The Knitting Diaries (19 page)

“Yeah, so am I. Anna’s worked hard for a lot of years. Now this.” He paused, running a hand over his neck. “It’s cancer.” He stared out the window at a single trawler heading out to open sea. “I won’t be around to help her.”

Caro had a dozen questions to ask. Where was his sister? Where would he be going and for how long? What were his plans when he came back?

Not your business.

“Tea is out, but how about some coffee?”

“No need to go to any trouble. I’m good here just watching the sea. This is one heck of a view, ma’am.”

“Call me Caro, please. I’m Morgan’s granddaughter.” She started to hold out her right hand, frowned, then raised her left hand instead. Despite the strength of his fingers, his grip was gentle. Caro felt a ridge of calluses on his broad palm as their hands touched.

The air seemed to hum. Caro watched a tiny dust mote dance through the sunlight and brush their joined hands. His skin seemed warm under her hand, meeting hers in a perfect fit. She glanced into the depths of those keen eyes and felt herself pulled in, caught by questions that suddenly seemed very important.

She stepped back, feeling a little light-headed.

“Did you say army?”

His mouth twitched. “Marines, ma’am. I’ve got a flight from Portland the day after tomorrow.”

“I see.” Caro liked the way he stood quietly as if he was soaking up the room, soaking up the normalcy of
this moment. “And you can stop calling me ma’am. It’s Caro. Have you been in the military long?”

“Long enough.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, again deflecting a question he didn’t seem to want to answer. “How about I help you with those paintings? Maybe I can spot the one I’m supposed to pick up. It’s a landscape of the sea during a storm.”

“There’s a big pile of packages here. It should be in there.” Caro reached out, misjudged her motion and sent two thick padded envelopes skidding across the kitchen table. She muttered under her breath. “Stupid hand.”

“Let me help you.” Without a sound he moved beside her and Caro felt the brush of one powerful shoulder followed by the sudden warmth of his body. He pulled half a dozen packages into a line, scanning the names and addresses. “This one is mine, I think.” He turned the padded envelope so Caro could see his name. “Your grandmother has beautiful handwriting. You don’t see that very often anymore.” His broad, tanned hand opened on the package, tracing one edge. “So you’re Morgan McNeal’s granddaughter. They told me down at the café that you might be here.”

All Caro could do was nod. There was a weight of energy between them, churning in the quiet room. She had the strangest sense, just for a moment, that she could see dim images around him.

Sand and smoke.

Driving dust and the cries of men caught in pain and confusion. “You’ve seen some fighting,” she murmured, sure of it without knowing why.

He slid his hands into his pockets again. “I thought wearing civilian clothes would make me look like a civilian, but it doesn’t seem to work.”

“It’s not about the clothing. There’s something about you, the way you stand, the way you look around. It’s very silent and thoughtful. Were you in Iraq?”

He shook his head. “Afghanistan.” He looked back at the window, but his eyes seemed focused on a very different place. As the stillness and intensity clung to him, Caro had an urge to reach out and touch his shoulder, to offer some measure of warmth he could take with him. Strangers or not, it was the least she could do.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t make spontaneous emotional gestures like that. Besides, she reminded herself, he was almost a stranger. As Caro turned, one of the stacked paintings wobbled and fell. The others collapsed like dominoes. The last one hit her hand, making her gasp in pain.

“Careful.”

There was blood dotting the cuff of her white shirt. As she bent over for a paper towel, her knitting needles escaped from her pocket, still dangling yarn.

“So you knit?” When Caro didn’t answer, Gage reached around her and rescued her needles. “Are you always this stubborn?”

“Afraid so.”

“My friend’s wife knits, and I don’t recall ever seeing her without yarn and needles. She made us all helmet liners last winter. They were a big help.” Gage took the paper towel from her hand. Quietly he went to the sink and dampened it with hot water. “Let me have a look.”

Caro wanted to refuse, but something about his voice calmed her. It was the most natural thing in the world to hold out her hand and feel his palm brace her fingers. He was careful as he cleaned the jagged cut, and she could sense that he was careful in everything he did.

“You’ll get stronger. Just give it time.”

“I hope you’re right.” Her cheeks flushed. “These days…I’m not so sure.”

“I am. You’re stubborn and you’re a fighter. I can tell. You’re probably more of a fighter than you know.” He finished working, his head bent over her hand, focused on her completely until she felt the force of his intensity and care wrap around her.

