How to Knit a Love Song by Rachael Herron Page A

pushed Clara to the edge. The two of them didn’t really fit in the old twin bed, but it was nice. Warm. Abigail put her arm around her dog and waited for sleep to find her.

Chapter Thirteen
Making stitches twist around themselves, making them cable their way up the body of a sweater, is the knitter’s alchemy.
— E.C.
    I t was a good morning for a drive: clear and cool, the fog hanging back as if reluctant to push onto the land.
    Cade hadn’t been to Tillie’s Diner for two weeks, not once since Abigail arrived. He hadn’t wanted to leave her alone on the property. He wasn’t sure what he thought she might do, but it had taken this long to trust that all she was going to do was avoid him in the morning and then spend the rest of the day cleaning the cottage. Then she’d avoid him at night, too. He’d been aware of her presence in the house, but it was like living with a ghost—she was always just around the corner, or he’d just missed her and could only smell her perfume still lingering in the room she’d just vacated.
    It’d be good to get to the diner. He’d missed Tillie’s.
    As he passed over the long, curved bridge that went over the river, he drummed his fingers on the wheel. Stupid tourist in a rented RV in front of him was driving too slowly, like they always did here. Mills Bridge was a frightening and magnificent spectacle. It curved so much that while driving over it one could look ahead and see the bridge curving to the right, the river rushing underneath, the sea below the far side.
    The waves out there were high today, he noticed. Promise of more bad weather, even with the clear skies. He felt pleased. At least it would match his mood, which was swinging like the bikes hooked to the back of that RV. It was one thing to have lost some of his land to that girl. He was really trying to reconcile himself to that. What choice did he have? But then he’d remembered the damn alpacas on his way out. Alpacas!
    Everything would be better at the diner.
    The local ranchers hadn’t acknowledged him at first when he’d started coming here fifteen years ago. Wouldn’t even nod to him at the feed store. But he kept it up, having coffee near them at Tillie’s. He never jumped into conversation, just listened.
    After a few years of Cade’s stubbornness, they started giving him a little bit of ground, nodding their heads a bit when he came into the diner instead of outright ignoring him.
    It was when they began teasing him that he knew he’d made it. They took bites from his toast as they walked past his table, they teased him about the latest waitress that he was seeing. They seemed to delight vicariously in his conquests, and they laughed if he got dumped, which was rarely. They complimented his flock and deferred to his opinion when it came to Corriedales, since he was the only one running that breed in the valley.
    Cade tore past the RV at his first opportunity, gunning the engine to its maximum. He sped down the canyon, around the big curve, and into town. Traffic was suddenly heavier, and he remembered, as he always did, that Cypress Hollow was and always would be a touristy beach town. A pleasure destination, not just a place for him to get groceries.
    Tillie’s was located on Main Street, a block from the beach. Surfers and farmers alike loved the diner for its cheap eats and good, strong, plentiful hot coffee. Old Bill had run the place for just about forever and never aged. Some of the oldest regulars swore that he’d been leaning heavily on the cash register since they were youngsters. He manned the register every moment of the day, never appearing to take even a bathroom break. He wasn’t married, had no kids, and lived above the diner in an apartment whose windows faced the breaking waves. “Not a bad life,” he’d say, when people asked him. “Not bad at all.”
    Cade parked in a free spot and strolled in.
    “Bill,” he said. “They back there?”
    “’Course,” said Old Bill,