Unravel Me Page 9

  As usual, she’d been pale but composed on the day he’d accompanied her to meet with the funeral director. Juliet had made all the arrangements according to her husband’s wishes. Marlys had been there, too, her gaze never lingering long on anything or anyone. The only time the general’s daughter had spoken was to request she be given some of her father’s ashes in a tear-shaped silver pendant—though Noah had never seen her with it since.

  Maybe his thoughts of the younger woman transferred to Juliet. “I thought Marlys might have an opinion, but she says she doesn’t want anything to do with it.”

  “You should decide for yourself.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Juliet turned to watch another wave wash in. “Here is pretty.”

  “Here is pretty,” he agreed. “It’s quiet now, on a weekday autumn morning, but in the summer it will be crowded with people. Volleyball players, surfers, bodyboarders.”

  “Kids,” Juliet said, her voice so quiet it was nearly drowned by the crescendo of the latest wave. “Children playing in the sand and dipping their toes in the water.”

  Children. God, that was something that had died for her, too, hadn’t it? Noah had never considered that she and her husband might have wanted a family, but from that wounded expression on her face, it looked as if she believed there were no green-eyed, blue-eyed babies in her future.

  For himself, he’d never given the next generation much thought, but it seemed like a damn shame to him now, no silky-haired towheads trailing like baby ducks after their lovely mama. Clearing his throat, he pressed the heel of his hand into his chest.

  “In Iraq,” he started, driven to redirect the conversation with the first thing that came into his head, “there are soccer fields in the middle of the cemeteries. Families picnic there, too. It sounds weird, but I liked it. Those that had gone before were part of what was going on now.”

  “Wayne would like that, too.” Juliet sank into the soft sand and drew up her knees to wrap her arms around them. “He’d want to be part of where people are living and laughing and enjoying nature. That works, I think.”

  Noah joined her and they sat in a silence almost as companionable as they had once been. Before he’d kissed her.

  A better man would regret that too-brief embrace. But a childhood when hunger gnawed at his belly more often than not had trained him to snatch the goodies whenever he could. A breeze kicked up and caught Juliet’s hair, its ends flying against his face.

  He let them tickle his skin. He let them tickle his libido to life, too, as he imagined himself twisting his fingers in her hair and bringing that soft mouth toward his so he might kiss the sadness from her face. He’d kiss her, hold her, run his hands over all that smooth skin and those slender curves until she didn’t remember anything, anyone but him.

  Everything but the two of them would be taken out to sea on the waves of what he wanted from her—what he had wanted for years but had made do instead with other kisses, other curves, other faces and skin. He’d wallowed in other perfumes to cover his desire for the only one that called to him.

  She wanted touch and he wanted to touch. Couldn’t it be as simple as that? For as short as it lasted?

  “Tell me about Iraq.”

  The sound of her voice jerked him from his thoughts. “What?”

  She held her hair back with her hand and gazed at him with that unbalancing combination of blue and green. “Death letters. Cemeteries. I feel bad. I’ve never asked you about your experiences as a soldier.”

  “You were dealing with your husband’s situation,” Noah responded. “That was enough.”

  “But not now. Not anymore.”

  Now she needed more?

  Contact. Touch. Skin.

  “Juliet . . .”

  “Tell me, Noah.”

  He didn’t tell anyone. There hadn’t been anyone to tell. His mother never left forwarding addresses and his correspondence to the old man had started and ended with that stupid-ass missive he’d written but which never had to be mailed.

  Except she didn’t look as if she was ready to let it go. So what the hell? “It was boring most of the time,” he said. “It was scary as shit some of the time. I was never so glad in my life as when we got on the bus that would take us out of Iraq to the airport in Kuwait. To be honest, I was scared as shit then, too, because there were a hundred stories around the sandbox of guys who bought it with leave orders in their pocket or who were blown up the day before they were due to depart the theater for good.”