There was something special about Gage Grayson. He had a way of making her feel safe and protected without saying a word.

“So…you’re leaving town soon?”

He lifted his eyes at her question, and nodded.

“Do you have plans right now? Like maybe—for coffee. Or how about lunch at the Harbor Café?”

Caro cleared her throat. Had she just asked him
out?
A man she barely knew? This was totally wrong. Absolutely
not
like her.

Gage’s eyes crinkled a little. “Are you asking me to lunch, Ms. McNeal?”

“It certainly sounds that way. And I don’t ask men out very often, so you’d better snap at the chance, Lieutenant Grayson.”

He cocked his head. The smile that opened over his face took away the weight of worry and duty that Caro had seen when he first arrived and again when he received the phone call from his sister. That look let her know she’d done the right thing.

He finished cleaning her hand. “It would be my pleasure, Caro. For the next hour I’m at your disposal.”

G
age stared out the front window while Caro got ready to leave. He hadn’t expected to be charmed by Morgan McNeal’s cozy cottage above the harbor. He hadn’t expected to enjoy the muted sound of waves or feel the sun so warm on his shoulders.

And he definitely hadn’t expected to meet Caro McNeal, fighting with pain, clearly struggling to put her life back in order. The fact was, Gage felt a little disconnected. There were parts of him scattered in too many places. One part was with his sister as she fought her way through her first course of chemotherapy in California. Part of him was already back in Afghanistan, feeling sand whip at his face as he scanned the nearby ridge for signs of hostile troop movements. Another part was grieving with the family of his dead fellow Marine.

And the rest of his mind was alert above this restless sea, marveling at its beauty and the idea that life could be so quiet, so calm.

So
normal
.

Who knew that he would run into a woman like Caro McNeal, tall and stubborn and beautiful, when he least
expected it? Gage had earned every break that life had given him. He never expected—or even wanted—a free ride. The gift of meeting Caro had landed like a body blow, hard and low to the stomach.

It had also hit at his heart, in the hidden place where he’d boxed up most of his boyhood dreams. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that Caro was in pain, though she was working hard to hide it. He had also guessed that she would be harder on herself than anyone else could be. She struck him as that kind of person.

Her invitation had surprised him because he was sure she didn’t make many offers to men she didn’t know—probably not even to men she
did
know. But something left him curious, and that same subtle awareness made Gage restless and intrigued.

So he would squeeze an hour into his tight schedule and see where it took them. He didn’t have any serious expectations—just some quiet conversation and a little laughter. Caro seemed as if she could do a lot better than a Marine first lieutenant with less than $3,000 in his bank account and his next ten or so years promised to Uncle Sam.

“Why are you frowning?”

“Was I?” Gage held open the front door for her, enjoying the way she walked, smooth and limber and determined. No artifice or seduction, but graceful just the same, despite the careful way she protected her right arm. “I was thinking about how strange it feels to be back in the States in this quiet town. Things are normal. No guns. No blowing sand.” No wounded comrades, he thought. No munitions dumps to secure. No death stalking you in a predawn ambush.

Though Gage realized there was death here, too. Caro
must have come close in that car accident, and right now his sister was fighting with death. Maybe normal was more complex than it looked, and there were all kinds of bravery.

He waited for Caro to lock the house, then followed her down the gravel walkway to his rental truck. It would be a squeeze with his pets, but they were both fairly well behaved. Something told him Bogart and Bacall would like Caro. The sight of his pair in the truck brought back a pang of sadness. They would take it hard, but Gage knew his friend Jonas would do fine by them. Jonas had sounded a little tired when Gage spoke to him the day before, but it was just a touch of flu, he’d insisted. Nothing important.

When he realized Caro was talking to him, he shoved his worries deep. Leaning down, he quickly pushed two empty coffee cups into a paper bag under his seat. Rueful, he scratched Bogart’s head. “Sorry. It’s kind of a mess.”

“No need to explain.” Caro smiled at the retriever. “Is this Bogart?”

The dog barked excitedly. “Hold out your paw for Ms. McNeal. That’s a good boy.”

Tail banging against the seat, the big retriever barked again and then lifted his paw through the open window. Caro leaned closer and saw a white cat pressed against the retriever.

