Last Chance Knit & Stitch (2 page)

She headed into her mother’s big country kitchen to collect the casserole Momma had made last night. Miz Charlotte wouldn’t need too many casseroles, seeing as she probably had a housekeeper up in that big house of hers who would do her cooking and cleaning during this sad time. But still. Momma was of the opinion that when somebody died, it was a moral obligation to cook a casserole.

Molly didn’t entirely share this view, mostly because she couldn’t cook worth a durn.

She was just putting the mac and cheese into a grocery sack when her brother Allen sauntered into the kitchen
wearing a pair of garnet and black plaid boxers and a University of South Carolina Athletic Department T-shirt. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed, even though it was four-thirty in the afternoon. He scratched his head, mussing the cowlick he’d had since he was two. “Have you seen my sunglasses?” he asked.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already lost the Oakleys. You spent your entire paycheck on them.”

“Don’t be that way, Mol. I just misplaced them is all.” Allen shuffled to the refrigerator, pulled out the milk carton, and took a couple of long, deep swallows that made his Adam’s apple bounce.

“That is totally disgusting.” Molly’s voice assumed the big-sister tone that Allen had learned to ignore at a depressingly early age.

Allen wasn’t very mature for twenty-three. His twin brother, Beau, on the other hand, had been born responsible. Beau had just completed his first year of law school, and he was working as an intern in the governor’s office up in Columbia. Everyone reckoned that Beau had a bright future in politics.

Allen, not so much.

Allen rolled his gorgeous amber eyes and managed to look adorable even with a milk mustache. He’d always been adorable, which explained why he got away with so much.

He put the milk down on the counter and frowned. “Oh, uh, I forgot. Momma called around nine-thirty this morning with a message for you.”

“Why would she do that? I had my cell phone.”

“I have no idea. I was groggy, you know. It was a late night last night. Anyway, she told me to tell you that she
loves you, and then she told me where I could find the message she left.”

“Find the message? You mean she wrote me a note?”

“Yeah.” Allen shuffled over to the little desk in the corner of the kitchen where Pat Canaday, Molly’s mother, kept the household bills and her personal papers. He picked up an envelope and handed it to Molly.

Molly stared down at the white envelope bearing her name written in Momma’s flowing script. This couldn’t be good. The hair on the back of her neck and along her arms danced a little jig. Momma hadn’t been very happy the last few months. She hadn’t said much. She almost never talked about her feelings. But something was wrong. Momma had gone to town with her meditating. She’d even set up a meditation corner in the spare room.

Anyone who meditated that much must have a whole lot on her mind.

Molly’s heart pounded as she tore open the envelope and read.

Molly blinked down at the stationery with rosebuds embellishing the edges and bottom of the page. She shifted her gaze to the kitchen counter. Sure enough, there was Momma’s recipe box sitting right on top of a well-thumbed copy of
One Minute Meditations
.

“What’s the note say?” Allen asked, as he pulled a jar of peanut butter from the pantry, opened it, and scooped some up with his finger.

She scowled at her brother. “Do you have any idea how gross you are?”

He shrugged like he didn’t really care about her opinion. “What’s it say?” he asked through the peanut butter in his mouth.

“It says she’s ticked off with Coach, and she’s gone to see the world.”

“Momma’s ticked off? Really? That’s kind of interesting, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, but I have a really bad feeling about this.” She handed the note to her brother who proceeded to get peanut butter on it, which was more or less par for the course. Molly pulled out her cell and dialed her
mother’s number. Momma’s unmistakable ringtone—Bert and Ernie singing “Rubber Ducky”—sounded from her desk drawer. Molly opened the drawer and discovered Momma’s phone with a sticky note attached to it that said, “You didn’t think I was dumb enough to take my phone, did you?”

Just then, the landline rang. Molly picked up the handset from the old-fashioned phone bolted to the kitchen wall. “Hey.”

“Molly, is that you? It’s Kenzie. I’m desperate for a skein of carmine red alpaca, but there’s a sign on the front door of the yarn shop that says ‘Closed Until Molly Realizes She’s in Charge.’ What in the world does that mean?”

Molly rested her head on the wall beside the phone and squeezed her eyes shut. “It means my mother has run away and expects me to fill her shoes and run the Knit & Stitch.” No doubt this was Momma’s way of forcing her to become a true southern lady—the kind who cooked casseroles, never lost her temper, and was always gracious and polite. In short, the kind of woman who didn’t have a burning desire to fix cars or a five-year plan to open a body shop.

“Oh, well, that’s okay,” Kenzie said. “You know more about yarn than your mother does. Can you open the shop, please? I’m desperate.”

“Uh, no. Not right now. I’ve got to go to Ira Wolfe’s wake.”

“Oh. Okay. But what about the Purly Girls meeting tomorrow afternoon? You’re going to open up for that, right?”

Oh, brother. Molly was going to murder her mother the next time she saw her. If there ever
was
a next time.

T
he funeral home’s foyer was dark and smelled of lemon oil polish. Simon checked his baggage with the cloakroom attendant and made his way into a large room with big bay windows hung with heavy draperies. The drapes blocked all but a little crack of sunshine.

He checked his watch. After all his worry, he was half an hour early, and all alone with the guest of honor.

Daddy was stretched out in a bronze-colored coffin wearing his purple and yellow Davis High Football booster shirt. The coffin’s lining was also in the school colors. Simon wondered how Mother felt about this. She had never been a big Rebels fan.

Simon stared down at the corpse, so peaceful in death. His father had been a handsome man, with piercing blue eyes and a strong chin. His eyes were closed now, and the dark hair that Simon remembered had gone to gray. Daddy’s big hands were crossed on his chest, and he still wore his wedding ring.

