The Giving Heart Read online

  And so she did. She stared blindly into the flames, waiting as he dressed quietly behind her. It was a miserable sort of moment—fraught with tension and various kinds of pain. But this would be the one she’d put in a box—though unlike that nicer one from just a minute or two earlier, this one she’d close up and shove very far away, to a far corner of the proverbial attic in her mind, and hopefully forget it ever existed.

  You shouldn’t feel mean to make him go. Yet somehow she did.

  “Has the snow stopped?” The words left her unplanned. But maybe she just had to make sure she wasn’t being a totally horrible person.

  She sensed him crossing the room to look out the window. Finally, “Yeah.”

  She nodded. At the fire, since she couldn’t look at him. “Good.” Spoken softly. Then, even more quietly, she said, “Goodbye.”

  In her peripheral vision, she saw him pulling on his coat. But no hat. Quit being so concerned. He’s a big boy—he can walk home in the cold without a damn hat.

  “Goodbye,” he returned.

  A moment later, she heard the door open, and felt the burst of winter chill enter the house even from that far away. She waited for it to close, for him to be gone. But instead, he said, “I can leave if you want. But forgetting this ever happened? Sorry to tell you, but that part—impossible.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  LILA OPENED THE front door and peered out on a serene winter morning. Subfreezing temperatures sent chunks of ice teeming past the South Point Lighthouse beneath a winter white overcast sky. Snow blanketed the ground—from a glance at the mailbox post, she estimated an accumulation of at least ten or more fresh inches. She only prayed that would be enough to keep bulldozing work from continuing—or from whatever it would take to get another bulldozer onto the scene. Since at least she had the key to the one already there. And hoped blindly it was the only one.

  She tried to ignore the large footprints leading down the front walk from the porch through the deep snow and turning left onto Harbor Street. Then she closed the door, ate a little cereal for breakfast, and did the next logical thing. She decided to loom knit.

  Meg had told her she often felt Gran’s spirit still in and around the inn. And if Gran were here now, Lila knew with near certainty that her grandma would advise her to make something on the knitting looms she’d brought down from the attic yesterday. For the same reasons Gran had thought it would be a good idea when Lila was a teenager—as a distraction. Because she refused to think about Beck Grainger and what had happened here yesterday. It was indeed the perfect time for some looming.

  If only she could remember how.

  After a shower, she dressed in fleece-lined leggings and another big, cozy sweater, then planted herself on the couch in the parlor with loom and yarn. The original looming instructions and pattern book she’d used as a girl weren’t in the box, but thank God for the internet. A little googling on her tablet easily led her to patterns for hats, scarves, and other useful things—and she soon found her way to an easy beginners’ pattern for a simple winter hat.

  From the several skeins of old yarn residing in the box with the various looms, she pulled out an icy winter blue with just a hint of sparkle to it—a chunky yarn that, if memory served, would be easy to work with until she got the hang of it again. She even recalled selecting this very yarn at the Yarn Barn—apparently right before she lost interest in loom knitting. As a “scattered person,” as Gran had once gently albeit aptly called her, her life was littered with the leftovers and remains of hobbies and projects she’d been consumed with—until suddenly she wasn’t anymore, giving up one thing to move on to the next.

  The wintry yarn reminded her of the ensemble Suzanne had worn to the café the other day—and though she had no real idea what Suzanne’s personal taste or style was from their two brief meetings so far, she decided to make a hat for Meg’s friend. For being nice to her, welcoming her. And because she thought the color would contrast nicely with Suzanne’s dark curly hair and draw out her rather crystalline blue eyes, which Lila had noticed over lunch. And for trying to help with Beck—which maybe she’d already done and it hadn’t worked given that the Christmas tree had surely come from Petal Pushers. But she appreciated it regardless.

  Tying a slip knot around a circular loom’s anchor peg, she wrapped the thick yarn around all the pegs twice, then used the knitting hook to methodically lift the back loop of yarn over the front one on each peg, creating the first row in the e-wrap stitch, the simplest stitch in loom knitting. Lila remembered learning lots of stitches with Gran’s help, but that mostly she’d used the basic e-wrap and the u-wrap knit stitch because they were simple, and therefore easier to remember and harder to mess up.

