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Blossom Street Bundle (Books 1-5)
The Shop on Blossom Street
A Good Yarn
Susannah’s Garden
Christmas in Seattle
Back on Blossom Street
Debbie Macomber

www.mirabooks.co.uk

About the Author

When DEBBIE MACOMBER first decided to write a novel, people called her a hopeless dreamer. As a young, dyslexic mother of four active children, no one believed she had what it took to write a book, except Debbie. She wrote—for years. But each time she completed a story and mailed it off to a publisher, the manuscript was returned, stamped “rejected.” As tough as it was to keep her spirits alive, Debbie never gave up.

But all her perseverance paid off and Debbie’s heartwarming novels have made her a New York Times bestselling author with sales of over 51 million novels worldwide.

The Shop on Blossom Street

Debbie Macomber

To Linda Johnson for sharing her love

of knitting with me.

To Laura Early for taking me under her wing.

And to Lisa, who touched my heart in her

desire for a child.

1
CHAPTER

“The yarn forms the stitches, the knitting forges the friendships, the craft links the generations.”

—Karen Alfke, “Unpattern” designer and knitting instructor

LYDIA HOFFMAN

The first time I saw the empty store on Blossom Street I thought of my father. It reminded me so much of the bicycle shop he had when I was a kid. Even the large display windows, shaded by a colorful striped awning, were the same. Outside my dad’s shop, there were flower boxes full of red blossoms—impatiens—that spilled over beneath the large windows. That was Mom’s contribution: impatiens in the spring and summer, chrysanthemums in the fall and shiny green mistletoe at Christmas. I plan to have flowers, too.

Dad’s business grew steadily and he moved into increasingly larger premises, but I always loved his first store best.

I must have astounded the rental agent who was showing me the property. She’d barely unlocked the front door when I announced, “I’ll take it.”

She turned to face me, her expression blank as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard me correctly. “Wouldn’t you like to see the place? You do realize there’s a small apartment above the shop that comes with it, don’t you?”

“Yes, you mentioned that earlier.” The apartment worked perfectly for me. My cat, Whiskers, and I were in need of a home.

“You would like to see the place before you sign the papers, wouldn’t you?” she persisted.

I smiled and nodded. But it wasn’t really necessary; instinctively I knew this was the ideal location for my yarn shop. And for me.

The one drawback was that this Seattle neighborhood was undergoing extensive renovations and, because of the construction mess, Blossom Street was closed at one end, with only local traffic allowed. The brick building across the street, which had once been a three-story bank, was being transformed into high-end condos. Several other buildings, including an old warehouse, were also in the process of becoming condos. The architect had somehow managed to maintain the traditional feel of the original places, and that delighted me. Construction would continue for months, but it did mean that my rent was reasonable, at least for now.

I knew the first six months would be difficult. They are for any small business. The constant construction might create more obstacles than there otherwise would have been; nevertheless, I loved the space. It was everything I wanted.

Early Friday morning, a week after viewing the property, I signed my name, Lydia Hoffman, to the two-year lease. I was handed the keys and a copy of the rental agreement. I moved into my new home that very day, as excited as I can remember being about anything. I felt as if I was just starting my life and in more ways than I care to count, I actually was.

I opened A Good Yarn on the last Tuesday in April. I felt a sense of pride and anticipation as I stood in the middle of my store, surveying the colors that surrounded me. I could only imagine what my sister would say when she learned I’d gone through with this. I hadn’t asked her advice because I already knew what Margaret’s response would be. She isn’t—to put it mildly—the encouraging type.

I’d found a carpenter who’d built some cubicles for me, three rows of them, painted a pristine white. Most of the yarn had arrived on Friday and I’d spent the weekend sorting it by weight and color and arranging it neatly in the cubicles. I’d bought a secondhand cash register, refinished the counter and set up racks of knitting supplies. I was ready for business.

This should have been a happy moment for me but instead, I found myself struggling to hold back tears. Dad would’ve been so pleased if he could have seen what I’d done. He’d been my support and my source of strength, my guiding light. I was so shocked when he died.

You see, I’d always assumed I would die before my father.

Most people find talk of death unsettling, but I’ve lived with the threat of it for so long, it doesn’t have that effect on me. The possibility of death has been my reality for the last fourteen years, and I’m as comfortable talking about it as I am the weather.

My first bout with cancer came the summer I turned sixteen. I’d gone to pick up my driver’s license that day in August. I’d successfully passed both the written and the driving tests. My mother let me drive from the licensing office to the optometrist. It was supposed to be a routine appointment—I was having my eyes examined before the start of my junior year of high school. I had big plans for the day. As soon as I got home from the eye doctor’s, Becky and I were going to drive to the beach. It would be the first time I’d taken the car out by myself, and I was looking forward to driving without my mom or dad or my older sister.

I recall being upset that Mom had scheduled the eye appointment right after my driving test. I’d been having some problems with headaches and dizzy spells, and Dad thought I might need reading glasses. The idea of showing up at Lincoln High School wearing glasses bothered me. A lot. I was hoping Mom and Dad would agree to let me wear contact lenses. As it turned out, impaired vision was the least of my worries.

The optometrist, who was a friend of my parents, seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time staring into the corner of my eye with this horribly bright light. He asked a lot of questions about my headaches. That was almost fifteen years ago, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on his face as he talked to my mother. He was so serious, so somber … so concerned.

“I want to make Lydia an appointment at the University of Washington. Immediately.”

My mother and I were both stunned. “All right,” my mother said, glancing from me to Dr. Reid and back again. “Is there a problem?”

He nodded. “I don’t like what I’m seeing. I think it would be best if Dr. Wilson had a look.”

Well, Dr. Wilson did more than look. He drilled into my skull and removed a malignant brain tumor. I say those words glibly now, but it wasn’t a quick or simple procedure. It meant weeks in the hospital and blinding, debilitating headaches. After the surgery, I went through chemotherapy, followed by a series of radiation treatments. There were days when even the dimmest of lights caused such pain it was all I could do not to scream in agony. Days when I measured each breath, struggling to hold on to life because, try as I might, I could feel it slipping away. Still, there were many mornings I woke up and wished I would die because I couldn’t bear another hour of this. Without my father I’m convinced I would have.

My head was completely shaved and then, once my hair started to grow back, it fell out again. I missed my entire junior year and when I was finally able to return to high school, nothing was the same. Everyone looked at me differently. I didn’t attend the Junior-Senior prom because no one asked me. Some girlfriends suggested I tag along with them, but out of false pride I refused. In retrospect it seems a trivial thing to worry about. I wish I’d gone.

The saddest part of this story is that just when I was beginning to believe I could have a normal life—just when I believed all those drugs, all that suffering had served a useful purpose—the tumor grew back.

I’ll never forget the day Dr. Wilson told us the cancer had returned. But it’s not the expression on his face that I remember. It’s the pain in my father’s eyes. He, above anyone, understood what I’d endured during the first bout of treatment. My mother doesn’t deal well with illness, and Dad was the one who’d held me together emotionally. He knew there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say, that would lessen this second ordeal for me. I was twenty-four at the time and still in college, trying to accumulate enough credits to graduate. I never did get that degree.

I’ve survived both bouts of cancer, and I’m definitely not the carefree girl I once was. I appreciate and treasure every single day because I know how precious life is. Most people assume I’m younger than thirty but they seem to find me more serious than other women my age. My experience with cancer means I don’t take anything, least of all life itself, for granted. I no longer greet each day with careless acceptance. But I’ve learned there are compensations for my suffering. I know I’d be a completely different person if not for the cancer. My dad claimed I achieved a certain calm wisdom, and I suppose I have. Yet in many ways I’m naive, especially when it comes to men and relationships.

Of all the compensations, the one I’m most grateful for is that while undergoing treatment I learned to knit.

I may have survived cancer twice, but unfortunately my father didn’t. My second tumor killed him. That’s what my sister Margaret believes. She’s never actually said so, but I know it’s what she thinks. The truth is, I suspect she’s probably right. It was a heart attack, but he aged so much after that second diagnosis I’m sure it affected his health. I knew that if he could’ve switched places with me, he would have done it gladly.

He was at my bedside as much as possible. That, in particular, is what Margaret can’t seem to forgive or forget—the time and devotion Dad gave me throughout this ordeal. Mom, too, as much as she was emotionally able.

Margaret was married and a mother of two before the second tumor was even discovered. Nevertheless, she seems to assume that she’s somehow been cheated because of my cancer. To this day, she acts as if being sick was my choice, an option I preferred over a normal life.

It goes without saying that my sister and I have a strained relationship. For Mom’s sake, especially now that Dad’s gone, I try my best with Margaret. She doesn’t make it easy. She can’t hide her resentment, no matter how many years it’s been.

Margaret was against my opening a yarn shop, but I sincerely doubt she would’ve encouraged me in any undertaking. I swear, her eyes brightened at the prospect of seeing me fail. According to the statistics, most new businesses do go under—usually within a year—but I still felt I had to give the yarn shop a chance.

I had the funds. The money was actually an inheritance I received from my maternal grandmother who died when I was twelve. Dad invested it wisely and I had a small nest egg. I should have probably saved it for what Mom calls a “rainy day,” but it’s been raining every day since I turned sixteen and I was tired of holding on to it. Deep down, I know Dad would approve.

As I said, I learned to knit while undergoing chemotherapy. Over the years I’ve become an accomplished knitter. Dad always joked that I had enough yarn to open my own store; recently I decided he was right.

I love to knit. There’s a comfort to it that I can’t entirely explain. The repetition of weaving the yarn around a needle and then forming a stitch creates a sense of purpose, of achievement, of progress. When your entire world is unraveling, you tend to crave order, and I found it in knitting. In fact, I’ve even read that knitting can lower stress more effectively than meditation. And I guess for me it was a better approach, because there was something tangible to show for it. Maybe because knitting gave me a sense of action, of doing something. I didn’t know what tomorrow held, but with a pair of needles in my hands and a ball of yarn in my lap, I was confident I could handle whatever lay ahead. Each stitch was an accomplishment. Some days all I could manage was a single row, but I had the satisfaction of that one small achievement. It made a difference to me. A very big difference.

Over the years I’ve taught a number of people how to knit. My first students were other cancer patients going through chemotherapy. We met at the Seattle Oncology Center, and before long, I had everyone, men included, knitting cotton washcloths. I think every doctor and nurse in that clinic has enough knit washcloths to last a lifetime! After washcloths, I had my band of beginning knitters move on to a small afghan. Certainly I’ve had some failures but far more successes. My patience was rewarded when others found the same serenity I did in knitting.

Now I have my own shop and I think the best way to get customers in the door is to offer knitting classes. I’d never sell enough yarn to stay in business if I ran classes in washcloths, so I’ve chosen a simple baby blanket to start with. The pattern’s by one of my favorite designers, Ann Norling, and uses the basic knit and purl stitches.

I don’t know what to expect of my new venture, but I’m hopeful. Hope to a person with cancer—or to a person who’s had cancer—is more potent than any drug. We live on it, live for it. It’s addictive to those of us who’ve learned to take one day at a time.

I was making a sign advertising my beginners’ class when the bell above the door chimed. My first customer had just walked in and I looked up with a smile on my face. The pounding excitement in my heart quickly died when I realized it was Margaret.

“Hi,” I said, doing my best to sound happy to see her. I didn’t want my sister showing up on my very first morning and attacking my confidence.

“Mom told me you’d decided to go ahead with this idea of yours.”

I didn’t respond.

Frowning, Margaret continued. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see the shop.”

I gestured with one arm and hated myself for asking. “What do you think?” I didn’t bother to mention that Blossom Street was decidedly out of her way.

“Why’d you name it A Good Yarn?”

I’d gone over dozens of shop names, some too cute by half, some plain and ordinary. I love the idea that “spinning a yarn” means telling a story, and sharing stories with people, listening to their experiences, is important to me. Another legacy of the clinic, I suppose. A Good Yarn seems like a warm and welcoming name. But I didn’t explain all that to Margaret. “I wanted my customers to know I sell quality yarn.”

Margaret shrugged as if she’d seen a dozen knitting shops with more impressive names than mine.

“Well,” I said, despite my determination not to ask again. “What do you think?”

Margaret glanced around a second time, although nothing had changed after her first inspection. “It’s better than I expected.”

I considered this high praise. “I don’t have a large inventory yet, but I’m hoping to build it up over the next year or so. Of course, not all the yarn I’ve ordered has arrived. And there’s more I’m planning to get, some wonderful imports from Ireland and Australia. Everything takes time and money.” In my enthusiasm I’d said more than I intended.

“Are you expecting Mom to help you?” The question was blunt.

I shook my head. “You don’t need to worry. I’m doing this entirely on my own.” So that was the reason for her unannounced visit. Margaret thought I was going to take advantage of our mother. I wouldn’t and the question offended me, but I bit back an angry retort.

Margaret glared at me as if she wasn’t sure I was telling the truth.

“I cashed in my Microsoft stock,” I confessed.

Margaret’s deep brown eyes, so much like my own, nearly doubled in horror at what I’d done. “You didn’t.”

What did my sister think? I had the necessary cash lying around in my bottom drawer? “I had to.” Given my medical history, no bank would grant me a loan. Although I’ve been cancer-free for four years now, I’m viewed as a risk in just about every area.

“It’s your money, I guess.” The way Margaret said it implied I’d made a terrible decision. “But I don’t think Dad would have approved.”

