Summer on Blossom Street
Debbie Macomber
Perfect for fans of Maeve Binchy' - CandisLydia’s newest knitting class is called “Knit to Quit”. It has four members: Abbie, a woman who is dealing with a broken engagement; Alix, who wants to quit smoking before she gets pregnant; Margaret; and – for the first time – a man, Brian Hutchinson, who joins the class to help deal with stress.There’s also the chance to find out what’s been happening with other Blossom Street regulars including Lydia and her husband, Brad, who want to adopt; Anne Marie; and Ellen, whose biological father has tracked her down. With romance and friendship on the horizon, Lydia’s “Knit to Quit” class is going to have a busy summer!Make time for friends. Make time for Debbie Macomber.
Make time for friends. Make time for Debbie Macomber.
Cedar Cove 16 Lighthouse Road 204 Rosewood Lane 311 Pelican Court 44 Cranberry Point 50 Harbor Street 6 Rainier Drive 74 Seaside Avenue 8 Sandpiper Way 92 Pacific Boulevard 1022 Evergreen Place 1105 Yakima Street 1225 Christmas Tree Lane
Blossom Street The Shop on Blossom Street A Good Yarn Susannah’s Garden
(previously published as Old Boyfriends)
Back on Blossom Street
(previously published as Wednesdays at Four)
Twenty Wishes
Summer on Blossom Street
Hannah’s List
A Turn in the Road
Thursdays at Eight
Christmas in Seattle
Falling for Christmas
A Mother’s Gift
Angels at Christmas
A Mother’s Wish
The Manning Sisters
The Manning Brides
The Manning Grooms
Summer in Orchard Valley
My Dear Friends,
Welcome back to Blossom Street and to Lydia Goetz’s knitting shop, A Good Yarn. Lydia’s family and friends are eager to update you on what’s been happening on this Seattle street.
A couple of years ago, while I was in Australia and everyone else was busy exploring Sydney, I sought out a yarn store. As I stepped up to pay for my purchase (you didn’t honestly think I wouldn’t buy yarn, did you?) I noticed a sign-up sheet for a class that taught knitting as a way to help people quit smoking. What a great idea, I thought – for a book. I grabbed hold of that plot premise, expanded it (Lydia’s class is for people who want to quit any kind of bad habit, not just smoking) and waited for the right story to come along. I’m pleased to tell you it’s the very one you’re holding in your hands. My Knit to Quit class idea evolved into Summer onBlossom Street. You’ll meet a few new characters and connect with some you’re already familiar with. and yes, anne marie, Ellen and Baxter are back – and Ellen is still working on her twenty wishes, so be prepared for a surprise there.
When I wrote The Shop on Blossom Street, the first story about Lydia and her yarn shop, I hadn’t expected or intended it to become a series. Who knew? Obviously not me! Although in retrospect it makes perfect sense, since any book that involves my passions (in this case for yarn and knitting) was sure to resonate with my readers as well.
My hope is that you’re as eager to catch up with Lydia’s friends as she is to turn over the Open sign on her shop door. Enjoy your visit! And rest assured: she has more classes to teach, more lessons to learn and more friends to make.
Warmest regards,
PS I love to hear from my readers. You can reach me at www.debbiemacomber.com or write to me at PO Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366, USA.
Debbie
Macomber
Summer on
Blossom Street
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
To Delilah
My God-given friend
KNITTING PATTERN
CABLE SAMPLER SCARF
© 2009 Bev Galeskas/Fiber Trends, Inc.
www.Fibertrends.com
Size: About 8" wide by 60" long, relaxed after blocking.
Materials and Supplies: 5 skeins Harmony 8 ply 100% merino wool (50gr–130 yds per skein) or other DK weight yarn to equal gauge.
U.S. size 6 needles; cable needle.
Gauge: 21 sts = 4" (10 cm) in garter stitch.
Stitches and Abbreviations:
Sl-1 (Slip 1): All slip stitches on this pattern should be slipped purlwise with yarn in front of work.
k2tog: Knit 2 sts together as one.
Inc (increase): Lift the stitch below the stitch on left needle and place the loop on the point of left needle. Knit this loop, then knit the stitch. (1 st increased)
Brackets: Work all stitches within the brackets the specified number of times (x).
Asterisks: Repeat stitches between the asterisks, including any repeats within.
C6B (Cable 6 back): Slip 3 sts to the cable needle and hold in back of work. Knit next 3 sts from left needle, then k3 from cable needle.
C6F (Cable 6 front): Slip 3 sts to the cable needle and hold in front of work. Knit next 3 sts from left needle, then k3 from cable needle.
C4B (Cable 4 back): Slip 2 sts to the cable needle and hold in back of work. Knit next 2 sts from left needle, then k2 from cable needle.
C4F (Cable 4 front): Slip 2 sts to the cable needle and hold in front of work. Knit next 2 sts from left needle, then k2 from cable needle.
Notes: Scarf is bordered in garter stitch. These stitches are included in the directions, so there should not be a need to use markers.
Slip the first stitch of every row as if to purl with the yarn held in front of work.
Instructions:
Loosely cast on 43 sts.
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch).
Cable Pattern 1:
Set Up Row 1: (WS) Sl-1, k7, [p3, k3] 5x, k5.
Set Up Row 2: (RS) Sl-1, k4, p3, [inc in next 3 sts (see above for method), p3] 5x, k5. (58 sts)
Begin Cable Pattern:
Row 1 and all WS rows: Sl-1, k7, [p6, k3] 5x, k5.
Row 2: Sl-1, k4, p3, [k6, p3] 5x, k5.
Row 4: Sl-1, k4, p3, [C6B, p3] 5x, k5.
Rows 6 & 8: Repeat Row 2.
Work Rows 1 through 8 a total of 6 times, then Rows 1 through 5 once more.
Final Row: (RS) Sl-1, k7, *[k2tog] 3x, k3,* repeat to last 5 sts, k5. (43 sts)
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch), ending ready to begin a WS row.
Cable Pattern 2:
Set Up Row 1: (WS) Sl-1, k4, p33, k5.
Set Up Row 2: (RS) Sl-1, k4, p6, [k1, inc in next st, k1, p6] 3x, k5. (46 sts)
Begin Cable Pattern:
Rows 1, 3, 5 & 7: (WS) Sl-1, k10, [p4, k6] 3x, k5.
Row 2: (RS) Sl-1, [k4, p6] 4x, k5.
Row 4: Sl-1, k4, [p6, C4F] 3x, p6, k5.
Row 6: Repeat Row 2.
Rows 8 & 10: Sl-1, k4, p1, [k4, p6] 3x, k4, p1, k5.
Rows 9, 11, 13 & 15: Sl-1, k5, [p4, k6] 4x.
Row 12: Sl-1, k4, p1, [C4F, p6] 3x, C4F, p1, k5.
Row 14: Repeat Row 10.
Row 16: Repeat Row 2.
Work Rows 1 through 16 a total of 3 times, then Rows 1 through 7 once more.
Final Row: (RS) Sl-1, k11, k2tog, [k8, k2tog] 2x, k12. (43 sts)
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch), ending ready to begin a WS row.
Cable Pattern 3:
Set Up Rows 1 & 2: Work as for Cable Pattern 1. (58 sts)
Begin Cable Pattern:
Row 1 and all WS rows: Sl-1, k7, [p6, k3] 5x, k5.
Row 2: Sl-1, k4, p3, [k6, p3] 5x, k5.
Row 4: Sl-1, k4, p3, [C6B, p3] 5x, k5.
Rows 6, 8 & 10: Repeat Row 2.
Row 12: Sl-1, k4, p3, [C6F, p3] 5x, k5.
Rows 14 & 16: Repeat Row 2.
Work Rows 1 through 16 a total of 3 times, then Rows 1 through 5 once more.
Final Row: (RS) Sl-1, k7, *[k2tog] 3x, k3,* repeat to last 5 sts, k5. (43 sts)
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch), ending ready to begin a WS row.
Cable Pattern 4:
Set Up Row 1: Purl.
Set Up Row 2: Sl-1, k5, inc in next st, k3, [inc in next 2 sts, k2] 7x, k5. (58 sts)
Begin Cable Pattern:
Row 1 and all WS rows: Sl-1, k4, purl to last 5 sts, k5.
Row 2: Sl-1, k4, *C4F, k2,* repeat to last 5 sts, k5.
Row 4: Knit.
Row 6: Sl-1, k6, *C4B, k2,* repeat to last 9 sts, C4B, k5.
Row 8: Knit.
Work Rows 1 through 8 a total of 6 times, then Rows 1 through 7 once more.
Final Row: (RS) Sl-1, k5, k2tog, k4, *[k2tog] 2x, k2,* repeat to last 10 sts, [k2tog] 2x, k6. (43 sts)
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch), ending ready to begin a WS row.
Cable Pattern 5:
Work Set Up Rows 1 & 2 as for Cable Pattern 1. (58 sts)
Begin Cable Pattern:
Row 1 and all WS Rows: Sl-1, k7, [p6, k3] 5x, k5.
Row 2: Sl-1, k4, [p3, C4B, k2] 5x, p3, k5.
Row 4: Sl-1, k4, [p3, k2, C4F] 5x, p3, k5.
Work Rows 1 through 4 a total of 13 times, then work Row 1 once more.
Final Row: (RS) Sl-1, k7, *[k2tog] 3x, k3,* repeat to last 5 sts, k5. (43 sts)
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch), ending ready to begin a WS row.
Cable Pattern 6:
Set Up Row 1: (WS) Sl-1, k4, p33, k5.
Set Up Row 2: (RS) Sl-1, k8, inc in next st, k5, [inc in next 2 sts, k4] 4x, k4. (52 sts)
Begin Cable Pattern:
Row 1 and all WS rows: Sl-1, k4, p42, k5.
Row 2: Sl-1, k7, C4B, [k4, C4B] 4x, k8.
Row 4: Sl-1, k5, C4B, C4F, [k8, C4B, C4F] 2x, k6.
Row 6: Sl-1, knit to end.
Row 8: Sl-1, k5, C4F, C4B, [k8, C4F, C4B] 2x, k6.
Row 10: Repeat Row 2.
Row 12: Sl-1, k13, C4B, C4F, k8, C4B, C4F, k14.
Row 14: Repeat Row 6.
Row 16: Sl-1, k13, C4F, C4B, k8, C4F, C4B, k14.
Work Rows 1 through 16 a total of 3 times, then Rows 1 through 9 once more.
Final Row: (RS) Sl-1, k6, *[k2tog] 2x, k5, k2tog, k5,* repeat once, [k2tog] 2x, k9. (44 sts)
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch), ending ready to begin a WS row.
Cable Pattern 7:
Set Up Row 1: (WS) Sl-1, k7, [p4, k3, p2, k3] 2x, p4, k8.
Set Up Row 2: (RS) Sl-1, k4, p3, [inc in next 4 sts, p3, inc in next 2 sts, p3] 2x, inc in next 4 sts, p3, k5. (60 sts)
Begin Cable Pattern:
Row 1 and all WS rows: Sl-1, k7, [p8, k3, p4, k3] 2x, p8, k8.
Row 2: (RS) Sl-1, k4, p3, C4F, C4B, p3, C4F, p3, C4F, C4B, p3, C4B, p3, C4F, C4B, p3, k5.
Row 4: Sl-1, k4, p3, [k8, p3, k4, p3] 2x, k8, p3, k5.
Row 6: Sl-1, k4, p3, C4B, C4F, p3, C4F, p3, C4B, C4F, p3, C4B, p3, C4B, C4F, p3, k5.
Row 8: Repeat Row 4.
Row 10: Repeat Row 6.
Row 12: Repeat Row 4.
Row 14: Repeat Row 2.
Row 16: Repeat Row 4.
Work Rows 1 through 16 a total of 3 times, then Rows 1 through 7 once more.
Final Row: (RS) Sl-1, k4, k2tog, k1, *[k2tog] 4x, k3, [k2tog] 2x, k3,* repeat once, [k2tog] 4x, k8. (43 sts)
Knit 10 rows (5 ridges of garter stitch), ending ready to begin a WS row.
Cast off loosely, knitwise.
Work in yarn ends neatly. Rinse in cool water and roll in a towel to remove excess water. Lay scarf out on a flat surface and pull into shape. Blocking wires are helpful for nice straight edges.
Pin as needed and leave until completely dry. Note that while the scarf may pull out to about 9" wide while wet, it will relax back to about 8" wide afterward.
Enjoy!
CHAPTER
1
In knitting, as in life, we grow when we challenge ourselves. The concentration required to learn a new stitch or technique is good for both our hands and our brains.
—Bev Galeskas, Fiber Trends Patterns and U.S.
distributor of Naturally New Zealand Yarns.
www.fibertrends.com
Lydia Goetz
Wednesday morning, a not-so-perfect June day, I turned over the Open sign at my yarn store on Blossom Street. Standing in the doorway I breathed in the sweet scent of day lilies, gladiolas, roses and lavender from Susannah’s Garden, the flower shop next door.
It was the beginning of summer, and although the sky was overcast and rain threatened to fall at any moment, the sun shone brightly in my heart. (My husband, Brad, always laughs when I say things like that. But I don’t care. As a woman who’s survived cancer not once but twice, I feel entitled to the occasional sentimental remark. Especially today…)
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, enjoying the early-morning peace. I just don’t think there’s anyplace more beautiful than Seattle in the summer. All the flowers spilling out of Susannah’s Garden are one of the benefits. The array of colors, as well as the heady perfume drifting in my direction, makes me so glad A Good Yarn is located where it is.
