The Sweethearts’ Knitting Club (5 page)

His eyes shone in the porch lamplight. He’d been so good to her, so good
for
her. He’d been kind and patient and understanding. And now he was giving her Lynn’s Yarn Barn. She had no reason to refuse other than a silly crush she’d had on a boy back in high school. A boy who’d turned out to be a pistol-toting drug dealer. A boy, she’d discovered belatedly, that she knew absolutely nothing about. A boy she hadn’t seen in ten years and probably wouldn’t recognize if she did. It was time to let go of those old fantasies that had stopped her from moving on and embracing the future.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I’ll marry you, Beauregard Reginald Trainer.”

“Oh, Flynnie,” he said, and his sigh of relief was so heartfelt that all her doubts fled. “You’ve made me the happiest man on earth.” He slipped the ring on her finger.

She held it up to the light, trying to adjust to the unaccustomed weight. It turned easily on her finger. “It’s a bit big.”

“We’ll have it sized on Tuesday when we go apply for the loan to buy the theater.”

So many emotions crowded into her throat—
anxiousness, excitement, fear, loss, acceptance—that she couldn’t speak. She didn’t even know what to say.

Beau stood, took her hand. “Come on. Let’s go tell your dad. Tomorrow night we’ll tell my parents, and make it official at Mom’s annual Memorial Day party.”

While Flynn was getting engaged to Sheriff Beau Trainer, Hondo Crouch stood staring after the taillights of Patsy’s Crown Victoria long after they’d disappeared into the darkness. The past rolled over him, warm and sticky as the night air, leaving him with cravings he thought he’d vanquished long ago. Had she been feeling it too? Was that why she’d driven by?

Honda swallowed, shook his head. Too late for thoughts like that. Forty years too late.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from having thoughts. He wondered what she’d do if he just went over to her prim house on Market Street, punched a hole right through her front door with his fist, and marched inside. What would she do if he grabbed her in his arms and kissed her the way he’d been aching to kiss her? Kiss her, hell. He wanted to fuck her prim, stuck-up majesty within an inch of her life. He wanted to make her beg. He wanted to hear her call out his name in ecstasy one last time before he died.

His cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket; saw that the number scrolling across his caller ID belonged to one of the men he sponsored. One-handedly, he flipped the phone open. “How you doin’, Floyd?”

“Not so good, Hondo.”

“Get yourself to a meeting, Floyd.”

“I just came from one.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I gotta drivin’ urge to head down to the Horny Toad Tavern.”

“But you’re not going to do that.”

“I…”

“You’re not going to do it,” Honda commanded, full-steel marine.

“You don’t understand. It is…was…my wedding anniversary.” Floyd choked up. “I miss Lynn so bad I can’t breathe.”

He knew the feeling. “Straighten up, man. Do it for your kids. Do it in memory of Lynn. Honor her with your sobriety.”

Floyd swallowed audibly. “Does it ever get any easier?”

No
. Hondo thought of how it had taken him several tries in detox with trained professionals to finally kick the heroin twenty years ago. And how to this day he still felt those old cravings at the most unexpected times. But he wasn’t about to tell that to a man on the verge of taking a drink after being eleven months sober. “You just learn how to man up and deal with it. You realize you want to stop hurting those you love more than you want to take a drink. Do you want to put Flynn and Carrie and your boys through any more shit than you’ve already put them through?”

“No.”

“Damn straight.”

“How…how do I deal with this?”

“You got a punching bag?”

“No.”

“Weights?”

“An old barbell out in the garage and I think Flynn’s got a jump rope.”

“Good. Go out in the garage and lift weights and jump that rope until your lungs are screaming and your muscles are cramping and your physical pain is worse than the mental pain.”

“And that really works?”

“It does.”
At least for a little while
. “Now go on and do it. Call me if you get into more trouble.”

“Okay, thanks,” Floyd said.

Hondo hung up, pocketed the cell phone. He didn’t know if Floyd MacGregor was strong enough to conquer his addictions. The man had always been one of those breeze-through-life kind of guys.

Yeah, like you’ve fully conquered yours? Hypocrite.

No value in judging people. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. It always came back to bite you in the ass.

Hondo started to pull the ambulance into the bay when he heard the familiar sound of a Harley engine. It had been years since he’d ridden one, but suddenly he was
Easy Rider
all over again. Those damn addictions. He stopped, turned. The chopper pulled up beside the ambulance. The rider cut the engine, peeled off his helmet.