“He would’ve been the first one to encourage me.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“You’re probably right,” Margaret said with the caustic edge that never failed to appear in our conversations. “Dad couldn’t deny you anything.”

“The money was my inheritance,” I pointed out. I suppose her share is still accruing profit.

My sister walked around the shop, eyeing it critically. Considering Margaret’s apparent dislike of me, I don’t know why my relationship with her is so important, but it is. Mom’s health is fragile and she hasn’t adjusted to life without Dad. Soon, I’m afraid, it’ll be only Margaret and me. The thought of not having any family at all terrifies me.

I’m so grateful not to know what the future holds. I once asked my father why God wouldn’t just let us know what tomorrow would bring. He said that not knowing the future is actually a gift because if we knew, we wouldn’t take responsibility for our own lives, our own happiness. As with so much else in life, my dad was right.

“What’s your business plan?” Margaret asked.

“I—I’m starting small.”

“What about customers?”

“I’ve paid for an ad in the Yellow Pages.” I didn’t mention that the new phone directory didn’t come out for another two months. No need to hand Margaret any ammunition. I’d distributed flyers in the neighborhood, too, but I didn’t know how effective that would be. I was counting on word of mouth to generate customer interest and, ultimately, sales. Which was something else I didn’t mention.

My older sister snickered. I’ve always hated that scoffing sound and had to grit my teeth in order to hide my reaction.

“I’m just getting ready to post a sign for my first knitting class.”

“Do you seriously think a handmade sign taped in the window is going to draw people into your store?” Margaret demanded. “Parking is a nightmare out there and even when the street’s open again, you can’t expect much traffic through this construction mess.”

“No, but—”

“I wish you well, but—”

“Do you?” I asked, cutting her off. My hands shook as I walked over to the display window and secured my notice for knitting classes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I turned to face my sister who, at five foot six, stood a good three inches taller than me. She outweighed me by about twenty pounds, too. Looking at us now, I wonder if anyone would guess we were related and yet when we were small we resembled each other quite a bit.

“I think you want me to fail,” I said honestly.

“That isn’t true! I came this morning because … because I’m interested in what you’re doing.” Her chin went up a notch as if she was daring me to challenge her again. “How old are you? Twenty-nine, thirty?”

“Thirty.”

“Isn’t it time you cut the apron strings?”

That was blatantly unfair. “I’m trying to do exactly that. I left Mom’s house and I moved into the apartment upstairs. I’ve started my own business, too, and I’d appreciate your support.”

She turned her hands over to display her palms. “Do you want me to buy yarn from you? Is that what you want? You know I don’t knit and have no desire to learn. I much prefer to crochet. And—”

“Just this once,” I said, cutting her off a second time, “couldn’t you think of one nice thing to say?” I waited, silently pleading with her to search inside her heart for at least a token word of encouragement.

My request seemed to be an overwhelming task for Margaret. She faltered for several seconds. “You have a good eye for color,” she finally said. She gestured toward the display of yarn I’d arranged on the table by the door.

“Thank you,” I said, hoping to sound gracious. I didn’t mention that I’d used a color wheel to create the display. Hard as it was for Margaret to offer me praise, I certainly wasn’t going to give her an opportunity to withdraw it.

Had we been closer, I would’ve told her the real reason I’d decided to open a yarn store. This shop was my affirmation of life. I was willing to invest everything I had to make it a success. Like the Viking conqueror who came ashore and burned his ships behind him, I had set my course. Succeed or go under.

As my father might say, I was taking responsibility for a future I couldn’t predict.

The bell above the door chimed again. I had a customer! My first real customer.

2
CHAPTER

JACQUELINE DONOVAN

The angry exchange of words with her married son had distressed Jacqueline Donovan. She’d honestly tried to keep her negative feelings regarding her daughter-in-law to herself. But when Paul phoned to tell her Tammie Lee was five and a half months pregnant, Jacqueline had lost her temper and said things she shouldn’t have. Paul had hung up in mid-rant.

To complicate everything, her husband had phoned soon afterward, asking her to drop off blueprints at the construction site on Blossom Street. The argument with Paul weighing on her mind, she’d confessed what she’d said and now Reese was upset with her, too. Truth be told, she didn’t much care what her husband thought, but Paul, her only child—now, that was a different story.

Feeling anxious and depressed, Jacqueline drove down to the job site and wasted twenty minutes finding a parking space. Needless to say, the one she found was quite a distance down the street, across from a seedy-looking video store. Clutching the blueprints, she picked her way through the construction mess, muttering under her breath. Just leave it to Reese to screw up her entire day!

“You brought the drawings?” Her husband of thirty-three years walked out of the trailer to meet her as she neared the site. Jacqueline stepped over steel tubes, trying not to dirty or damage her Ferragamo heels. Her husband’s architectural firm, Donovan and Gray, was responsible for this renovation project. Dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit and a hard hat, Reese was still a good-looking man at fifty-nine.

Jacqueline handed him the all-important set of rolled-up prints. It was unusual for Reese to ask anything of her, which suited her perfectly. He set the prints inside the trailer and turned back to face her, standing just outside the door.

“I’m worried about Paul,” she said, doing her best to maintain her composure. Reese gave a tired shrug. He worked long hours and Jacqueline pretended to believe that all the time he spent away from home was business-related. She knew otherwise. So if he was tired, she certainly wasn’t going to sympathize.

For the sake of Paul and their friends, Jacqueline and Reese managed to put up a good front, but the marriage hadn’t been happy for a number of years. Reese had his life and she had hers. They hadn’t slept together since Paul left for college twelve years ago. In fact, there was very little they shared except their love for their son.

“So Tammie Lee is pregnant,” her husband said, ignoring her concern.

Jacqueline nodded. “Obviously Tammie Lee’s a breeder, just as I suspected.”

Reese frowned; he disapproved of her natural wariness toward Paul’s wife. But they knew practically nothing about her family. What little Jacqueline had unearthed, between the girl’s tales of aunts and uncles and God-only-knew how many cousins, had been disheartening to say the least.

The sound of a crane overhead distracted Reese momentarily and when he returned his attention to her he was frowning again. “You don’t seem happy about this.”

“Come on, Reese! How do you expect me to feel?”

“Like a woman who’s about to be a grandmother for the first time.”

Jacqueline crossed her arms. “Well, I for one am not thrilled.” Several of her nearest and dearest friends had delighted in their status as new grandmothers, but Jacqueline doubted she’d make this latest adjustment as smoothly as her friends.

“Jacquie, this is our grandchild.”

“I should’ve known better than to say anything to you,” she said angrily. Jacqueline wouldn’t have mentioned it at all if not for the argument with Paul. She’d always been close to her son. He was the reason she’d stayed in this empty shell of a marriage. Her son was everything she’d hoped for: handsome, smart, successful and so much more. He’d gone into banking and was quickly climbing up the corporate ladder—and then, a year ago, he’d done something completely out of character. He’d married the wrong woman.

“You haven’t given Tammie Lee a chance,” Reese insisted.

“That is blatantly unfair.” To Jacqueline’s horror, her voice shook with emotion. She’d given this awkward relationship with Tammie Lee her best effort. For the life of her, Jacqueline couldn’t understand why her sensible son would marry this stranger, this … this little girl from the swamps, when so many of her friends’ daughters were interested in him. Paul called Tammie Lee his southern belle, but all Jacqueline saw was a hillbilly. “I took her to lunch at the country club and I’ve never been so mortified in my life. I introduced her to Mary James, and the next thing I know, Tammie Lee’s discussing a recipe for pickled pigs’ feet or some such with the President of the Women’s Association.” It had taken Jacqueline weeks to gather up enough courage to face her friend again.

“Isn’t Mary in charge of the cookbook? It makes perfect sense that the two of them would—”

“The last thing I need is for you to criticize me, too,” Jacqueline blurted out. There was no point in trying to explain anything to Reese. They couldn’t even have a civil conversation anymore. Besides, this construction dust was ruining her makeup and the wind was playing havoc with her French twist. Reese didn’t care, though. Appearances were important, but he had no appreciation of everything she did to maintain herself physically. He didn’t have any idea how much work was involved in styling her hair and doing her makeup properly. She was in her midfifties now, and it took a subtle hand to hide age lines.

His voice rose slightly. “What exactly did you say to Paul?”

Jacqueline squared her shoulders in an attempt to preserve her dignity. “Just that I wished he’d waited a while before starting his family.”

Her husband offered her his hand to assist her into the construction trailer. “Come inside.”

Jacqueline ignored his gesture of help and stepped into the trailer. Although Reese routinely visited his work sites, this was the first time she’d been inside one of these trailers. She glanced around and took note of the blueprints, empty coffee cups and general disarray. The place resembled a pigpen.

“You’d better tell me everything.” Reese poured coffee and silently held out a cup. She declined with a shake of her head, afraid the cup hadn’t been washed in weeks.

“Why do you assume I said anything more than the fact that I was disappointed?” she asked.

“Because I know you.”

“Well, thank you very much.” Her throat was thickening but she refused to let him see how his rebuke had hurt her. “To make matters worse, Tammie Lee’s nearly six months along. Naturally Paul had a convenient excuse for keeping us out of the picture. He said they didn’t want to say anything until they could be sure the pregnancy was safe.”

“And you don’t believe him?” Reese crossed his arms and leaned next to the open door.

“Of course I don’t. People usually wait three months before they share their good news,” she said sarcastically, “but six? You and I both know he put off telling us because he knew how I’d feel. I’ve said from the first, and I’ll say it again, this marriage is a very big mistake.”

“Now, Jacquie …”

“What else am I to think? Paul goes off on a business trip to New Orleans and meets this girl in a bar.”

“They were both attending the same financial conference, and met for a drink later that evening.”

Why did Reese have to drag up unnecessary details? “They were together all of three days and the next thing I know he announces that he’s married to a girl neither of us has ever met.”

“Now I agree with you there,” Reese conceded. “I do wish Paul had told us, but it’s been almost a year.”

It still upset Jacqueline that her son hadn’t had a large church wedding the way she’d always envisioned. Jacqueline felt it was what Paul was entitled to—what she was entitled to. Instead she hadn’t even been invited to the wedding.

That wasn’t territory she particularly wanted to revisit. Her son’s only excuse was that he was in love, knew he wanted Tammie Lee with him for the rest of his life and couldn’t bear to be apart from her any longer than necessary. That was the reason he’d given them, but Jacqueline had her suspicions. Paul must’ve known she wouldn’t be pleased—and he must have realized that his in-laws would be an embarrassment. She could only imagine the kind of wedding Tammie Lee’s family would hold. The reception dinner would probably consist of collard greens and grits, with deep-fried Hostess Twinkies instead of wedding cake.

“Tammie Lee got pregnant within six months of the wedding.” She didn’t hide her contempt.

“Paul’s over thirty, Jacqueline.” Reese had that disapproving look in his eyes. She’d always hated it.

“And old enough to know about birth control,” she snapped. Paul had sprung the news on her the same way he had the marriage: over the phone without a moment’s warning.

“He told me he wanted a family,” Reese murmured.

“Not this soon, I’ll bet,” she burst out. Talking to Reese was impossible. He didn’t seem to care that Paul had married beneath him. Her daughter-in-law was nothing like the woman she’d envisioned for their son. Jacqueline had honestly tried to welcome Tammie Lee into the family, but she couldn’t bear to be around her for more than a few minutes. All that sweetness and insincere southern charm simply overwhelmed her.

“But Paul’s pleased about the baby, isn’t he?”

Jacqueline leaned against the table and nodded. “He’s thrilled,” she muttered. “Or so he says …”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“He … he doesn’t seem to think I’m going to make much of a grandmother.”

Reese’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say to him?”

“Oh, Reese,” she said, feeling terrible now. “I couldn’t help it. I told him I thought he’d made a terrible mistake in marrying Tammie Lee and that this pregnancy complicates everything.” She’d assumed that a year or two down the road, Paul would recognize his lapse in judgment and gracefully bow out of the marriage. A child made that a whole lot less likely.

“You didn’t actually say that to Paul, did you?” Reese sounded furious and that only made Jacqueline more defensive.

“I realize I should’ve kept quiet, but really, can you blame me? I’m just getting used to the fact that our only son eloped with a stranger and then he hits me with this pregnancy.”

“It should be happy news.”

“Well, it isn’t.”

“It is to our son and Tammie Lee.”

“That’s another thing,” she cried. “Why is it every girl from the south has two names? Why can’t we call her Tammie without the Lee?”

“It’s her name, Jacqueline.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

Reese studied her as if he was really noticing her for the first time. “Why are you so angry?”

“Because I’m afraid of losing my son.” Paul and her close relationship with him was the only consolation she had in a life that brought her little joy. Now she’d done something stupid and insulted her son.

“Call him back and apologize.”

“I intend to,” she said.

“You could order flowers for Tammie Lee.”

“I will.” But the gesture would be for Paul’s sake, not his wife’s.

“Why not go to the flower shop on Blossom Street.”

Jacqueline nodded. “I plan to do something else, too.” She prayed it would be enough. She hoped her son realized she was making an effort to accept his wife.

“What?”

“I saw a sign in the window of that new knitting shop. I’m going to register for a knitting class. The sign says the beginning project is a baby blanket.”

Reese so rarely approved of anything she did that the warmth of his smile moved all the way through her.

