The Sweetgum Ladies Knit for Love (14 page)

Camille was intrigued. “What did she look like? Maybe I can tell you who it is.”

“Some blond freshman.”

“Probably a pompom girl.” Poor Hannah.

He shook his head. “No. This was definitely not a pom squad girl. Dirty blond, not those fake streaks. Didn’t seem like the groupie type.”

Could it have been Hannah? “I think I may know who your mystery girl is.”

“And is she going to ruin my season?”

Camille smiled. “Not on purpose. I doubt she cares much about football.” She paused. “I’m just… surprised a quarterback would look at her twice.”

Their food arrived, and the waitress slid the plates in front of them.

“Thank you,” Dante said to the young woman. He looked at Camille. “Maybe you should tell me her name. So I’ll know who to be on the lookout for.”

“Hannah Simmons. Actually, I know her pretty well. She’s in the Knit Lit Society with me.”

“The what?”

“My book club. We’re all knitters.”

“Camille St. Clair in a book club.” He took a bite of his steak. “My, my. Will wonders never cease.”

“Hey.” She shoved him, just a little. “I have a brain. Just because you never noticed anything but my cheerleading uniform…”

“Is there going to be a pop quiz when I take you home?” he teased. “I might need to study.” He leaned toward her. “And I might need a tutor.”

He was smiling, but the intensity of his gaze meant he was completely serious too. At least he was completely serious about Camille.

She felt overwhelmed, as if the paneled walls of the café were pressing in on her. She reached for her water and took a sip.
He’s just flirting
, she admonished herself.
Don’t blow it out of proportion.

But panic rose in her throat. Her body was sending her a message.
Be wary. Be cautious. Don’t put yourself in a position to get hurt.
She knew, in that moment, that Dante Brown still had the potential to destroy her if she let him get too close.

Somehow she got through the rest of the meal. She prayed he wouldn’t notice the change in her, and he didn’t seem to catch on. When they’d finished eating, he paid the check. So many people wanted to talk to him that it took them several minutes to make their way to the door of the café. Camille ignored the speculative glances. They were good-natured and inquisitive rather than judgmental.

Outside, he offered to drive her home, but Camille declined. She pretended not to see the disappointment in his eyes. “I’ll walk.”

He shook his head. “It’s too late for you to walk home alone. I’ll go with you.”

She looked at him, thought about his knee, and changed her mind. “On second thought, maybe you should just drop me off.”

He started to say something, and then he seemed to change his mind too. “Come on, Cinderella. I’m not getting any younger.”

She hadn’t given much thought to the end of the evening
until now, but all of a sudden the image of Dante standing beside her on the front porch loomed in her imagination. What if he tried to kiss her? Or, worse, what if he didn’t?

They made the short trip in silence, Camille apprehensive and Dante apparently lost in thought. When he pulled into the driveway, she barely waited for him to stop the car before she opened the door and jumped out.

“You don’t have to get out,” she said, waving and backing away from the car. “Thanks again for dinner.”

She practically ran up the front steps and, spotting the book she’d left on the porch swing earlier, grabbed it before reaching in her purse for her keys. Thank heavens he hadn’t come up on the porch and seen her copy of
Romeo and Juliet.
He did sit in the driveway, though, until she’d unlocked the door and let herself safely inside. Only when she’d switched on the lamp by the door and turned off the porch light did she hear him drive away.

Camille looked down at the book in her hands. Shakespeare knew all about doomed lovers. Camille tucked the book under her arm as she turned and mounted the stairs. She’d finish reading the play tonight, to remind herself of what she already knew.

Her feelings for Dante Brown had to be squashed before they seduced her into doing something incredibly foolish.

Eugenie resisted the urge to wait up for Hannah in the parsonage living room. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table, nursing a
cup of herbal tea and working on her project for the next meeting of the Knit Lit Society. Her fingers maneuvered the yarn and needles automatically her attention not really on her task. She was listening for the sound of footsteps on the porch, the slide of a key in the lock of the front door. She knew Hannah was safe enough with Josh Hargrove. Eugenie remembered him from when he was younger, before he had moved away. The boy had a good head on his shoulders, and she doubted that had changed.

“Still awake?” Paul’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked up to see him standing in the kitchen doorway. He wore striped pajamas, and his hair was tousled from sleep.

“I want to make sure Hannah gets in okay.”

Paul smiled. “I remember how Martha and I used to wait up for the kids. I don’t know who has a tougher time during adolescence—parents or children.” Paul’s children with his late wife were now grown and had families of their own. “Want me to sit with you?”

Eugenie envied him his sangfroid. She knew she should probably go on to bed and quit worrying, but even though she was sixty-five years old, parenting was new to her, and she felt as green as a blade of spring grass.

“You go on back to bed.” She smiled at her new husband. “Hannah should be home any time now.”

He crossed the room and leaned over to plant a kiss on her cheek. “Wake me up if you need me.” He tapped the end of her nose. “And don’t worry. Hannah’s just fine.”