Hondo did a double take, blinked. It couldn’t be, but it was.
Jesse Calloway
. Out of prison two years earlier than expected.

“Hondo,” he said.

“Jesse.” Hondo nodded.

“I’m here to call in that favor.”

Aw shit, the chickens were coming home to roost. “Now?”

“No time like the present.”

Hondo exhaled. “Park your bike around the side and come on in the station house.”

He fought back the knot gathering in his gut as he waited for Jesse to park the Harley and follow him inside. This time of night most of the crew were sleeping or watching television. Hondo led Jesse into the empty kitchen area. “You want something to drink? Water, soda, juice?”

“Water’s good.”

Hondo pulled two bottles of water from the refrigerator, took one for himself, tossed one to Jesse. The kid looked thinner in a black T-shirt and denim jeans than he did in his prison jumpsuit. A couple of days’ growth of beard stubble ringed his jaw and accentuated the rebel-without-a-cause thing he had going on. Hondo took a chair at the table, nodded at the one across from him. “When’d you get sprung?”

“A week ago.” Jesse twisted open the bottle of water, took a sip.

“Why didn’t you call? I would have come to pick you up.”

“I had some things I needed to do.”

“Like getting the Harley out of storage?”

“Yeah.”

They sat there looking at each other. Neither one spoke for a long moment.

“I want to thank you,” Jesse said. “For coming to see me when I was inside. It helped.”

“I know. You’re welcome.”

Another awkward silence. In the background they could hear the television from the next room. It sounded like a
Baywatch
rerun.

“How’d you manage to get out early?” Hondo finally ventured.

“Long story, we’ll save it for another time.”

Hondo inhaled. “So what can I do for you?”

Jesse toyed with the plastic ring from the lid of the water bottle. “You still willing to loan me the money to open my motorcycle shop?”

Hondo remembered what it was like to be young and in trouble with no opportunities, no one to stand by you, no one to care. He recalled the desperate, gritty feelings that made a man do things he shouldn’t. He didn’t want Jesse to have to go through that. It was the reason he’d taken an interest, gone to see him in prison. That and the fact he was Patsy’s nephew. Stupid, he knew, still giving a damn after all these years. But there it was. “Where are you thinking about opening up the business?”

“Right here in Twilight.”

An uneasy feeling skittered over Hondo’s skin. “You think that’s wise, considering Clinton Trainer’s progeny is now sheriff of Hood County?”

Jesse slouched back in his chair and lowered his eyelids halfway, dropped his hands into his lap. “I’m not scared of Beau Trainer.”

“You should be. One wrong move and he could send you straight back to prison.” Hondo shook his head. “He’ll be gunning for you, make no mistake about that.”

“I welcome the challenge. Besides, I heard you were running against him in the upcoming election. Maybe you’ll win.”

Hondo had to smile. “I might at that.”

“What prompted your sudden political aspirations?”

“Trainer’s too young to be sheriff. He only got the position because his old man had a stroke and Beau went off to Iraq and got himself shot. He’s not qualified and he’s too damn much a stickler for the rules. Sees things in strictly black and white, and we both know how dangerous that kind of thinking can be. But it’d be dumb for you to come back to Twilight if you’ve got an axe to grind with Trainer. You won’t win.”

“I’ll let you do my axe grinding for me, Hondo.”

“It’s Flynn, isn’t it? That’s
really
why you’re back.”

Jesse was cool, but not so cool that he could completely hide the surprise in his eyes. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m not blind, boy. I saw the way you used to look at that little gal. You had a thing for her. Which ultimately is what landed you in the slammer.”

“Nothing gets by you.”

“Not much,” Hondo admitted. “Not anymore.”

“So you know of any places for sale in the area that might meet my needs?” Jesse took his hands out of his lap, stretched them out on the table in front of him.

For the first time Hondo saw the watch on Jesse’s wrist up close. He blinked, did a double take. Uneasiness snaked through his body. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. “Where’d you get that watch?”

“This piece of crap.” Jesse scoffed, flicked his
fingers over the watch face. “It’s the only thing my old man ever left me.”

Hondo moistened his dry lips. He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze off the timepiece. He hadn’t seen the watch in a very long time. There was nothing particularly special about it. Inexpensive, mass-produced. Rather, it was the band that identified it. Two-tone braided leather. Handcrafted by Navahos selling jewelry at a roadside stand in Arizona, and the telltale notch at the side where it had once caught on a nail. “I…I thought you never knew your father.”