“I might not like Tammie Lee, but I will be the best grandmother I can.” Someone had to provide the appropriate influences for Paul’s child. Otherwise her grandchild might grow up eating deep-fried pickles. Or going through life as Bubba Donovan …

3
CHAPTER

CAROL GIRARD

Carol Girard had never imagined that getting pregnant could be this difficult. Her mother obviously hadn’t had any trouble; Carol and her brother, Rick, were born two years apart.

Before they were married, Doug and Carol had talked about having a family one day. Because of her high-powered job with a national brokerage firm, he wanted to be sure she was as interested in a family as he was. Doug had asked if she’d be willing to put aside her career for a few years in order to have children. The answer had been an unqualified yes. Babies were a given with her. She’d always pictured herself as a mother, always saw kids as an important part of her life. Doug would be a wonderful father and she was deeply, passionately, in love with her husband. She wanted to have his children.

Heating her lunch in the microwave, Carol glanced around the kitchen of her sixteenth-floor condo overlooking Puget Sound. She’d quit her job only a month ago and she already felt restless and impatient. She’d left the brokerage firm with the sole intention of allowing her body to relax, to unwind from the demands of her routine. Doug had convinced her that job-related stress was the reason she hadn’t conceived, and her obstetrician conceded that it was possible. A barrage of humiliating tests for both her and Doug had revealed that in addition to her age, thirty-seven, she had to contend with something called ASA or antisperm antibodies.

The phone rang and she leapt on it, grabbing the handset before it had a chance to ring twice.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully, eager to talk to anyone, even if it was a sales call.

“Hi, honey. I wondered if you were still at home.”

A momentary panic attacked her. “Am I supposed to be somewhere?”

Doug chuckled. “I thought you said you were going for a walk this afternoon.”

That was something recommended by one of the books they’d read. As a result, Carol had decided she should exercise more, and now that she was home during the day she had plenty of opportunity to spend time outside. This was all part of the program they’d discussed and agreed upon before she’d left her job.

“Right. I was just getting ready to head out.” She eyed the microwave and turned her back on her waiting lunch.

“Carol? Are you okay?”

Her husband recognized her mood, her depression and anxiety. Doug had been right to suggest she quit work. They were both frightened, since there was a very real possibility that she might never carry a pregnancy full-term. It didn’t help that they had one last shot with in vitro fertilization. The insurance company where Doug worked had its headquarters in Illinois, where state law mandated that company health coverage could pay for three attempts; their first two had failed. IVF was the very end of the technological line, the ultimate procedure the fertility clinic had to offer in the quest for a biological child. July would be their last attempt, and after that they were on their own financially. At the start they’d agreed to limit in vitro to the three attempts. If she wasn’t pregnant by then, they’d begin the adoption process. In retrospect, it had been a wise decision. The emotional devastation of the two failures proved she couldn’t endure this process indefinitely. Twice a fertilized egg had been implanted and twice she’d miscarried. No couple should repeatedly face this kind of heartache.

Carol and Doug never mentioned that this third IVF attempt was the end of their hopes, but the fact loomed in their minds. It was vitally important that she get pregnant—and stay pregnant—this time.

Carol was willing to give it everything she had. Willing to forsake the job she loved, willing to be poked and prodded and humiliated. She was willing to withstand all the doubts, confront the emotional highs and lows of their attempts at conception, all for the sake of a baby. Doug’s baby.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I know.” Although she said it flippantly, Carol did know. Doug had been with her through this entire process, through the doctors’ visits, the testing, through the tears, the frustration, the anger and the grief. “One day you’ll hold our child in your arms and we’ll both know that everything was worth it.” They’d already chosen the names. Cameron for a boy and Colleen for a girl. She could clearly see their child, could feel the baby in her arms, and see the joy in her husband’s eyes.

Carol held on to that dream, and the image of a baby in her arms helped her endure the most difficult aspects of the IVF process.

“What time will you be home?” It had never concerned her before, but now she regulated her life by her husband’s comings and goings. His routine shaped her own, and his return from the office was the highlight of her day. Several times each afternoon she checked her watch, calculating how many hours and then minutes until Doug was home.

“Usual time,” he promised.

Her husband of seven years worked as an insurance underwriter. Carol was the one who earned the big bucks in the family. It was her income that had enabled them to make a substantial down payment on the condo. When they got married, her wise and frugal husband had insisted they adjust their lifestyle to live on his income alone. He feared that otherwise they’d come to rely on her salary and defer having a family. They’d waited three years after marrying, not expecting problems, building up their savings. It was a good thing because even with insurance, the cost of infertility treatments was staggering. And now that she wasn’t working …

“Have I mentioned how dreadful daytime television is?” she asked.

“Turn off the TV and go for your walk.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied in military fashion.

Doug laughed. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

“No. It’s just that staying home isn’t anything like I thought.” Life at home wasn’t supposed to be endless hours of boredom, desperately searching for ways to amuse herself until Doug came home. She was used to frequent meetings, adrenaline-fuelled decisions, constant busyness. Being at home alone was a new experience and not one she enjoyed.

“Do you want me to check in with you later?”

“No, I’ll be fine. You’re right, I do need to get outside and it’s a lovely afternoon.” No place on earth was more beautiful than Seattle when the sun was shining. It was a perfect May day and she gazed out at the snow-topped Olympic Mountains in the distance, the blue-green waters of Puget Sound below her.

“See you around five-thirty,” Doug said.

“I’ll be here.” Before Carol had left the brokerage firm, it was Doug who’d arrived home first. Doug who started dinner. Doug who had the local news blaring from the television. Carol didn’t have any trouble adjusting to this role reversal of a role reversal. Right now, it was one of the few interesting things in her life.

She deposited her lunch in the refrigerator and grabbed an apple on her way out the door. They’d lived in the condo four years, and she still didn’t know her neighbors. They were upwardly mobile types just like her and Doug, with both husband and wife working long hours. Only a few had children and the little ones were rushed off to ultra-expensive day-care centers early in the morning.

Carol rode an empty elevator down to the condo foyer and headed out the double glass doors onto the downtown sidewalk. Munching on her apple as she walked swiftly toward the waterfront, she realized that one fear, at any rate, hadn’t come to pass.

All the women in the office had given her dire warnings when they learned she was leaving. The word was that stay-at-home wives and mothers battled constantly with their weight. Being in the kitchen and continually around food made it impossible to maintain a slim waistline, according to her former colleagues. That wasn’t a problem for Carol. Never in her life had she eaten more healthfully. Diet was all part of her new regime and she’d maintained her size 8 figure without difficulty.

A cool breeze blew off the water as she strolled along her usual route. Then on a whim she headed east, climbing toward Pill Hill, where Virginia Mason Hospital and Swedish Hospital were situated. She was breathing hard as she made it up the steep incline and continued slowly for several blocks, looking around at the unfamiliar neighborhood, until she came to Blossom Street.

A number of buildings were being renovated. The street was blocked off, but the sidewalk was accessible. The work on one side of the street seemed to be completed, with freshly painted storefronts and a green-and-white awning over the florist’s shop. Tulips and lilies were arranged in buckets outside the front door.

Despite the clang and racket of construction, Carol ventured down the street. A video store and a depressing brick apartment building sat at the far end of the block and a restaurant called Annie’s Café was across the street. The contrast between the old and the new was striking. The unrenovated portion of the street resembled a quaint small town with friendly merchants straight out of a 1960s television series. Granted, some of the buildings were a bit shabby, but they seemed welcoming nonetheless. It was hard to tell that Blossom Street was less than a mile from the heart of downtown Seattle with its high-rises and congested streets.

Next to the florist was another surprise: a yarn store. The shop was new, judging by the computer-lettered “Grand Opening” sign. A woman, probably close to her own age, sat in a rocking chair inside, her hands busy with a pair of needles. A large ball of lime-green yarn rested on her lap.

Because she had nothing better to do, Carol walked through the door, setting off a pleasant chime. “Hello,” she said, doing her best to sound cheerful and interested. She wasn’t sure what drew her into the shop, since she didn’t knit and had never been particularly keen on crafts.

The petite woman greeted her with a shy smile. “Hello and welcome to A Good Yarn.”

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

The proprietor nodded. “I opened yesterday, and you’re my first customer this afternoon.” She laughed softly. “First customer today,” she corrected.

“What are you knitting?” Carol asked, feeling slightly guilty because she wasn’t a customer at all.

“A sweater for my niece.” She reached for her project and held it up for Carol to examine.

The colors, lime-green, orange and turquoise, immediately brought a smile to Carol’s face. “That’s so cute.”

“Do you knit?”

The question was inevitable. “No, but I’d like to learn someday.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. I have a beginners’ class starting next Friday. If you register for the class you get a twenty-percent discount on your yarn purchases.”

“Sorry. I don’t think I’d be any good at knitting.” Carol felt genuinely regretful, but she wasn’t the sort of woman who was comfortable doing things with her hands. Calculating compound interest and figuring annuities, investments and mutual funds—that was where her skills lay.

“You won’t know if you don’t try. I’m Lydia, by the way.”

“Carol.” She offered her hand, and Lydia put down her knitting to clasp it warmly. Lydia was petite and small-boned, her dark hair worn short. Her brown eyes shone with intelligence, and Carol liked her right away.

“I’m starting the class with a simple project,” Lydia continued.

“It would have to be really simple if I were to take up knitting.”

“I thought I’d have everyone work on a baby blanket.”

Carol froze and tears sprang instantly to her eyes. She turned away before Lydia noticed. Under normal circumstances she wasn’t a volatile person, but with the hormone shots, her emotions seemed out of control. This was too weird, though, too much of a coincidence.

“Perhaps I will sign up for the class, after all,” she said, fingering a ball of bright yellow yarn.

“That would be wonderful.” Lydia walked over to the counter and brought out a clipboard.

These days, Carol looked everywhere for signs and portents, and she had frequent conversations with God. Without a doubt she knew she’d been sent to this shop. It was His way of letting her know He was about to answer her prayers. When she went in for the fertilization process this third and final time, she would be successful. In the not-too-distant future she was going to need a baby blanket for her child.

4
CHAPTER

ALIX TOWNSEND

Alix Townsend smashed her cigarette butt into the cracked concrete sidewalk with the toe of her knee-high black combat boots. The manager of Blossom Street Video frowned on employees smoking in the break room and rather than put up with his snide comments, she chose to smoke outside. The man was a prick, anyway, constantly complaining about the staff, the economy and life in general.

Lloyd Fund was right about one thing, though—all this construction was killing business. Alix figured it was only a matter of time before she got her RIF notice, followed by word that her apartment building had been sold. It was inevitable with all the changes taking place in the neighborhood. Either that or she was in for a big rent hike. Thanks a lot, Mr. Mayor.

She burrowed her hands in her black leather jacket and glared down the street at the dust and debris. She wore the leather coat rain or shine, summer or winter. This jacket had cost her big time, and she wasn’t taking it off so someone could conveniently walk away with it. Someone like her roommate, the overweight Laurel, although it was doubtful anything Alix owned would fit her. Leaning against the building, knee bent, one foot braced against the wall, she concentrated on the other side of the street.

All the storefronts were newly painted. The new florist shop had already opened, as well as a beauty parlor. Those were a real boon to the neighborhood—as if she had use for either one. The shop situated between them remained something of a mystery. A Good Yarn. Either it was a bookstore or a knitting shop. In this neighborhood neither would last long, she suspected. On closer inspection she decided it was a yarn store. The people who lived in her building weren’t exactly the type who got off on a ball of yarn.

A knitting shop did bring up an interesting prospect, though. With another five minutes left of her break, Alix crossed the street. She peered through the window and saw a handmade sign offering knitting classes. If she started knitting, it would get the court off her back. Maybe she could do something about those community-service hours Judge Roper had thrown at her.

“Hi,” Alix said, letting her voice boom when she walked in the front door. She liked making an entrance.

“Hello.”

The proprietor was a dainty woman, fragile-looking with large brown eyes and a ready smile.

“You own this shop?” Alix asked, giving the other woman a cool glance. She couldn’t be much older than Alix.

“This is my shop.” She rose from her rocking chair. “How can I help you?”

“I want to know about that knitting class.” Her case worker had once suggested knitting as a means of anger management. Maybe it would work. And if it allowed her to meet her community-service obligations at the same time …

“What can I tell you?”

Slowly Alix walked around the shop, her hands shoved inside her pockets. She’d bet this knitting lady didn’t get many customers like her. Recently a notice in the courthouse had caught Alix’s attention—all about homemade quilts and blankets for kids who’d suffered domestic violence. “You ever heard of the Linus Project?” she asked, thinking this yarn lady probably hadn’t stepped inside a courtroom in her lifetime.

“Of course.” The woman joined her hands and followed Alix as if she was afraid Alix might try to lift some yarn. “It’s a police-instigated project that involves knitting blankets for children who are the victims of violence.”

Alix shrugged it off as if it were merely a passing thought. “That’s what I heard.”

“I’m Lydia, by the way.”

“Alix, spelled A-L-I-X.” She hadn’t expected to get on a first-name basis with the woman, but that was all right.

“Hello, Alix, and welcome to A Good Yarn. Are you interested in knitting for the Linus Project?”

“Well …” Her thoughts on the subject had been pretty vague. “I might be if I knew how to knit,” she finally muttered.

“That’s what the classes are for.”

Alix gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’m sure I wouldn’t be any good at knitting.”

“Would you like to learn? It isn’t difficult.”

