Purls of Wisdom Read online

  FINLEY WAS hopeless.

  He’d been at Purls of Wisdom for half an hour and hadn’t even started the scarf thing yet. He stared at the mess on the checkout counter and then looked up at Noah with beseeching eyes. “I’m hopeless.”

  Noah sighed. “You are not hopeless. You’re just… rushing things too much and getting distracted.”

  “Hazel knits while watching TV,” Finley lamented. “And she’s fast.”

  “Yes, well, she’s had more practice.”

  Finley glared at the yarn, no longer willing to forgive its intractability simply because it had brought Noah into his life.

  Noah ran long fingers through his hair. Finley watched their journey more than a little covetously. “You said you’re an artist, right?”

  Finley nodded.

  “Well, it’s not like you started out painting the Mona Lisa.”

  Finley shot him a look. “Noah, if you think I painted the Mona Lisa, then you’ve been greatly misinformed about some things….”

  Noah’s lips quirked. “The point is, you start out slow and then get faster. So unravel that yarn, and we’ll start again.”

  Finley unraveled his pathetic attempt at stitches—only five of the original ten remained on the needle—and rewound the ball. Then he turned once again to Noah, awaiting instruction.

  “Okay, let’s try this cast on. Tie a slipknot on the very end of the yarn. Good. Now put that over the needle and pull. Good. Now take the yarn like this and twist it round your finger and slide the new loop onto the needle.”

  Finley looked, and sure enough, two stitches sat on the needle. “Oh.”

  “Give it a try.”

  Finley’s hands sweated under Noah’s eagle-eyed stare. He looped the yarn around his thumb and slipped the loop onto the needle.

  And watched as it fell apart.

  Noah tsked and reached out to loop the yarn around his thumb to demonstrate. “This way, yarn over, so that the tail is pinned between the yarn and the needle.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Trying not to blush, Finley cast on a stitch.

  While it turned out Hazel was right—Finley was hopeless at knitting—he doubted she’d taken Noah’s magnetism into account when she’d made her proclamation. Finley would have mastered the basics of knitting in the first five minutes if not for Noah’s tempting scent, sharp but warm, or the brush of his skin against Finley’s. His hands were gentle as they held the needles and the yarn, as they slipped them from Finley’s grip. Finley wanted to swoon.

  “Good. Now cast on ten more stitches for your swatch.” Upon Finley’s arrival at the shop, Noah had announced that Finley would be knitting a test square first. Finley would never have argued against the extra practice, even if Noah hadn’t regarded him with unwavering no-nonsense eyes.

  “Right.” Finley did as instructed and added ten more. Then Noah guided him through knitting a row.

  “Remember to slow down,” Noah said softly, his breath puffing against Finley’s ear. Finley shivered, and his fingers stuttered. “Good, now focus on each stitch, slipping the needle through the loop”—he wanted to whimper—“hooking the yarn over it, and pulling it back through.”

  Noah’s delightfully hard chest pressed against his arm, and Finley doubted his ability to focus on anything else, but he swallowed and did his best.

  When Finley finally made it to the end of the line, he was practically panting from the tension, and waited, buzzing, for the next instruction. He nearly shuddered when Noah gave the soft, near-pornographic description for how to purl. Who knew talk about needles penetrating loops could be so deliciously dirty?

  “Not bad,” Noah said after another torturous twenty minutes. He’d stepped away to lock the door and inspected Finley’s work upon his return.

  Finley grinned. The swatch he had knitted looked a bit rough—it wasn’t exactly rectangular in shape—but his skills had definitely improved with each row, under Noah’s kind tutelage. “Thank you! Though it’s all you. I’m not sure I could have done half as well without your excellent teaching.”

  Noah’s eyebrows flew up, and he regarded Finley for a long moment. “You’re ser—uh, you’re welcome.”

  Despite the shop only having just closed, they’d been almost entirely undisturbed during the hour of their lesson. One old lady had stopped by, and she hadn’t batted an eye when she found Finley perched behind the counter and slowly, carefully knitting.