  Projects on the loom indeed went quickly, so it wasn’t long before she was folding rows over to create a thick brim, then proceeding on to construct the crown. The crackle of the fire kept her company—and loath as she was to admit it, even to herself, she found the Christmas tree cheerful. Yes, it reminded her of Beck and everything that was so wrong about this situation—but in a bigger way, it felt like stepping back into her childhood.

  Every ornament made by her and Meg came with a memory, many which included Gran—and hikes up into the woods behind the house to collect pine cones or acorns or twigs. The glass ornaments took her back in time, as well. As a little girl, she’d thought them so old-fashioned as to be ugly and boring, but now she saw in them history, family, warmth, and tradition.

  When did I start appreciating tradition? She tilted her head, eyeing the tree, wondering. Maybe what happened with Simon had made her grateful to have someplace old and safe to run to. Or maybe it had come with the bulldozer and the impending loss of the woods. Regardless, though, the antique glass bulbs made her think of her parents and Gran, and Gran’s parents before her. The family hadn’t celebrated many Christmases on the island since Gran’s passing—and she liked to think if Meg was right about Gran’s spirit being here, she’d be happy to see the old ornaments decorating a tree, and the front parlor of the inn looking Christmasy again.

  Damn you, Beck Grainger, for being right about me enjoying the tree.

  But stop it. Knit. Knit, knit, knit.

  Soon she found herself trying to determine if she had knitted enough rows for the crown, deciding she had, and following instructions to remove the knitting from the loom using a long tail of yarn and a plastic sewing needle—which she thankfully found in a zipped baggie in the box. Once the hat was knitted off the loom, she carefully pulled and tightened the yarn like a drawstring, which suddenly created a pretty decent-looking hat! She smiled at her creation, followed the internet instructions for finishing the project with a hidden knot and some weaving in of yarn tails, then headed toward the mirror in the foyer, pulling the hat onto her head.

  It looked good. Good enough to give to Suzanne as a Christmas gift before she left the island later this month. Mission accomplished.

  Returning to the parlor, she glanced at the mantel clock. It was—oh dear—ten a.m. How would she possibly fill the rest of her quiet day? It hadn’t been a question before yesterday—exhaustion notwithstanding, the quiet days had felt relatively peaceful, easy. But just a glimpse at the spot by the hearth where she and Beck had done the deed brought it back, too close. Especially now that she no longer had loom stitches to concentrate on. Maybe she needed to make more hats.

  Because she simply refused to think about him. Even if having to refuse to think about him meant, technically, that she was still thinking about him. She just needed to keep busy, keep her mind on other things.

  She started by tidying up the kitchen—putting some dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down the table and counters, scrubbing a dirty griddle from yesterday’s grilled cheese by hand in the sink. After that, she gathered up the ornament boxes and extra lights from the parlor floor, toting them all back up to the attic. Returning to the parlor, s
he straightened it, as well, even breaking out the vacuum cleaner for pine needles and bits of garland that had fallen while decorating. That was when she spotted that clump of glass ornaments on the tree, the blue star in the center of them and still needing to be moved to create a sense of balance.

  And it was as she gently plucked the blue star off the branch that her chest tightened. Because this was...useless. You couldn’t not think about something—or someone—who had already permeated your world. She’d sent Beck away, but he was still here.

  He was in the yellow bulldozer peeking monstrously up through the snow when she glanced out the kitchen window. He was in the dirty cocoa mugs she’d found in the sink. He was in the chenille throw she’d just shoved in the washing machine to clean the scents of sex away. And he was in this tree, and now in all these ornaments and lights, and he was in front of the fireplace, filling her, thrusting into her, moving her, taking her so far away from the trees on that hillside for a little while that they had ceased to matter, or even exist.

  But now they mattered again.

  And what she’d done with him—ugh, that mattered, too. So much more than she’d intended it to. So much more than she’d expected it to.

