Cora's Heart: A Cypress Hollow Yarn Read online

  But except to bury his father and grandfather, he never showed up.

  Valentine dropped the curtains on the bed and said, “What this room needs is fresh air.” She struggled with the window, hitting it with the edge of her hand.

  “No, let me. Don’t hurt yourself.” Mac ignored Valentine’s protestations and moved her gently to the side. Then he fought with the sill for a moment, shaking it until it squawked like a startled chicken.

  “Oh, thank you!”

  Mac smiled at her as he pushed the window upward. Then he leaned out. Below him, a low hill sloped down to a copse of sycamore trees. To the north he could see his mother’s land where she and Valentine lived, and to the south he could just see the edge of Cora’s property.

  Cora.

  Out there, next to the fence line, the old path ran through the dry grass. Did they still use it, walking back and forth? He’d trampled that path innumerable times as a kid, he and Logan tumbling between the properties like puppies, always on the verge of getting in trouble, knocking down hornets’ nests – and running like hell – or doing equally stupid and pointless things like hunting garter snakes and gophers, or throwing rocks into the creek, startling the crawdads. No wonder he’d become a vet. It was probably his moral obligation after he’d disturbed all that wildlife for so many years.

  “Your mother is thrilled, you know. It’ll be wonderful to have you back home, Mac.”

  He could tell she was working her hardest to keep her excitement in check. She pressed her hands together, grinned, and then did a tiny dance-like move, her feet shuffling quickly, happily.

  “Oh, you’re home. Finally home. I can’t believe it.”

  Mac grimaced. Don’t get too excited. It did feel okay, opening up the house, taking the covers off the old furniture, rediscovering the view of the surf from the smaller bedroom. It felt like the house wanted it, somehow. But he couldn’t rest in that feeling. The whole point was not to. “I’m not staying. It’s just business. I told her that…”

  “This is where we all end up eventually,” said Aunt Valentine, making it sound easy. Predestined. As if he hadn’t screwed everything up all those years ago. “Your mother knows this is the land we come back to, even if we leave for a while. Daddy saw to that.”

  In the seventies, Mac’s grandfather Henry Millet had won a whack of money in a long-shot bet on a horse with a forelock blaze like his first Irish pony, and in what could be argued his only sensible move, he bought the four parcels of coastal land. He’d built houses for his family as they needed them – a bungalow for his daughter Valentine, and a bigger house for his more demanding daughter Louisa, Mac’s mother. There was an old farm house on the land that got passed around, according to who needed it most. Mac had inherited the old foreman’s house where his grandfather had insisted on living until he died.

  They’d buried him up on the ridge, near where Mac’s father lay.

  God. Dad. It brought it all back, being here, gazing up that hill. His father, stuck in bed with hypertension, uncontrolled blood pressure, and congestive heart failure from smoking for thirty years, had been told to stay home with his oxygen and wait for the new medications to start working. He should have been eating healthily. Sleeping a lot. Watching The Price Is Right.

  Instead, Mac’s mother had driven him the seventy miles to the casino so they could both stay up all night, drinking and smoking and eating Christ knew what, and by dawn, his father had suffered a massive heart attack that killed him before the ambulance pulled up to the hospital.

  Both his parents were gamblers like his grandfather had been. And like so many times before, they’d taken a chance that day that everything would be okay.

  It hadn’t been. Now they were both on the ridge. Mac assumed Logan was up there now, too. He wouldn’t know. But he’d find out.

  With a thump, Mac pried up another window, satisfied with the pure force it took to break the seal that had formed with years of closure.

  “You could live anywhere, you know.” It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but at least it was a start. “Land doesn’t make a family.”

  “What?” Valentine said. “Oh, no, this is where we belong. On our land. Just like Daddy planned.”

  “He never planned a damn thing that didn’t involve a dime bet,” said Mac, but as Valentine shook a rag with a tsk in his direction, a smile tugged the corners of his mouth.