Whiskers, my shop cat, as Brad calls him, ambled across the hardwood floor and leaped into the window display, nestling among the skeins of pastel yarns. He takes up residence there most days and has long been a neighborhood favorite. The apartment upstairs is an extra storeroom for yarn at the moment; perhaps one day I’ll rent it out again but that isn’t in the plans yet.
The French Café across the street was already busy, as it is every morning. The windows were filled with pastries, breads and croissants warm from the oven, and their delectable aroma added to the scents I associate with summer on Blossom Street. Alix Turner is usually there by five to bake many of these wonderful temptations. She’s one of my dearest friends—and was among my first customers. I’m so proud of everything she’s accomplished in the past few years. It’s fair to say she reinvented her life—with a little help from her friends. She has an education and a career now, and she’s married to a man who seems completely right for her.
Blossom Street Books down the street was ready for business, too. Anne Marie Roche and her staff often leave the front door open as a welcoming gesture, inviting those who wander past to come inside and browse. She and her daughter, Ellen, would be coming home from Paris later today.
Nearly every afternoon Ellen walks their Yorkie past the window so Whiskers and Baxter can stare fiercely at each other. Ellen insists it’s all for show, that the cat and dog are actually good friends but don’t want any of us to know that.
I grinned at Whiskers because I couldn’t resist sharing my joy and excitement—even with the cat. In fact, I wanted to tell the whole world my news. Yesterday, we found out that we’d been approved for adoption. I hadn’t yet shared this information with anyone, including my sister, Margaret. We’ve been through the interviews, the home test and fingerprinting. And last night we heard.
We’re going to adopt a baby.
Because of my cancer, pregnancy is out of the question. While the ability to conceive has been taken from me, the desire for a baby hasn’t. It’s like an ache that never quite goes away. As much as possible I’ve tried to hide this from Brad. Whenever thoughts of what cancer has stolen from me enter my head, I try hard to counter them by remembering all the blessings I’ve received in my life. I want to celebrate every day, savor every minute, without resentment or regret.
I have so much for which to be grateful. I’m alive and cancer-free. I’m married to a man I adore. His son, Cody, now nine years old, has become my son, too. And I have a successful business, one that brings me great pleasure and satisfaction. When I first opened A Good Yarn, it was my way of shouting to the world that I refused to let cancer rob me of anything else. I was going to live and I was going to do it without the constant threat of illness and death. I was determined to bask in the sunshine. I still am.
So A Good Yarn was the start of my new life. Within a year of opening the store, I met Brad Goetz and we were married the following spring. Because of what I’d been through in my teens and again in my twenties, I didn’t have a lot of experience with men or relationships. At first, Brad’s love terrified me. Then I learned not to reject something good just because I was afraid of its loss. I learned that I could trust this man—and myself.
How blessed I am to be loved by him and Cody. Each and every day I thank God for the two men in my life.
Even with all I have, my arms ached to hold a baby. Our baby. Brad, who knows me so well, understood my need. After discussing the subject for weeks on end, after vacillating, weighing the pros and cons, we’d reached our decision.
Yes, we were going to adopt. The catalyst for all this happened when Anne Marie Roche adopted eight-year-old Ellen.
I realized the wait for a newborn might be lengthy but we were both prepared for that. Although we’d be thrilled with an infant of either sex, I secretly longed for a little girl.
I heard the back door close and turned to see my sister, Margaret. She’s worked with me almost from the first day I opened the shop. Although we’re as different as any two sisters could be, we’ve become close. Margaret is a good balance for me, ever practical and pragmatic, and I think I balance her, too, since I’m much more optimistic and given to occasional whimsy.
“Good morning!” I greeted her cheerfully, unable to disguise my happiness.
“It’s going to pour,” she muttered, taking off her raincoat and hanging it in the back storeroom.
My sister tends to see the negative. The glass would always be half-empty to Margaret. Or completely empty—if not shattered on the floor. Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to her attitude and simply ignore it.
When she’d finished removing her coat, Margaret stared at me, then frowned. “Why are you so happy?” she demanded. “Anybody can see we’re about to have a downpour.”
“Me? Happy?” There wasn’t much point in trying to hold back my news, even though I knew Margaret was the one person who wouldn’t understand my pleasure. She’d disapprove and would have no qualms about imparting her opinion. It’s her pessimistic nature, I suppose, and the fact that she worries about me, although she’d never admit that.
Margaret continued to glare. “You’re grinning from ear to ear.”
I made busy work at the cash register in order to avoid eye contact. I might as well tell her, although I dreaded her response. “Brad and I have applied for adoption,” I blurted out, unable to stop myself. “And our application’s been accepted.”
A startled silence followed.
“I know you think we’re making a mistake,” I rushed to add.
“I didn’t say that.” Margaret walked slowly toward me.
“You didn’t need to say anything,” I told her. Just once I wanted Margaret to be happy for me, without doubts and objections and concerns. “Your silence said it all.”
Margaret joined me at the counter next to the cash register. She seemed to sense that her reaction had hurt me. “I’m only wondering if adoption’s a wise choice for you.”
“Margaret,” I began, sighing as I spoke. “Brad and I know what we’re doing.” Although Margaret hadn’t said it openly, I could guess what concerned her most. She was afraid the cancer would return. I’m well aware of the possibility and have been ever since its recurrence ten years ago. It was a serious consideration and one that neither Brad nor I took lightly.
“Brad agrees?” My sister sounded skeptical.
“Of course he agrees! I’d never go against his wishes.”
Margaret still didn’t look convinced. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“Yes.” I was adamant. Sometimes that’s the only way to reach her. “Brad knows the risks as well as I do. You don’t need to spell it out, Margaret. I understand why you’re afraid for me, but I’m through with living in fear.”
Margaret’s eyes revealed her apprehensions. She studied me and after a moment asked, “What if the adoption agency doesn’t find you a child?”
This was something Brad and I had discussed and it could certainly happen. I shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We’ll take the chance.”
“You want an infant?”
“Yes.” I pictured a newborn, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, gently placed in my waiting arms. I held on to the image, allowing it to bring me comfort, to fill me with hope.
To my surprise Margaret didn’t immediately voice another objection. After a thoughtful minute or two, she said in low tones, “You’d be a good mother…you already are.”
I’m sure my jaw fell open. The shock of Margaret’s endorsement was almost more than I could take in. This was as close as Margaret had ever come to bestowing her approval on anything regarding my personal life. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d been partially responsible for Brad and me getting back together when I’d pushed him away—a reconciliation that led directly to our marriage.
“Thank you,” I whispered and touched her arm.
Margaret made some gruff, unintelligible reply and moved to the table at the back of the store. She pulled out a chair, sat down and took out her crocheting.
“I put up the poster you made for our new class,” I told her, doing my best to conceal the emotion that crept into my voice. The last thing I’d expected from Margaret had been her blessing, and I was deeply touched by her words.
She acknowledged my comment with a nod.
The idea for our new knitting class had been Margaret’s. “Knit to Quit,” she called it, and I loved her suggestion. Since opening the yarn store five years earlier, I’d noticed how many different reasons my customers—mostly women but also a few men—had for learning to knit. Some came looking for a distraction or an escape, a focus to take their minds off some habit or preoccupation. Others were there because of a passion for the craft and still others hoped to express their love or creativity—or both—with something handmade.
Four years ago, Courtney Pulanski, a high school girl, had signed up for my sock-knitting class, which contributed to her successful attempt to lose weight. Hard to believe Courtney was a college senior now and still a knitter. More importantly, she’d kept off the weight she lost that summer.
“I hope Alix takes the hint,” Margaret said, cutting into my thoughts.
I missed the connection. “I beg your pardon?”
“Alix is smoking again.”
It wasn’t as if I’d missed that. She smelled of cigarettes every time she walked into the store. There was no disguising the way smoke clung to her clothes and her hair. And yet Alix seemed to think no one noticed, although of course everyone did.
“My guess is she’d like to quit.”
“Then she should sign up for the class,” Margaret said emphatically. “She could use it.”
How typical of Margaret to feel she knew what was best for everyone. Currently, though, I was more amused than annoyed by her take-charge attitude.
My first customer of the morning—a woman I’d never met before—stepped into the shop and fifteen minutes later, I rang up a hundred-dollar yarn sale. A promising start to the day.
As soon as the door closed, Margaret set aside her project, an afghan for our mother who resides at a nearby assisted-living complex. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
“Happen with what?” I asked.
“This adoption thing.”
I froze. I should’ve known Margaret wouldn’t leave the subject alone. At least not until she’d cast a net of dire predictions. I understood that this impulse was one she couldn’t resist, just as I understood that it was motivated by her protectiveness toward me. But I didn’t need to hear it right now.
“What’s that?” I asked, hoping my irritation didn’t show.
“Have you talked to a social worker yet?”
“Well, of course.” I’d spoken to Anne Marie, and she’d recommended Evelyn Boyle, the social worker who’d been assigned to Ellen and had handled her adoption. Anne Marie and Ellen fit so perfectly together that their story had inspired me to look beyond my fears. So Brad and I had approached Evelyn.
Margaret shook her head, which annoyed me even more.
“Anne Marie gave me the phone number of the woman who helped her adopt Ellen,” I said.
Margaret’s brows came together in consternation and she tightened her lips.
“What now?” I asked, trying to remain calm.
“I wouldn’t recommend that.”
“Why not? It’s too late anyway.”
“This social worker deals with foster kids, right?”
“I guess so.” I knew so, but didn’t see how that was relevant. “Why should it matter?”
My sister rolled her eyes, as though it should be obvious. “Because she’s got children in her case files,” Margaret said with exaggerated patience. “She probably has lots of kids and nowhere to place them. Mark my words, she’ll find a reason to leave some needy child with you. And not a baby, either.”
“Margaret,” I said pointedly, “Brad and I are going to adopt an infant. This social worker, Evelyn, is helping us through the process, nothing more.”
Margaret didn’t respond for several minutes. Just when it seemed she was prepared to drop the subject, she added, “Finding an infant might not be that easy.”
“Perhaps not,” I agreed, unwilling to argue. “We’ll have to wait and see what the adoption agency has to say.”
“It might be expensive, what with lawyers and everything.”
“Brad and I will cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Margaret looked away, frowning slightly, as if she needed to consider every negative aspect of this process. “There are private adoption agencies, too, you know.”
I did know about them, but it made better financial sense to approach the state agency first.
“What about adopting from outside the country?”
Margaret was apparently trying to be helpful, but I wasn’t convinced I should let down my guard.
“We’re holding that in reserve,” I said.
“I hear it’s even more expensive than private adoptions.”
“Yes, well, it’s another option to investigate….”
Margaret’s shoulders rose in a deep sigh. “Are you going to tell Mom?”
With our mother’s fragile health and declining mental condition it wasn’t something I’d considered doing. “Probably not…”
Margaret nodded, her mouth a tight line.
“Mom has a hard enough time remembering that Cody’s my stepson,” I reminded her. On our last visit she’d asked copious questions about the “young man” I’d brought with me.
My sister swallowed visibly. “Mom didn’t recognize Julia when we went to see her a few days ago.”
I felt a jolt of pain—for Margaret, for her daughter, Julia, for Mom. This was the first time Margaret had mentioned it. Our mother’s mental state had declined rapidly over the past two years and I suspected that in a little while she wouldn’t recognize me anymore, either. Margaret and I shared responsibility for checking in on her and making sure she was well and contented. These days my sister and I had taken over the parental role, looking after our mother.
I could pinpoint exactly when that role reversal had taken place. It’d been the day Mom’s neighbor found her unconscious in the garden. She’d collapsed while watering her flowers. Everything had changed from that moment on.
Our mother had ceased to be the woman we’d always known. Living in a care facility now, she was increasingly confused and uncertain. It broke my heart to see Mom struggling so hard to hide her bewilderment at what was happening to her.
“Mom will be happy for you,” Margaret mumbled. “At some point her mind will clear and she’ll realize you have an infant.”
I smiled and hoped this was true, although I had my doubts… and I knew Margaret did, too.
The bell above the door chimed before we could discuss it further, and I glanced up at an attractive young woman who’d entered the shop. I hadn’t seen her before.
“Hello,” I said, welcoming her with an encouraging smile. “Can I help you?”
The woman nodded and toyed nervously with the cell phone in her hand. “Yes…I saw the notice in the window for the Knit to Quit class.”
“Do you know how to knit?”
She shook her head. “No…well, some. I learned years ago but I’ve forgotten. Would this class be too advanced for someone like me?”
“Not at all. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time. I’ll be happy to help you refresh your skills.” I went on to explain that there’d be seven sessions and told her the price of the class.
She nodded again. “You can sign up for the class no matter what you want to quit?” She stared down at the floor as she spoke.
“Of course,” I assured her.
“Good.” She set her bag and cell phone on the counter. “I’d like to pay now.” She handed me a credit card and I read her name—Phoebe Rylander.
“You’re our very first class member,” I told her.
“So the class starts next week?”
“Yes.”
“The sign said Wednesdays from six to eight?”
“Yes. I’m keeping the store open late. It’ll be my first night class.”
I processed her payment and wrote her name on the sign-up sheet. “What are you trying to quit?” I asked in a friendly voice.
“Not what, who,” she whispered.
“Oh…” Her answer took me by surprise.
“There’s a man I need to get over,” she said with tears in her eyes. “A man I…once loved.”
CHAPTER
2
Phoebe Rylander
Clark made their breakup far more difficult than it needed to be. Phoebe had just stepped out of A Good Yarn when her cell phone chirped again. She didn’t have to check Caller ID to know it was Clark Snowden, her fiancé. No…ex-fiancé.
The man she still loved, despite everything.