Jesse shrugged. “I didn’t, but my mom gave it to me a couple of days before she died. I hated the son of a bitch, but it’s the only thing I have that belonged to him. Stupid, huh?”

“You sure it really belonged to him?” Hondo asked, bouncing his knee up and down. “Maybe your mother just told you that.”

“Maybe,” Jesse said. “I just know if I ever find the original owner of this watch, I’m gonna cold-cock the bastard first and ask questions later.”

“Oh my gracious,” Belinda Murphey exclaimed. “Will you get a load of that ring? Harvey, honey, look at Flynn’s ring.”

Belinda poked her husband, who was busy wiping something sticky off their three-year-old’s face. Their four older children were giggling in time to the lively country music piped in through the sound system and running unfettered around Froggy’s, zigzagging past waitresses carrying heaping platters of fried catfish, fried chicken, chicken fried steak, fried frog legs, fried shrimp, and pot roast.

Froggy’s streamlined menu was straight-to-the-arteries comfort food. You picked from the six main entries, and it was served at your table family-style. Each dish came with a huge platter of
mashed potatoes, cream gravy, green tomato relish, coleslaw, hush puppies and/or homemade biscuits, and the vegetable of the day. Today it was Roma green beans fresh from Beau’s mother’s backyard garden.

When her father first bought Froggy’s back when he and her mother were newlyweds, it was nothing more than a boat gas station on the marina with a place inside to buy sandwiches, cigarettes, boating supplies, and beer. Over the years her father had slowly added the outdoor patio deck, expanded the main dining room, and put in the bar at the back. One gas pump remained at the end of the pier, but for the most part, people came there for the food.

After Mom had gotten sick and Floyd had seriously tucked into his drinking, business dwindled as food quality nosedived, and the staff made like sinking-ship rats. Floyd had almost lost the place until Flynn took over managing it after she graduated high school. But since her father quit the hooch, he’d been slowly gathering the reins again. He’d taken over the bookkeeping, the ordering of supplies, and the hiring and firing. Flynn still made out the employees’ schedules and filled the gaps in the waitstaff schedule.

Like this Saturday. One of the waitresses was on her honeymoon and Flynn hadn’t been able to con anyone else into taking her weekend shift. She wore a Froggy’s apron knotted around her waist and a name tag lanyard. Working the floor today put her in a bit of a bind, seeing as how she’d have to rush home to change after her shift was over. Beau was picking her up at seven for his mother’s party.

“Harvey, seriously, look at the rock Beau put on Flynn’s finger. It’s huge. What is that? Two carats?”

“Three actually.”

Belinda whistled, and all five of her kids made a beeline for the table. She shook her head. “False alarm, Mommy wasn’t whistling for you. Go back to what you were doing.”

The gaggle of young Murpheys dispersed.

Harvey looked up, blinked. Somehow the gunk that had been on the three-year-old’s face had ended up on his own chin. “Beau and Flynn finally got engaged?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Belinda shifted her gaze from her husband to Flynn. “The ring
does
belong to Beau, right?”

“Who else’s ring would it be?” Harvey asked. “He’s the only guy she’s ever dated.”

Flynn rolled her eyes. The joys of small-town life. Everyone knew all your business.

“Honey, hold still, you got some…” Belinda moistened her thumb and rubbed the smudge off Harvey’s chin.

“See what you get to look forward to,” Harvey said. “The ugly side of intimacy.”

“And you love every minute of it.” Belinda kissed his cheek. “So Flynn, sit, sit.” Belinda patted the seat next to her, which was littered with the crumbs of her offspring. “I want to know all the details. How did he pop the question? Have you set a date? Where’s the ceremony gonna be at? What about the honeymoon? You know I’ve got connections. I could get you a great discount on a Padre Island condo.”

From the kitchen, a bell dinged twice signaling that a catfish platter was up for delivery. “That bell’s for me.” Flynn pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “Gotta go.”

“Aw shoot, can’t someone else get it? I’m so sorry I had to miss the knitting group last night. Karmie had a stomach bug but you couldn’t tell it by looking at her today.”