She snorted, making an intentionally derisive sound. The truth was, Alix didn’t really know why she was here. Perhaps it was because of something from her childhood, some remembered moment or feeling. Her early years were blocked from her mind. Those court-appointed doctors had said she suffered from childhood amnesia. Whatever. Every now and then a fleeting memory flashed through her mind. Most of the time she didn’t know what had really happened and what hadn’t. What she did remember was that her parents had fought a great deal. An argument would break out and Alix would hide in her bedroom closet. With the door shut and her eyes closed, she managed to convince herself there was no yelling and no violence. In that closet she had another family, one from an imaginary world where mothers and fathers loved each other and didn’t scream or beat each other up. Her imaginary world had a real home where half the refrigerator wasn’t filled with beer and there were cookies and milk waiting for her when she got home from school. Through the years, fantasy had played as great a role in Alix’s memory as reality did. One thing she recalled in vivid detail was that this fantasy mother who loved her used to knit.

Alix escaped into that closet quite often as a kid….

“I have a beginners’ class starting next Friday afternoon if you’d like to join.”

The words shook her from her reverie. Alix grinned. “You honestly think you could teach someone like me to knit?”

“Of course I do,” Lydia returned without a pause. “I’ve taught lots of people and there are only two women signed up for the class, so I could give you plenty of attention.”

“I’m left-handed.”

“That’s not a problem.”

The lady must be desperate for a sale. Excuses were easy enough to supply and eventually Lydia would give up on her. As for learning to knit, she didn’t have money to blow on yarn.

“What about knitting a blanket for the Linus Project, like you mentioned?” Lydia asked.

Alix had walked right into that one.

Lydia kept on talking. “I’ve knit several blankets for the Linus Project myself,” she said.

“You have?” So this woman had a heart.

Lydia nodded. “There are only so many people to knit for, and it’s a worthy cause.”

People to knit for … The mother in the closet knit. She sang songs to Alix and smelled of lavender and flowers. Alix had wanted to be like that mother one day. However, the path she’d followed had led her in a different direction. Perhaps this knitting class was something she could—should—do.

“I guess I could try,” she said, jerking one shoulder. If Laurel found out about this, Alix would be the subject of a lot of jokes, but so what? She’d been ridiculed most of her life for one reason or another.

Lydia smiled warmly. “That’s wonderful.”

“If the blanket for the Linus Project doesn’t turn out, then it really doesn’t matter. It isn’t like anyone’ll know I was the one who knit it.”

Lydia’s smile slowly faded. “You’ll know, Alix, and that’s the important thing.”

“Yes, but … well, I’m thinking your class could serve a dual purpose.” That sounded good, Alix thought, pleased with herself. “I could learn to knit, and the time it takes me to finish the blanket will use up some of the hours I owe.”

“You owe someone hours?”

“Judge Roper gave me a hundred hours of community service for a bogus drug bust. I didn’t do it! I’m not stupid and he knows it.” Her hands involuntarily clenched. She still felt upset about that charge, because the marijuana had belonged to Laurel. “Doing drugs is stupid.” She paused, then blurted out, “My brother’s dead because of drugs. I’m not interested in giving up on life just yet.”

Lydia straightened. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You’d like to sign up for the knitting class and give the blanket to the Linus Project?”

“Yeah.”

“And the time it takes you to knit this blanket—” she hesitated briefly “—you want to use against your court-ordered community-service hours?”

Alix detected a bit of attitude on Lydia’s part, but when it came to attitude, she had plenty of her own to spare. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Lydia hesitated. “Not really, as long as you’re respectful to me and the other class members.”

“Sure. Fine.” Alix glanced down at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. If you need me for anything, I’m almost always at the video store.”

“Okay.” All of a sudden Lydia didn’t sound as confident as she had before.

The video store was busy when Alix returned, and she hurried behind the counter.

“What took you so long?” Laurel demanded. “Fund asked where you were and I told him you’d stepped into the ladies’ room.”

“Sorry, I went outside for a cigarette.” According to the labor laws, she was entitled to a fifteen-minute break.

“Did you meet any of the construction guys?”

Alix shook her head as she moved over to the cash register. “Not a one. Four o’clock, and those guys are out of here faster than Seabiscuit.”

“We got to get ourselves a union,” Laurel whispered.

“Benefits.” Alix knew she was back in that dream world again. One day she’d find a job that paid more than minimum wage. It would be nice to have an apartment all to herself and not share it with Laurel. Laurel lived on the edge and was in danger of slipping off entirely. Alix’s biggest fear was that when Laurel went, she’d take Alix with her.

5
CHAPTER

“If you can knit, purl and follow instructions, you can make anything.”

—Linda Johnson, Linda’s Knit ‘N’ Stitch, Silverdale, Washington

LYDIA HOFFMAN

I was afraid Margaret could be right and A Good Yarn would fail before it even had a chance to get off the ground. So far, only three women had signed up for the knitting class and Alix, the latest one to enroll, looked like a felon. I couldn’t imagine how Jacqueline and Carol would react to a classmate who sported a dog collar and wore her hair in purple-tinged spikes. I’d encouraged Alix to join, and then the moment she left the store I wondered if I’d done the right thing. What was I thinking? What was I thinking?

The construction noise wasn’t quite as disruptive now, which was a relief, but that hadn’t brought any more customers into the shop. On a positive note, I hadn’t had this much uninterrupted knitting time in months. I should’ve been counting my blessings, I suppose, but I was too worried about the lack of walk-in traffic.

Every knowledgeable person I’ve talked to about opening the store suggested I have enough money in the bank to pay for a minimum of six months’ expenses. I do, but I hope and pray I’ll be able to keep at least part of my inheritance intact. Now that I’ve actually taken the risk, I feel bombarded with second thoughts and fears.

Margaret always does that to me. I wish I understood my sister. Some days I think she hates me. A part of me recognizes what the problem is: I was the one who got all of Mom and Dad’s attention, but I needed them. I refuse to believe that my sister would seriously think I was so hungry for attention that I wished the cancer upon myself.

Even more than Margaret resented me, I resented the cancer. I longed to be healthy and normal. I still live my life standing directly under a thundercloud, fearing lightning will strike again. Surely my one and only sibling can appreciate my circumstances and support my efforts to support myself!

On Wednesday morning, I was knitting a pair of socks for display, my concentration focused on shaping the gusset, when the bell above the door chimed. Thrilled at the prospect of a customer—and potential class member—I stood with a welcoming smile.

“Hello, there.” The UPS driver walked into the shop, wheeling his cart stacked five high with large cardboard boxes. “Since I’m going to be making regular deliveries to the neighborhood, I thought I should introduce myself.” He released the cart and thrust out his hand. “Brad Goetz.”

“I’m Lydia Hoffman.” We shook hands.

He passed me the computerized clipboard for my signature. “How’s it going?” Brad asked as I signed my name.

“It’s only my second week.” I bypassed his question rather than confess how poor business actually was.

“The construction will be finished soon, and customers will flock to your store.” He smiled as he said it and I felt instantly grateful and—shocking as this sounds—attracted, too. I was so starved for encouragement that it was only natural, I suppose, but I was drawn to him like a bird to the sky. I hadn’t felt that particular tug in a very long while. Shamelessly, I glanced at his ring finger and saw that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

This is embarrassing to admit, but my sexual experience is limited to a few groping attempts at lovemaking in the back seat of my college boyfriend’s car. Then the cancer returned. Roger was with me for the second brain surgery, but his calls and visits stopped shortly after I started chemotherapy and lost all my hair. Bald women apparently weren’t attractive, although he claimed otherwise. I think it had more to do with the fact that he saw me as a losing proposition, a woman who could die at any time. A woman who couldn’t repay his emotional investment. Roger was a business student, after all.

Brian had been my high school boyfriend and his reaction was the same as Roger’s. He hung around for a while, too, and then drifted away. I didn’t really blame either one.

My breakups with Roger and Brian, if you could even call them that, were inevitable. A few short relationships followed after Roger, but no one worth mentioning. After my earlier experiences, I should’ve realized that most men aren’t romantically interested in a two-time cancer patient. Without sounding like a martyr, I understand how they feel. Why get emotionally involved with a woman who’s probably going to die? I don’t even know if I can have children or if I should. It’s a subject I prefer not to think about.

“My grandmother used to knit,” Brad said. “I hear interest in it’s been revived in the last couple of years.”

Longer, although I didn’t correct him. Damn, but he was good-looking, especially when he smiled, and he seemed to be doing a lot of that. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, eyes a woman could see a block away. He wasn’t overly tall, which was nice. I’m barely five foot three, and when I stand next to someone who’s six feet or taller, it’s intimidating. Brad was just right and that was the problem. I didn’t want to notice anything about him, about the boyish, charming way his dark hair fell over his forehead or how the dark-brown uniform stretched across his broad shoulders. But I did notice all those things … and more.

“What are you knitting?” he asked, gesturing down at my current project. He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Looks like socks.”

“They are.”

“But you’re only using two needles. When Grandma knit socks, she had maybe half a dozen.”

“These are circular needles. It’s a more modern method,” I explained, holding up the half-completed project for his inspection. He seemed interested and I continued chattering away, giving him far more information than he probably wanted. “Until only a few years ago, socks were knit using the five-needles method. But now it’s possible to knit them on two circular needles, or even one except that it’s forty inches long. Notice the yarn, too,” I blathered on. “I haven’t changed colors to make these stripes. The striped pattern is in the yarn itself.”

He touched the strand of yarn and seemed genuinely impressed. “Have you been knitting long?”

“For almost ten years.”

“You don’t look old enough to be out of high school, let alone open a yarn store.”

That was a comment I’ve heard far too often. I smiled in an offhand manner, but the truth is, I don’t consider it a compliment.

“I guess I’d better get back to work,” Brad said when I let the conversation drop. I wouldn’t have minded exchanging pleasantries for another few minutes, but I was sure he was on a schedule. So was I, in a manner of speaking. Besides, I never was much good at flirting.

“Before I go, can I help you put these boxes someplace? They’re heavier than they look.”

“I’ll manage, but thank you.” Distracted as I was by Brad’s friendly visit, I’d hardly noticed he was delivering new yarn. One of the delights of opening my own shop was being able to buy yarn at wholesale prices. Unsure of what would interest my clientele, I’d ordered a number of different varieties. My first order was for good solid wool in two dozen colors. Wool is a must, especially with the popularity of felting. That’s where the pattern is knit in a bigger size and then shrunk in hot water, which also mats the yarn, creating a consistency like felt. Next came the cotton yarns; they’re some of my favorites. The fingering weight yarns have become increasingly popular, too, as well as the imported European sock yarns. The yarns most in demand, I thought, would be the blends of wool and acrylic, so I’d ordered all the basic colors, as well as the colors that were, according to my knitting magazines, this year’s trends. Most of my shipments had arrived before I opened my doors but the smaller orders were dribbling in day by day.

“Do you live in the neighborhood?” Brad asked as he tucked the clipboard under his arm and reached for his empty cart.

“I have the apartment above the shop.”

“That’s good, because parking around here is a headache.”

As if I didn’t already know that. I wondered where he’d left his truck and supposed it must be quite a distance away. Any customers I was bound to attract would need to find parking a block or two down the street, and I worried that many people wouldn’t be willing to go to that trouble. The alleyway behind the store was open, but it wasn’t the kind of place I wanted to be caught alone, day or night.

“Thank you, Brad,” I said as he opened the door.

He gave a cheery wave and was gone. It seemed for a moment as if all the sunshine had left the room. I recognized that feeling for what it was: regret verging on misery. This wasn’t the time or the place, I told myself sternly. If I’m going to wallow in self-pity I want to make sure I’ve got an Eric Clapton CD playing and a sad movie or two in reserve. Ice cream is always a help, but only if it’s a really bad case.

There was nothing stopping me from getting involved in a relationship. Nothing except my own fears. Good grief, I’m thirty years old. Okay, here’s the truth. I don’t want to risk falling in love when in all likelihood the relationship will end. I’ve tried several times and as soon as I admit I’ve had cancer not once, but twice, I can see it in their eyes. I hate that look the most. The wary look that’s a mixture of pity and regret, of disappointment and sympathy.

Often the change in attitude is immediate, and I know it won’t be long before the relationship that once seemed so promising falls apart and dies. And with it my hopes for what women have always cherished—a husband and children. A family of my own.

I know I sound terribly sorry for myself. I’ll admit that I struggle with the subject of men and relationships. Even my girlfriends sometimes act uncomfortable around me. I do my best not to think about it. I have so much for which to be grateful, and for the sake of my sanity, I choose to concentrate on those things.

To put it simply, I don’t handle relationships well. That wasn’t always the case. BC (before cancer), I’d been popular and outgoing, with lots of friends, boys and girls. All the boys in my life eventually bailed. Actually I’d come to expect that, but I was the one who pushed my female friends away. It was foolish, I know, but I couldn’t stand to hear about all the fun they were having. In retrospect I realize I was jealous. I so desperately wanted to be like them, to laugh and stay up all night talking and confiding secrets. To go out on dates. Discover life. Instead, my daily routine consisted of doctors and hospitals and experimental drugs. I’ve never recaptured what cancer took away from me. The point is, I don’t have close friends, and now that I’m thirty, I’m afraid I’ve lost the knack for making them.

I shoved Brad Goetz out of my mind.