She’d had no choice except to end their engagement, no matter how much her heart ached. When she thought about what he’d done, she knew she couldn’t allow him to dissuade her again. Not this time. It was final. She told herself that nothing he could say or do would change her mind. But soon she’d be walking into an empty condo and it would feel so lonely and isolated that she was afraid her resolve would weaken. This afternoon she’d felt stronger and more in control of her emotions. The knitting class would help, too.
Knowing what she had to do didn’t make it easy. Clark’s efforts to win her back turned the whole ordeal into an even bigger mess. He’d gone so far as to involve their families. But she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t, let herself give in.
Her cell phone continued to make its little chirping noises, announcing his call.
If Phoebe didn’t answer, Clark would just leave a message and then try again. She flipped open her phone. “Don’t call me anymore,” she said emphatically, surprised at the conviction in her voice. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Phoebe, please…don’t. Let me—”
“This conversation is over.” She started to hang up.
“Phoebe, please, the least you can do is hear me out.”
“I already have.” She hesitated. “There’s nothing more to say.”
“I’m begging you.”
“Clark, I returned your engagement ring. It’s over. We’re through.”
“You’re angry and you have every right to be. But if you’d give me five minutes, just five minutes, I could explain everything.”
Oh, he was good—as plenty of juries had discovered. “No, Clark, I fell for that the first time. This is it. I’m done. As of a week ago we are officially unengaged.”
“You don’t mean that! You can’t. You love me and I’m crazy about you…. You know that, Phoebe. You have to know that. I’d never, ever do anything to hurt you. I’d rather die.”
“If that was the case, I’d be picking out a coffin for you because you have hurt me, Clark.” Her voice faltered and she hated the fact that she’d shown even this small weakness. Rather than continue the conversation, she closed her cell.
Walking at a clipped pace, she hurried down Blossom Street, her vision blurred by tears. At the intersection, she swiped one hand across her cheek, sniffling despite herself. She’d gone for a walk on her lunch hour and ventured much farther than she normally did. In fact, she’d never set foot on Blossom Street before today. But by now she was late; she had to get back to work. Her boss at Madison Avenue Physical Therapy was understanding, but he wouldn’t appreciate it if she kept a patient waiting.
When she got to the clinic, Phoebe was breathless. She hadn’t eaten lunch and her stomach was already in knots. Well, there was nothing she could do about that.
Mrs. Dover was in the clinic’s waiting room as Phoebe rushed in the front door. Her patient lowered the magazine and smiled at Phoebe, who did her best to smile back. Caroline Dover had undergone a complete knee replacement and she had a regularly scheduled appointment at one o’clock every Wednesday. She’d been seeing Phoebe for the past six weeks; they were making progress, although it was slow.
“Come on back,” Phoebe told the older woman. She hurried ahead of her and drew in a deep breath. It would take a lot of resolve to get through the afternoon.
By concentrating strictly on her patients, she made it to the end of the day. At five-ten, she pulled on her jacket and grabbed her purse, eager to escape. Because she couldn’t resist, she checked her cell phone. Clark had left three messages. Refusing to be swayed, she erased each one without listening.
She dared not let herself hear his voice; she was too susceptible. The problem was, she wanted to believe him. …She so badly wanted all of this to go away. That was why she’d impulsively signed up for the knitting class. Knit to Quit. The sign in the yarn shop window had been like a flashing neon light. If she was going to convince Clark that she was serious—and she was—she’d need a distraction to help her through the next few weeks.
Her hand tightened on her cell phone. Even as her fingers pushed the buttons to erase Clark’s messages, she yearned to talk to him. She wanted to be reassured of his love, wanted him to offer some plausible reason that would explain his need to seek out other women. However, there were no reasons. No excuses. Nothing he could say would change what he’d done.
“Did you and Clark have another spat?” Bill Boyington, her boss, asked as she started out the door.
The question caught her unawares.
“What makes you ask?” Phoebe had done her utmost to remain professional and therefore unemotional all week. She hadn’t revealed to anyone at work that she’d ended her engagement.
“There were flowers delivered for you.” He motioned to the receptionist’s desk.
Sure enough, a huge floral arrangement sat on the corner. She wondered how she’d missed seeing it. Orchids, lilies and roses were interspersed among white hydrangeas; obviously Clark had spared no expense. It occurred to her that they were more fitting for a funeral than a reconciliation. But in many ways this was a funeral and Phoebe felt like weeping all over again.
Determined to be strong, she squared her shoulders. “I don’t want them.”
Bill looked at her oddly.
“Take them home to Louise,” she suggested, knowing Bill’s wife would enjoy them.
Her boss didn’t seem convinced. “I’ll bet he spent two hundred bucks on that.”
For a second Phoebe was tempted to forgive him. Clark was so determined, so intent on overcoming her resistance. Still, she couldn’t allow even a small crack in her defenses. She shook her head. “I…I don’t want them. Either give them to Louise or throw them away.”
“You’re serious?” Bill asked, frowning as if this was some weird joke.
“It’s over between Clark and me,” she said bleakly.
“No patching it up this time?”
Phoebe blinked back tears. “No…I really don’t have any choice.”
Her boss patted her shoulder gently. “Do you want to talk about it with anyone? Me or…” He nodded at the receptionist’s desk. Claudia was around the same age as Phoebe’s mother.
“Thanks, but…I don’t think so. I’m still feeling pretty raw.”
Again Bill patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know how much you loved him.”
With a trembling hand, Phoebe reached into her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. Anger and indignation would only carry her so far and then the regrets would take over. Experience had taught her that she needed to be prepared, that she needed an action plan to combat the depression she knew would follow.
“Bill, would you do something for me?”
“Of course.” His unquestioning allegiance and willingness to help made it harder to hold back the emotion.
“I’d appreciate it if you told Claudia to refuse anything else Clark Snowden has delivered here.” Her voice broke just a bit when she said it. If she forgave Clark this time she’d lose all self-respect. Shunning him would take real effort. She’d have to work at it, just like Caroline Dover worked at making her knee function properly. But eventually Phoebe would learn to stop loving Clark. Eventually her heart would stop aching.
Bill hugged her as she left, and that brought fresh tears to her eyes. On her way to the parking garage her cell phone chirped again. She didn’t bother to see who it was. A cheery jingle announced that she had a message.
As she walked, her feet slowed. Clark wouldn’t give up easily. He would hound her, send her gifts, plead with her until she weakened. And she just might. She had before.
It was hard to turn away from the man you loved, hard to fight the desire to accept his excuses. This was familiar ground—territory she’d sworn she’d never travel again and yet…here she was.
No, she couldn’t give in. She couldn’t falter.
Walking by the phone shop, the same shop she passed five days a week, she really noticed it for the first time. After a short hesitation, Phoebe turned back. Staring in the window, she saw the latest cell phone accessories.
It went without saying that Clark would continue to call her until he made a dent in her resolve. She knew his plan and had fallen for it once before. If she was truly serious about avoiding Clark she had to send him the right signals.
Stepping inside the store, Phoebe looked around.
“You’ll need to take a number,” a harried saleswoman instructed her.
“I have a question.”
“You’ll still need to take a number.”
“Okay.” She got a ticket that read 57 and leaned casually against the wall. There was no reason to rush home. All that awaited her was an empty apartment—well, empty except for her cat, Princess.
The cat had more common sense than Phoebe did. Princess had never cared for Clark and the feeling was mutual. He’d said that when they were married, he wanted her to give Princess to her widowed mother. To her own disgust, Phoebe had tentatively agreed.
The saleswoman called out “Fifty-seven!” twice before Phoebe realized it was her turn. The process of changing her cell phone number was relatively easy, although it would be a nuisance to notify her family and friends.
Family.
One person she hadn’t updated so far was her mother, who loved Clark and had championed him after the first…indiscretion. All Phoebe could do was pray that her mother would take her side this time around.
When she got home, she was feeling less vulnerable. Princess greeted her at the door of her condo, purring as she rubbed Phoebe’s ankles.
Bending down and scooping Princess into her arms, Phoebe buried her face in the soft gray fur. “You were right all along,” she whispered. “I should have trusted your character assessment. It would’ve saved me a lot of grief.”
The light on her phone blinked madly; Phoebe could guess who’d made most of the calls. So she was surprised to discover that the first message was from her mother.
“Call me as soon as you’re home,” Leanne Rylander implored. “This is important, Phoebe. I have to speak to you.”
Phoebe rested her forehead against the cupboard door. Sooner or later, she’d need to tell her mother, although from the tone of Leanne’s voice, Phoebe suspected she’d already heard.
Taking a moment to gather her resolve, she reached for the phone.
“Is that you, Phoebe?” Leanne asked urgently.
“I assume Clark’s contacted you?” Phoebe asked with resignation.
“He did. Oh, Phoebe, he’s beside himself.”
“He should be,” she snapped. “Mother, please don’t tell me you’re on his side.” It was difficult enough to withstand Clark’s pleas—and nearly impossible to ignore them when her mother’s voice joined his.
“Well, no… What he did was inexcusable.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You have every right to be upset,” her mother continued soothingly.
“Every right!” Phoebe thought fleetingly that Clark had used the same words. She wondered if Leanne knew the full story. “Mom, do you realize Clark was arrested for solicitation?”
“Yes, he told me. It’s no excuse but he said he just didn’t think being with a prostitute was really cheating.”
The fact that Clark had told her mother the truth, or part of it, anyway, shocked her. “But…he tried to hire a hooker!”
She heard sympathy in her mother’s voice. “Yes, I know.”
“This isn’t his first arrest, either.”
Her mother released a long sigh. “I can only imagine how upset you are.”
“No, you can’t!” she cried. “You can’t begin to imagine how upset and humiliated I am.”
“But, Phoebe, sweetheart, you don’t understand. There are extenuating circumstances. Clark was set up. This is a clear case of entrapment. He assured me it’ll never go to trial. In fact, Clark is considering a lawsuit against the Seattle Police Department for causing him this embarrassment.”
Phoebe closed her eyes. “Mother. Please listen to what you’re saying. It doesn’t matter if this was entrapment. It doesn’t matter that the girl he tried to hire was an undercover policewoman. It doesn’t matter if this goes to court or not. What does matter is that the man I was going to marry has this…this weakness. This need for other women. Not even for a relationship. Just for sex. How humiliating is that? I don’t know if he’s excited by the danger of picking someone up on the street or what. All I know is that I can’t and won’t marry a man who’s betrayed me like this.”
Her mother sighed again. “Phoebe, listen to me. You’re my daughter and I want you to be happy—but you should consider the circumstances.”
The conversation was becoming painful. “The bottom line is that Clark was willing to pay another woman for sex. Can I say it any plainer than that?”
“Oh, Phoebe, enough of that kind of talk. There’s no need to be crude.”
“How would you like me to pretty it up?” she cried. “Clark wanted to sleep with another woman? A woman he paid! Does that make it any less offensive to you?”
“Oh, dear. You are angry, aren’t you?”
“Angry? Angry?” Yes, she was angry, and at the moment outrage was good therapy. “I’m furious, Mom. I’m also hurt, disillusioned, humiliated, devastated and brokenhearted—and that only scratches the surface.”
Her mother didn’t immediately respond. “You should sleep on it before you do anything drastic,” she finally said.
“Sleep on what? The fact that the man I love is a cheat? Mom, do you actually believe this behavior will stop once we’re married?”
“Men—”
“Mom,” she wailed, cutting her off. “Don’t make excuses for Clark.”
“But, honey, he explained it to me. I know it’s bad but he really doesn’t feel that being with a…you know, call girl is cheating.”
“So that makes it all right? You can’t be serious!”
Her mother paused. “It’s just that Clark’s so well-connected and his mother and I—”
“His mother invited you to the country club and you met all the people you read about in the paper.” It was hard to even say the words, but it was the truth. Leanne enjoyed being affiliated with the Snowdens. They were a wealthy, well-known family.
“Don’t you remember how excited I was when you mentioned your new patient?” her mother said, sounding as brokenhearted now as Phoebe felt.
Phoebe did. Her mother’s favorite section of the paper had always been the society pages. When Clark damaged his knee in a skiing accident, she’d been his physical therapist. He’d asked her out after their very first session. Phoebe had declined; it was against company policy to date a patient.
Clark had courted her for weeks, sending her flowers, bringing her gifts, charming her. Despite his efforts, she resisted every attempt he made and refused to see him outside the clinic—until he’d finished his therapy. She should’ve learned her lesson then. Clark didn’t take rejection well. She’d broken off the engagement, and that had injured his pride. He wasn’t about to let her walk away. In his view of the world, he was in control; he did the leaving.
The minute her mother had heard Clark’s name, she’d been ecstatic. Early on, Leanne hinted that it would be fine to bend the rules just a bit for someone of his stature. As soon as they’d started dating, Leanne had told all her friends that her daughter was seeing Max and Marlene Snowden’s only son. Clark was part of his father’s prestigious legal firm and destined to become a full partner within the next five years. As far as Leanne Rylander was concerned, Phoebe had struck gold.
And Clark had swept her off her feet. Just like a romantic hero. He’d escorted her to parties and concerts. He’d lavished gifts on her, flattered her—and asked her to marry him.
The first sign of trouble came when a woman from his office stopped by the clinic and asked to speak to Phoebe privately. Kellie Kramer warned her that Clark had a nasty habit of paying for sex. Phoebe hadn’t believed it. Why should she? This woman obviously had a vendetta against Clark. Then Kellie had provided proof, showing her a copy of the warrant issued when Clark was arrested—the first time. She’d risked her job removing it from the file because she felt Phoebe had a right to know. Kellie claimed, as well, that there’d been plenty of other occasions. Clark just hadn’t been caught.