Her eyes widened. “Your cat is beautiful. And she gets along with your dog?”

“You bet. Bogart here took care of Bacall ever since she was a kitten. I found them huddled together in a storm sewer, both strays, nothing but skin and bones. These two are best friends.”

He put his head down and was rewarded by barking
and wiggling and hectic pressing of happy bodies. His face was licked with the sheer, unbounded joy that only a pet can share.

Caro leaned against the truck and laughed, and the sound seemed to do strange things to the sunlight, making Gage feel dizzy and calm at the same time.

“They’re beautiful, Gage.”

So are you,
he thought. Suddenly he wanted to stay at this quiet, normal house above the snug little harbor. He wanted to hear Caro laugh again. He wanted to remember that the world could be calm and sane.

But Gage would have to leave, and soon. His responsibilities couldn’t be ignored. So he forced a smile and scooped up Bacall, setting the white cat high on his shoulder.

“How about we go find that cup of coffee you mentioned?”

What was she
doing?

Caro was regretting her decision before she reached Gage’s truck. She didn’t know the man, didn’t know anything about his past. It was doubtful he would buy a painting just to cover up theft or some other crime, but these were strange times. Who knew what people were capable of?

Meanwhile she looked like a wreck. Her hair spilled everywhere, and she was painfully aware of the scars on her arms and hands from the collision. She hadn’t been out with a man in months, even before the accident, and she hadn’t been out of her grandmother’s house for any kind of social event since she had come home.

And yet…

Caro stopped walking.

All of these things were true, but they weren’t the real problem. The real problem went deeper and was far more frightening, she realized.

“Caro?” Gage stood with his purring cat on one shoulder as he held open the passenger door. “Did you forget something?”

“Oh, I definitely forgot something.” She stared at the truck, flooded by a wave of frustration.

And beneath that lay fear. Because Caro knew she might never come back from this, and all her good memories could be behind her. The future might be about making do and getting by, about adapting to very diminished abilities.

She didn’t think she was brave enough to accept that.

“Caro, talk to me,” Gage said quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s
wrong?
Everything. This is a mistake—a huge waste of your time. My prospects aren’t really very good, and I’m wondering if I’ll
ever
be able to manage simple tasks again.” She took a raw breath, reached for the truck door and muttered as her fingers slipped on the latch. “I can’t even open a door. I—I hate being so weak. So helpless.”

She felt the slam of her heart as buried emotions suddenly churned inside her. “That’s what’s wrong. And that’s why I’m going back inside right now.”

“Caro.” It was just one word, just two syllables, but the power in the word made her look up. His hand curved over her shoulder and he looked down at her face, deadly serious. “You’ll come back. You’ll be even more than you were before this happened, not less. How do I know that? Because of the way you don’t complain even when you’re gritting your teeth in pain. Because of the careful way
you touched your knitting needles while your face filled with good memories. You’ll definitely be back, Caro. So let’s go have lunch and I can watch you get started.”

“I’m frightened.” She ran her good hand over her eyes, stunned at what she was saying. “What if I can’t?” Somehow it seemed easier to ask these hard questions of a stranger, someone who wouldn’t be offended by her honesty. She held up her cast and stared at her nearly useless right hand, then closed the fingers slowly, gritting her teeth at the pain. “What then?” she whispered.

“You’ll drop things and curse. You’ll ask for help, even though you won’t like it. Then you’ll get up and try again. We all fail, Caro. It’s part of the human job description. When it happens, we just get up and try something new.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I have to have good instincts. Knowing who to trust keeps you alive during a dawn attack or on a crowded street with civilians who might actually be hostile combatants. I know how to watch people. When I look at you, I see a strong woman—one who doesn’t know half of what she’s capable of yet.”

“You do?” She flexed her right hand carefully. Was it her imagination or did the simple movement hurt just a little less than it had that morning? “Are all the men in your unit as smart you are, Lieutenant?”

“I like to think so.”

She nodded, believing him, accepting his decisiveness. It had been wrong to bury her fear and anger. It had taken a stranger’s calm optimism to make her see that.

“There’s still a problem. I can’t put any pressure on my hand yet. I may need some help getting into your truck.”

“I can help you.” A smile flashed across his face. “But you’ll have to share seat space with the rest of my family.”

“Your family?”