I’d just started to unpack the boxes and sort through my treasure of yarns when I saw a flash of brown uniform in my display window. Despite my earlier determination, I craned my neck, hoping for a glimpse of Brad. I wasn’t disappointed as he flung open the door and hurried inside.

“Lydia, are you doing anything after work tonight?”

To my utter astonishment, my mouth went dry. “Doing anything?” I repeated.

“I know it’s last-minute and all, but can I take you to dinner?”

Again I faltered, trapped between the yearning to leap at his invitation and the knowledge that, in the end, I’d be left with nothing but raw feelings and regrets.

“Sorry,” I said, hoping I conveyed just the right tone, “but I’ve got plans this evening.” I didn’t mention that it was finishing the gusset on the sock, but that was information he didn’t need.

“What about tomorrow? My ex has my son for the next two nights and I thought, you know, that we might get together and—”

Before I could give in to temptation, I shook my head. “Sorry, I can’t.”

Brad’s smile faded. It probably wasn’t often that a woman turned him down. “See you around, then.”

“Yes,” I whispered as my fingers crushed a bright yellow ball of worsted yarn. “See you around.”

6
CHAPTER

JACQUELINE DONOVAN

Leaning back in her bubble-filled tub, Jacqueline glanced up from the latest best-selling murder mystery at the sound of the front door opening.

Reese didn’t generally arrive home on Tuesdays until long after she’d turned in for the night. For a while, his absence, followed by endless conjecture regarding his whereabouts, had profoundly distressed her. The subject of a mistress wasn’t one a wife discussed openly with her husband, so Jacqueline’s speculation had run rampant. Years ago, she’d accepted that her husband had another woman. More than one so-called friend had delighted in letting her know that Reese had been seen with some blonde. A careful inspection of their cancelled checks and credit card receipts had confirmed it.

A blonde. Men were so predictable.

Jacqueline had turned her head the other way and pretended all was right in her marriage and her life. That didn’t mean this blonde-on-the-side didn’t hurt. The pain of Reese’s betrayal cut deep, but Jacqueline was mature enough not to dwell on such unpleasantness. Lord knew her husband hadn’t come to her bed in years. As far as she was concerned, his mistress was welcome to him.

To be fair, separate bedrooms had been by mutual agreement. Early on in their marriage she’d produced the requisite offspring and following a respectable two-year span they’d tried for another child. But after two late miscarriages and the subsequent depressions, Jacqueline had given up hope.

All too soon Paul was no longer a boy. Almost overnight, it seemed, he was ready for college. When their son moved into a dorm room, Jacqueline had casually suggested Reese take advantage of the extra bedroom. The very next day, he’d moved his things into the other room. She’d been a little chagrined at the promptness of his action, but relieved, too.

Frankly she’d come to look upon sex as an intrusion. All that sweating and heaving and grinding while she did her best to pretend she was interested—it was just plain silly. Oh, the lovemaking had been pleasant and even enjoyable, especially in the beginning and then for a while after Paul. She was sure it would’ve been different if she’d been able to carry a second pregnancy to term. Jacqueline had wanted a daughter, but that was never to be. With the perspective of the last twenty years, she understood that her lack of interest in sex was due to anxiety or perhaps guilt. Still, it didn’t matter now. And she had no intention of visiting the doctors with couches in their offices to find out.

Not having a daughter was one of Jacqueline’s lifelong regrets. Reese had told her years ago, when she was feeling particularly depressed, that she’d have her daughter when Paul got married. And that was supposed to be a comfort!

Involuntarily, Jacqueline cringed. Tammie Lee was so far removed from what any daughter of hers would be that it wasn’t worth contemplating.

“Jacquie, are you home?” Reese shouted from the hallway leading to their respective bedrooms.

“I’m taking a bath,” she called back, setting the book aside. It was barely after seven; perhaps his interest in the other woman had waned. The scented water and bubbles sloshed as she stood up. On second thought, maybe something was wrong, but she couldn’t imagine what. She reached for a thick oversized towel from the heated rack. “Is everything all right?”

Reese knocked briefly on the bathroom door and, without waiting for her to respond, walked inside. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of her, breathless and rosy from the hot water, with a towel wrapped around her.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, flustered that he’d walked in on her practically nude. At one time, her body had been sleek and lovely, but the years had taken their toll. Her stomach sagged and her breasts were those of a woman in her fifties. She pulled the towel more securely about her.

“Are you kicking me out of the bathroom, too?”

“I’d appreciate my privacy.”

His eyes seemed to go cold for a moment before a blank look slid into place. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes when you’re available.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

Reese backed out of the room and closed the door.

As Jacqueline stepped out of the tub, she realized she was trembling. She rested one hand on the counter to steady herself, and drew in a deep, calming breath while she gathered her wits. She dried off, then slipped into her satin nightgown and matching robe. She cinched it tightly about her waist and paused in an effort to still her pounding heart before seeking out her husband.

Jacqueline found Reese in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator. He removed a take-out container she’d brought home from lunch two days earlier. She rarely cooked anymore, especially since Martha, their housekeeper, was more than willing to assume the task. Jacqueline had her own commitments and no longer bothered with meal preparation. Reese usually ate alone because he tended to stay late at the office. Or so he said.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he lifted the lid and examined what remained of her Caesar salad with shrimp. Apparently it didn’t suit him because he closed it again and stuck the container back in the refrigerator. “Do we have any eggs?”

“I think so,” she said, stepping between him and the refrigerator door. “Would you like me to make you an omelet?”

“Would you?” He acted surprised that she’d offered.

Irritated, Jacqueline took the egg carton from the door and grabbed a cube of Monterey Jack cheese.

“What are you doing home?” she asked. If she was going to cook for him, the least Reese could do was answer her questions.

He perched on the bar stool and watched as she chose a small frying pan and set it on the burner. “Do we have any mushrooms?”

“No. Now answer my question.”

Reese sighed laboriously.

“Fine. Don’t tell me,” she muttered and turned away. Rummaging in the vegetable bin, she located a useable green pepper, half an onion and a questionable-looking zucchini, which she deftly tossed in the garbage.

“You sent Paul and Tammie Lee a floral bouquet, didn’t you?”

“I told you I would,” she said irritably. She wasn’t accustomed to explaining her actions to her husband. Since when was she accountable to Reese? And she hated the way he’d been nagging her about their daughter-in-law.

“Did you hear from Paul?”

Jacqueline pinched her lips to hide her displeasure. “No, but Tammie Lee phoned to thank us for the roses,” she answered with bad grace. Actually Tammie Lee had gushed with appreciation and chattered on as if she’d never seen a dozen roses before.

“Is that all she said?”

“Should she have said more?” she snapped. Jacqueline resented this inquisition, and she wanted him to know it.

Reese glanced away. “I have no idea. You were the one who spoke to her.”

“She informed me that she’s thrilled about being pregnant. According to her, the pregnancy was a surprise.” Jacqueline could hardly wait to hear what her country-club friends said when they learned Tammie Lee was expecting. Everyone knew her feelings toward her daughter-in-law and her hope that Paul would recognize his mistake.

“I think she did it on purpose.” Jacqueline bristled just saying it. Tammie Lee knew exactly what she was doing. This baby was no more an accident than Pearl Harbor had been.

“It’s Paul’s life.”

“Do we need to keep having the same conversation?” The pan was hot and she cut off a small slice of butter and let it melt before tossing in the chopped vegetables. Taking her frustration out on the eggs, she cracked their shells against the side of the bowl and beat three eggs into a frothy foam.

“Did you sign up for the knitting class?”

Reese was certainly full of questions, and she concentrated on her task rather than respond. It didn’t escape her notice that he was close-mouthed about the details of his own life. She wondered how he’d feel if she started asking him questions. Like why he happened to be home at this time of night when he was supposed to be with his mistress. Or why he was suddenly so curious about what Jacqueline was doing. She decided not to answer.

Jacqueline half expected Reese to be angry at her lack of response. Instead he laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. I can’t imagine you with a pair of knitting needles.”

She decided to let that remark pass. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’d annoyed her.

“You don’t look like any grandma I’ve ever seen—especially in the bathtub just now, all pink and pretty.”

Again Jacqueline let his comment slide. She poured the beaten eggs on the semi-cooked vegetables and added a heaping handful of grated cheese. With practiced ease she loosened the edges of omelet and flipped it over. When the eggs had cooked the way she knew Reese liked them, she slipped the omelet onto a plate and handed it to her husband.

Reese’s eyes lit up appreciatively.

“You never did say why you’re home this early.” He’d already refused to answer her once and she wondered if he would again.

“I was hungry,” he said simply and dug into the eggs and cheese.

Whatever had really happened, Reese obviously didn’t plan to tell her. She watched him a moment and then said, “I’m going to bed to read.”

Setting the dirty pan into the kitchen sink for Martha to wash in the morning, she left the kitchen.

Reese didn’t say anything until she was halfway out of the room. “Jacquie.”

“What is it?” she asked in a resigned tone.

“Thanks for making me dinner.”

She sighed audibly and slowly shook her head. “You’re welcome.” With that she walked into her bedroom. She took off the robe and sat on the edge of the queen-size bed piled high with decorative pillows, running her hand over the lacy cover. Turning aside the down comforter, she slid beneath the cool sheets and arranged her pillows so she could sit up and read.

In the distance she heard Reese rinse off his plate and put it in the dishwasher. Soon afterward the television in the den went on; just when she was about to complain, he lowered the volume.

Jacqueline read for about ten minutes—until tears unaccountably blurred her vision. She didn’t understand why she was crying. Leaning across the bed to the night-stand, she plucked a tissue from the decorative box.

It was because everything was happening at once, she decided. This untimely pregnancy, and then Paul and their angry exchange the day before, followed by Reese’s unexpected arrival tonight. Her life was a shambles. She’d be the laughingstock of her friends, she thought bitterly. Mrs. Donovan with her white-trash daughter-in-law. Her pregnant daughter-in-law, her love-struck fool of a son and her straying husband.

Still, she was determined to prove to Reese and Paul that she’d be a good grandmother if it killed her.

7
CHAPTER

CAROL GIRARD

Carol was in a hopeful mood as she prepared dinner on Thursday evening. Doug was due home any minute and she was full of news. Cutting a chicken breast into bite-size pieces, she poured soy sauce over the uncooked meat to marinate for his favorite stir-fry.

She smiled when the door opened and her husband entered the condo. “Hi, honey,” he said as he hung up his suit jacket, then joined her in the kitchen. Carol immediately turned into his arms and enthusiastically brought her lips to his. The kiss was long and involved, revealing her eagerness for lovemaking.

“To what do I owe this greeting?” Doug asked, leaning back far enough to take a slow, lingering look at her.

“I had a marvelous day.”

“Tell me what you did,” he said. He loosened his grip on her waist and began to examine the mail, which she’d placed on the kitchen table.

“After you left for work I went for another walk to that yarn store I found on Tuesday. Lydia said it wasn’t necessary until our class tomorrow, but I picked out the needles and yarn for the baby blanket. Just wait till I show you the picture! It’s so cute!” Carol rushed into the other room and produced a pattern and a ball of off-white yarn. “Isn’t this just perfect?”

Doug stared at the yarn as if he wondered how she could possibly get this excited over something so mundane.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “Doug, we’re going to have a baby! I feel so confident. This time everything will be different. Earlier in the week I was thinking I can’t endure this agony anymore. Everything’s been so hard. But all at once I have hope, real hope. Oh, Doug, Doug, we’re going to have a baby.”

She could see that some of her fervor was finally touching him. “A baby,” she repeated, her voice quavering with emotion. She reached for his free hand and pressed his palm against her flat stomach.

Doug’s gaze held hers, desire warming his eyes. He dropped the mail on the floor and wrapped her in his arms. Their kisses were passionate, luxurious. After several minutes of escalating excitement, he drew back slightly and caught her lower lip between his teeth. Familiar with her husband’s wants and needs, Carol slowly undulated her hips, stroking his arousal. She murmured words of encouragement, whispered lewd promises for him alone.

Doug moaned softly and kissed her again. “You know what you do to me when you talk like this.”

“I know what you do to me,” she countered.

He had her blouse unfastened and half off her shoulders when they stumbled into the living room. Arms entwined, they fell onto the sofa, giggling and eager now to finish what they’d started.

“We’ve been married too long for this kind of crazy sex,” Doug said as he jerked off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Are you saying you want to wait until later?”

“No,” he growled.

Carol didn’t either. This spontaneity was in stark contrast to the scheduled lovemaking that had become their norm. What had once been impulsive and natural was now as routine, as prosaic, as a doctor’s appointment. Their focus was on timing, on the effort to match her ovulation cycle, their purpose to achieve conception. Now, for the first time in years, their lovemaking was liberated—and liberating. Once he’d dispensed with his suit pants and Carol her slacks, she lay back on the sofa and stretched out her arms to welcome her husband.

Doug lowered himself onto her and Carol closed her eyes at the exquisite sensation as his body linked with hers. This was the way lovemaking was supposed to be. She’d nearly forgotten what it was like to feel this urgency. Their purpose was love and hope, and they were drunk on their need for each other.

With Carol’s arms around Doug’s neck, her fingers delved into his dark hair. She whimpered and arched to meet each thrust and gave herself over to the warmth and the joy of their lovemaking.

They held each other for a long time afterward, savoring each moment. Neither spoke, afraid, she guessed, to disrupt the peace of this joining of bodies and souls. Their coupling was an affirmation of their deep-rooted love, of their commitment and their unwavering belief that one day they would be parents. Carol was sure. She’d been convinced of it the day she’d walked into the yarn store and learned the project for the beginners’ class was a baby blanket. It was a sign.