Stunned, Phoebe had confronted Clark, who seemed genuinely surprised that she was upset. According to her fiancé this was something practically all men did. Sex with a prostitute didn’t mean anything, he said.
Phoebe had found it difficult to listen to these inadequate excuses. She’d wanted to break off the engagement immediately. Clark had begged for a second chance. He’d called her at all hours of the day and night. He’d sent flowers and left pleading messages, until she’d weakened enough to agree. But the person who’d really convinced her to give him a second chance had been her own mother.
Leanne felt Phoebe needed to let Clark prove himself. Now that he understood such behavior was unacceptable, she’d argued, it would stop.
Clark had said all the right things. He’d vowed with tears in his eyes that nothing like this would ever happen again. He loved her. If Phoebe walked out on him, his life would be ruined.
He’d also told her that Kellie Kramer had been fired. She’d overstepped her bounds, and her insubordination wouldn’t be tolerated. Her motive had been to hurt Clark and his father. If Phoebe ended their engagement, Kellie would succeed. He’d begged for another chance and, with her mother’s encouragement ringing in her ears, Phoebe had let him convince her.
“Phoebe? Phoebe, are you still there?” her mother asked plaintively.
“I’m here, Mom.”
“Promise me you’ll sleep on this,” she said again. “Your entire future is at stake.”
“I already told you, Mother. There’s nothing to sleep on. Clark was with this other woman. He admitted it!”
“Yes, but she entrapped him.”
“That doesn’t matter. What does is that he broke his word.”
“I’m so afraid you’re going to do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”
You mean something you’re going to regret, Phoebe thought but didn’t say. She closed her eyes. “I…I can’t talk about this anymore. Good night, Mom.”
She had to persevere, not only against Clark but against her own mother, who’d rather see Phoebe sacrifice her happiness and integrity than end a socially advantageous—but emotionally corrupt—relationship.
She couldn’t get to that knitting class fast enough, she told herself wryly. She had to banish Clark Snowden from her life and that meant she needed all the fortification she could get.
CHAPTER
3
Bryan “Hutch” Hutchinson
Hutch sat in Dr. Dave Wellington’s office, waiting. His physician and former classmate wanted to speak to him and that couldn’t be good. He’d gone in for his annual physical, except that it wasn’t so annual, and following a series of tests, Dave’s nurse had ushered him into his office.
Hutch and Dave had been friends for years; they’d gone to high school and college together, both star football players. Before Hutch took over the family business, they’d golfed together every Wednesday afternoon. Golf. Like so much else, he’d given it up after his father’s sudden death. Hutch had assumed the position of CEO at Mount Rainier Chocolates, and his life hadn’t been the same since.
There was no longer time for golf in the middle of the day. And now, with the pending lawsuit…
Hutch didn’t want to think about that because whenever he did he grew irritated. He figured that was bad for his blood pressure, which the nurse had told him was elevated. Little wonder. So okay, he probably wasn’t as fit as he’d been in college. He didn’t have time to work out. The company’s demands made it impossible.
“Am I going to live?” Hutch joked as his friend walked in. Dave strode to the other side of his desk and pulled out the chair.
“That depends.”
The smiled died on Hutch’s lips. “You’re joking, right?”
Dave leaned toward him. “Your blood pressure is far too high.”
“Yeah, but…” He frowned. These days his stress level was through the roof, thanks largely to a frivolous lawsuit recently filed against the company. Some woman claimed that eating Mount Rainier Chocolates had made her fat. Oh, the lawsuit dressed it up with fancy words about “psychological dependence” and “exploitive advertising” but the plaintiff’s weight gain was the basis of her legal action. Talk about stupid! And yet it was just the kind of case he’d often read about, in which a jury awarded huge sums as punitive damages. The plaintiff shouldn’t have stood a chance of winning, but she had a crackerjack attorney who’d charged Mount Rainier Chocolates with malicious and willful misconduct and obviously hoped to create a precedent that would make his name. Every time Hutch thought about it, he became more agitated. Whatever happened to personal responsibility? To common sense? To accountability?
Hutch didn’t care what it cost; he wasn’t caving in, not to blackmail, and that was what he considered this. Okay, so his blood pressure was high; he’d deal with it. “Fine, I’ll take a pill.”
Dave shook his head. “It’s more than that. You’re working too hard, not exercising enough and I’m well aware that your diet is atrocious. You have all the classic symptoms of a man headed for a heart attack.”
“Hey, I’m only thirty-five.”
“Unmarried. And you know what the statistics say about the benefits of marriage—especially for men.”
The fact that he didn’t have a wife was also an issue with his mother. “I don’t have time to meet women,” he grumbled.
Dave talked right over that. “You also have a family history of heart disease.”
“Yes, but—”
“How old was your father when he died?”
Hutch exhaled. “Fifty-eight.” He’d never forget the day he lost his father. He’d been twenty-five, carefree, selfish and a little arrogant. Back in those days, he had time for golf and dating and friends. That had all changed, literally overnight.
He’d always accepted that eventually he’d step into his father’s shoes as head of the family enterprise. But he’d figured it would be years before Bryan Sr. retired and he hadn’t concerned himself with details about the business. Although Hutch had showed up for work every day, he hadn’t paid much attention. Certainly not enough to assume the company’s leadership on such short notice.
It had taken him two years to learn everything he needed to know about the business and the CEO’s role. He’d made mistakes and the company had floundered. Not only did he have responsibilities to their employees, his mother depended on the income. Mount Rainier Chocolates had lost market share, and those lessons had been hard, but Hutch had slowly found his way. Over the next few years, the company did marginally better and then, gradually, there’d been a turnaround. His confidence increased. Hutch had encouraged the development of new products, which he wanted to test. He’d switched distributors. He was involved in every aspect of the business, from research to hiring to advertising and everything in between. And because of all that, he worked twelve-and fourteen-hour days. This wasn’t a good time to be sued, in other words. Then again, was there ever?
“I’ll write you a prescription,” Dave said sternly, “but what you really need is a change in lifestyle.”
Hutch resisted the urge to groan aloud. He couldn’t add one more thing to his already crowded schedule. “Like what?”
“Diet.”
Now, that rankled—although he agreed that he skipped too many meals and ate too much junk food on the run. “I’m not overweight,” he argued.
“True, but you’re close to being anemic, your potassium is low and you’re putting your immune system at risk. That’s one of the reasons it’s taking your thumb so long to heal.”
More than a month ago Hutch had sliced open the flesh between his thumb and index finger while he was trying to cut a rubbery, two-day-old piece of pizza. The injury had required several stitches. To this day it continued to bother him. His improperly healed thumb was what had prompted him to make the appointment for his physical. It’d been a year and a half since he’d last seen Dave in a professional capacity. Or any capacity, really, except for a drink at Christmas.
“What about vitamins?” Hutch asked hopefully.
“I’m going to recommend one and put you on iron tablets, as well as blood pressure medication, but that isn’t enough. You need to start taking better care of yourself.” The unspoken words hung in the air between them. Otherwise Hutch would end up like his father—prematurely dead of a heart attack.
And this time, there wouldn’t be anyone to take over the business.
“Okay, I’ll sign up for a gym.”
Dave shrugged as if this wasn’t a big enough concession. “You’ve got to do more than sign up. You’ve got to work out at least three times a week.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll do it.”
“You might also join a class or two.”
There was more? “What kind of class?”
Dave leaned back, grinning as he studied Hutch. “Don’t laugh,” he said.
“Why should I laugh?”
“Because I’m going to suggest you take up knitting.”
Hutch shook his head. “This is a joke, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not. I had a male patient come in to my office with sky-high blood pressure. He decided to start knitting—I think his wife talked him into it. I have to tell you I was shocked at the difference in him. I’m not kidding. I saw the evidence myself.”
What a ridiculous idea. “Like I have time for… crafts?”
“It’s only a suggestion, but it’ll help your thumb, too.”
Hutch jerked his thumb back and forth and felt it tighten. It was especially stiff in the morning. But knitting? Him? The gym he could handle, but knitting? If any of his friends or employees heard about that, he’d be a laughingstock.
“How about you?” Hutch asked, suddenly suspicious. “Do you knit?”
“Yeah.” Dave grinned again. “My wife taught me.”
“Get outta here!”
“It works, Hutch. Give it a try.” Dave reached for his pad, wrote out the prescriptions and handed it to him.
Hutch stared down at the small sheet of paper. He never would’ve believed he’d be on blood pressure medication in his thirties. Dave was right; this didn’t bode well.
“I want to see you again in two months.”
Hutch nodded. He stood and pulled a candy bar from his inside pocket. “I brought you something.”
Dave accepted it and looked up expectantly.
“We’re about to launch this nationwide. It’s called the Mount Saint Helens bar.”
Dave turned it over and read the description. “Coconut covered with dark chocolate and a liquid chocolate center. An explosion of flavor.”
“That’s what I’ve been working on for the last eighteen months. We finally have a national distributor willing to give us a shot.” His friend couldn’t appreciate how difficult it was to get into the bigger markets when he was up against the huge candy companies. Hutch believed in this new product and was prepared to gamble on the future of the business. So far, everything seemed positive—if he didn’t end up forking out millions over a frivolous lawsuit.
Dave examined the packaging and Hutch could tell he was impressed. “Sugar’s not too high,” he murmured, “and 70 percent cocoa is good.”
“Practically health food,” Hutch said with a smile. He began to turn away.
Dave stopped him. “Two months, Hutch. Don’t disappoint me.”
“I won’t.” He walked out of the office and galloped down four flights of stairs instead of taking the elevator. He couldn’t disagree with Dave about getting more exercise. But there just weren’t enough hours in the day. He delegated whatever he could but so much still demanded his personal attention.
By the time he returned to his office, Dave was fifteen minutes behind schedule. Gail Wendell, his personal assistant, relaxed her anxious face the moment he walked in the door. She stood as if expecting him to need something right away.
“Mr. Williams is waiting in your office,” she told him.
Hutch glanced at his watch. It was past one and he’d skipped breakfast and was feeling light-headed. Hardly surprising, considering all the blood Dave had taken earlier. “Can you order me lunch?”
“Teriyaki chicken?” Gail asked.
It was one of his favorites. High sodium, though. “Could you get me a salad with a side of cottage cheese?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I thought you didn’t like cottage cheese.”
“I don’t, but it’s supposed to be good for you. Doc said I need a more balanced diet.”
“Okay, cottage cheese it is. Anything else?”
Hutch nodded. “Find a gym close to my place and sign me up.”
His assistant made a note on her pad.
“And…” He hesitated, feeling a bit embarrassed. “I need a knitting class.”
He watched, but Gail didn’t bat an eye.
“See if you can find an evening class somewhere in the downtown Seattle area.” His condo was in a central location and he didn’t want to travel far for this craziness. Actually, he’d be astonished if Gail found such a class, which would be fine by him. He could tell Dave he’d tried and leave it at that.
“I’ll look into it right away.”
Dave reached inside his pocket for the prescription. “Would you please have this filled for me, too?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Gail, you’re the greatest.”
She grinned. “Your father used to say the same thing.”
She was a valuable asset to the company, and Hutch was grateful she’d stayed on through this lengthy transition period. He knew, however, that it wouldn’t be long before she retired. He hadn’t worked out what he’d do then. Thankfully, it wasn’t a question he needed to answer that minute.
The remainder of his day was routine, with meetings stacked on meetings, and it was nearly seven o’clock when he left the office. Instead of driving to his condo, he stopped at his mother’s house in Bellevue. She’d tried to call him earlier in the afternoon but he’d been tied up in a meeting with the ad agency.
Gloria Hutchinson’s face brightened the instant Hutch walked in the door. “I’m so glad you came by.”
He made an effort to visit and update her on what was happening at the office at least once a week.
“Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“No, but I had a late lunch.”
“It doesn’t matter. You should eat.” Hutch enjoyed the way she fussed over him and knew his mother needed to be needed. She’d adjusted to widowhood with difficulty. Fortunately his sister, Jessie, spent a lot of time with her, for which Hutch was grateful. The three of them had always been close and still were.
“I called you this afternoon.”
“I got the message,” he said as he followed her into the kitchen.
Opening the refrigerator, his mother took out eggs and cheese and set them on the kitchen counter. “I called to see how your physical went.”
“It was fine.” No reason to worry her.
“How’s your cholesterol?”
“Excellent.” That was true, anyway.
“Oh, good.” The rest of his health was far from excellent, but he didn’t plan to mention that.
“You’re too thin.”
Hutch didn’t think so but he didn’t want to argue. “Yeah, I could put on a few pounds,” he said mildly.
She added grated cheese to the eggs and whipped them together. Melting a pat of butter in the pan, she poured in the eggs and cheese and stirred.
Without asking, Hutch slid two slices of bread—whole wheat, he told himself righteously—in the toaster.
“I can’t tell you the number of nights I made your father eggs for dinner,” his mother went on to say. “The two of you are so much alike.” As if she suddenly realized what she’d said, Gloria paused. “Do take care of yourself, Hutch. You will, won’t you?” She turned to cast him a pleading look.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” he said in a cheerful voice that took a bit of effort. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”
Her eyes grew sad. “I thought your father was, too.”
“I got a gym membership today.”
“That’s wonderful.” She spooned the scrambled eggs onto a plate and set it on the breakfast bar.
Hutch pulled up a stool. “I start an exercise program first thing in the morning.” He’d set his alarm an hour earlier and launch into his three-times-a-week regimen. The prospect of losing an hour’s sleep left him feeling vaguely depressed. But that was nothing compared to how he felt about the knitting class….
The toast popped up; his mother buttered it and brought it to him. Hutch stood to get some of his favorite homemade raspberry jelly from the refrigerator.
