Wishes and Stitches by Rachael Herron Page B

she looked in the direction of her kids’ area. Smaller, sadder than his, it hadn’t been used yet. She’d never had a child come by with a parent in tow or not. But she would. It would happen. She had to believe that.
    From behind her a low growl said, “Wanna dance?”
    Naomi screamed and clutched her chest as she spun around. It wasn’t until she’d hit Rig in the shoulder that she really knew who he was. “You scared me!”
    â€œYou socked me, woman!”
    â€œNatural response. Right up there with the screaming.”
    Rig grinned, and his dark eyes danced as he held out his arms, and invited her to do the same. “Come on. That’s what this old wooden floor wants.”
    Naomi backed up, her heart still racing. What if she did dance with him? Without music? Oh, God, she must be losing it. He might bite her again. She shook her head and said, “I was thinking it wants a good waxing. Hey, speaking of things that need a little shining up, are you going to keep dressing like that?”
    He looked down at himself, at his jeans and dark brown shirt, and then back at her, his arms outstretched. “My jeans not tight enough for the cowboy lovers out here? I can get some Wranglers on the weekend, no problem.”
    â€œJeans, though? And I know Dr. Pederson’s white coat is too wide for you, since you don’t have a beer gut the size of Oregon, but wouldn’t it do for a couple of days until we get your own?”
    He dropped his arms easily and moved to run his fingers over the bookcase she’d also picked up with the used office furniture. “I don’t like to be fancy. People talk to me more when I’m not. My clothes are clean, I can assure you of that. On another subject, what the hell? Look at these books. Depressing. Cancer, cancer, oh, goody, myeloma and leukemia, more cancer, and some more cancer.” He slid his hand over the second row of books. “And it looks like this is the death and dying shelf. Cheery. Matches the rest of the vibe in here.”
    Naomi spun around, looking at her creation. Yeah, maybe she hadn’t decorated it enough yet. But it wasn’t about the decorating, it wasn’t about what it looked like. What mattered was what it contained, what was at its heart. It was suddenly vastly important to her that he got it. Pederson never had. But maybe Rig could.
    â€œMy dad always wanted a small-town practice, but he never got one. He worked in a neighborhood that straddled two districts of Los Angeles. All day his practice was full of rich clients, and he kept them healthy.” It felt strange to talk to someone about it, but she kept going. “Next door, he opened a center like this for the lower-income community to come for advice. For resources. Under his watch, it turned into the community gathering place. They had lectures and classes, even dances sometimes. Everyone went there to get all their information, about stress, and health, and diet, and there was always someone, a volunteer or my dad at night, who was sitting there with all the answers. Free health checks. It was organic. Lovely. Everything free. He’d be so proud if he knew I was doing this.” If she pulled it off. And maybe she wouldn’t. Shit.
    Rig looked seriously at her. As if he was really listening. “Who comes in here now?”
    â€œNow?” Naomi grimaced. “No one. I’ve seen two people in here on the nights I’ve sat here with the door open, and they scuttled out as soon as they saw me.”
    â€œIt does kind of have a Christian Science reading room feel, doesn’t it?”
    Naomi yanked the curl next to her ear. “Dammit. Really? I was hoping to avoid that.”
    â€œYeah. I’m thinking people expect you to preach the word if you lie in wait behind that table. Why is this so important to you?”
    Naomi couldn’t say the words that mattered: My father expected me to do more