  Lila had never seen herself as a woman who got attached to a man that quickly. But then, despite how people saw her, she’d never been a woman who slept with a guy on the first date—or in this case, anti-date—either.

  Why on earth had she done it? Besides desire and alcohol, that is. Why had she had sex with the last person she should be having it with?

  Unwitting attraction. Plus telling herself it would be empowering.

  Without the alcohol in the mix, they seemed like pretty bad answers. Especially since she felt ridiculously far from empowered right now. Instead, she felt like she’d just done one more bad thing as a sister. Meg would never have to know, but the upshot was: sleeping with the guy who was ruining her sister’s property value just didn’t seem like the prudent, ethical move here.

  Except for when she recalled the moment she woke up. That sweet, safe, tranquil moment. How warm his body had been behind hers. How rested she’d felt. How at peace.

  Before she’d blown it all to hell by telling him to leave.

  You didn’t blow anything to hell. You just ended something that had to end because it never should have started. And it’s over now, and that’s that.

  So what now, genius?

  She looked back at her box of looms and spied a skein of variegated purple-and-pink worsted weight yarn. She didn’t know Dahlia well, but she thought the colorful yarn had the older lady’s name written all over it. One more hat, coming up.

  * * *

  Knitting bee tonight at the Knitting Nook at 7. Hope you’ll join! Dahlia and I will both be there, and like I said, I don’t knit either. The text from Suzanne felt like just what the doctor ordered. Lila was out of yarn, out of distractions, and out of patience. So she bundled up in one of Meg’s parkas and a pair of her mittens, packed her looms and knitting hook in a shopping bag she found tucked away in a closet, and went trudging up Harbor street in Meg’s practical black snow boots.

  The blazing lights of the Knitting Nook on the otherwise dark street welcomed her as she stepped up on the porch. The door opened before she could reach for the handle, held by a friendly looking young woman in a ponytail and fleece hoodie. “Hi, I’m Allie. You must be Lila,” she said with a smile. “Welcome to the Knitting Nook.”

  Lila stepped inside, saying hello without bothering to ask how Allie knew who she was. On Summer Island in winter, everybody knew everybody. She only hoped everybody didn’t know everything everybody had been doing.

  But she pushed that troubling thought aside as Allie pointed to a gathering of snow boots on a rubber mat just inside the door and said merrily, “This is a socks-only zone this time of year.”

  Feeling girlishly pleased that she’d worn socks with reindeer faces on them, she shed the boots and soaked up the ambiance. Christmas music played, a tree with white lights twinkled in one corner, and women in seasonal garb sprinkled the yarn-filled room. Not exactly the type of holiday party she was accustomed to, but it would do.

  “Josh has coffee, tea, and cocoa next door—and...” Allie paused, glancing down into Lila’s shopping bag. “Oh, you’re a loom knitter! Nice.”

  “Well, I just took it back up—literally this morning—after a twenty-year hiatus. So I’m a little rusty.”

  “Not to worry,” Allie assured her. “You’ll be back in the saddle in no time. Though I don’t believe we have any other loom knitters here. Traditional knitters and crocheters, yes, but not sure anyone will be able to help if you run into trouble.”

  Lila had run into much worse trouble than loom knitting could dish up, so she only shrugged. “That’s why God made the internet.”

  Allie laughed in reply, then added, “But we have yarn—lots of lots of yarn.” And she wasn’t exaggerating. Every yarn imaginable lined rustic wooden shelving along every wall, making it a veritable color feast for the eyes. It almost reminded her of the Yarn Barn of her youth. “And we have several knitting totes and carriers that would hold your looms if you want to ditch the paper bag.”

  Lila let her eyes widen as a light gasp escaped her. “Oh—yes, I’d love to see what you have.” Working from a cardboard box hadn’t been nearly as pleasant as from the pretty foldable carrier Gran had given her as a girl—which was either long gone or more deeply buried in the attic than she cared to dig for.

  Half an hour later, Lila had bought the perfect carrier for her looms and yarn and tools in a lovely flowered print that she’d have never selected in Chicago, but apparently Summer Island brought out in her an appreciation of the old-fashioned and quaint. Even in winter, all that picturesque pastel on Harbor Street had a way of soothing her soul.