“What you really need is a wife.”
This was a frequent topic of conversation initiated by his mother. The truth was, Hutch would’ve liked nothing better, but meeting the right woman wasn’t easy. Not with his busy schedule. He’d tried the Internet but that hadn’t worked out. It was too complicated, too time-consuming. Neither had the dating service he’d contacted. Whenever he’d met a woman, who, according to the professional matchmakers, was perfect for him, the spark just wasn’t there. It’d happened repeatedly until he’d finally given up.
“Do you have a candidate in mind?” he asked.
From her returning smile, he knew she did.
“It’s a school friend of Jessie’s.”
“Okay.” His sister had impeccable taste—in everything. “Divorced?”
His mother nodded.
“Kids?”
“A boy and girl and they’re both darling.”
“So you’ve met her?”
His mother grinned sheepishly. “Yes, and I think she’s delightful. Would you like her phone number?”
“Sure.” He had no idea when he’d be able to meet this “delightful” woman, but that was a minor detail. The least he could do was try.
“Don’t tell the whole world, but I’m taking a knitting class.” He offered this tidbit because he thought it would please his mother—and to shift the conversation away from his marital status.
Her eyes widened. “You?”
“It’s supposed to help me relax and Dave said it might be good therapy for my thumb.”
“Really.”
“Yeah. It’s on Wednesday nights. First class is next week.”
She blinked. “You aren’t pulling my leg, are you?”
“Would I do that?”
She laughed, then placed her hands on both sides of his face and affectionately kissed his cheek. “I never guessed that my son would become a knitter.” She laughed again. “Not me, not my daughter, but my son.”
His own laughter was a little forced. However, he’d committed himself now. And how hard could knitting be, anyway?
CHAPTER
4
Alix Turner
Friday afternoon Alix Turner hung up her baker’s apron in the kitchen of the French Café. Her shift had started at five that morning and now, at two-thirty, she was finished. Jordan, her husband, was a youth pastor. He wouldn’t be done at the church until close to six, which gave her time to take care of a few personal matters.
Standing in the alley behind the café, Alix lit her cigarette and took a long drag. She was down to five a day now, and was gradually working herself up to quitting completely. All five were smoked during breaks at work. Nights were the hardest, but she knew Jordan wouldn’t appreciate her lighting up at home. Jordan didn’t want her smoking at all. He was worried about the effects of cigarettes on her health, and he was right to be concerned. She worried about it, too. But all the dire warnings hadn’t been enough to successfully break her addiction to nicotine. She was careful not to smoke in front of the kids in Jordan’s youth group, since it wouldn’t be appropriate for the minister’s wife to provide such a bad example.
Jordan was well aware that he wasn’t getting any angel when he married her. But her past wasn’t a problem between them, and she wanted to be sure the smoking wasn’t, either—or didn’t become one. She’d quit before, lots of times, and she could do it again.
Alix blamed the wedding for the fact that she was smoking now. Between her friend Jacqueline and Jordan’s mother, the whole affair had turned into a circus. In the midst of all that pressure, Alix had to find something to settle her nerves. She’d bought a pack of cigarettes on impulse and that was that.
In the end, Alix and Jordan had a lovely wedding at Star Lake, on Grandma Turner’s property. However, by then the habit of smoking had insinuated itself into her life and now, a year later, she was struggling to break it.
Although Alix had never told her husband or her friends about the cigarettes, they all knew. She couldn’t hide the smell on her clothes, and the smoke clung to her hair, her hands. No one said anything. Jordan never chastised her or demanded she stop, but he wished she would, especially now that they were talking about starting a family.
Alix wanted to quit. It was important to give it up before she got pregnant. Jordan was due for a new job title and pay increase, and they’d decided it was the right time to become parents.
While she longed for a baby, her fears nearly overwhelmed her. She had so many concerns. So many doubts. It wasn’t as if Alix had grown up with a good model of what a family ought to be. Her own mother was incarcerated at the women’s prison in Purdy. This wasn’t her first stint in jail, either.
The mere thought of having a child thrilled her and terrified her in equal parts. Alix had no idea what kind of mother she’d be. Her own parents had been drunk most of the time. And when they drank, they fought.
As a child, Alix had often hidden in a closet where she lived with an imaginary family. In her make-believe world, she had a mother and father who loved each other and cherished her. She’d held on to that dream for years, escaping to a fictional world because the real one had become increasingly violent.
She was still in grade school when the state removed both Alix and her older brother from the family home. Between then and age sixteen, she’d drifted from one foster home to the next. Some weren’t so bad, but a few were dreadful. The only constant had been her brother. He’d died of a drug overdose while she was in her teens.
As much as possible, she tried to put those terrible years behind her.
Despite all her misgivings, the prospect of having Jordan’s baby excited her. She decided she’d knit a special blanket for their yet-to-be conceived child. That would show Jordan she was serious about quitting, too.
As she crossed the street to A Good Yarn, Alix noticed a sign in the window for a new knitting class. Knit to Quit. Alix had taken two of Lydia’s classes previously and enjoyed them both. More than that, she considered Lydia one of her dearest friends. Other than Jordan and her mentor, Jacqueline Donovan, Lydia was the person she confided in.
“Alix.” Lydia’s face lit up the instant Alix stepped inside. Whiskers, who’d been asleep in the window, extended his front paws and stretched his sleek back as he yawned, showing his pink gums and needle-sharp teeth.
“Hey, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Alix walked over and gently scratched his ears. She loved Whiskers.
Lydia immediately hugged her. For a long time Alix hadn’t been comfortable with other people touching her. It still made her a little uneasy. Lydia was different, though, and she briefly hugged her back.
“I hope you didn’t bring us any croissants,” Margaret said, joining them at the front of the store. “I’m watching my weight and those croissants are my weakness. Especially the almond ones.”
“Not to fear. We sold out.”
“Good.” Margaret sighed with relief. “What makes them so yummy, anyway?”
Alix answered her with a single word. “Butter.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “I should’ve known.”
“Actually I came for yarn,” Alix said. She was automatically drawn toward the DK-weight yarn in soft pastel colors. Lydia had displayed them in bins close to the cash register.
“Do you have a project in mind?” Lydia asked, following Alix’s gaze.
Alix felt funny telling others about the baby. But this was Lydia, so she figured that made it okay. “It’s kind of a secret,” she began, “but Jordan and I are talking seriously about getting pregnant and I thought I should knit something for the baby.”
Margaret looked at Lydia. “I don’t suppose she happened to see the sign in the window.”
Lydia’s face flooded with irritation. “Margaret!”
“Well, Alix is smoking, isn’t she? All the evidence says it’s not good for a pregnant woman to smoke.”
“I know that,” Alix said, more defensively than she’d intended. “You can talk directly to me, Margaret. I’m standing right here. Besides, I’m not pregnant yet—and I only smoke five cigarettes a day.”
“That’s five too many,” Margaret said emphatically.
Margaret made overcoming an addiction sound simple. “Quitting isn’t easy,” Alix said. “It’s not just a matter of willpower, you know.”
“I’ve never smoked,” Lydia returned in that calming way of hers. “But I’ve heard that cigarettes are as addictive as heroin. We’d love to have you in the class, Alix, if you’d care to join.”
The thought tempted her; still, she hesitated. “When is it?”
Lydia told her.
Alix decided to consider it. “What’s the project?”
Lydia’s classes were always interesting, not only the projects but the people who signed up. It was through that first knitting class that she’d met Jacqueline, who’d become both mentor and friend.
“I was thinking of having everyone work on a sampler scarf with a variety of patterns,” Lydia explained. “From what I can assess so far, everyone’s at a different skill level. The scarf shouldn’t be too difficult for a beginner but it’ll offer a bit of a challenge for more experienced knitters, too. I think it’s going to be a lot of fun.”
A sampler scarf appealed to her. “How many people have signed up?”
“Just two so far, so there’s plenty of room.”
“What’s everyone quitting? Anyone else giving up smoking?”
Lydia shrugged. “Not that they said. And guess what? A man joined the class. His personal assistant found my ad in the phone directory.”
“A man?” That was intriguing. Apparently plenty of men were knitters, although they didn’t usually take classes. But then what did she know? She’d never actually met any and they had to learn somehow. So, why not a class?
“According to his assistant, he doesn’t currently knit.”
“What’s he quitting?”
Lydia looked uncertain. “She didn’t say, and I didn’t speak to him personally.”
“The lady who stopped in on Wednesday seemed almost distraught,” Margaret inserted. “She said something about a man, so I assume she’s either just out of a relationship or trying to end one.”
The group would certainly be varied, which made for a stimulating mix of ideas and personalities. “You know, it might not be a bad idea for me to do this. I’m going to need a scarf for this winter and I can work on the baby blanket when I’m finished.”
Lydia smiled. “It would be wonderful to have you in one of my classes again.”
“It sure can’t hurt, especially if you’re sincere about giving up smoking,” Margaret put in.
Rather than take offense at Margaret’s attitude, Alix let her remark pass. Lydia’s sister didn’t have the ease with people or the engaging manner Lydia did, but she was a kindhearted person. A little critical, true—not that she was wrong in this instance. No matter what it took, Alix was quitting cigarettes once and for all.
Alix lingered a while longer and purchased what she’d need for the class, then headed home to their cramped apartment. It was near the church, on a street off Blossom. They’d have to make other living arrangements before the baby arrived, since the apartment was barely big enough for two.
She made a Cobb salad for dinner, with grilled chicken strips, blue cheese, hard-boiled eggs and sliced pickled beets, one of her favorite vegetables. Jordan liked turkey bacon on his, but she’d added that to the grocery list because they were out of it. Just as she was putting the finishing touches on their dinner, Jordan walked in.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said, kissing her cheek. “How’d your day go?”
“Good.”
“Mine, too,” he told her. He sat down at their dining table. “Have you got a moment to chat?” he asked.
A formal request like that wasn’t typical, so this must be important. “Of course,” she said.
Jordan studied her as Alix left what she referred to as her alcove kitchen and sat down at the small table with the two chairs.
“Something wrong?” she inquired, feeling slightly nervous.
“Not really… It’s just that I got a call from my dad this afternoon. I must’ve spent an hour on the phone with him.”
Jordan and his father kept in close contact and spoke often, so the call in itself wasn’t unusual. “And?” she prodded.
“The family’s been trying to sell Grandma Turner’s house on the lake.”
That wasn’t new. After the funeral, the house had gone up for sale. The housing market was weak, and even lakefront properties weren’t selling. Grandma’s house was older, too. Alix felt the family was making a big mistake; she feared that in years to come they’d regret ever letting go of that wonderful home where Grandma Turner had spent her entire married life.
Alix loved the old house with its expansive front yard and wide flower beds. Grandma Turner had worked in her yard until the day before she died. She and Alix had developed a special friendship. Much of their time together was spent gardening, and the smell, the feel, of sun-warmed earth was something Alix would always associate with Sarah Turner. The older woman was everything she hoped to be one day: generous, gracious, accepting and loving.
Not only had Jordan’s grandmother welcomed her into their family, but when Alix had been uncertain about going through with the wedding, Sarah had taken her in and sheltered her.
“Did the house sell?” Alix asked.
“Not yet.”
Her immediate reaction was a feeling of relief. The price had been lowered twice, but still no takers. What would’ve sold quickly as little as a year ago lingered on the market now.
“Dad doesn’t think it’s a good idea to leave the house vacant for so long.”
Alix agreed, but she was worried about renting it out. “Is he going to put it on the rental market?” she asked warily.
“Not exactly,” Jordan told her. “Dad suggested you and I move there until a buyer’s found.”
Alix nearly squealed with delight. Not once had the thought occurred to her and yet it was the perfect solution. “Jordan, I’d love that!” Their apartment was so tiny they had virtually no storage space. Wedding gifts had to be kept at his parents’ home because there was simply nowhere to put them.
No similar enthusiasm showed in her husband’s eyes. “We need to think this through carefully, Alix. It sounds like a good idea now. I know you love the house, but there are complications.”
Alix was aware of those, but she didn’t care. Any inconvenience would be minimal compared to the benefits. “Well, sure, there are bound to be some changes,” she said. “For one thing, we’ll have to commute to the city every morning.”
“It’s more than that.” Jordan shook his head. “There’s no telling how soon it’ll be before someone makes an offer and the deal closes. Then we’d have to pack up and move out.”
“That’s okay,” Alix said eagerly. They didn’t have much furniture so it wouldn’t take long to move again. No matter how many—or how few—months they had in the house by the lake, it would be worth the inconvenience.
Jordan didn’t seem to hear her. “In addition to that, there’s no guarantee we’d find another apartment as reasonable as this one.”
“Can’t we trust the Lord to look after the details?” she asked. “Doesn’t it feel as if this is meant to be?”
“Alix, do you know how much work is involved in moving?”
He had to be joking! She’d moved almost every six months her entire life. Her parents could never manage to pay the rent and still afford booze. Eviction never seemed to faze them; there were always other houses, other neighborhoods.
Later, as a foster child, Alix had never lasted long with any family. By sixteen she was essentially on her own.
“Jordan,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “I do know all the work involved in moving.”
He frowned. “I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”
“But I am! I think it’s a great opportunity.”
He squeezed her fingers. “I know you loved Grandma Turner and she loved you, but I didn’t believe you’d actually be willing to move into her house. I mean, because of the distance and the fact that we’d have no guarantees…”
“What…what about rent?” Their budget was tight because they’d been saving every extra penny for a down payment on a house. Unfortunately, it couldn’t be Sarah Turner’s house with its extensive property. She’d seen the asking price and it was way beyond what they’d be able to afford.