  Mac had never taken possession of the house, had never spent a night in it, not even when he’d received it legally in the will. He would have given it away, but no one else had needed it. Not his mother, not Aunt Valentine, who didn’t even live in her own house but with her sister… Not Cora.

  And Mac had been happy being away, living his life. He’d gone to school and made his own way, ending up in the best job he could imagine. He loved what he did, and he counted his boss one of his best friends.

  But in the end, all those roads had just led stubbornly back here, hadn’t they? He should have seen it coming. Yeah, fine, he was back. But who knew for how long? Mac felt a pang of guilt that twanged like a sore tooth. All of this was to help the family. They’d know that soon enough, and hopefully they’d understand.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Relax your eyes. Quiet your fingers. If you clutch the knitting until your neck hurts, the sweater will pick up on the tension and worry about its warmth while you sleep. Trust the yarn, and your clever, talented hands. – E.C.

  Cora didn’t want to knock. Her fingers refused to curl, staying stubbornly at her side. It was stupid to feel this way but she couldn’t help it. Here on Louisa’s porch was the last place she wanted to be. She’d rather be in Siberia. They needed sweaters there, after all. Or maybe prison would be preferable. She could knit in prison, right? Or offloading trucks at the dump? That would be interesting, and she’d be able to salvage a few things: old dressers, beat up furniture that just needed a new coat of paint. Nice people went to the dump. Sure.

  Push the doorbell. Push it. She coached herself into a smile, feeling her cheeks rise. Push the doorbell.

  “Goddamn it,” she muttered.

  “Problem?” The low voice came from her right.

  Mac sat on the porch swing in the dark. She hadn’t even noticed him. Awesome. He leaned forward, and the moonlight touched the brim of his cowboy hat. McGibboney Cross Wildwood. Named after his father’s favorite racehorse, he’d always been Mac for short. She couldn’t see his eyes, and for that Cora was grateful. Had he been watching the whole time? Oh! Had he seen…?

  “Did you really drop the bread?”

  “Um,” she said.

  “And then wrap it back up in that dishtowel?”

  “I wasn’t going to serve it.”

  “Yeah you were.” Mac’s voice was amused.

  Might as well admit it. “Yeah, I was.” Cora had brushed it off and held it up to the moonlight, trying to see if the dirt was obvious. She’d spent hours making the loaf, stubbornly refusing to start the shed clean up. It had relaxed her to make it, folding its softness and beating it down so that it could rise back up again on the warmth on top of the stove. She’d baked it in her Dutch oven so the crust would be crispy, never leaving the stove once while it was on. And she couldn’t help but be proud and happy that this, this evidence of caring, had cost about a dollar to make.

  And then to have the loaf hit the ground like that… “Three second rule.”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said, standing. He was taller than she remembered.

  As if she remembered him well. Of course she didn’t. Why, then, did she have this stupid flush rising to her cheeks? Why, then, did she suddenly remember the time after his father had died, when they’d all been out riding in the hills? It had to have been then – it had been one of the only two times Mac made it home during her marriage. Cora had ridden off alone, annoyed with something Logan had been saying or doing, and Mac had found her suddenly, unexpectedly, as she splashed her feet in the creek. He’d been so fa
r above her on his horse, and the way his eucalyptus-bark eyes had met hers for those two or three seconds, made her know that he still felt the same way he had when he’d left. And she knew she’d telegraphed back to him something that she shouldn’t have. A look – you couldn’t just stop a look, not if it happened when you weren’t expecting it.

  She’d been younger. Stupid. For all she knew, he didn’t remember that moment. He’d probably never thought of it again.

  He probably never thought about what he’d asked her the day of her wedding.

  God, she hoped that was true.

  Mac hugged her. Cora kept her face carefully still. Had he always been so broad? Had her head only ever reached the top of his shoulder blade? She could have sworn she came up to his nose. “It’s good to see you,” she said formally, pulling back.

  “We gonna stand out here all night?”

  “Okay,” she said. “Fine by me.”

  “Don’t want to face the dragon?”