  She’d also bought some yarn, thinking of gifts for the family. And when Dahlia and Suzanne found her seated in an easy chair in one corner of the room, she was sipping coffee from a big blue mug with snowflakes painted on it, and starting a hat from a lavender alpaca blend for Meg.

  “Well, don’t you just look all moved in and cozy here,” Dahlia said with a grin.

  “I’m jealous,” Suzanne announced as both women dragged up nearby chairs to form a semi-circle with Lila’s. “You have a yarn project. I thought you didn’t knit. I thought I had a non-knitting buddy.”

  Lila smiled. “I found looms in the attic and remembered our grandma taught me when I was a teenager. It’s pretty easy, though.” She pulled out one of the other looms. “Here, I can show you how.”

  From the chair to Lila’s right, Suzanne scowled at the loom as if it might bite her. “I’m handy with plants and flowers—not yarn.”

  “Oh, give it a try,” Dahlia said from Lila’s left. “I’ve been knitting the same blanket for three years. It’s mostly just for show. Doesn’t really matter if you can do it or not.”

  “It really is easy,” Lila promised. “I wouldn’t be able to do it if it wasn’t.”

  “The confidence in this corner is overwhelming,” Allie stepped up to say. “Come on, ladies—act like the capable, talented women you are.”

  Dahlia sat up a little straighter. “You’re so right.” Then she looked to Suzanne and Lila. “Normally, we are the picture of confidence, but we get self-deprecating over arts and crafts? I won’t have it.” Then she held a knitting needle in the air. “I hereby declare I’m going to finish this blanket this winter. And you, Suzanne, are going to learn to use one of those looms. And you, Lila, are going to be a great teacher and make lots of gorgeous things yourself. Thank you, Allie, for getting our heads back on straight.”

  Allie just shrugged. “I’ve always found making things—creating something that wasn’t there before—to be kind of...empowering. Because you’re...adding something to the world.”

  As the other ladies le
ft to get drinks and let Suzanne select a skein of yarn, Lila thought about that. Even if Dahlia had kindly included her in the we who were “normally confident” without knowing her well enough to be sure, making hats for her new friends today had felt good. Indeed, like giving a little something back to the world in some small way. Maybe loom knitting could be empowering. Which didn’t sound like nearly as fun a way to find empowerment as having sex with Beck Grainger, but it was a hell of a lot simpler.

  * * *

  “WHAT’S YOUR SECRET?” Suzanne asked.

  “Who—me?” Lila answered, sounding slightly alarmed.

  Suzanne laughed lightly, shook her head. “No. Her.” She looked to Dahlia. “She recently hinted to me about a secret and I want to know what it is.” Harry Connick was crooning a jazzy rendition of “Jingle Bells” in the background, the mood was festive with hot chocolate drinkers and knitters all around them, and Suzanne decided to ask because Dahlia’s sly statement had stayed on her mind ever since she’d made it.

  Her older friend took on the same expression now as then. Dahlia was a woman of the world—she’d been places, done things. Suzanne didn’t actually know much about her past, but she knew that much about Dahlia instinctively. She was a woman of timeless simple wisdom. And if she had a secret, it was probably a good one.

  When she didn’t answer, though, Suzanne said, “You’ve become one of my closest friends, but you don’t share much about yourself. In ways, I barely know you at all.” She voiced it as a challenge of sorts.

  A slow, mischievous smile unfurled on Dahlia’s face, and her eyes sparkled like Christmas lights behind her tiny, round John Lennon glasses. “All right, fair enough,” she said. “I do have a secret.” Then she leaned forward, closer to both of them, and said in a hushed tone, “I’ve taken a lover.”

  Suzanne’s eyes bolted open wide. From their earlier conversation, she’d thought maybe Dahlia would say she had a date, or some man she harbored a distant interest in. And maybe she’d even thought Dahlia’s secret would inspire her, make her braver with Beck. But this news was shocking to say the least. And somehow it made her feel the opposite of brave. “A lover?” She feared it had come out in the same way one might say, a spider?