Jordan shrugged. “The one advantage is that we’d be living rent-free.”
Alix threw her arms in the air. “That’s so generous! It’s perfect, Jordan! Just perfect. We’ll be able to save for our own house and when you get your raise, we can put that money aside, too.” Another advantage was Sarah’s furniture; much of it was still there. Whatever the family wanted had already been taken. The rest was left for whoever purchased the house.
“But you have to remember that utilities will be higher, and then there’s the cost of the commute.” He made these sound like monumental issues.
“I’ll take the bus,” Alix said happily. The house was on a bus route and she could always read or knit while traveling into the city, even if she had to leave extra-early in the morning. The afternoons wouldn’t be so bad. She actually looked forward to riding the bus.
“I’ll take public transportation, too, but there are certain days I’ll need the car and with the price of gas—”
“Weren’t you the one who just said we should leave the details to God?” she challenged.
“No, you did.”
Alix giggled. “Then I heard it from you first.”
“I never thought you’d go for this,” he said in a wondering tone.
“Jordan, we were married at the lake house. Aren’t you the romantic one in the family?”
“Yes, well…”
“There’s another benefit you’re forgetting,” she whispered seductively.
“What’s that?”
“We’ve been talking about me getting pregnant, right?”
“Right…when you’re ready.”
That was his subtle reminder that she had to quit smoking first.
“I should be soon. And Jordan, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we conceived our baby in a home that’s been in your family for generations?”
Jordan’s gaze held hers. “That does sound like a wonderful idea….”
Alix grinned. “I knew you’d think so.”
CHAPTER
5
Anne Marie Roche
Anne Marie and Ellen Roche hauled their suitcases up the stairs to the small apartment above Blossom Street Books. The flight from Paris had landed them back in Seattle midafternoon but it felt like the middle of the night to Anne Marie.
Nine-year-old Ellen had slept for most of the flight, but not Anne Marie. Instead, she’d cradled her daughter with one arm and reveled in each and every precious memory of their two-week vacation.
Even after nearly eight months it seemed unbelievable that she was now legally Ellen’s mother. A few words in front of a judge had made it so. In truth, the judge’s proclamation had been a mere formality. Anne Marie had become Ellen’s mother in her mind, in her heart, long before anything was official.
Almost a year and a half earlier, on Valentine’s Day, Anne Marie, together with three other widows, had made a list of twenty wishes. One of her wishes was to travel to Paris with someone she loved. That someone had turned out to be Ellen. A number of her wishes had come to pass, and some, like the Paris trip, had taken place in unexpected ways.
“Can we get Baxter now?” Ellen asked, racing out of her small bedroom, where she’d deposited her suitcase.
“In a little while.”
Anne Marie missed her Yorkie, too. Her friend Elise Beaumont—one of the group of Valentine widows—had looked after Baxter these past two weeks. Anne Marie had predicted that by the time they got back, Elise would recognize the benefits of canine companionship.
“I want to teach Baxter French,” Ellen said.
The girl had picked up phrases with surprising ease and was determined not to forget a single word.
“J’aime la France,” Ellen said.
“Moi, aussi.” Anne Marie remembered that much French, despite her exhaustion.
“S’il vous plaît, donne moi quelques bon-bons?” Ellen asked next.
“No, you can’t have any candy!”
“Ah, Mom…”
Anne Marie returned to her unpacking. “Let me put in a load of wash and then we’ll go get Baxter.”
Ellen went back to her bedroom and finished unpacking her own suitcase. Then she stored it beneath her bed, which was littered with souvenirs she’d purchased in Paris for herself and special friends.
Anne Marie was touched by the girl’s generosity. Ellen had spent all the money she’d saved from her allowance on trinkets for her school friends as well as Melissa, Anne Marie’s stepdaughter, and her baby boy.
After dumping a load of clothes in the washer and setting the dial, Anne Marie called Elise and asked if it would be convenient to collect Baxter. She was told they could come anytime. While she was on the phone she decided to check her voice mail. With pen and pad in hand, she prepared to listen to two weeks’ worth of messages. Among them, as she expected, were a number of calls from real estate agents.
The time had come to search for a home. The apartment above the bookstore had been fine when it was just her, but she had a daughter to consider now. Anne Marie had started looking and hoped to find a place this summer. With Ellen’s circumstances so changed, she’d delayed the move, wanting the child to feel secure in her new life.
There were four or five calls regarding houses in the neighborhood Anne Marie had chosen. She wanted Ellen to be able to attend the same school. Unfortunately, the homes in that neighborhood were older, and many were badly in need of updating and repairs. Anne Marie would have to pay for the work, and that added extensively to the cost.
To her surprise there were a number of hang-ups, as well. She generally didn’t get more than one or two a month, if that. After the third, she began counting and tallied seven. Someone seemed to be trying hard to get hold of her, although she had no idea who it might be.
Well, no point in worrying about it. Anyone this persistent was bound to try again. However, the fact that this person hadn’t left a message was a bit disconcerting.
“Is anything wrong?” Ellen murmured as she entered the kitchen.
“No, of course not. Why do you ask?”
“You’re frowning,” Ellen said, studying her, sensitive as always to her moods.
It meant that Anne Marie had to be careful not to overdramatize her emotions. “Everything’s fine. Now let’s go pick up Baxter,” she said, grabbing Ellen about the waist and tickling her.
The girl squealed delightedly.
Reaching for her purse, Anne Marie followed Ellen, who bounced down the stairs ahead of her.
Teresa, her full-time employee, looked up when Ellen burst into the bookstore. “I didn’t expect you guys to go out so soon,” she commented. She stood behind the cash register, opening the latest order from Ingram’s, a distributor. Cartons of books were stacked behind her, a good indication that business hadn’t slacked off while Anne Marie was away.
“We’re going to get Baxter,” Anne Marie explained. “We probably won’t be long.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Exhausted,” Anne Marie told her.
“Ellen seems raring to go.”
That wasn’t unusual. But Anne Marie suspected jet lag would catch up with her soon.
“Can we say hello to Susannah?” Ellen asked.
“Of course, but remember if she’s with a customer we’ll have to wait.”
“Okay.” Ellen held the shop door open for her.
Susannah had two customers, but when she saw Anne Marie and Ellen, she smiled and waved.
“Lydia and Margaret don’t look busy,” Ellen said as she peered into the front window of A Good Yarn. Her small hands framed her face and she stared at the sleeping cat. “Whiskers misses Baxter, too, don’t you, Whiskers?” she asked. “Can we go in, Mom?”
“We can only visit for a few minutes,” Anne Marie cautioned. “Elise is waiting and so is Baxter.”
“Okay.”
As soon as they walked in, Lydia leaped to her feet. “Anne Marie! Ellen! Welcome home. How was Paris?”
Anne Marie sighed luxuriously. “Wonderful! Everything I’ve ever imagined and more.”
Lydia clasped her hands together and smiled warmly. “I knew it would be.”
“How did the neighborhood survive without us?” Anne Marie teased.
“It was a lot quieter,” Margaret called from the back of the shop where she sat crocheting. Then she broke into a huge grin. “And a lot less interesting, too.”
“I think Whiskers missed Baxter,” Lydia said.
“We’re going to get him right now,” Ellen told her. “I missed Baxter more than anyone.”
“I’d miss Whiskers, too.” Lydia turned to Anne Marie, her eyes shining. “Listen, do you have a moment?” she asked.
“Sure,” Anne Marie said. “What’s up?”
Lydia’s joy was contagious. “Brad and I are going to adopt. We’ve requested an infant.”
Anne Marie clapped her hands excitedly. “That’s incredible news.”
“I heard this morning that Brad and I have been approved by the state.”
“Did you speak with Evelyn Boyle?” She’d been Ellen’s social worker and Anne Marie had come to treasure the other woman, who’d been so instrumental in facilitating the adoption. She’d given Lydia Evelyn’s phone number weeks ago and had been wondering if anything had come of it.
Lydia nodded. “She’s been so helpful. We really appreciate the referral.”
“Any word on how long it’ll be before you can adopt a baby?”
“Not yet. Brad and I are prepared to wait, though.”
“Well, I hope it happens soon.”
“Me, too.” Lydia smiled happily. “We’re celebrating tonight. Brad’s taking Cody and me out to dinner.”
“Can we come, too?” Ellen asked.
“Ellen! No, we can’t,” Anne Marie chastened. “It’s not polite to invite yourself along.”
“I know, but I have a gift for Cody from Paris and I want to give it to him.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Anne Marie reminded her and then, despite her best efforts, yawned. “I don’t think anyone’s mentioned jet lag to Ellen yet. I expect it’ll hit her in a couple of hours.” As for Anne Marie, her feet were dragging. Once they’d returned with Baxter, she was planning on taking a nap. Ellen would be tired by then, too—she hoped.
“I see you’re starting a new class this week.” The sign in the window had caught her notice and she found herself intrigued by the concept. Not that there was anything she needed to quit. She was satisfied with her life at the moment—more satisfied than she’d been since the early days of her marriage.
“Are you interested?” Lydia told her about the project she’d chosen. Anne Marie liked the sound of it, but a night class would be too difficult.
Maybe she could get the pattern from Lydia. She’d bought some beautiful yarn in Paris and a scarf would be the perfect thing to knit.
“Do you want to join the class?” Lydia asked. “Even if you’re not trying to give up any bad habits. Alix already signed up because she wants to quit smoking—again.”
“I’d love to—but I can’t leave Ellen by herself. I want to make the scarf, though.”
“I’ll be happy to help with the pattern if you run into any problems.”
“Thanks, Lydia, I’ll keep that in mind.”
As Anne Marie and Ellen left the shop, the little girl pointed across the street to the French Café. “Alix!” she cried. “I want to say hello to Alix.”
“Ellen, we’ll have to do that later. Besides, Alix is probably off work by now.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot….”
“Are you ready for Baxter?”
“Yeah!”
Ellen ran ahead of her to where Anne Marie kept her car in the alley behind the bookstore. She wondered if she’d have any problems after leaving it for over two weeks unused, but the engine fired immediately to life. Anne Marie backed carefully out of her parking space and onto Blossom Street.
As they arrived at Elise’s small condominium just north of downtown, Anne Marie called to let her know they’d be up in a minute. Elise and Baxter were waiting, and the instant Baxter caught sight of them he nearly did flips of joy. He barked and ran around, then leaped into Ellen’s arms.
Ellen hugged him close as Baxter spread happy kisses across her face and yelped excitedly all over again.
“I think he missed us,” Anne Marie laughed.
“Well, he certainly didn’t lack for attention here,” Elise said, smiling as she spoke. “I enjoyed his companionship so much I’ve decided to get a dog of my own.”
Anne Marie had hoped this would happen. Elise had gone through a painful grieving period after her husband’s death. It had been different, in some ways, from Anne Marie’s experience, since Elise’s husband—Maverick by name and maverick by nature, as he used to describe himself—had died of cancer. He’d lingered for several years, and Elise had said she was grateful for each extra day. Anne Marie’s husband, Robert, however, had died suddenly, unexpectedly, of a massive heart attack.
“Do you want a Yorkie like Baxter?” Ellen asked.
“I’m not sure just yet,” Elise said in a pensive tone. “I’ll go down to the Humane Society and see what dogs they have available. It seems to me that Maverick would want me to adopt a rescue dog. He always believed in second chances….”
Her gaze fell lovingly on the portrait of her late husband. He wore his cowboy hat and smiled directly into the camera. There was an irrepressible quality about him, Anne Marie thought. As though taking risks was all part of life—taking risks and accepting the consequences with a grin and a wink.
Anne Marie and Ellen left soon after. They’d brought Elise a gift of thanks for looking after the dog—a lovely blue silk scarf with a fleur-de-lis pattern. Ellen cradled Baxter in her arms, murmuring to him as they walked to the car. When they clambered into the backseat, Baxter curled up on Ellen’s lap and promptly went to sleep.
By the time Anne Marie pulled in behind Blossom Street Books, both Ellen and Baxter were napping soundly. It seemed a shame to wake Ellen, who looked up at her with drooping eyes.
“We’re home?” the little girl asked.
Anne Marie nodded. “Let’s go upstairs and tuck you into bed, all right?”
“Okay.”
Anne Marie helped her climb the stairs as the dog scrambled up ahead of them. Ellen fell asleep again within minutes. Anne Marie wanted to do a few chores before she took a nap herself. After transferring the wash to the dryer, she noticed the light blinking on her phone. Checking voice mail again, she discovered another hang-up.
Curious now, Anne Marie hurried down to the bookstore. Teresa glanced up from some new greeting cards she was arranging in the rack.
“Oh, Anne Marie, hi. I didn’t expect to see you for the rest of the day.”
“How are things?” she asked, looking around. She saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“Great. The summer releases are so good this year, I can hardly keep the new hardcovers on the shelves.”
This was welcome news.
“Anything…unusual happen while I was away?” Anne Marie wasn’t sure how to phrase the question.
Teresa bit her lip as if considering how to respond. “Not really… What makes you ask?”
“There were a number of hang-ups on my personal phone. I’ve never had that before. I just wondered if it was something to do with the bookstore.”
Teresa shrugged. “I’m sorry. I have no idea.”
“Okay, I was just curious. It’s a bit odd, that’s all.” Anne Marie collected her mail and turned away.
“Wait a minute,” Teresa said, stopping her.
Anne Marie turned back. “Yes?”
“There was someone here earlier in the week. A man. He asked to speak to you regarding a private matter.”
A private matter? “Did he leave his name or number?”
“No. I asked, and he said he’d contact you later.”
Again, this was all rather odd. “Did he say anything else?”