  “Who does? I’ve already seen her today,” said Cora. “Twice in one day is…”

  “Totally unfair. Take it from someone who knows.”

  Cora grimaced. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say that about your mother.”

  He shrugged. “I know it’s hard to believe but one on one, she’s not that bad.” His smile was the same, still wide, still a little crooked, as if his head were tilted even when he held it straight. Cora hadn’t looked into those light brown eyes yet. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, wouldn’t figure out if that brown was still flecked with bits of green. If she was lucky, she could avoid looking at him forever.

  “That’s what you always said. I’ve still never seen it.”

  “I’ll be right here,” said Mac. “Ready for battle?”

  Cora nodded.

  Inside the house, candles were tastefully lit. They were the pricey kind, Cora noticed, not the ones Cora had made for Louisa – she had never seen those on display. These came from the candle store in the mall in Half-Moon Bay. Ten bucks a pop, at least. If Cora had one of them, she’d hoard it carefully, burning it only on special occasions, instead of the way Louisa did – five grouped together, barely noticeable under the two chandeliers.

  The foyer was impressive at a glance – heavy velvet curtains running floor to ceiling over the windows that faced the ocean. Louisa had always favored dark, expensive furniture: an enormous dining table that had taken six men to carry up the steps. But since her sister Valentine had moved in with her last year when her arthritis started acting up, Louisa’s house had changed, and Cora thought it was for the better. The intricate china cabinet’s beveled glass gleamed, but a dust bunny as large as one of Cora’s own Angora rabbits lurked underneath. Two black cats were draped over the back of the rose-print sofa, and a calico watched them carefully from the low damask-covered divan. Beneath the cloying smell of gardenia, the scent of dog fur lingered in the air, and Cora heard the clicks of many small nails on the hardwood floor from the kitchen – that meant that Valentine was in there, surrounded by the four tiny, happy dachshunds who were always dancing around her feet.

  Since Valentine had come, the house was lived in. That was true despite Louisa’s almost constant complaints about the housekeeping.

  “Darling,” said Louisa as she came forward, lifting her smooth cheek for Mac to kiss. “You’re home.”

  Louisa’s voice was remarkable, even for the emotion Cora could see beneath Louisa’s cool surface. This was her dream – her son home at last, no one even dead to warrant it. But Cora saw the grin that threatened to break through the surface (no wrinkles! Mustn’t smile!), and it was nice to watch.

  Until Louisa spoiled it. As usual.

  “Don’t let Cora near the flame. She’s not very good with fire, and she’s already burned down one building today. Maybe I should snuff them all out.”

  Oh, no. The candles weren’t what needed to be snuffed, thought Cora.

  Valentine emerged from the kitchen and placed a hand on her bosom. She leaned forward. Her forehead and nose were bright pink, signaling she’d already had a glass of wine or two. “I was so worried about you.”

  “It’s fine, it’s all fine.”

  “It was just her old shed,” said Louisa with a shrug. “I was there right after it happened. Not a big deal at all.”

  Oooh. It was a big deal, a huge deal. Louisa knew that, which was why she dismissed it. Cora marrying her precious nephew Logan when she was eighteen had made it impossible for Louisa to trust her, or at least, that’s what Louisa had said to anyone who wasn’t Cora. The words got back to Cora, though. A girl from who-knows-where. And what about her parents? They could have been drug addicts. Or hippies! And for her to land in town and trap one of our boys. It just goes to show. God, that was fifteen years ago now. Only Louisa could hold a grudge that long. Luckily, her new aunt-in-law’s words had also filtered back to her mother-in-law: Valentine told everyone that Louisa was just plain wrong, that Cora was a darling girl, and she was happy to have her in the family. Eliza Carpenter loves her. Anyone Eliza cares about is a good egg.

  “Sounds scary, though,” said Mac. He stood easily in the room, as if he belonged there, which, of course, he did. Fifteen years of trying to fit in with this family, Cora still felt as if she were a guest, someone who had to be careful not to spill anything. Cora’s face flushed red and she thought again of dropping the bread with him watching her brush it off. She never looked good in front of this side of the family, did she?