Belinda nodded in the direction of her six-year-old, who was doing the chicken dance with a group of servers, her siblings, and various other children. In between the country music Froggy’s looped in, they played a few group participation songs like the “Hokey-Pokey” and “Chicken Dance” to heighten the festive atmosphere. One thing was a given, Flynn was
not
playing the “Chicken Dance” at her wedding reception. No “Y.M.C.A.” No “Electric Slide.”

“We’ll chat later.” Flynn zoomed away, happy for the excuse of schlepping a platter of steaming hot catfish across the packed dining room. People had been bombarding her with questions all day about the ring and she was tired of talking about it.

The sun was sliding westward as she turned from the kitchen, the serving tray balanced on her upturned palm. No one had yet thought to draw the shades, and the harsh afternoon glare cut straight through the big picture window fronting the water, bathing the main entrance in a band of sultry light.

The front door swung open and a man, cast in silhouette, stepped across the threshold. He was cloaked in shadows, but something about the way he stood seemed very familiar—deceptively
casual and self-possessed, but don’t-tread-on-me dangerous.

Flynn squinted, blinked. Her gut tightened and her heart slowed to a sluggish beat. The hairs on the nape of her neck lifted and all the air fled her lungs. Her head spun and her knees wobbled. She’d never fainted in her life, but for one precarious second she thought she might hit the floor, catfish platter and all.

Jesse.

Was he real? Was it a trick of the light? It had to be. Jesse had two years left to serve on his prison sentence. He simply could not be standing in Froggy’s doorway looking like a gunslinger come for a showdown.

A hostess met him, menu in hand.

It could
not
be Jesse. She was imagining things. This engagement business was muddling her mind. The cold sweat rolling down her back had to be wrong. But he was undeniably masculine, his saunter pure cocky, self-assured male.

The hostess turned, escorting him toward her.

No, no, no.

The “Chicken Dance” was over, the kids dispersed. Silverware clattered against plates. Voices hummed. Shania Twain was singing “You’re Still the One.”

Closer and closer, he stalked.

Her whole body was trembling now. Willow-tree-in-a-hurricane trembling.

His face was leaner, stripped of the round-cheeked innocence of youth; his jaw harder and ringed with a scruffy five-o’clock shadow darker than his muddy blond hair. He wore scuffed
cowboy boots, faded Levi’s with a hole in the knee, and a snug-fitting white T-shirt that stretched tight across his bulked-up biceps. A battered old Timex was strapped to his left wrist, and a red bandana peeked from the front pocket of his jeans. Gone was the boy she once knew. Here stood a man, through and through.

Jesse.

The bridge of time snapped, butting her past up against her present, the future weighing heavily on her ring finger.

The serving tray she carried slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor. Flynn smelled peanut oil, lemon, and her own deep-seated fear. Instantly she squatted and started scooping up catfish.

To her horror, Jesse crouched beside her.

“Don’t…I can…please.” Studiously she wrangled hush puppies, tomato relish, mashed potatoes, anything to keep from looking him in the eyes.

His hand reached out to lightly touch hers. Damn if her heart wasn’t beating so hard she feared it was going to explode. She didn’t know what to think, had no idea what to do with these feelings shifting around inside her. He kept his hand on hers until she finally had no choice but to look at him.

“How you doin’, Dimples?” Jesse said in his sexy Southern drawl that still curled her toes. “Long time no see.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, she was as brainless as if she’d just been struck on the head by lightning. He was the only person on earth who’d ever called her Dimples.

Say something, but be cool, don’t let him see what he’s doing to you.

“You’re out of prison,” she said brightly, plastering a stupid smile on her face, knowing full well she was revealing the dimples he enjoyed teasing her about. Oh God, why had she said that? And in such a chipper tone, like, “You’ve lost weight.”

“Here I am.” He spread his arms.

“So you are. How’d you get out early?”

“Time off for good behavior.”

“You?” She snorted.

“Yeah, imagine that.”

They stared at each other. He reached a hand to her face. Startled, she drew back.

“Easy there, Dimples, just going for that speck of gravy.” He rubbed her cheek with his thumb.

Her skin burned where he’d touched. “You that hungry?” she quipped.

“Oh yeah,” he said, his tone low and sexy and filled with sizzling hot innuendo. His eyes darkened. “You have no idea.”

Flynn gulped and got lost in his gaze. Apparently some things never changed. “Was there really gravy on my cheek?”

“Let’s just let that stay a mystery.”

The busboy, Carlos, hustled over with a mop and broom. “I clean mess up for you, boss.”

“Thank you,” she said, happy to have a reason to look away from Jesse.