Teresa’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No, not that I can recall.”
“What did he look like?”
A smile wavered on her lips. “Actually, he was pretty hot.”
Anne Marie grinned. “Define hot.”
“Tall—about six-one, maybe six-two. In good shape. He’s nice-looking. Very nice-looking.”
“Dark hair? Or blond?”
“Dark. And brown eyes. He seemed anxious to talk to you. Do you know who it might be?”
Anne Marie shook her head.
“What about your hang-ups? That might’ve been him. Is there a number on caller ID?”
Anne Marie exhaled loudly. “It came up No Data.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to wait and see if he comes by again.”
That was her thought, too. Well, a tall, dark and handsome stranger apparently wanted to meet her. Things could be worse.
CHAPTER
6
Honey, knitting is so much more than just plain obsessive compulsive behavior…it’s the healthiest addiction I know!
—Antje Gillingham,
owner of The Knitting Nest in Maryville, TN
Lydia Goetz
It’s my habit to check each room before retiring for the night. Brad was already in bed, reading Michael Connelly’s latest suspense novel. As I walked through the house, I checked the locks and turned off the lights in the kitchen. Then I looked in on Cody, who was fast asleep.
Chase, my stepson’s golden retriever, slept on the braided rug next to Cody’s bed. When I opened the bedroom door a crack, Chase—ever vigilant—raised his head. Seeing me, he lowered his head again.
All was well in the house and in my world. I had a new feeling of anticipation, a sense of excitement that stayed with me. It had begun the day I received a call from Evelyn Boyle regarding our approval as adoption candidates.
Just as I entered our bedroom, the phone rang.
“Good grief, who’d be calling after ten o’clock?” Brad asked as he set his book aside.
“I’ll get it.” I reached for the telephone on my bedstand, half expecting this had to do with my mother. “Hello,” I said tentatively.
“Oh, Lydia, it’s Evelyn Boyle. I apologize for contacting you this late.”
“Evelyn?” My gaze automatically sought out Brad’s. It didn’t seem possible that they’d have an infant for us so soon. Nevertheless my heart raced. “What can I do for you?”
“Listen, I wouldn’t ask if I had any alternative.”
“Ask what?”
“I have a foster child—a girl. It’s an emergency case and I need a home for Casey for two nights.”
This was the very thing Margaret had said would happen, the very thing she’d warned me about. “Two nights,” I repeated, the hesitation in my voice impossible to disguise.
“Casey is attending summer school and unless she finishes, she won’t be able to go on to the eighth grade in September. Sending her back to seventh grade would be a disaster. She’s only twelve and this is a difficult year for her.”
“I thought summer school just started.” A friend of Cody’s had gotten behind in math and was now attending a summer program that had recently begun and would go through the month of July.
“Well, yes, but if Casey can spend tonight and possibly tomorrow night with you, that’ll give me the necessary time to find her another long-term foster home.”
“I see.” I bit my lip, uncertain what to say.
“Two nights, Lydia. Just two nights. It would make a world of difference to Casey. She really can’t miss a single class.”
I looked at Brad. “I’ll need to discuss this with my husband.”
“Of course.”
“Can I call you right back?”
“Ah…I could stay on the line.”
“You’re sure this is only for a couple of nights?”
“Positive.”
“Okay, I’ll ask.” I held the receiver against my shoulder. “It’s Evelyn Boyle…. She has a twelve-year-old girl who needs a bed for the next two nights.”
“I take it she wants to bring the girl here?”
I nodded, ready to accept whatever Brad decided.
He seemed as hesitant as I felt. “I can’t imagine Evelyn would ask if she had any other option,” he said in a low voice.
“She told me Casey, that’s the girl’s name, is attending math classes at summer school and can’t afford to miss any or she won’t be able to advance to the eighth grade.”
Brad made the connection right away. “In other words, she needs to keep Casey in the same school district.”
“Exactly.”
Brad met my eyes. “What do you think?”
I shrugged, torn between generosity and fear. I wanted to help Evelyn, but I wasn’t the least bit prepared to deal with a twelve-year-old. Still, it would only be for a couple of nights. “I don’t suppose it would hurt.”
Brad nodded. “Tell her to bring Casey over.” He squeezed my hand. “I hope we know what we’re getting ourselves into,” he muttered.
“So do I.” I lifted the receiver to my ear. “Brad says we can take Casey for the next two nights.” I made sure Evelyn understood that we were willing to fill in, but just for the limited time she’d requested.
The social worker’s sigh of relief sounded over the phone. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be dropping Casey off in the next half hour.”
“I’ll wait up for her,” I promised. Thirty minutes would give me a chance to straighten the spare room and remake the bed. I’d need to put a few things away, too. The sewing machine was out because I’d repaired Cody’s jeans earlier that evening. In addition, there were plastic tubs of yarn and knitting projects I’d lost interest in for one reason or another. The closet was filled with clothes I planned to donate to charity and some items from before my marriage that I hadn’t figured out what to do with. The room had become a catch-all, a storage area for anything that didn’t have a firm place in our lives.
“Do you need any help?” Brad asked as I started toward the bedroom.
“I’m just going to put some stuff in the closet and move the sewing machine,” I explained. “It’s only for a couple of days,” I said again.
“Right.”
I could already hear Margaret’s loud “I told you so” the moment she heard about this. Well, nothing I could do about that. I refused to allow my sister’s ominous predictions to rule my life. I’d been asked to help out and I’d agreed. Nearly anyone would. It was part of the way we’d been raised, and I suspected that if Evelyn had called Margaret, my sister would’ve done exactly the same thing.
When I’d finished with the bed, I threw a robe over my nightgown, then joined Brad in the living room. The doorbell rang and he unlocked the front door with me right behind him. Chase immediately started scratching at Cody’s bedroom door, ready to protect us against an intruder. Brad left to deal with the dog as I let Evelyn and Casey into the house. The first thing I noticed was how small Casey was for her age. Her backpack, hooked over one arm, was almost bigger than she was.
Brad returned, clutching the dog’s collar as Chase whined eagerly, his nails scrabbling on the hardwood. “Chase, sit,” he said calmly, and Chase did.
“Lydia and Brad, this is Casey Marshall.”
The twelve-year-old refused to look at us. Instead she stared down at the floor.
“Hello, Casey,” Brad said. “Welcome to our home.”
“Welcome,” I echoed. “I’ll bet you’re exhausted. I’ve got the bed made up for you.”
Casey continued to stare at the floor.
“Casey,” Evelyn murmured, her arm loosely around the girl’s thin shoulders.
Reluctantly Casey looked up. Defiance flashed in her cool dark eyes. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Gratitude? Appreciation? Relief? If so, all three were sadly lacking in Casey’s expression and demeanor.
“Casey will walk to class in the morning,” Evelyn said. “She’s at Carver Middle School.”
“I’ll drive her,” I volunteered. “It’s on my way.”
Casey’s eyes darted toward Chase and softened perceptibly until she saw me watching her. Quickly she diverted her attention, glancing around the foyer and into the living room.
“I don’t need a ride, I’ll walk,” Casey insisted.
“Whatever you want,” I said. This wasn’t going well. It was almost as if Brad and I were intruding on the girl’s life, although we were making every effort to accommodate her.
“I’ll leave you now,” Evelyn said. She handed Brad her business card. “This has my office number and my cell. If you have any questions or problems, don’t hesitate to phone anytime.”
Brad accepted the card and studied it, although we already had Evelyn’s contact information.
As Evelyn said her goodbyes, I stepped forward. She paused, a question in her eyes. I felt out of my depth here—what did I know about dealing with a troubled young girl? I was afraid this wasn’t going to work, but Evelyn offered me a reassuring smile, then turned to leave.
Well, we’d agreed to do this, I reminded myself, and it was only for two days. We’d muddle through and so would Casey.
“I’ll show you to your room,” I said as soon as Evelyn left. I tried not to reveal how nervous I was.
Casey raised one shoulder, implying that she really didn’t care. She was slender for her age, with straight, badly cut hair that fell below her ears. Her jeans were tattered but not fashionably and the wording on her T-shirt was long since washed out. It had once been bright pink, I thought, but was now an off-white with reddish splotches here and there.
I led the way down the hall. “This will be your room,” I said. I turned the light on. The bed was made and everything had been put in the closet or stacked on the dresser. I’d brought in some fresh towels and extra hangers, which I’d laid on the quilt.
Casey looked around, then stepped into the room.
“Our son, Cody, is asleep next door. Chase is his dog. Cody named him that because he was always having to chase after him.” She didn’t smile. “Do you like dogs?”
Casey gave another one-sided shrug. “They’re all right.”
“Can we get you anything?” Brad asked, coming to stand behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders.
Casey considered his question and shook her head.
“The bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
She nodded.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” I said. I didn’t want to leave the girl, but I didn’t know what else to say or do. Casey obviously had no interest in conversation. She acted as though she couldn’t be rid of us fast enough.
“Night,” Brad said.
“Yes, good night,” I added with what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
Casey nodded and closed the bedroom door. Brad and I were left standing out in the hallway.
“I hope we did the right thing,” Brad whispered.
“Me, too.”
I woke during the night and knew instantly that something was different. It took me a couple of minutes to realize what it was. Then I remembered—a girl was sleeping down the hall. A girl we didn’t know. Casey clearly didn’t want to be in our home and revealed no appreciation for our hospitality.
About seven, just before the alarm rang, Cody’s voice boomed, “Mom, there’s a girl in the house!”
Tossing aside the covers, I jumped out of bed. I grabbed my housecoat and hurried into the kitchen, where Casey sat at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. Cody stood in his pajamas with Chase at his side, tail wagging slowly. My son seemed to be in a state of shock.
“This is Casey,” I said.
Cody’s eyes narrowed. “Does she talk?”
“Casey, this is our son, Cody.”
The girl went on eating her breakfast. “Uh-huh.”
“He’s not bad for a boy,” I told her and was rewarded with the glimmer of a smile.
“Mom,” Cody protested. “She’s not staying, is she?”
Whatever slight enjoyment had shown in Casey’s eyes immediately disappeared. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gone soon.”
I swallowed the words to tell Casey she was welcome to stay as long as she needed. To be honest, I didn’t know if that was true. We’d merely agreed to a short-term visit; I suspected that was all we could handle. This girl made me feel uncomfortable in my own home.
“I’ll be late tonight—” I said, reaching for the coffeepot. Brad worked for UPS and had left an hour before my alarm went off. He’d made coffee, as usual—for which I was profoundly grateful.
“Can we go to the park?” Cody asked as I filled a mug and stirred in cream and sugar. “You said we could.”
“I’ll take you and Chase there this morning,” I told him after my first restorative sip. With the shop open until eight that night, I wasn’t due at work until twelve. Margaret would open and Elise would arrive later in the afternoon.
Casey mumbled something I couldn’t decipher.
Cody bristled. “I’m not a baby.”
“Babies go to the park with their mommies.”
“Casey, that was uncalled for,” I said disapprovingly. “You’re a guest in our home, but I can’t and won’t put up with any form of disrespect. Is that understood?”
Casey didn’t respond. Instead she stood and carried her bowl to the sink. “I need to leave for school now.”
“It’s too early, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said with such defiance that I was hard-pressed to question her.
Casey disappeared into her room and returned a minute later with a book in her hand.
“What time does school get out?” I asked.
“Noon.”
“Oh.” We hadn’t discussed this aspect of Casey’s stay. “Brad won’t be home until after three.”
Casey didn’t seem concerned. “I’ll hang out with my friends,” she said.
Frankly I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. “Would you like to catch the bus and come on down to my yarn store? I’ll talk to Ms. Boyle and see about getting you signed up for day camp if you like. Maybe you could start tomorrow.”
“A yarn store?” Casey made it sound like the last place on earth she wanted to be.
“I can teach you to knit if you’re interested.”
Casey ignored me.
I wrote out instructions about which bus to take and which stop to get off at and gave her the fare. Casey stuffed the coins in her jeans pocket and left soon afterward.
As soon as the door closed, Cody whirled around to face me. “She’s not staying, is she?”
“It’s just for a couple of days,” I promised him.
“I don’t like her.”
“We haven’t had a chance to get to know her,” I said. In every likelihood that wouldn’t happen, either.
No sooner had I spoken than the phone rang. A quick glance at the call display screen told me it was Evelyn Boyle.
“Morning,” I said as cheerfully as I could manage.
“How’d it go last night?”
Looking at the kitchen door, I wondered what to tell her. “Okay, I guess,” I finally said. “Casey went to bed almost right away.” I couldn’t prevent a sigh. “Unfortunately, things didn’t start off well this morning. I’m afraid Casey and Cody don’t have a lot in common.”
“Give them both time to adjust,” Evelyn advised.
“Time?” I echoed. “Casey’s leaving tomorrow, isn’t she?”
Evelyn paused, and that short silence told me everything I needed to know.
“The problem is,” Evelyn said with obvious reluctance, “the family that was going to foster Casey is on vacation. I can try to find another one, but that’ll take a day or two, and we’re always short of homes in the summer.” She paused. “I hate to ask this, but to be on the safe side could she stay with you for a week? I should be able to find a suitable family in that time.”
“A week,” I repeated, a little shocked. “I’ll need to check with Brad, of course.”
Cody walked up and stood directly in front of me, hands on hips, his thin arms jutting out as he glared up at me. His thoughts on the matter were perfectly clear.
“And of course Cody will have a say, as well.”
At this rate I’d need clearance from Chase, too.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d get back to me as soon as you can,” Evelyn said.
“Of course.” Slowly I replaced the receiver.
“Mom!” Cody wailed.