After a while, Doug lifted his head and kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

Sated and content, she smiled up at her husband. “I love you, too. I think little Cameron’s going to be very happy with his daddy.”

“Little Colleen, you mean.”

“We could have twins, you know.”

“Good, the more the merrier.”

They continued to gaze at each other until it was too uncomfortable to remain in the same position. After dressing and straightening her blouse, Carol picked up the yarn. Just holding it brought her comfort. She’d knit this baby blanket and with each stitch, each row, her unborn child would feel her love.

The phone rang after dinner while Carol was putting their plates and cutlery into the dishwasher. Doug sat in front of the television, half listening to the news and reading the paper. He lowered the sports pages and saw that Carol had answered the phone in the kitchen.

Caller ID told Carol it was her brother, Rick, a pilot for Alaska Airlines, calling from his cell phone. He was based in Juneau, Alaska, where his ex-wife, Ellie, lived, too. Rick’s schedule often brought him to Seattle, but he rarely had time to see her.

“Hello, big brother,” Carol said, her happiness evident in her voice.

“Carol, you sound wonderful. Are you …?” He hesitated, but Carol knew what he was asking.

“Not yet. Doug and I are working on it, though—all hours of the day and night.” She tossed her husband a saucy look, but he was reading his paper and didn’t notice. “How long are you in town?”

“Tonight and tomorrow this time around. I fly out in the late afternoon. Any chance we can get together? Not necessarily this trip, if that doesn’t work for you, but soon.”

Carol immediately checked the calendar. “I’d love to.” His invitations were few and far between, and she’d make whatever adjustments were necessary to accommodate her brother. “What about breakfast?”

“You know I’m not much of a morning person.”

Carol did remember the trouble her brother had always had getting up for school. “That’s true,” she said.

“What are you doing these days?” he asked conversationally.

“Not much. Doug and I go to the gym three mornings a week and tomorrow afternoon I’m starting a knitting class.”

“Knitting? You?”

“Yes, and if you treat me right, once I learn I’ll knit you a sweater.”

“One of those Irish ones with all the intricate cables?”

“Ah … I was thinking more along the lines of a simple cardigan with raglan sleeves.”

Her brother chuckled. “I can’t imagine my sister, who managed two-hundred-million dollars’ worth of mutual funds, with a pair of knitting needles in her hands.”

“Well, imagine it, because it’s happening.” She wondered whether he had something on his mind. “Any particular reason you want to see me?”

Rick didn’t answer right away. “It’s been a while since we talked,” he said. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to catch up. That’s all.”

“That would be great. It doesn’t sound as if tomorrow’s going to work out. When are you in town next?” She heard pages flipping in the background as Rick checked his work schedule. “Why don’t you come here for dinner?” she suggested.

“I’ll be back next week. Does that suit you and Doug?” He gave her the date and Carol wrote it on the wall calendar. With the pencil still in her hand, she paused. While it wasn’t unusual for her brother to call, he didn’t often pursue the issue of their getting together.

“Is everything okay, Rick?” He’d been divorced for more than a year now and although he spoke about it matter-of-factly, even dismissively, Carol suspected the breakup had caused him a lot of pain. She didn’t know the exact reasons Ellie had filed for divorce, but Carol figured it had to do with Rick’s career. It couldn’t be easy to maintain a relationship with a husband who was away from home so much. At one time Ellie had hinted he was unfaithful, but Carol refused to believe it. Her brother wouldn’t cheat on his wife. He just wouldn’t.

“Well … sort of okay, but I don’t want to go into it now. There’s nothing for you to worry about,” he added, clearing his throat. “We’ll have dinner next week and talk then.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Carol told him. “Have you seen Mom and Dad lately?” she asked.

“I was in Portland last weekend and they’re fit as ever.”

“Great.”

Carol and her brother made polite conversation for a few more minutes. She frowned as she replaced the receiver, curious about Rick’s problem, whatever it was.

“That was Rick?” Doug asked from the living room.

“We’re having dinner with him next week.”

“We haven’t seen him in a while, have we?”

Carol wandered into the other room and sat on the arm of Doug’s chair.

He glanced up at her. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “I wish I knew, but something’s going on with my brother.” Resting her arm along the back of the chair, Carol leaned down and kissed the top of Doug’s head. “Promise you’ll always love me,” she whispered.

“I already did,” he said and raised his left hand to show her his wedding ring. “I’m yours, whether you want me or not.”

Carol relaxed against her husband’s shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do at this moment.”

“Those are words a husband likes to hear,” he said, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling Carol into his lap. She nestled in his arms, grateful to her brother who’d introduced her to Doug, and to her husband for his love. Still, Rick’s call bothered her and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong. He might tell her not to worry, but how could she help it?

8
CHAPTER

ALIX TOWNSEND

Alix regretted signing up for the knitting class, but it was too late now. As soon as she’d received her weekly paycheck, she’d returned to A Good Yarn and paid for the class. She’d acted impulsively; it was stupid to throw away good money on a useless knitting class. The more she thought about it, the more annoyed she felt. She’d gotten suckered by some childhood fantasy of the perfect mother. Well, Alix had a mother and she was far from perfect.

“John’s here,” Laurel whispered, stepping up behind Alix at the counter. Her roommate had been seeing one of their regular patrons for about six months now, but as far as Alix was concerned, the guy was a sleaze. He might be good-looking and wear suits, but she saw what kind of movies he rented and they all began with X. His favorites were the kinkiest of the lot.

Early on, John had let Alix know he was interested in her, but she didn’t encourage him. Laurel, however, had been keen on him from the first and seemed to think the world revolved around him. Laurel was welcome to John Murray, used-car salesman, but Alix wanted to tell her friend she could do better. The problem, Alix suspected, was Laurel’s weight. Because she weighed well over two hundred pounds, Laurel seemed to believe no guy would want to be with her. It didn’t help that she wore her thin, stringy blond hair long and straight and didn’t wash it often. Her entire wardrobe consisted of jeans, T-shirts—most of them with either dumb or offensive slogans—and the occasional blouse. All of Alix’s efforts to get her into leather and black pants had failed. Still, no matter how much she weighed or how she dressed, Laurel deserved better treatment than John gave her.

Even if John had been a different kind of guy, Alix wouldn’t have been interested. She had her eye on someone else. She’d made a point of being at the counter when he came in recently and learned his name was Jordan Turner. In the looks department, he wasn’t anything special. Just a regular guy, clean-cut but with a nice smile and warm brown eyes. His rental history told her he didn’t go for kinky stuff the way Laurel’s sick puppy did. Jordan didn’t watch over-the-top violent movies, either. His last visit, he’d checked out True Lies and Dumb and Dumber, pretty tame compared to what Lover Boy chose. She’d once known a guy named Jordan Turner, but that was in sixth grade. She’d really liked him. His dad was a minister and she’d gone to church a few times because Jordan had asked her to. So, in a way, her first “date” had been at a church. Now, that was a laugh!

“Cover for me,” Laurel said from behind her.

“Laurel,” Alix protested, biting off a warning. She hated this because she knew exactly what happened when Laurel and John slipped inside the back office and locked the door.

John watched his sicko sex videos, then returned to the video store all hot and bothered and gave Laurel ten minutes of his time. He left full of promises to take her out, which he had on rare occasions, paying her just enough attention to keep her dangling. The guy was a loser, but if Laurel didn’t see that, she wasn’t going to listen to anything Alix had to say.

“I won’t be long,” her friend promised, giggling as she hurried toward the back of the store, leading John by the hand.

At least it wasn’t busy. By nine in the evening, most people who were going to rent movies had already done so. There were only four or five customers browsing among the shelves.

Involved in her thoughts, Alix was surprised when she glanced up to find the very guy who’d been on her mind. Jordan Turner was standing at the counter.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Caught off guard, Alix needed a moment to control her reaction. She shrugged, then asked in as casual a voice as she could manage, “Can I help you?”

“Would you please check to see if The Matrix is available?”

“Yeah, sure.” Alix turned to the computer keyboard and typed in the movie title. Although no one would guess—she hoped—her heart was hammering wildly. She hadn’t expected Jordan on a Thursday night. He almost always came in on Tuesdays.

“I looked on the shelf, but there doesn’t seem to be a copy.”

“They’re all rented,” Alix told him, staring at the computer screen. “Would you like me to recommend another movie along the same lines?”

He considered her offer, then shook his head. “No, thanks.” He put Catch Me If You Can on the counter and paid for the rental. Before she could think of anything to delay him, he was gone.

Laurel reappeared at the counter, John in tow. She had a hickey on her neck and her blouse was misbuttoned. Alix glared at John who glared back, and whispered something to Laurel. Alix couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she could guess. Laurel shook her head adamantly.

John was out of the store a minute later but not soon enough to suit Alix.

“I’m meeting him after work,” Laurel informed her in a righteous tone. “He’s taking me to dinner.” Her eyes challenged Alix to say anything negative about John now, but Alix wasn’t taking the bait.

“He certainly seems to be in a good mood,” she muttered sarcastically.

“He is,” Laurel said. “He sold a car today and we’re going out to celebrate.”

“You might want to fix your blouse before you leave the store.”

“Oh,” Laurel said, looking down. Her fingers immediately went to work righting the last three buttons.

“Thanks.”

Alix shook her head, and lifted a tray of videos to return to the shelf.

“I probably won’t come back to the apartment tonight,” Laurel said, “so don’t wait up for me.”

As if Alix would. “I’m not your mother. Don’t worry about it.”

“My mother wouldn’t care anyway. She dumped me with my uncle when I was ten. My nasty uncle, if that tells you anything.”

Laurel’s home life hadn’t been any better than Alix’s. They’d met a year earlier when they were both living day to day, mostly in hotel rooms, and not the kind that came with small bottles of shampoo, either. When you’re pulling down minimum wage, you can’t afford first and last month’s rent. It’d taken Laurel and Alix six months to get into their current place. You’d have thought they’d moved into a castle when they found the apartment. Between them they could manage the rent, but with all the neighborhood renovation, Alix was afraid they’d soon be out on the street. Rumor had it the apartment complex had been sold to the same company that bought the old bank.

The apartment was a dump, with sagging floors, a permanently stained bathtub and cracks in the ceiling. But it was the first home Alix had ever considered truly hers. All the furniture was stuff even Goodwill wouldn’t take. She and Laurel had collected it piece by piece over the past few months, through word of mouth and a couple of times right off the street.

Neither girl was in contact with her parents. The last Alix had heard, her dad was living somewhere in California but she hadn’t seen him in ten years and frankly she didn’t feel she was missing much. He hadn’t made any effort to find her and she had no desire to seek him out. Her mother was doing time for forging checks. No one knew that, other than Laurel, whom she’d told in a moment of weakness. Alix had sent her mother several letters but when she wrote back, all she wanted was for Alix to send her money—or even worse, get her stuff she shouldn’t be asking for.

Alix’s only other family was her older brother, but Tom had gotten mixed up with a rough crowd and ended up dead of a drug overdose five years ago. His death had hit her hard. It still did. Tom was all she’d had and then he’d gone and … given up. When she first heard, she’d been angry, so angry that she’d wanted to kill him for doing this to her. The next thing she knew, she was huddled on the floor, wishing she was eight years old again and could hide in a closet and pretend her world was safe and secure.

Without Tom, she’d faltered, become reckless and got into trouble. It took her a while to find her way, but she had. These days Alix was determined not to make the same mistakes her brother had. She’d looked after herself from the age of sixteen. In her own opinion, she’d done a fairly good job of staying sober and sane. Sure, she’d butted heads with the boys in blue a few times and been assigned a social worker, but she was proud that she’d stayed out of serious trouble—and off welfare.

“You got a call this afternoon,” Laurel informed her just before closing. “I meant to tell you but it slipped my mind.”

They could afford an apartment but not a phone, so all contacts were made at the video store, which annoyed the manager. “Who’d be calling me?”

“Someone named Ms. O’Dell.”

The social worker had started coming around after the bogus drug bust. Alix had been caught with Laurel’s stash of marijuana. She still hadn’t forgiven Laurel for wasting money on it in the first place and, even worse, hiding it in Alix’s purse. She wasn’t the one using, but no one was willing to listen to her protests of innocence, so she’d shut up and accepted the black mark against her record.

“What did she want?” Alix asked, although Mrs. O’Dell was actually returning her call. Before Alix invested all that time, energy and money in knitting the baby blanket, she wanted to be sure the effort would count toward her community-service hours.

“She said it was fine and it might help you with anger management, whatever that means.”

“Oh.” At least the woman hadn’t actually mentioned the knitting class, which saved Alix from having to tell Laurel what she’d done.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

Alix narrowed her lips. “No.”

“We’re roommates, Alix. You can trust me.”

“Sure I can,” she snarled. “Just like I could trust you to tell the truth to the cops.” She wasn’t letting Laurel forget that she’d taken the fall for her.

“All right,” Laurel snapped and held up both hands. “Have it your way.”

That was exactly what Alix intended.

9
CHAPTER

“We are all knitted together. Knitting keeps me connected to all the women who have made my life so rich.”

—Ann Norling, designer LYDIA HOFFMAN

Although I’d taught knitting for a number of years, I’d never worked with such an eclectic group as the women in my small beginners’ class. They had absolutely nothing in common. The three of them sat stiffly at the table in the back of the store, not exchanging a word.