  Finley wished he could stay longer, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

  Noah watched him as he put everything back into the shopping bag.

  “So, same time tomorrow?” Finley asked hopefully. He might not be the best flirt, but he knew the importance of proximity and pressing an advantage when he had it.

  “Huh? Oh, sure. Tomorrow.” Noah pushed some papers around the counter absently.

  “Excellent!” Finley slipped on his gloves and hurried out of the shop before Noah could change his mind. Maybe he would linger tomorrow, when Hazel wasn’t hungrily waiting and he was more secure in Noah’s continued welcome.

  With one last look and wave, Finley left him alone to close the shop and practically skipped all the way to his car.

  Knit Three

  BEMUSED, NOAH watched Finley rush out into the cold night.

  Agreeing to teach Finley how to cast on, knit, and purl had been madness enough, but Noah could chalk the impulse up to a pretty face and a momentary altruistic weakness—he’d been known to have them once or twice—but agreeing to continue lessons tomorrow, on one of his days off? Well. There was no excusing or explaining that.

  Noah slumped onto the stool and dropped his head onto the counter. His mother would demand to know why he was late to family dinner and would never let it go. She disliked that he worked Shabbat, no matter how many times he reminded her that Friday evenings and Saturdays were too busy, and no, he couldn’t leave Mark to manage Saturdays alone. Still, since opening the shop, he’d been careful to never show up late to dinner on Friday.

  Noah straightened, went to the door, locked it, and flipped the Closed sign. Then he returned to the till. Behind it hung his mother’s storewarming gift: a cross-stich with styled cursive letters in bright colors wreathed over two balls of yarn and proclaiming, “Knitting takes balls.”

  His mother would want to hear all about the nice young man Noah sacrificed his evening off for. And then he would have to tell her something, but considering that all he knew about Finley was his pretty face and his desire to knit something for his wife…. Well, his mother would have little to focus on other than her disappointment. She’d be as unimpressed in Noah’s crush—which he didn’t actually have!—on a married man, as she would be crushed to have her hopes of grandchildren dashed once again.

  Noah snapped his ledger shut and brought the order forms into order with a flick of his wrist, tapping them on the desk. Thinking about his mother’s desire for grandchildren and his inability to provide them so far would get him nowhere good.

  He locked the till, the ledgers, and the orders up in the safe, turned off the lights, and then took the interior steps up to his apartment.

  Katz stood and stretched before lightly hopping down from her seat on the couch. She wound about his feet and meowed up at him.

  Noah leaned down to stroke her head. “Good evening.”

  In the kitchen, she purred and rubbed up against his leg as he dropped kibble into her dish.

  He glanced out the window at the dark sky and did his best to ignore the pang of guilt over his plan to miss tomorrow’s sundown. Noah and God went their separate ways before Noah left college, but he could never leave the rituals his parents had taught him behind.

  Noah popped some leftovers into the oven to warm. As he straightened, he caught sight of the candles his father had bought as a housewarming gift, which sat unused in the window over the sink. He examined the perfect tapers and ignored a new sensation—regret over never having hosted Shabbat in his small apartment. Des
pite it being a day early, the songs of his childhood ran through his mind while he waited for his meal.

  He took his plate—stir-fry from Wok With Me next door—into the living room and settled on his couch. He flicked on the TV and, after some deliberation, turned on One Day at a Time to chase away the quiet. As he cleaned his plate, Katz settled next to him and purred her approval. He didn’t know if it was her time spent as a stray or natural inclination, but she was an extremely affectionate creature, especially after being fed.

  Noah stroked her head for a while, but as one episode bled into the next, he stopped petting in favor of knitting.

  His current project, a shawl for his mother, was nearly done and would be the perfect Hanukkah present. Having been raised during the era of Christmas rivalry, Noah’s childhood had included eight nights of presents. Now that he was older and no longer jealous of the Christian kids and their Santa Claus, he and his parents only exchanged gifts on the final night. He loved the excuse to knit for them.