He stood and held a hand out to help her up, but she ignored it and got to her feet under her own steam. No way was she touching him.

“Well, then,” she said, wiping her palms on her apron. “If you’re hungry, let’s get you a seat.”

“Had enough of those in prison. Not very tasty even with salt.”

She wasn’t going to laugh at his joke. She wasn’t about to encourage him. How did he manage to joke after ten years in the slammer? She immediately had ugly thoughts of metal bars, cement floors, stark lighting, and burly men named Bubba with fierce tattoos on their faces. Jesse had been to such a place, and now here he was grinning and joking as if he’d just come back from a prolonged vacation. It wasn’t what she expected.

What had she expected?

For one thing, she’d never expected him to come back to Twilight. Not after the way the town had treated him. Why had he come back?

“What’ll you have?” she asked.

“I’ve been dreaming of Froggy’s chicken fried steak.”

“One chicken fried steak dinner, coming up.” She turned to go, but he snaked out a hand and grabbed her wrist. Instantly her womb tightened. “What?” she whispered.

“You want me to just stand here?”

“Oh, yeah, um, you wanna sit outside on the patio?”

“Outside sounds like an excellent idea.”

“This way.” She crooked a finger and led him to a vacant table near the railing overlooking the river. A sand crane flew by, skimming low to the water, looking for a meal.

Jesse sat, tipped back his chair, propped his feet on the railing, and closed his eyes. He looked…peaceful.

“You want a beer or something while you wait?”

“Don’t drink,” he said without opening his eyes. “Never have, never will. Not joining in on that little family tradition, if you know what I mean.”

No, maybe not, but you carried a .357 and sold cocaine.

“Well, me neither. Nothing more than a sip of champagne at celebrations. Not with my father’s problem. Alcoholism takes all the luster out of being drunk.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll bring you a glass of water.”

He nodded, eyes still closed, sun on his face. Flynn raked her gaze over him, unable to believe he was really there. Maybe this was a dream. That was it. After accepting Beau’s proposal, she’d gone to bed and was just naturally dreaming of Jesse to get him out of her system once and for all.

Pinch yourself and see.

She pinched the web of skin between her thumb and index finger.
Ouch. Okay, not a dream
.

He opened one eye. “You still here?”

“Just going.”

“Hurry back.”

She turned, walked halfway to the door, stopped, turned back, opened her mouth, shut it, then zoomed off to the kitchen. But she didn’t get far; Belinda and her brood were headed out the door.

“Yoo-hoo, Flynn,” Belinda called and waved at her. She pretended not to hear, but Belinda wasn’t the type to believe anyone would intentionally ignore her. “Honey, wait up.”

Flynn stopped, sighed, and waited for Belinda
to catch up after she sent Harvey and the five little Murpheys on out to the car.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Guy?”

“The hunk.” Belinda waved toward the patio. Although she’d been born in Twilight, her family had moved away for several years. She hadn’t lived there when Jesse was in high school with Flynn. “He’s gorgeous and he’s got that bad-boy aura women just love. I have a couple of clients who’d go gaga over him.”

Jealousy swept through her, California-wildfire hot. Flynn moved between Belinda and the patio. “I thought your matchmaking business concentrated on hooking people up with long-lost loves.”

“Everyone isn’t as fortunate as you and me to wind up with our high school sweethearts. Some poor women don’t even
have
long-lost loves. There are only so many Beaus and Harveys in the world.” Belinda peered around her shoulder trying to get another peek at Jesse. “Do you think that guy is single?”

“Listen, Belinda, it’s not a good idea.” Why was she warning Belinda off recruiting him for her matchmaking business? Jesse deserved some happiness. If Belinda could conjure him a match, why not encourage her?

“What do you mean?” Belinda lowered her voice, leaned in closer.

“The bad-boy thing?’

“Yes?”

“No act. He’s been in prison.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened.

“That’s why you haven’t seen him in here before. He just got out.”

“What he’d do?”

“Drugs, guns.”

“Do you think he learned his lesson? People can change.”

“Belinda! You’re not seriously thinking of hooking one of your clients up with an ex-con.”

“No, no.” She waved a hand, but kept looking at the patio. “Of course not. But if he’s learned his lesson and he’s really remorseful…I mean come on, look at him…”

“It’s Jesse Calloway, okay.”

Belinda looked flustered. “Patsy’s Jesse?”