He headed back to bed, and Eugenie’s attention returned to her knitting. A quarter of an hour later, she finally heard the sounds she’d been hoping for—the soft click of the deadbolt on the front door and footsteps in the foyer. Hannah was home.

“Eugenie?” The girl appeared in the kitchen doorway where Paul had stood a few minutes before. “I didn’t know you were going to wait up.” Hannah looked both pleased and skittish. The girl glanced at her watch. “It’s not quite eleven yet.”

“I wasn’t worried about you missing your curfew.” Eugenie folded her knitting and tucked it into the bag that sat at her feet. She smiled at Hannah, hoping to relieve the girl’s worry. “I was just trying to finish up my project for the meeting.” She nodded toward the chair next to her. “Are you hungry? Sit down and I’ll fix you something.”

Eugenie knew that her approach was hardly subtle, but she hoped Hannah would want to talk about her evening. Eugenie didn’t know everything a parent was supposed to do, but she thought listening to a teenage girl talk about her date fell in the motherly concern category.

“I’m not hungry,” Hannah said, but she did sit down. “Josh took me to the Dairy Dip for a hamburger after the game.”

“Was it crowded?”

Hannah shrugged. “Sort of. A lot of kids went to parties instead.”

Eugenie knew about the parties Sweetgum teenagers had been throwing for the last forty years. They usually involved a
remote location, one or more kegs of beer, and some eventual consequences—usually legal or reproductive.

“Would you rather have gone to a party?” Eugenie felt compelled to ask.

Hannah shook her head. “Those kids aren’t my crowd.”

Eugenie wondered if Hannah even had a crowd. In the months since Hannah’s mother had taken off and Eugenie had been appointed the girl’s foster parent, she’d never heard Hannah mention a particular friend. Nor had the phone ever rung for her. It was as if the girl existed in a vacuum.

“How was the game?”

Hannah shrugged. “We won, but Josh didn’t seem very happy about it.” And then the girl did the strangest thing. She blushed, bright as a poppy. Eugenie wanted to find out why but made herself bite her tongue. She thought of Shakespeare’s Juliet, about the same age as the girl sitting beside her. The old bard had been wise enough to know that even the youngest heart could harbor deep feelings.

Eugenie glanced at the clock on the wall. “I think it’s time for me to get some rest.” She looked at Hannah once more. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

The girl paused. “Thank you for waiting up.” She looked away, not meeting Eugenie’s eyes. “It’s nice to…,” she faltered, “… well, to have someone who cares if I make it home okay.”

Hannah’s words knifed through Eugenie, but she forced herself to smile. “You’d better get to bed soon. Aren’t you helping Camille at the dress shop tomorrow?”

Hannah wasn’t an actual paid employee at Maxine’s, but Camille had agreed a few months before to let the girl help out around the store in exchange for some clothes to supplement her meager wardrobe. And even though Eugenie and Paul could more than afford to buy Hannah whatever she needed, she thought it was good for the girl to have the satisfaction of working for a reward.

“I won’t stay up much longer,” Hannah replied.

“All right then. Good night.” Eugenie wondered if she should pat the child or show some sort of affection, but she’d never been particularly demonstrative. She settled for smiling at her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Eugenie left the kitchen and headed for her bedroom. Perhaps she wasn’t the most natural parent God had ever made, but surely she was an improvement over Hannah’s mother, whose neglect would have an impact on the girl for years to come.

“Finally,” Paul mumbled when Eugenie slipped into bed beside him. He drew her close to his side, and with a snort, settled back into slumber. Eugenie put her head on his shoulder, rested her hand on his chest, and exhaled pure happiness.

Given time, Hannah would find her way. Given time, anything was possible, even winning over the Hazel Emersons of the world. She knew it as surely as she could feel Paul’s arms around her.

Maria reached for the vase on the mantelpiece and carried it to Daphne, who sat on the sofa, carefully wrapping breakables in newspaper before placing them in the box at her feet. Their mother had retreated to her bedroom to sob in private, and the house had regained its Sunday afternoon peace. Fall sunshine streamed through the living room windows as Maria and Daphne continued to cull through, pack, and grieve the family keepsakes.

“Couldn’t we rent even a small storage space?” Daphne asked, her voice low.

Maria shook her head. Her resolve had to be firm or else she would crumble entirely. “We can’t afford it.”

“It can’t be more than a hundred dollars a month,” Daphne said, but her feeble protest wasn’t meant to sway Maria so much as express her grief.

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s not your fault.” Daphne sighed and let the vase rest in her lap. “Why didn’t Daddy tell us the truth?”

Maria shook her head. “I don’t know.”

She’d broken the news of the farm’s sale at dinner the night before. Daphne had sat quietly tears sliding down her cheeks. Daphne had managed the farm all these years under their father’s direction. Their mother shrieked in hysterics until they convinced her to take a Xanax. Stephanie wanted to know if it meant she would have to share a room with one of her sisters when they moved to the small living quarters above the five-and-dime. Maria had soothed, reassured, and gritted her teeth. And then she’d told them that packing would begin the next morning. They had less than a week to vacate the house and turn over the keys.