I looked down at him. “Can we be kind enough to let Casey stay with us an entire week?” I asked. “What do you think?”
My son shook his head. “No way!”
“Okay, then I’ll call Ms. Boyle back and tell her it’s impossible. Casey will have to pack her things and go.”
Cody studied his bare feet and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Just a week, right?”
“That’s what Evelyn said.” I didn’t mention that a few hours before, the social worker had promised that it would be two nights at the most.
Cody chewed his lip. “What do you think?”
I was of two minds, but compassion won out. It wouldn’t be an easy adjustment for any of us. Casey wasn’t going to make this pleasant. However, I’d seen that glimmer of a smile in the young girl’s eyes. When I’d said Cody wasn’t bad for a boy, Casey and I had connected for a few seconds.
“Mom?” Cody pressed.
“If your father agrees, I think it’d be fine for Casey to stay the week,” I told him.
“Okay,” Cody muttered. “But only one week and she can’t call me a baby ever again.” He nodded emphatically, as if that settled the point.
CHAPTER
7
Phoebe Rylander
At 5:20, forty minutes before her first knitting lesson, Phoebe left work. Clark didn’t know about the class; her mother didn’t, either. Phoebe couldn’t explain why she preferred it that way; she just knew she did.
It was hard not to answer the constant phone calls and messages, although she realized the sanest approach was simply to ignore them. She should have changed her home number, too, but that was more complicated, or so she told herself. She hated to admit that maybe, with one small part of her, she did want to hear from him. Still, she wasn’t even sure whether Clark was calling because he wanted her back or because he couldn’t tolerate what he saw as her rejection. Winning was everything to him. If their engagement was broken he wanted to be the one to call it off. He hadn’t let up since she’d returned his engagement ring.
Phoebe badly needed a reprieve. The knitting class offered that.
Although Leanne hadn’t admitted it, Phoebe was fairly certain her mother had joined forces with Clark’s parents and was doing everything in her power to repair the rift. What her mother, and more importantly, Clark, failed to understand was that Phoebe intended to keep the breakup permanent, no matter how much she wished it could be different.
Even now, knowing what he did, part of her yearned to believe that Clark didn’t comprehend what he’d done or why she was upset. But she’d told him the first time—she couldn’t have been any clearer—and this time she wouldn’t give in. She couldn’t. Phoebe knew his weakness for paid sex would continue after they were married. It was an addiction; it had to be. Otherwise he wouldn’t go on taking these ridiculous risks. Twice he’d been arrested for solicitation, and heaven only knew how many other occasions there’d been, occasions when he’d been fortunate enough not to get caught. A woman off the streets, no less. If he was going to pay for sex, Phoebe would have assumed he’d want a higher-class prostitute. Unless it was the danger that thrilled him? She sighed. None of this made sense to her.
He’d promised it would never happen again and she’d reluctantly forgiven him that first time. She’d believed he was sincere—and yet he’d succumbed again. She needed a man who’d be completely committed to her and their relationship. Addiction, attraction to danger, whatever it was, Clark seemed either unwilling or unable to control it. She refused to put her emotional and physical health at risk because of his weakness.
So far she’d held out. Whenever she wavered, Clark seemed to sense that and bombarded her with notes and flowers and gifts, all of which she’d sent back. That didn’t seem to bother him. If anything, he redoubled his efforts.
Rather than take her car out of the garage at work, Phoebe decided to walk the half mile or so to Blossom Street. She’d brought her brand-new knitting bag, filled with skeins of yarn in a restful sage-green color, her pattern and a pair of needles still in their clear plastic case. It was a lovely evening, but cool enough to require a sweater. Because she was early, she stopped at the French Café and purchased a half sandwich, pastrami on rye with mustard, and a cup of coffee.
Since the breakup, her appetite had suffered and she’d lost weight. This was the first hunger pang she’d experienced in two weeks, which was an encouraging sign. It felt like years since she’d been with Clark. That, too, was encouraging, and yet…
She struggled to hold back unexpected tears. The end of her engagement, the end of Clark’s presence in her life, necessary though it was, had brought her such grief. This was so much harder than anyone else imagined, than anyone would ever know. To her friends and her mother she came across as determined and unshakable, but Clark lingered constantly in her mind. It would get better soon; she’d told herself this so often that she’d actually started to believe it.
It had to.
Eventually this ache in her heart would lessen. However, right then, sitting by herself outside a café on a perfect summer evening, watching couples wander past holding hands, made her feel ten times worse. Ten times as lonely…
She crossed the street to A Good Yarn at precisely six. While eating her meal, she’d seen two other people walking into the yarn store and wondered if they were part of the Knit to Quit class, too. It didn’t seem likely. One was a man and the other apparently a street-savvy teenager.
The bell above the door jangled when she stepped inside, self-consciously clutching her supplies.
“Hi, Phoebe,” Lydia said, hurrying forward to greet her. “Everyone else is already here. Come on back and join us.”
Phoebe followed her to the rear of the store. The teenager and the man had both taken places at a large table and looked up as she approached. So she was wrong—these two were indeed part of the class. Well, it made for an interesting mix.
“This is Phoebe Rylander,” Lydia said, slipping an arm around Phoebe’s shoulders.
“Hi,” she said, nervously wiggling her fingers.
The man stood and extended his hand. “I’m Bryan Hutchinson. Everyone calls me Hutch.”
“Hi,” she said. Normally Phoebe wasn’t shy, but for some reason she felt awkward and unsure of herself. Maybe because this was a whole new venture for her, one that required skills she lacked. Although she’d done a bit of knitting as a girl, she’d never been very interested in any of the domestic crafts. Maybe that was about to change.
“I’m Alix, spelled with an I,” the girl said. Her hair was black, probably dyed, and she wore it in a short, spiky fashion that suited her. She had on a leather jacket and jeans. When she’d first noticed Alix-with-an-I, Phoebe had assumed she was a teenager, but on closer inspection she decided Alix had to be in her early twenties. The leather jacket was unzipped and revealed a cotton shirt with a lace collar in stark contrast to the rest of her appearance. She was obviously a bit unorthodox but that seemed rather charming to Phoebe. Smiling at Alix, who smiled back, Phoebe pulled out the chair next to her.
Lydia moved closer to the table. “Since this is a Knit to Quit class, I thought it might be helpful if we each shared the reason we joined and what we’re hoping to achieve by knitting.” She looked at Alix. “Would you mind starting us off, Alix?”
The young woman shrugged. “Sure, why not. As you know by now, my name is Alix.”
“With an I,” Hutch inserted, grinning.
“Right.” Alix gave him a cocky thumbs up. “I assume Lydia asked me to begin because I’ve taken classes here before. I learned to knit almost five years ago, when Lydia opened the shop.”
“Alix was in my original class and has become one of my dearest friends,” Lydia told them.
“I’ve changed a lot since that first class,” Alix went on to say. “Back then, I was pretty angry at the world. I’d gotten a bum rap on a drug possession charge. I think the judge must’ve realized that because he sentenced me to community service rather than jail.”
Hutch leaned closer to the table. “And you took up knitting as your community service? How did that work?”
“It was knitting for charity. I got approval from the court to knit a baby blanket for Project Linus. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to learn something constructive for once in my life.”
“Good idea,” Phoebe said, nodding. Alix certainly wasn’t typical of other young women her age. But then again, maybe she was….
“The reason I signed up for this class is that I started smoking before Jordan and I were married. All the stuff going on before the wedding turned out to be pretty stressful and I decided I needed a cigarette. I told myself I’d only smoke the one pack. As you might’ve guessed it ended up being a lot more than that and now I’m trying to quit.”
“I can’t believe you’re married,” Phoebe blurted out, then felt like a fool. “I mean, you seem so young.”
“I’m older than I look.” She laughed softly. “I hope it’s my appearance and not my behavior that made you think I was younger.”
“Of course!” Phoebe said.
“Definitely,” Hutch mumbled.
“Anyway, Jordan and I want to start a family. Before I get pregnant, I have to quit smoking. Knitting’s helped me through other things and…here I am.”
“And we’re glad you are,” Lydia told her. She turned to Hutch next. “What about you, Hutch?”
He was a nice-looking man, Phoebe thought, studying him across the table. It was difficult to tell how old he was. Midthirties, she guessed—although she’d just proven she wasn’t very good at judging age. He had pleasant, regular features and light-brown hair. Although she hated to admit it, he didn’t possess the strong masculine appeal of Clark. He seemed like a regular guy, not that there was anything wrong with that. What Phoebe did like was how interested he was in what everyone had to say. Other than her boss, she didn’t know many men who were good listeners.
Hutch sat back in his chair. “Actually, my doctor’s the one who suggested I try knitting. He’s a college classmate of mine. I was in for my annual checkup recently and Dave lectured me about working too hard and not getting enough exercise. I’m on medication for high blood pressure and, with a history of heart disease in the family, he felt I should find a method of relaxation. In fact,” Hutch said, “he told me he knits himself. I suppose that convinced me.”
“Your doctor’s very wise.” Lydia picked up the conversation. “Various studies have shown the health benefits of knitting as a form of relaxation. And from personal experience, I’d say that while our hands are at work on a project, we’re able to quiet our thoughts.”
Hutch nodded slowly. “Makes sense.”
“I think you’ve made an excellent choice. Obviously,” she added with a quick grin.
“Dave also said knitting would aid the healing process with my thumb.” He held up his right hand and showed where he’d cut himself. The scar was red and ugly.
“Another good point,” Lydia commented.
“So I’m here, but I have to tell you I’ve never held a pair of knitting needles in my life.”
“That’s not a problem,” Lydia said. “I’ve taught people how to knit since I was a teenager. I’m sure you’ll learn it easily.”
Hutch grinned. “Your confidence is reassuring.”
Lydia turned to Phoebe and gestured toward her. “Phoebe, can you tell us what prompted you to join Knit to Quit?”
She hesitated. Spilling her grief to strangers was more than she was ready to do. She stared up at Lydia. “I was engaged and…” What came out next was a complete surprise. She certainly hadn’t intended to lie, although the truth embarrassed and humiliated her. “My fiancé died.”
Lydia’s eyes softened with sympathy. “Oh, Phoebe, I had no idea. I…I thought—” She stopped abruptly. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m so very sorry.”
“I need to get over him,” she said and swallowed hard. Tears clogged her throat and she struggled to hide the fact that she was close to weeping.
Thankfully no one asked for the details of Clark’s supposed demise.
“I’m sorry,” Alix said. Leaning across the table, she gently squeezed her hand. “I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like if I lost Jordan.”
Phoebe avoided their eyes. It was bad enough that she’d lied, but now she’d be obliged to continue with the charade. Everyone’s sympathy only added to her guilt. Although Hutch hadn’t spoken, his gaze was caring, concerned.
Blindly Phoebe unwrapped her knitting needles, indicating she was ready for class to begin.
Responding to her cue, Lydia held out the scarf pattern. “I chose this Bev Galeskas pattern because I feel everyone can knit this, no matter what level they are. It starts with the basic stitch.” She reached into a bag behind her and brought out a scarf in soft gray wool. “I knit this up so everyone could see the finished project.”
“I could knit that?” Hutch asked, sounding shocked.
“We all will.”
“You’re sure I can do that?”
Alix laughed. “I felt the same way in my first class when Lydia showed me the baby blanket. I guarantee you’ll be impressed with yourself.”
“It’ll impress my sister, anyway.” He smiled at Lydia. “If mine turns out even half as good as yours, I thought I’d give it to her for her birthday.”
His sister? If he’d mentioned his sister rather than his wife, that probably meant he wasn’t married. Phoebe wasn’t in any mood to get romantically involved, but she felt increasingly curious about Hutch. His personality seemed the opposite of Clark’s. He didn’t need to be the center of attention and, instead, listened carefully to everyone else. As far as Phoebe was concerned, that was a rare quality. He might look ordinary but even on short acquaintance she could see that he was anything but.
Before they cast on stitches, Lydia described the pattern and explained that reading it over first prevented mistakes later. She also offered to photocopy their patterns to use as “working copies.”
“That way the copied sheet can be marked up and carried with the project. Then if it’s lost, the original is always available.”
After that, Lydia demonstrated how to cast on stitches. The skill came back to Phoebe faster than she’d thought it would.
Sitting beside Hutch, Lydia reviewed the technique with him repeatedly. He followed her instructions carefully and although he found it difficult to hold the needles and yarn and cast on at the same time, he never once lost patience. Phoebe couldn’t picture Clark not throwing the needles and yarn down in disgust.
Clark.
How easily he’d slipped into her mind, despite her resolve. Forcing herself to concentrate, she knit methodically to the end of the row. Then the next one…
About an hour into the class, the phone rang. Lydia excused herself and moved to the front counter.
From what Phoebe could hear, this call was of a personal nature.
“Water balloons in the house?” Lydia gasped at one point, covering her eyes with her free hand.
When she returned a few minutes later, she looked troubled.
Alix was the one who broached the subject. “Is everything all right with Cody and Brad?”
“I…I’m not sure. We have a houseguest, and it appears that she’s managed to ruffle a few feathers.”
“How long is your guest staying?” Hutch asked.
“A week.” She frowned but didn’t volunteer any further information.
It was still light out when the class was officially over. As Phoebe gathered up her knitting bag and her purse, the shop door opened and a clean-cut young man walked in.
“Jordan,” Alix said, her voice elevated. “Hi!”
The man went over to Alix and slid his arm around her waist. “I thought I’d stop by and pick you up.”
Alix smiled at Hutch and Phoebe. “This is my husband, Jordan Turner.”
Jordan exchanged handshakes with both of them. “Pleased to meet you.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/debbie-macomber/summer-on-blossom-street-42421730/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.