If Not For A Bee

She silenced him with a look. “That’s your only option at this point. Either give it up or I walk.”

He muttered something under his breath, then said, “All right, fine. For now.”

“Forever,” she countered.

He grinned. “Let’s dig some clams. I feel like if I go back to that pickup without my limit, Bering might leave me here.”

That actually made her laugh because Bering wouldn’t, but he would want to. “He might,” she teasingly agreed.

Janie had to give Aidan credit for improving; he managed to get half a bucket, but after a few methodical, yet unsuccessful, attempts in a row, Janie could see they were running out of tide...and time.

“You need to be a little faster,” she advised after he failed to get yet another.

He nodded. “I can do faster.”

He looked around determinedly until he found a dimple in the sand. He began scooping furiously, but she could see that the blade was too close.

“Aidan, hold on—you need to make sure you keep enough distance—”

But he was too fast this time, and Janie winced as she heard the telltale crack of the clam’s glasslike shell. She didn’t realize that he didn’t recognize the sound himself until it was too late.

He’d already dropped to his knees and pushed his hand into the hole.

“Wait, wait—”

“Ouch!” he yelped.

Janie squeezed her eyes shut.

“Crikey... That hurts.”

Janie cringed when she looked down and saw the bloody ends of his fingers. The water was cold—if he was bleeding that much already this really wasn’t going to be good.

Janie turned toward the surf, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun as she looked for Tag.

“Is this why they’re called razor clams?” Aidan’s voice was perfectly calm as he studied his injured hand. “Because the shell is literally as sharp as a razor?”

“I don’t know about that, but this is why it’s nice to have a cousin who is a paramedic.”

* * *

AIDAN SAT ON the tailgate of the pickup and watched Tag clean the wound. He examined the cuts.

“You’re definitely going to need stitches. The tip of this finger is almost sliced clear through.”

Aidan repeated his earlier observation. “I can see why they’re called razor clams.”

Tag chuckled and applied some disinfectant. “Maybe—I’ve heard different accounts on that. On the east coast they’re longer and skinnier—more like a straight razor. They also call them jackknife clams back there. Our Pacific razors are a lot more oval-shaped, and bigger—fatter and meatier. Tastier, too, I think. Anyway, a lot people claim the shape is where the name comes from.”

Aidan shook his head. “Not as far as I’m concerned.”

Tag laughed. “I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

“My fingers, they’re going to be—”

“Don’t worry. Dr. Grady is on today and he’s great. I’ve never seen a doctor who can sew better. It’ll barely even scar.”

Aidan watched as Tag wrapped his fingers in a length of soft white gauze. The blood seeped through and Tag kept wrapping. Aidan thought about the repercussions of an injured hand, but scars were the least of his concerns.

Emily examined Tag’s handiwork. “Aidan, what will you do? How are you going to work?”

“I’ll manage. They’re just lacerations, Em—they’ll heal.” Leave it to Emily to voice his concerns.

“But your boxes are arriving tomorrow, right?”

“That’s right,” Bering said as he began transferring clams into a cooler. “Your stuff. Don’t worry, we’ll help.”

Bering turned to address Janie, who had been hanging back silently. Aidan wondered what she was thinking. “Can I borrow the boys in the morning? To give Aidan a hand?”

“Yes, of course.”

Tag closed his first-aid kit and stood. “Hop in my pickup, Aidan. We need to get you to the hospital.”

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_7ca2589a-5700-588c-a8cc-ce4a2ede0aa6)

“JANIE, THE RESPONSE to your ugly-Christmas-sweater column has been unbelievable. Mayor Cummings is talking about having an ugly-Christmas-sweater contest at this year’s Festival of Trees in December. People are asking if you’ll teach a class. We could print a summary in the paper the day after each one, so people who have taken your earlier classes can follow along in the paper. What do you think?”

Janie handed a plate of scrambled eggs over to Laurel, who had stopped by to discuss the matter since it was Sunday—the only day the paper was closed, although Laurel worked every day.

“But I don’t get it,” Claire said as she rinsed her plate in the sink. She and the boys had already eaten so she could drive Gareth and Reagan into town for the work party at Aidan’s. “Your sweaters aren’t ugly—they’re beautiful.”

Laurel tried to explain and Janie let her. She had been over this with her mom too many times to count. “That’s kind of the point, Claire. The silly design versus the quality of the knitting and the beauty of the yarn... That’s the appeal and no one does these better than Janie.”

Claire shook her head in confusion. “That’s what Janie says, too, Laurel. But I still don’t understand why you have to call them ugly.”

Janie and Laurel exchanged grins, as her mom continued her argument.

Janie had held basic knitting classes in the past, always with a great turnout. Students would complete the class with knowledge of basic stitches and a scarf or the start of a throw blanket. A sweater would entail much more detailed teaching, but knitting was her passion and she enjoyed teaching the skill hands-on.

“I would be happy to do a class.”

“Awesome.” Laurel beamed. “I’ll get it set up.”

Claire put on her coat. “We’re leaving now. Bering is bringing the boys home, right?”

“Yes, thanks, Mom.” Janie explained to Laurel, “Bering, Tag, Gareth and Reagan are helping Aidan Hollings move a bunch of his stuff in today.”

The boys appeared with their plates and stowed them in the dishwasher. They said their goodbyes and filed out the door. Janie poured herself and Laurel cups of coffee.