  So there it was. He hadn’t been any big war hero like the general. For four years—the last one a tour in Iraq—he’d been an everyday grunt with a job he’d signed on for without thinking much about what it entailed. An ordinary grunt who’d learned right quick that there wasn’t the whiff of a death wish in his body, despite the adrenaline that flooded him during dozens of night missions. Despite the many times they rode out on the Strykers with “Get some!” still hoarse in their throats and the beat of apocalyptic heavy metal music still ringing in their ears.

  He thought of his buddy Dean’s reckless grin and the angry red shrapnel scars on his sergeant’s neck. He remembered Tim, “Tiny Tim,” the kid from Tacoma and his roommate at the FOB, whose scars now cut across his forehead and ran behind his skull and who couldn’t grin at all anymore.

  Juliet’s eyes scanned his face. “You weren’t hurt?”

  “No,” he murmured, his gaze on the Pacific, but his mind back at the hospital and the way Tim’s hands—the ones Noah’d seen grasping an iPod, a Gatorade, a girlie magazine—were now curled tightly toward his wrists like the seashells an uninjured, lucky SOB like Noah might come across on a beautiful California beach.

  Juliet touched his arm, her fingers cold, her voice insistent. “You’re sure you weren’t hurt?”

  “Of course not. I’m here, aren’t I?” He smiled down at her, at that perfect oval of her face, her caramel hair, her leaf-and-sky eyes. Nothing should touch that, he thought with sudden conviction, damning himself for telling her anything about war. He doubted the general ever had, and like him, Noah didn’t want anything unpleasant to touch her.

  “Noah?” she questioned again.

  But despite what he wanted, he felt his smile die and he heard himself start talking, as if she’d ripped off a scab with just his name on her lips, with just that sensation of her fingertips against his arm. He found himself telling her that while he was unhurt, that his friend Tim—his brother in arms—would never walk or talk or see again. He told her that an IED had taken away everything but Tim’s capacity to breathe, so he lay in a hospital bed, a husk of the man he’d been. Noah spilled about Walter Reed Hospital and the guys he’d seen in the hallways when he’d gone to visit Tim—men with prosthetic arms or prosthetic legs or men with prosthetic arms and legs.

  Then, appalled at all that he’d revealed, appalled at the emotion he saw in her eyes, he jumped up. His feet stumbled over nothing again.

  “I’ve got to go,” he muttered, already backing away from all the angst he’d laid at her feet. Christ! What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the kind of contact he’d wanted to make with Juliet. Not this kind of touch.

  He hadn’t wanted this kind of closeness at all.

  Seven

  Love is friendship set on fire.

  —JEREMY TAYLOR

  It was Knitters’ Night at Malibu & Ewe, and Juliet was dropping by the shop again, this time fully aware of what—who—she’d find inside. Her sisters.

  But it was Noah on her mind. He’d done so many things for her over the past years. Even when Wayne was still alive, she remembered Noah arriving on scene as she struggled to lift a flat of pansies from the trunk of her car. On another occasion, he’d laughed at the crooked result of her picture-hanging attempt and taken the hammer out of her hand to line the frame straight on the hallway wall.

  For such a long time, she’d merely considered him her husband’s helper, another set of hands, a better eye than her
own. But now . . .

  Now she was seeing him as more—as a man. A complex man—an attorney, a soldier, someone who overcame a tough childhood with a compassionate soul still intact. When her very own dinner party had hit some snags just days before, it was Noah who had stepped in to smooth and soothe.

  As penance for her previous blindness, or at the very least to show him her gratitude for how he’d helped during the party, she wanted to give back something in return. She hoped Cassandra and Nikki could help her brainstorm a suitable gift.

  The door to the shop was half open, so she slipped in without a sound. It was not yet 7 P.M., but Cassandra was ready for the knitting group. The lights were blazing, Juliet could smell coffee brewing, and on a small table sat sweating bottles of water and trays of baked goods.

  But at the register, the shop owner was cursing. “Nikki, can you give me a hand?” she called out after another string of frustrated swear words.

  From somewhere unseen, Nikki called back. “I don’t do register tape, you remember that.”

  “No, I remember that you bragged about the ability to do every and any job found in a restaurant. Surely—”

  “Can I help?”