What irony. Mother and Daddy’s marriage had been
a disaster. The two of them could hardly speak without igniting an argument. And Simon had lived his life between their battle lines.

A familiar futility settled in his gut. It had taken years to learn how to recognize this feeling. And it sucked big time that he found himself unable to reason the pain away. He wanted to be numb. He wanted not to care. But instead, the wounds of his youth opened and bled.

He checked his watch again and paced the room to the window. He pulled away the drapes and stared out at a colorful garden filled with an abundance of flowers. If only he could escape to that bright place.

He wanted to get out of here. He needed to get back to his painting. The Harrison commission loomed over him like the sword of Damocles. He should never have let Gillian negotiate that deal, but he and Gillian had been in the appeasement phase of their relationship. He’d let her have a little bit of control, and then he’d realized that it was a mistake. Now Gillian was gone, and only the problematic commission remained.

“Oh my goodness, Simon, is that really you?”

He turned to discover a thin, sixty-something woman with carefully coiffed white hair and hazel eyes. She wore a simple black suit—the kind old ladies wear to funerals.

Who was this person?

“Don’t you know me, honey? It’s Aunt Millie.”

He blinked a few times. She had changed. The last time he’d seen her, Aunt Millie had tipped the scales at 170 pounds, easy. But this woman couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet.

He couldn’t move, which was okay because Millie wasn’t paralyzed. She hurried forward, threw her arms
around him, and held on fiercely. He remembered then. Aunt Millie had always been a refuge.

“I’m so sorry about your daddy, son.” She patted his back and then smiled through her unshed tears. “I’m so glad you’re here. Your uncle Rob is bringing your mother up the back way. I know it will warm her heart to see you here.”

Simon’s insides went free falling. He hadn’t seen his mother for eighteen years.

A moment later Mother entered the room, her hand wrapped around Uncle Rob’s forearm as if she needed his support. Mother had not changed. She had celebrated her sixty-fifth birthday this year, but there wasn’t a single gray hair on her head. In some cynical corner of his mind, Simon knew that Mother probably kept a weekly appointment at the local beauty shop, but that didn’t matter. She was Mother. Still.

She turned her gaze on him, and it was like getting hit with a shotgun blast. All the unpleasant memories of living with Mother and Daddy tumbled through him. And yet he wanted to run to her and hug her. He had missed her, even if he couldn’t stand being with her.

“Mother.” He took a few steps toward her, but he didn’t get close enough for an embrace.

Charlotte Wolfe took a step back, her big brown eyes growing wide and fearful. “Who are you?”

The words burned right through his middle.

“Now, Charlotte,” Aunt Millie said in her most patient of voices. “It’s your boy, Simon. Don’t you remember him? He’s come home to take care of you.”

Simon opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word, his mother shook her head. “No, he’s
not Simon. I would know my boy. Simon would never wear his hair long like that, or go around unshaven. Don’t you try to fool me, Millie.” Mother clutched Uncle Rob’s arm and looked up at him with a wide stare. “Ira, you tell Millie she’s wrong.”

Uncle Rob, Mother’s older brother, stared down at his sister with a look of pity. “Darlin’, Ira’s passed. Don’t you remember? It happened on Saturday. He had a heart attack.”

She blinked a few times, and her eyes seemed to brighten just a little. “Oh, yes, I remember.” She turned to stare at the casket, her expression resolving itself into lines of grief. Uncle Rob escorted Mother to a seat on the opposite side of the room and hovered over her.

Aunt Millie sagged where she stood. She looked tired. “So now you know,” she said. “Charlotte is having a very bad day today. I’m sure it’s the shock of Ira’s passing. There are some days when she’s almost herself. Don’t you worry, she’ll remember you eventually. You haven’t changed that much. You still look like the Polk side of the family.”

“How long has she been like this?” His voice sounded like it came from a very great distance. Here he’d been thinking he could breeze in for the funeral and make a quick escape. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen. It was like the ground beneath him had turned to quicksand.

“Charlotte’s been fading away for about five years. It’s progressed pretty slowly. And your father took good care of her. So today is hard.”

“Daddy took care of her?”

“Of course he did.”

“But they could hardly stand one another.”

“That’s not true. Your folks had their share of fights, but they loved each other. Your daddy adored her. And he was so good for her. He was a bighearted man, Simon. And you broke his heart badly.”

“They broke mine first.” His voice was hard and tight.

Aunt Millie patted his back. “Son, I don’t really know what happened between you and your folks. I never could really understand it. I know they had dreams for you that weren’t what you wanted, but that wasn’t a good reason for you to leave and never come home. And now I’m afraid it’s time for you to pay the piper. Your mother needs to be cared for.”

Of all the things waiting for him here in Last Chance, this was the most unexpected. He had thought he was coming to say good-bye to his father, and then he’d go back to his nice, orderly life in Paradise. The truth was beginning to sink in.

“I guess I’ll have to take her back to California with me. I’ll find a retirement home or something.”

Millie stiffened. “You can’t do that. You can’t take her away from the home she loves. She’s put her whole heart and soul into that garden of hers. And you can’t take her away from her friends in the garden club and the Purly Girls.”

“Purly Girls?”

“She’s taken up knitting. The occupational therapist said it would be good for her because gardening is getting difficult. She needs to be watched when she’s using her tools. Last month, she pulled up all her daffodils. She thought they were weeds. So we’ve been encouraging the knitting.”

“She can knit in California. That’s where I live. I realize
she needs to be taken care of. But I’m not moving back to Last Chance, Aunt Millie. I’m just not.”

“Listen to me. I love you, but if you take your mother to California and shove her into a nursing home, I will be so disappointed in you. I will not let you warehouse her.”

“I didn’t say I was going to shove her into a nursing home. I’ll find a nice place for her with a mountain view.”