  “I lost almost all my product,” said Cora. So yeah, it was scary, and it was a big deal.

  “How did it start?” asked Valentine. “Are you okay? I knew I should have come over. I’d have brought Lottie, and she helps everything.” She stroked her smallest dachshund, then picked her up and tucked her under her arm. The three other dogs darted and weaved through her feet as she walked from the foyer into the dining room.

  “I’m fine. It was a candle.” Cora cast a pointed look around the candlelit room. “I know never to leave one unattended.” For a brief second, Cora allowed herself the luxury of hoping that Louisa forgot about one tonight. Just one. Then she reined herself in. That wasn’t fair, and she wouldn’t, actually, wish that on her worst enemy, which Louisa wasn’t. Louisa was… annoying. She couldn’t help it. From what her twin sister Valentine said, Louisa had come out of the womb with a complaint about the hospital lighting. “It was good of Louisa to check on me.” The generosity of the words felt right. She could give her that.

  And indeed, Louisa straightened and looked pleased. “Oh, I didn’t do that much,” she said.

  Anything, Cora corrected in her head. You didn’t do anything.

  Valentine dropped into a chair at the table, tucking tiny Lottie under the tablecloth. The dogs scattered, chasing each other into the kitchen. “But Cora’s poor shed. With all your lovely things inside, right?”

  “We’ll have to do something to help.” Louisa smiled vaguely in Cora’s direction.

  “Of course. Oh, I know!” said Valentine. She clapped her hands and the dogs came skittering back at top speed. “A bake sale! I love a good bake sale! And once they know, people are going to want a way to help. But what can we do to help now? Just so you know, I’m not taking a dime for any of my pies you’ve been selling at the booth.”

  “I can’t accept them for free. That’s the whole point, that you make money, too.”

  “Piffle,” said Valentine. “What else can we do?”

  Cora grimaced. “I can’t think of a thing, honestly. I have a little savings, and I should be getting paid soon for that big pickle order I did for Garlic Universe in Gilroy.” She was counting on that money, and it was already a month late. She’d need to call and nag them again tomorrow. “I’ll be able to live on that while I make more of… everything.” The idea was exhausting.

  “Did you lose all the yarn?”

  Cora nodded as she pulled out her chair. “I can wash the stuff that didn’t get charred or burned, but the s
moke damage is pretty strong. I don’t think washing is going to take it out. I’ll need to make more candles – most of them melted.”

  Valentine’s big eyes widened even more than usual. “The knitted items?”

  “Gone. Closest to the candle.”

  Valentine covered her mouth with a plump hand. “Oh, no.”

  Cora leaned forward and patted her other hand. Val’s reaction was gratifying somehow, and made Cora feel stronger. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.” Then she reached into her bag at her feet. “See? I have a half-made sweater right here – it was in the living room of the house. It’s a test pattern for Abigail, and speaking of which, I should be knitting.”

  As Cora made neat stitches, concentrating on economy of motion—something that never failed to please her—she was conscious of Mac watching her. His eyes followed her fingers, and she dropped a stitch that normally she never would have.

  Louisa moved back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, carrying trays of steaming food – roast beef and rolls and a gorgeous green salad dotted with goat cheese and cranberries. While Louisa’s back was turned, Valentine dropped bits of cheese on the floor for the dogs to vacuum up. She said, “That’s awful. The garments were your highest price points.”

  “Yep,” said Cora. She priced the sweaters, bulky and fast-knitted as they were, at a hundred and fifty dollars, and tourists clamored to buy them, thrilled to purchase a hand-knit in Cypress Hollow knitted by someone who had actually been friends with the legendary knitter Eliza Carpenter. To Valentine, Cora called it fleecing the tourists, and she’d felt bad about it for a while until Valentine pointed out that she was still only making about seven bucks an hour, all told, with spinning and knitting time taken into consideration. “All gone.”

  “The scarves and hats, too?”