  Cassandra started at Juliet’s voice, then looked over to beam a distracted smile. “You’re here.”

  “And willing to do what I can.”

  The other woman flashed another quick smile. “No offense, but I doubt you have the moves to tame the Accucount 480. Or, in layman’s terms, my uncooperative cash register.”

  Cassandra couldn’t know how Juliet resented being seen as nothing more than an attractive decoration, so she ignored the little sting and instead made her way behind the counter. She shouldered Cassandra aside even as the woman sent out another smile—indulgent, the kind you’d serve the silly village idiot.

  In ninety seconds this village idiot had the paper tape replaced and the register ready for business. She glanced up to give the shop owner a pointed look.

  Nikki came around the corner at the rear of the shop. “Hey, lookie. She’s not just another pretty face.”

  Juliet nodded. “I’ll have you know I put in my share of afternoons at the Palisades Women’s Club thrift store.” Though once it was out she decided it sounded closer to boasting about flower-arranging classes than she’d like. “Okay, it wasn’t running a business or running a restaurant kitchen or—”

  Nikki signaled a time-out. “Don’t apologize. While I might have talents truly worth admiring, the Froot Loop here isn’t good for more than weaving nothing into more”—She pointed upward, at an exquisite, knitted string bikini displayed on the wall—“well, more nothing.”

  Instead of taking offense, Cassandra laughed, making it clear the two were easy enough with each other to take teasing with good grace.

  I’ve never had that, Juliet thought. No sibling to laugh with, let alone pester.

  “You’ll regret your insults after you’ve seen your Halloween costume, Nikki.” Cassandra turned to whip a white plastic dry cleaner’s bag off a dressmaker’s dummy. “Tada!”

  “Oh. My. God.” Nikki stared at the figure, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh. My. God,” she repeated, her voice muffled and her eyes blue and green platters.

  Juliet figured her own were at least saucer-wide. It was the most outrageous Halloween costume she’d ever seen. The skirt was a belly-baring knitted tube of silver-shot seaweed-green that curved in at the ankles and then flared out again in faux-flippers. The top . . . well, the top was really just two starfish-colored and starfish-shaped pasties. Thrown over the shoulders of the dummy was a sort of poncho in sky blue that looked like a fishnet.

  Cassandra’s mouth curved like a satisfied cat’s. “Jay’s always calling you his mermaid.”

  Nikki’s hands dropped from her mouth, but her gaze didn’t leave the getup. “He’ll never let me out of the house in those starfish,” she said. “What am I saying? I don’t have the guts to leave the house in them.”

  The costume designer shrugged. “I can whip up a bikini top and we can sew them on it.”

  Nikki’s two-colored eyes gleamed. “A string bikini top in a flesh-colored yarn, yes? Jay won’t notice that until after he’s felled by lust. I love a man on his knees.”

  “You’re very bad, little sister,” Cassandra said.

  “And God, does it feel good.” Nikki turned, grinning, to Juliet. “Shall we get Cassandra to make you something memorable, too?”

  “Not like that.” Juliet couldn’t imagine. “I don’t have anyone to wear something like that for, and not anyplace to go on Halloween.”

  Nikki waved away the objections. “The second we have covered. We bought tickets for a charity thing on the thirty-first and we have extras. As for the who to wear it for . . . not Noah?”

  Noah. Juliet’s face burned, thinking about wearing something like that mermaid costume. For Noah. Beneath her cotton blouse and matching buff-colored pants, her skin prickled as if chafed by wool.

  “Are you okay?” Cassandra asked.

  “Noah,” Juliet managed to get out.

  Nikki shot Cassandra a look. “What about him?”

  “I . . . he’s one of the reasons why I came here tonight. I thought you two might help me think of a present to give him.”

  The sisters glanced at each other again.

  “He’s been nice.” Juliet objected to the blatant speculation on their faces. “And I haven’t noticed quite how nice until lately.”

  “Okay.” Cassandra sounded cautious. “What kind of gift are you thinking about?”