“Perhaps we should begin by introducing ourselves. Explain why you decided to join this class,” I said and motioned for Jacqueline to start. She was the one I worried about the most. Jacqueline was clearly part of the country-club set, and her initial reaction to Alix had been poorly disguised shock. From the look she cast me, I was afraid she was ready to make an excuse and bolt for the door. I’m not sure what prompted her to stay, but I’m grateful she did.

“Hello,” Jacqueline said in a well-modulated voice, nodding at the other two women who sat across from her. “My name is Jacqueline Donovan. My husband’s architectural firm is responsible for the Blossom Street renovation. I wanted to learn how to knit because I’m about to become a grandmother for the first time.”

Immediately Alix jerked her head up and stared at the older woman. “Your husband’s the one behind this whole mess? You tell him to keep his hands off my apartment, understand?”

“How dare you speak to me in that tone of voice!”

The two women glared at one another. Alix was halfway out of her chair, and I had to admire Jacqueline, who didn’t so much as flinch. I quickly turned to Carol. “Would you mind going next?” I asked and my voice must have betrayed my nervousness.

I’d come to know Carol a little; she’d been in the shop twice already and had bought yarn. I knew why she’d joined the class and hoped we could be friends.

“Yes, hi,” Carol said, sounding as unsettled as I felt.

Alix continued to glare at Jacqueline but the older woman did a masterful job of ignoring her. I should have known something like this would happen, but felt powerless to stop it. Alix and Jacqueline were about as different as any two women could be.

“My name is Carol Girard and my husband and I are hoping for a child. I’m currently undergoing fertility treatments. I’m having an IVF attempt in July. The reason I’m in this class is that I want to knit a blanket for my yet-to-be-conceived baby.”

I could see from Alix’s face that she didn’t understand the term.

“IVF refers to in vitro fertilization,” Carol explained.

“I read a wonderful article about that in a recent issue of Newsweek magazine,” Jacqueline said. “It’s amazing what doctors can do these days.”

“Yes, there are quite a few miracle drugs available now, but thus far Doug and I haven’t received our miracle.”

The look of longing on Carol’s face was so intense, I yearned to put my hand on her shoulder.

“July is our last chance at the IVF process,” she added. Carol bit down on her lower lip and I wondered if she knew how much of her anxiety she revealed.

“What do they do to you with this in vitro stuff?” Alix asked, leaning forward. She seemed genuinely interested.

“It’s a rather long, drawn-out process,” Carol said. “I’m not sure you want me to take class time to go though it all.”

“Would you mind?” Alix asked, surprising me with her curiosity.

“By all means,” Jacqueline chimed in, but I doubted that her interest was as sincere as Alix’s seemed to be.

“Well,” Carol said, clasping her hands on the table, “it all starts with drugs.”

“Doesn’t everything?” Alix laughed at her own joke, but no one else joined in.

“I was on this drug that stimulates the ovaries to produce eggs, and once the eggs appeared, they had to be harvested.”

“Did it hurt?” Jacqueline asked.

“Only slightly, but all I had to do was think about a baby, and any discomfort was worth it. We both want to be parents so badly.”

That much was obvious, and from what I’d seen of Carol I was sure she’d be a wonderful mother.

“After the doctor collected Doug’s sperm, my eggs were inseminated to create a number of embryo cultures. These are then transferred to my uterus. We’ve had two attempts that didn’t succeed, and the insurance company will only pay for three and, well, it’s just very important that I get pregnant this time.”

“It seems to me you’re putting lots of stress on yourself,” Alix said in what I found to be an insightful comment.

“How nerve-racking for you both,” Jacqueline murmured.

“I feel so confident, though.” Carol positively beamed with it. “I’m not sure why, but for the first time in months I feel really good about all of this. We decided to wait after our last attempt. Mostly because Doug and I needed a while to deal with our disappointment over the second failure. I also felt it was necessary to prepare myself physically and mentally. But it’s going to work this time. I just know we’re going to have our baby.”

“I hope you do,” Alix said. “People who want children should have them.”

“There’s always adoption,” Jacqueline said. “Have you considered that?”

“We have,” Carol replied. “It’s a viable option, but we don’t want to try for adoption until we’ve done everything possible to have a biological child.”

“From what I understand, there’s quite a waiting period,” Jacqueline said and then seemed to regret speaking.

“Yes, I know … Doug and I have talked about that, too. We might have to look into an overseas adoption but we’ve read that those can be difficult. Anyway, these are all options we’re willing to consider if we can’t have our own child, but we’ll make those decisions when and if the time comes.”

I waited a moment and then gestured to Alix. “Tell us a little about yourself.”

Alix shrugged. “My name’s Alix Townsend and I work at the video store across the street.”

I hoped she wouldn’t mention working on the baby blanket to deduct hours from her court-ordered community service, but I couldn’t stop her if she did. Once Jacqueline heard that, I figured she’d probably walk right out of the class. Forgive me for being so mercenary, but Jacqueline would buy far more yarn than Alix ever could.

“I happen to like living in this neighborhood,” Alix said pointedly, “and I hope I can continue to live here once they’re through screwing up the street.” Her eyes narrowed as she stared across the table.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jacqueline muttered. “I don’t have anything to do with it.”

“I thought,” I said, still standing, “that we could discuss the different weights and types of yarn for our first lesson.” I felt an urgent need to distract Alix, although I was a strong supporter of the Linus Project. “The pattern I’ve chosen is one of my favorites. What I like about this particular pattern is that it’s challenging enough to keep you interested, but not so difficult as to discourage you. It’s done in a four-ply worsted weight yarn and knits up fairly quickly.”

I had a large wicker basket filled with samples of several worsted weight yarns in a variety of colors. “I know it might sound rather self-serving, but I feel I should mention something here. Always buy high-quality yarn. When you’re investing your time and effort in a project, you defeat yourself before you even start if you use bargain-basement yarn.”

“I agree one-hundred percent,” Jacqueline said firmly. I’d known she wouldn’t have a problem with that.

“What if some people can’t afford the high-priced stuff?” Alix demanded.

“Well, yes, that could make things difficult.”

“You said anyone taking the class gets a twenty-percent discount on yarn. Are you sticking to that or have you changed your mind?”

“I’m sticking to it,” I assured her.

“Good, because I don’t have a lot of change jingling around in the bottom of my purse.” She reached for a pretty pink-and-white blend of wool and acrylic. “This costs how much?”

“Five dollars a skein.”

“For each one?” A horrified look came over her.

I nodded.

“How many would I need if I knit the blanket using this?”

I glanced down at the pattern and then calculated the yardage of the worsted against the total amount of yarn required for the project. I grabbed my calculator. “It looks like five should do nicely. If you only use four you can return the fifth one to me for a full refund.”

Alix stood and reached into her pocket and dragged out a crumpled five-dollar bill. “I can only buy one this week, but I should be able to pick up the second one next week, if that’s all right.”

“It’s important to get the same dye lot for each project, so I’ll put aside what you need and you can pay me as you go.”

Alix looked pleased. “That works for me. I suppose the lady married to that fancy architect can buy all the yarn in your shop.”

“My name is Jacqueline and I’d prefer that you use it.”

“I’d like you all to choose your yarn now, if you would,” I said quickly, cutting the two of them off before Alix leaped across the table and attacked Jacqueline. I hated to admit it, but the older woman wasn’t the most personable soul. Her attitude, although different, wasn’t any better than Alix’s.

Jacqueline sat by herself and took up half the table. When Carol arrived, she’d had no choice but to sit next to Alix. It was clear from Jacqueline’s manner that she expected to be catered to, not only in this class, but in life.

I couldn’t help wondering what I’d gotten myself into with these knitting classes, and frankly I was worried. I’d thought … I’d hoped to make friends with my customers, but this was starting off all wrong.

The class lasted two hours and we barely got through casting on stitches. I chose the knitting on method, which is by far the simplest way to learn but not the preferred method. I didn’t want to overwhelm my three students during their first lesson.

I had reason to doubt my teaching abilities by the end of the class. Carol picked up the technique immediately, but Alix was all fingers. Jacqueline didn’t take to it quickly, either. When at last it was closing time, my head was pounding with an approaching headache and I felt as if I’d run a marathon.

It didn’t help that Margaret phoned just as I was getting ready to close for the day.

“A Good Yarn,” I said, scooping up the receiver, hoping to sound upbeat and eager to be of service.

“It’s me,” my sister returned in a crisp business tone. With a voice like that, she should be working for the Internal Revenue Service. “I thought we should discuss Mother’s Day.”

She was right. Opening the store had so completely consumed me that I hadn’t remembered. “Of course, we need to do something special for Mom.” It would be our first Mother’s Day without Dad and I realized it was going to be difficult for all of us, but especially for Mom. Despite our differences, Margaret and I did something together every year to honor our mother.

“The girls suggested we take her to lunch on Saturday. We’re seeing Matt’s mother on Sunday.”

“Excellent idea, but my shop is open on Saturdays.” I knew Saturday was a prime business day and I couldn’t afford not to be open; I closed the shop on Mondays instead.

My sister hesitated and when she spoke again, she seemed almost gleeful. It didn’t take me long to discover why.

“Since you can’t get away, the girls and I will see Mom on Saturday and you can have your own time with her on Sunday.” This meant Margaret wouldn’t have to share our mother with me. Mom’s attention would be on my sister, which was clearly why Margaret had arranged things this way. I didn’t understand why everything had to be a competition for her.

“Oh.” I’d hoped we’d all be together.

“You’re not working on Sunday, are you?”

My shoulders sagged. “No, but … well, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t have any choice, do I?” Margaret said in the surly, aggressive tone I have long detested. “You’re the one who can’t make lunch on Saturday. I suppose you want me to adjust my schedule to yours, but I won’t.”

“I didn’t ask you to change anything.”

“Not in so many words, but I could read between the lines. I do have a husband, you know, and he has a mother, too. For once we wanted to spend Mother’s Day with her.”

Rather than get into an argument, I kept my voice as unemotional as possible. “Perhaps we could compromise.”

“How do you mean?”

“I know Mom would love to have lunch on the waterfront. I could meet you there and close the shop for a couple of hours. That way we could all be together and then I’d join her on Sunday, as well.”

I could tell from the lengthy pause that Margaret wasn’t happy with that idea. “You expect me to pick up Mom and drive into Seattle on a Saturday afternoon—because it’s more convenient for you? We both know how dreadful the traffic is.”

“It’s only a suggestion.”

“I’d rather we celebrated Mother’s Day separately this year.”

“Fine. Perhaps we should.” I left it at that and made a mental note to call Mom to explain.

“Good. We’ve got that settled.” I noticed that Margaret didn’t ask about my first two weeks of business. Nor did she make any other inquiries or give me an opportunity to ask what was going on in her life.

“I have to go,” Margaret said. “Julia’s dancing class starts in fifteen minutes.”

“Give her my love,” I said. My two nieces were a joy to me. I loved them deeply and felt close to both Julia and Hailey. Sensing my feelings, Margaret did her best to keep the girls away from me. But now that they were preteens, they had minds of their own. We often chatted and I suspected they didn’t let their mother know.

My sister hung up without so much as a goodbye. That was typical behavior for Margaret.

I walked over to the front door and turned over the sign to read Closed. As I did, I saw Brad Goetz coming out of the apartment building where Alix lived. He was in a hurry, half-jogging to his truck. I couldn’t see where he’d parked, but I thought I knew the reason for his rush. He was handsome and eligible, and there was every likelihood he had a Friday-night date.

I could’ve been the one joining him for dinner—only I wasn’t. That had been my own choice, a choice I was beginning to regret….

10
CHAPTER

JACQUELINE DONOVAN

In an attempt to hide her nervousness, Jacqueline poured herself a second glass of chardonnay. After the first sip she stepped into the kitchen and brought out the hors d’oeuvre platter for their guests. Martha had put together crackers artfully swirled with herb-mixed cream cheese and decorated with tiny shrimp. Paul had phoned earlier in the week to ask if he and Tammie Lee could stop by the house on Wednesday evening.

They’d spent the Mother’s Day weekend in Louisiana with Tammie Lee’s mother, who apparently wasn’t feeling well. Jacqueline had made a conscious decision not to take offense.

This was the first time Paul had ever asked permission to visit the family home, and Jacqueline’s nerves had been badly frayed ever since his phone call.

“Relax,” Reese said, following her into the kitchen.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Jacqueline murmured. She glanced at the clock on the microwave and realized it was a full ten minutes before her son and daughter-in-law were due to arrive. She cringed at the prospect of making small talk with Tammie Lee, and feared that Paul was about to announce he’d accepted a transfer to the New Orleans branch so Tammie Lee could be close to her family.

“Setting up an appointment to come over here isn’t like Paul.”

“He was just being thoughtful.” Reese walked around the counter and sat on a stool. “Isn’t knitting supposed to soothe your nerves?”

“That’s another thing,” Jacqueline snapped. “I’m dropping out of that ridiculous class.”

His head flew back at the vehemence of her declaration. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I have my reasons.” She didn’t like the look on Reese’s face—as if he was disappointed in her. But he wasn’t the one confronting that ill-mannered punk rocker or whatever those people called themselves these days. Alix, spelled A-L-I-X, resembled a gang member; the girl frightened her. “Why should you care what I do?” Jacqueline leaned against the counter across from her husband.