“These two are all I’ve got except for my sister.” Gage put the cat on the front seat and then reached inside to scratch the dog’s head. “Bogart and Bacall, meet Caro McNeal. She’s going with us.” The dog barked and put two paws on Gage’s chest. “Move over, Bogie. Give the lady some room here.” Gage turned, frowning as he took in how high the passenger seat was beside Caro. “You are definitely going to need some help there. How about I lift you?”

Caro hesitated, then nodded. When Gage’s arms slid around her waist, she knew it was just a friendly gesture, the impersonal brush of two bodies, yet touching him still left her blood racing. Once she was settled, Gage slid behind the wheel and leaned over without asking to clip her seat belt in place. The minute the door was closed, Bacall stretched gracefully across the seat and curled up in Caro’s lap, purring loudly.

She placed her hand gently on the cat’s back, savoring the feel of warm fur beneath her sensitive fingertips.

“I can move her, you know. Otherwise she’s going to get fur all over that nice skirt of yours.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it. This feels wonderful. I had a cat when I was a girl, but only briefly. Unfortunately, my grandmother is allergic.”

“You grew up with your grandmother?”

Caro nodded. “I lost my parents when I was young, but Gran was fantastic. She never believed in pointless rules, and she kept her own artist’s hours. When her muse was afoot, nothing stopped her. It was an unusual way
to grow up, but I wouldn’t trade those memories for all the world. And in case you’re wondering, I haven’t got a hint of artistic blood. Gran gave me painting and drawing lessons when I was a teenager, but nothing took. My only creative skill is knitting. Not that I’m complaining. For me knitting is more than enough—craft, therapy and meditation all in one.” She looked out the window, remembering the patronizing comments of her coworkers back in Chicago. “Most people don’t understand how it calms you and focuses your mind.”

“Oh, I do. Dex—that’s my friend—says he knows one thing by now.
Nothing
gets in the way of his wife’s knitting night. He says she’s always in such a great mood when she comes back that he wouldn’t dream of begrudging her that three-hour piece of happiness once a week.”

“Wise man,” Caro said. “I never had time to attend mine regularly in Chicago. Something always seemed to come up. And now—well, it may be a long time before I can knit again.”

Maybe never,
a cold voice whispered.

“Stay with it. You’ll get there, Caro. Remember, attitude is everything.”

“Is that a Marine motto?”

“No, my personal motto.”

Her fingers moved gently over the cat’s fur. “I like it.” Caro nodded, feeling a little drowsy with the low purr of Gage’s cat, curled in her lap. “So you have no family but your sister?”

“Afraid not. I lost my dad when I was four. I lost my mom two years later. I think it broke her heart when Dad passed on. But maybe that was just the imagination of a grieving boy.” He drove carefully, as he did everything else, missing nothing as they passed Summer Island’s
winding cobblestone streets, past banked roses and small quirky cottages painted bright colors of blue and green. “My sister and I were in and out of foster care for a few years. I can’t complain. We got to stay together and lived with some very nice folks. Then I joined the service, and I found a different kind of family. My men are the best, bar none. I’ve got no regrets.” Gage’s voice was firm. “But enough about me. Where would you like to eat? I remember passing a pizza place and a café down near the harbor.”

“Let’s go to the café. They have great sandwiches and some wonderful desserts.”

“The café it is.” He was already turning right, without asking for directions.

“How did you know where to turn? Have you been on Summer Island before?”

“I spent a week here one summer as a boy. I just remembered as I was driving to your house. Back then this place seemed like something out of a book. Every house a different color. And those crazy thatched roofs.”

“Amazing, aren’t they?”

He nodded and looked across at Caro. “What was it like for you to grow up here? Was it as good as I imagine?”

Caro nodded. “After I lost my parents, Gran’s friends pulled together and helped take charge. It was a big transition for her. She’s a very independent woman, and she didn’t count on having a young child in her care, not at the height of her painting years. But after a few rocky spots we worked things out. We were best friends then and we still are.”

“So you stayed here after school?”

“No, I went to Chicago.”

“Why would you give up a wonderful place like this?”

Caro watched clouds blur the horizon. “Leaving the nest. Solo flight. You know the clichés.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I love my job and I think my work in victim advocacy is very important.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I imagine there’s a lot of pressure with the job. So what brought you back here? Was it because of the accident?”

“Yes.” Caro stiffened at the memories. She cradled the brace on her arm.