  “I don’t know.” Juliet spun, looking for inspiration about the room. “Maybe I could make him something. Knit him a sweater.”

  “No!” The sisters said together, their voices horrified.

  “No?”

  Cassandra took Juliet by the arm and steered her toward the seating area in the middle of the shop. “It’s a curse,” she said, pushing her onto the soft cushions. “The Curse of the Boyfriend Sweater. You start to make your man one and he’ll be out of your life before you bind off.”

  “But Noah’s not my boyfriend.” A little shiver tracked along Juliet’s spine. Was the open door inviting in a draft?

  Cassandra must have spotted the telltale tremor. “Let’s brainstorm gift ideas later. For Knitters’ Night, we’ll get you started on making something warm for yourself. A wrap, maybe.”

  Nikki watched her bustle about the shop collecting needles and yarn. “Hey, you wouldn’t allow me to attempt anything like a wrap until I was stuck on your couch after surgery.”

  “Because I had to keep such a close eye on you when it came time to increase and decrease. Juliet strikes me as a person good at taking direction and following rules.”

  Is that truly how they saw her? Juliet wondered. Good at taking direction and following rules? It sounded so dull and conventional. But she didn’t have time to explore the idea because Cassandra handed over a pair of knitting needles and a luscious yarn the shade of a midnight sky.

  “Nice,” Nikki said, complimenting Cassandra. “She needs a color stronger than tan.”

  Obviously referring to Juliet’s outfit for the evening. Again, dull and conventional. That wasn’t who she was, was it? Frowning, she shoved away the thought in order to take in Cassandra’s instructions.

  “Start by casting on three stitches. Then knit one row, purl one row. On row three, increase one stitch at each end of the work. Do you know how to increase?”

  Juliet nodded, though she hoped there were some instruction books lying around or that an experienced knitter would sit down beside her.

  “After the increase, purl a row and keep on like that, increasing on each side of the knitted row until your piece is as wide as you want—since you want to wrap it around you, make it about as wide as the length of your back. Once you have that, you simply knit a row, then purl a row until the wrap is as long as you’d like.”

  “Then I just decrease, I suppose,” Juliet said, to
show she could change cash register tape and anticipate simple knitting instructions.

  Cassandra beamed at her, even as her attention was divided by more women entering the shop. They were typical Malibuites, dressed in jeans that came with three-digit price tags and casually chic boots that sold for three times that. “Exactly. You knit two stitches together on each side of the knitted rows until you’re down to three stitches. Then you bind off. Easy.”

  “Easy,” Juliet echoed.

  “For someone so good at taking directions and following rules,” Nikki said, plopping onto the cushions with so much energy they both bounced.

  It still sounded like faint praise to Juliet.

  But she still couldn’t dwell on it, not when she needed to focus on her knitted piece as well as the conversation flowing between the Tuesday Night Knitters. The dozen or so women who seated themselves in Cassandra’s shop were at various stages of projects that ranged from simple to difficult. Nikki dispensed with any concern over introductions—Juliet wasn’t sure how the Happy Widow or surprise sister would play with this crowd—by announcing, “Everyone, this is Juliet. Juliet, this is everyone.”

  The declaration allowed her to sit back and quietly work on her piece—and work on her ability to increase her stitches—as she listened to one woman despair of completing the tree skirt she was knitting by Christmas—the tree skirt she’d started two summers before. Another nimble knitter seemed to have no trouble at all adding to a stack of sweet stars made out of a glittery yarn and intended as tree decorations. Nikki and a couple of others were working on sweaters for the men in their lives.

  It didn’t occur to Juliet to question that until the knitting session had ended and the three sisters were once again alone in the shop. As Nikki bundled her work into a canvas bag, Juliet frowned. “Wait a minute. How come you’re ignoring the curse and making Jay a sweater?”

  “Boyfriend curse. Not father or brother or fiancé.”

  Juliet fingered the soft, pretty wool in her hands and felt a little puffed up by the progress she’d made in just a couple of hours. “But I could do it then. Knit a sweater for Noah. He’s like a brother to me.”