabbed Belinda’s glass of lemonade and took a swallow. “Hey, you guys were holding out on me.” She huffed. “Who’s got the flask of vodka? Belinda?”

Belinda held up her hands. “I’m innocent.”

“Don’t look at me,” Terri said.

“Me neither.” Marva took another drink of lemonade.

“I didn’t spike the drinks and I can’t believe one of you did.” Patsy sniffed.

Everyone turned to look at Dotty Mae, who was still snoozing.

Raylene elbowed Flynn. “Go through her purse.”

“I will not.” Flynn glowered.

“Then hand her purse to me and I’ll do it.”

“Dotty Mae couldn’t have spiked anyone’s drinks,” Terri pointed out. “She hasn’t left her chair all afternoon.”

“If none of us spiked the drinks,” Marva asked, “who did?”

Raucous laughter from the next knitting group over drew Flynn’s attention. The group of ten women looked to be having as much fun as the Sweethearts. Uh-oh. Alarm spread through her.

She stood up, dropped her knitting into the seat of her rocking chair, and wandered around the knitting circles. Sure enough, everyone was giggling and joking and no one was knitting. They all had empty paper cups of lemonade littered around their rockers.

Moe apparently came to the same conclusion at the same time Flynn did. He came running up to her, a look of panic on his face. “They’re drunk, they’re drunk, they’re all drunk. How can we have a knit-a-thon with inebriated knitters? This is a disaster. A nightmare. A travesty.”

Flynn looked around. Across the entire courthouse lawn no one was knitting and everyone was slamming back pink lemonade.

“Someone must have spiked the lemonade with alcohol,” Moe stated the obvious.

“Shit, Moe, we’re selling that stuff to tourists!”

“Shh, lower you voice.” He flapped his hands. “It’s not
that
bad. There were two separate containers. The yellow lemonade is to sell to tourists. The pink lemonade was the free stuff for the knitters and the people working the festival.”

Along the streets, tourists ambled past, many of them carrying glasses of yellow lemonade, but none carrying pink that she could see. Flynn blew out her breath.

“Someone is trying to sabotage the knit-a-thon,” Moe said.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Flynn tried to calm him
in spite of her own rapid pulse rate. “It’s probably just some teenage pranksters.”

“Or perhaps it could be the same person who blew up the bridge.” Moe stroked his chin with a thumb and index finger. “Someone who doesn’t want that bridge rebuilt.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Moe looked over at the lemonade stand parked in front of the motorcycle shop. “I’m suggesting Jesse Calloway’s behind it all.”