  As he quickly passed the yarn over his fingers and looped it through each stitch, he thought about Finley and how pleased he’d been to have crafted a barely passable swatch. He’d looked up at Noah, his blue eyes sparkling, showed off his perfect teeth—and really, who had perfect teeth?—and brandished the four-by-four-inch piece like he’d finished a blanket.

  Noah shook his head and focused on Netflix. Thinking about stupidly attractive, taken men would only lead to heartbreak and wasted hours.

  THE FOLLOWING morning, Noah patted Katz goodbye and headed down into the shop just before ten. Mark was already there, restocking shelves and tidying up, making up for his absence earlier in the week.

  “Morning,” Mark said and pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “Morning,” Noah grunted and settled at the back of the shop where he had room to work. A box of new yarns had arrived yesterday—one of Noah’s regular suppliers had sent him free skeins to sample, hoping he would increase his next order. He looked through the box and lingered over a medium weight skein of a brilliant blue.

  The best way to evaluate any yarn was to knit with it. Which he had some time for, since his main role during Mark’s shifts was to answer customer questions. Noah stroked the fibers. Just over 200 yards would be enough for a nice hat.

  Mind made up, Noah grabbed some needles, casted on, and started knitting one of his favorite, and extremely well-practiced, patterns. Every year, he made several hats for display and gifted many more to one of the local charities that worked to ensure everyone owned warm-enough clothes for a New York winter.

  At ten on the dot, Mark unlocked the door and settled behind the counter. He flicked open a textbook and started reading. He was not a knitter, but an engineering student. A fact which might have made him the worst choice for yarn-store salesclerk, except he was scarily efficient and terribly detail oriented. The shop books were in the best state they’d ever seen. Noah dreaded the day Mark finished school and left him for full-time work.

  The day passed quickly. Noah knitted when he wasn’t answering questions about yardage and gauges and material, and Mark rang up customers, gave them shy smiles, and blushed whenever an old lady called him adorable.

  When five o’clock came and went, Mark lifted both eyebrows in surprise, and Noah shrugged. “Staying later today.”

  Mark cocked his head. “But… don’t you have dinner at your parents?”

  “I’ll have to be late.” He attempted to ignore any guilt those words inspired. His mother hadn’t attempted to hide her displeasure when he’d called her that morning.

  Mark gave him a look as if trying to puzzle him out, but Noah ignored him, focusing studiously on the hat he crafted.

  After a particularly demanding customer finally asked her last question, paid, and left, Noah leaned against the counter and sighed. Mark snorted next to him, and Noah glared at the basket of needle savers on the counter. He and his new project had been forced out of his back corner and into closer proximity to the counter, thanks to a surprisingly high number of present-buying new customers, completely ruining the best perk of having an employee.

  He was considering picking up his project once again and wondering if he had the energy, when Finley came bursting through the doorway, like some disarrayed bird on a tail wind, his too-long scarf flapping behind him. He hustled the door shut and turned to scan the shop. He noted Mark with a small jerk of surprise, and then his face split into a grin when he spotted Noah behind him.

  “Noah!” He bounded forward, his shopping bag with the yarn and needles swinging at his side. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  From the corner of his eye, Noah could see Mark turn toward him. His eyebrows were probably high enough to reach his hairline—no mean feat—but Noah didn’t turn to acknowledge him. He hoped to put off Mark’s questions as long as possible.

  Noah stepped from behind the counter and ushered Finley through the shop. Near the back sat two armchairs, to lend an air of coziness and to give his many older customers a space to rest for a moment.

  Noah settled Finley into a chair and took the other one. Time to start this knitting lesson.

  At first they talked only about his knitting as Finley carefully cast on his stitches, learned to join them in the round, and then began working the knit-two, purl-two pattern. Once Finley was working comfortably and managed a few rows without Noah needing to correct him midstitch, Noah picked up his mother’s gift. He might as well put this time to good use.

  “Oh, that’s beautiful,” Finley sighed.

  Noah lifted his head. Finley watched him with shining eyes, his hands still.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m in awe of your work. I can hardly believe someone can create something so intricate with needles and thread.” Finley dropped his needle—and a few stitches with it—and reached out to touch the shawl.

  The piece, worked in a repeated lace pattern with a fine yarn, had a soft drapey quality. Noah had picked a dark maroon yarn with variegated shades and, so far, was rewarded for his choice. The fabric almost looked living when crumpled, the way the yarn and light worked to create varying tones.

  “I can’t imagine doing something so fine,” Finley murmured and brushed his finger over one of the repeated lace feathers.

  Uncomfortable, Noah shrugged. “Well, neither could I when I started. But I’ve got a fair bit of experience now.”

  “I guess you must knit a lot. No excuses when you own a shop, right?”

  Noah’s lips quirked. “Not really. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t help myself. Anyway, the yarn makers send samples.” He waved at the shop, taking in not only the rows of shelves, but the knitwear that sat on top them and hung from the walls. “And I knit stuff for display. Helps to sell yarn.”

  Finley laughed. “Ah, what a hardship for you.” He picked up his needle, and his face fell as he took in the damage. “Oh no!”

  “Easily fixed,” Noah hurried to reassure him. “The stitches just slipped off the needle. All you have to do is slip them back on.” He reached out and settled his hand over Finley’s. “Make sure they’re the right way around. You don’t want to twist them.”

  Finley carefully followed the instructions, and Noah checked the work.

  “Well done,” he murmured, and Finley beamed so outrageously under the simple praise that Noah’s heart beat double time.

  He swallowed hard. This was not good.

  Purl Four

  WHEN FINLEY realized he’d stopped muttering under his breath, “Stab forward, stab forward, stab backward, stab backward,” to remind himself how to work each stitch, relief washed through him. At last he could talk to others, instead of himself and his yarn, and he took advantage, asking Noah everything that came to mind and listening raptly to his every answer, even the taciturn ones.

  Noah grew up in New York, with his mother and father, and opened the yarn store ten years previously, using the building left to him by his great uncle.

  “He bought
the land back when it was still possible.” Noah smiled with some bitterness. “I lucked out, really. No other way I could have opened this place on my pension without a pretty big loan I’d still be paying back.”

  Finley stopped stitching and looked at Noah. “Pension?”

  “Oh.” Noah looked down at his hands, still working at a furious pace that had Finley in awe. Was Noah blushing? “Um, yes. From the Army.”

  “You were in the Army?” Finley cocked his head and peered at Noah closely, trying to assimilate this information. His hair was trimmed short back and sides, but not in an unfashionable manner. He had some gray at his temples and crow’s feet by his eyes—stress from war, perhaps? Above his left eye, a scar marked the skin, which Finley had suspected was the result of childhood play but now wondered about.

  “Yes.” Noah cleared his throat. “Cash-strapped youthful stupidity, really.” The tension in his shoulders suggested he didn’t want to talk about the experience, but Finley nearly exploded with curiosity.

  “Can I ask about it?”

  Noah shrugged. “Not much to tell. They gave me a degree in modern languages, and I paid them back by going to Iraq.”

  “Oh,” Finley said, the wind taken from his sails. He itched to reach out and take Noah’s hand, to offer him comfort, but Noah’s fingers were still flying. “I’m sorry.”

  Noah shrugged again. “I signed up in 2001. Poor timing.”

  Finley winced. “We can talk about something else, if you’d rather.”

  Noah’s smile looked strained. “What about you? Where did you grow up?”

  “Manhattan,” Finley admitted somewhat apologetically. “My parents were nouveau riche—in that the family money only goes back to the early twentieth century—so we grew up in ‘high society.’ I have a fancy private school education that I’m currently wasting as I throw paint at a canvas.” Finley gave a self-deprecating smirk. His parents had threatened to cut him and Violet off when they didn’t live up to their society potential, but they’d never followed through. And couldn’t anymore. Finley’s life as a penniless artist was anything but, even if his work didn’t sell well enough to make a living.