“You seemed excited about it last week,” he said blandly. It was obviously of no consequence to him. “I thought it was a conciliatory gesture on your part. I assumed you signed up for the classes to show Paul you’re planning to be a good grandmother.”

“I am determined to be a wonderful grandmother. For heaven’s sake, what chance does a child of Tammie Lee’s have? She’ll grow up learning how to pickle pigs’ feet.” She shivered at the very idea.

“Now, Jacqueline …”

“Actually, I blame you for this.”

“Me?” Reese straightened and for a moment he seemed about to laugh outright. “You blame me for what?”

“For the fact that I’m in this … this awful knitting class.”

He frowned. “You’d better tell me what’s going on.”

“There’s a young woman in the class. I can’t imagine why she’d ever want to learn to knit, but it’s not important. She’s vile, Reese. That’s the only word I can think of to describe her. Her hair is the most ludicrous shade of purple and she took an instant dislike to me when she learned that you’re responsible for what’s happening in the Blossom Street neighborhood.”

Reese reached for his wine. “Most people there welcome the renovation.”

“Alix lives in the apartment building at the end of the street.” As far as Jacqueline could see, it was a rat-infested dump. If it was slated for demolition, all the better. Alix and her kind would need to look elsewhere for low-rent housing. Girls like that weren’t wanted in an upscale neighborhood, which Blossom Street would soon become.

“Ah,” Reese murmured and sipped his wine. “Now I understand.”

“What’s planned for the building?” Jacqueline asked.

“That hasn’t been decided.” Reese gently swirled his wine against the sides of the goblet. “The city is talking to the owner. My idea was to completely remodel the place into condos, but it seems some advocates for low-income housing now have the mayor’s ear.”

“That’s unfortunate. Those low-rent people will ruin the neighborhood. You might as well kiss all your hard work goodbye.” She hated to sound like a pessimist, but if Alix was any indication of the quality of person living in that building, then the entire street was at risk.

“Maybe you should give the knitting class another try,” Reese suggested, ignoring her outburst.

The truth of it was that Jacqueline wanted to continue. She hadn’t found the class “awful” at all; that was an exaggeration for Reese’s benefit. Other than the confrontation with Alix, she’d enjoyed the lesson. At one point, Lydia had told them to walk around the shop and choose three balls of yarn in their favorite colors. At the time it’d seemed like a useless exercise. Jacqueline had chosen a silver gloss, a deep purple and a vibrant red. Lydia’s next instruction had been to choose wool in the color she disliked most. Jacqueline had gone immediately to a skein of bright yellow, which was the color that appealed to her least. Lydia had talked about contrasting colors and showed how they often complement each other. In fact, the yellow had looked completely different against the purple, and just as Lydia had said, the contrast was surprisingly effective.

She’d discovered that so much of knitting was about choosing the textures and colors, which was something she hadn’t considered before. Jacqueline had walked out of the class with the realization that she’d learn far more than the basic knitting stitches. That, however, did little to quell her uneasiness concerning Alix.

“I might decide to attend the second beginners’ session later in the summer,” Jacqueline muttered, still unsure of what to do. She’d paid for the entire six-week course and detested the thought of some hoodlum driving her away with intimidation and ill-manners.

The doorbell rang and Jacqueline felt the tension crawl up her spine. While Reese answered the door, she forced a smile and moved into the formal living room, hands clasped in front of her. She waited for Reese to greet Paul and Tammie Lee in the foyer.

“How wonderful to see you both,” Jacqueline purred, extending her arms to Tammie Lee and her son as they entered the room. She briefly hugged her daughter-in-law and grazed Paul’s cheek with her lips. Now that she knew Tammie Lee was pregnant, she wondered how she hadn’t guessed earlier. Her daughter-in-law was definitely showing—enough to be wearing a maternity top.

Paul and Tammie Lee sat on the sofa, so close their shoulders touched. They held hands, as if to proclaim that nothing would tear them apart.

While Reese poured a glass of wine for Paul, Jacqueline carried in the platter of hors d’oeuvres. Tammie Lee smiled up at Jacqueline.

“I just love shrimp and ever since I’ve been pregnant I’ve had the worst craving for them,” she said in a soft twang. “Just ask Paul. I think he must be thoroughly sick of shrimp, but he never complains.” She gazed lovingly toward her husband as she accepted a small napkin and two crackers.

Paul cast his wife a look of love and pride, and it was all Jacqueline could do to maintain her composure. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand what her son saw in this girl.

“What can I get you to drink?” Reese asked Tammie Lee when he brought Paul his wineglass.

“It’s so nice of you to ask, but I’m just fine, thank you.”

If there was anything for which to be grateful, Jacqueline mused, it was the fact that Tammie Lee seemed to be taking care of herself during the pregnancy. At least she had that much common sense.

Reese and Jacqueline sat across from them in leather chairs, with a polished mahogany end table between them. They so rarely used the formal living room that five years after she’d purchased the chairs they still smelled of new leather.

“I think we should tell them,” Tammie Lee whispered to Paul.

Paul nodded and squeezed her hand. “Tammie Lee had an ultrasound this afternoon and it seems we’re having a baby girl.” He smiled. “Sometimes they can’t be sure, but our technician was quite positive it’s a girl.”

“A girl,” Reese repeated and the happiness in his voice was unmistakable. He stood and clapped Paul on the back. “Did you hear that, Jacquie? We’re finally getting our baby girl!”

Jacqueline felt her hands go numb. “A granddaughter,” she repeated as the odd tingling sensation spread up her arms. Oh, how she’d once longed for a daughter.

“We haven’t chosen any names yet,” Tammie Lee rushed to add in that soft drawl of hers. It always made her sound as if she was talking underwater. “We only decided this afternoon that we wanted to know the sex of the baby. You’re the first people we’ve told.”

“Your mother and I had always hoped for a little girl,” Reese said, echoing Jacqueline’s thoughts.

“That’s … wonderful,” Jacqueline finally managed.

“We decided we should let you know, Mom,” Paul said, directing his attention to her for the first time, “so you’d know what color yarn to get for the baby blanket.”

“Mrs. Donovan, I declare, when Paul told me you were knitting a blanket for the baby, it just warmed my heart. Y’all have been so kind to me.” She planted both hands over her stomach and sighed.

That twang of Tammie Lee’s put Jacqueline’s teeth on edge. Some might find it pleasing, but to Jacqueline it sounded uneducated. Unrefined.

“There’s more news,” Paul said, moving toward the edge of the sofa cushion.

“More?” Reese said. “Don’t tell me you’re having twins.”

“Nothing like that.” Paul laughed shortly.

Tammie Lee grinned at her husband. “Twins! I’m so nervous about one baby, I can’t even imagine what would happen if we had two.”

Paul turned to share such a gentle look with his wife that Jacqueline glanced away. Any hope she had of her son regretting his marriage died a quick death.

“So what’s your other news?” Reese asked.

Paul’s face brightened. “I got word last week that Tammie Lee and I have been accepted into the Seattle Country Club.” The club, to which Jacqueline and Reese belonged, was the most prestigious in the area. New memberships were limited to only a few each year. It went without saying that only the right kind of people were accepted. One of Jacqueline’s first thoughts when she was introduced to Tammie Lee was that Paul had ruined his chances of ever joining the country club.

“I’m so pleased,” Jacqueline said, doing her best to smile. Apparently Tammie Lee’s lengthy and inappropriate discussions of southern cuisine hadn’t been as much of a detriment as she’d assumed.

“I’ve been asked to work on the cookbook committee,” Tammie Lee gushed as if this was the greatest compliment of her life. “I can’t tell you the number of times someone’s asked me to share my mama’s, Aunt Thelma’s and Aunt Frieda’s favorite recipes.”

“Recipes for what?” Jacqueline blurted out the question before she could stop herself.

“Mainly folks want to know about hush puppies. Four or five ladies have already asked me about those.”

“Hush puppies?”

“It’s like cornbread, Mother,” Paul supplied.

“I know what they are,” she said between clenched teeth.

“Paul loves my hush puppies,” Tammie Lee twanged in her eagerness to continue. “My mama told me they got their name from hunters who threw leftover ends of the cornbread to their dogs to keep ‘em quiet at night.”

“This is the recipe you’re submitting to the Seattle Country Club Cookbook?” Jacqueline was convinced she’d never be able to show her face in public again.

“Oh, and I asked Mama for Grandma’s recipe for Brunswick stew, which is my daddy’s all-time favorite. My grandma was raised in Georgia before she married my grandpa and moved to Tennessee. I was almost eighteen before we moved to Louisiana, so I really consider myself a bluegrass girl.”

“Brunswick stew,” Jacqueline said. That at least sounded presentable.

“It’s a southern version of chili. Mama always served it when we had a barbecue. Mama has Grandma’s original recipe and I’ll need to change it a bit. Everyone uses pork or chicken nowadays, instead of possum or squirrel.”

One more word from this woman and Jacqueline was afraid she’d keel over in a dead faint.

“I hope you give them your recipe for deep-fried okra,” Paul said as if he’d never tasted anything so good in his life. “You wouldn’t believe what Tammie Lee does with okra. I swear I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

Once and only once had Jacqueline sampled the slimy green vegetable. It’d been in some kind of soup dish. Never having seen it before, she’d lifted it from the bowl and been repulsed by the thick slime that had dripped from her spoon. She’d nearly gagged just looking at it and now her son was telling her he enjoyed this disgusting vegetable.

“I have a recipe for pecan pie that’s a family favorite and I’d be happy to share that, too.”

“Actually, I think it’s because of Tammie Lee’s cooking that we got accepted by the country club.”

Jacqueline had to bite her lip to keep from reminding Paul that she’d been volunteering there for years. Her charity projects had been some of the club’s most successful fund-raising events. Reese’s name carried plenty of weight, too, but apparently their son hadn’t taken his parents’ longstanding contribution into account. Oh, no, he assumed it was Tammie Lee’s method of cooking road kill—squirrel, for heaven’s sake!—that had opened the doors.

“You do seem to be full of good news,” Reese said, grinning in a way that conveyed his delight.

“Yes,” Jacqueline agreed, making an effort to look equally delighted. She was trying, trying hard, but it was difficult.

“I declare I don’t know any couple happier than Paul and me,” Tammie Lee drawled. “I can’t believe any man has as much love for a woman as Paul does for me, especially since we found out about the baby.”

“We’re thrilled to have you as part of our family,” Reese said.

“I can feel your love,” Tammie Lee said, looking at Reese. “And I can’t thank you enough for welcoming me the way you have.”

Paul’s eyes connected with Jacqueline’s. He knew her feelings. She might be able to fool Tammie Lee, but her son knew her all too well. Until now, Paul had protected his young wife from her disapproval. At one time, mother and son had shared a special closeness, but since the advent of Tammie Lee, that had virtually disappeared.

In that moment, Jacqueline saw the fierce challenge in her son’s gaze. She knew that if she said one word to hurt Tammie Lee, he’d never forgive her.

11
CHAPTER

CAROL GIRARD

Carol placed the bouquet of fresh flowers in the center of the dinner table and stepped back to examine her handiwork. She’d walked down to Pike Place Market early in the afternoon and purchased the white lilies and red astromeria, along with fresh salmon and just-picked baby asparagus spears. She’d arranged the flowers herself, using a porcelain vase that had come with the roses Doug had sent on their last anniversary.

For so many years, all her efforts and energy had gone into her career. When she’d first quit her job she’d faltered, unsure of how to fill her days. She would’ve been completely lost if not for her online support group. These women had become as close as sisters; they all struggled with the problems of infertility and gave each other information and encouragement. She was heartened to discover that several of the other women had started knitting for relaxation and a sense of accomplishment. Carol shared those goals, but for her knitting was also a symbol of the life she wanted to live, would live—as a mother.

Everything had changed for the better the day she’d found the knitting shop on Blossom Street.

After meeting Lydia and the others last week, it was as if a whole world had opened up to her. For the first time she looked upon her condo as more than a place to sleep and occasionally entertain. It was her home and she decided to make it a real one, with small feminine touches that conveyed her love for her husband and soon-to-be child.

Usually when her brother stopped by they went out to eat. This evening, Carol was cooking their meal. Rick had sounded troubled when he’d phoned and she wanted to create a comfortable, intimate atmosphere where they could talk freely. The shopping and flower-arranging had taken up most of the afternoon, but she’d loved every minute of it. Six months ago she would’ve scoffed at the idea of arranging flowers or spending a morning wandering the aisles at a local farmer’s market. Now those small domestic activities were a source of pleasure and satisfaction. Because she was doing them for her family.

Rick called from the lobby and Carol hurried to meet him at the door, hugging her brother hard as soon as he stepped inside.

“Well, well,” Rick said, leaning back, apparently surprised by the warmth of her greeting. “I didn’t expect to be knocked off my feet.”

“Sorry. It’s just that it’s so good to see you.”

Rick laughed and looked around the condo. “Where’s Doug?”

“He phoned—he’s running late. I’m sure he won’t be much longer.”

She glanced at her watch as she led Rick into the living room. Doug hadn’t shown nearly as much enthusiasm about this dinner with Rick as she had. “Would you like a beer?” Her brother preferred ale to hard liquor. He only drank when he was twenty-four hours from flying.

“I’d love one.” He sat down where he had an unobstructed view of the waterfront and was quiet for a long moment as he gazed out the window. He accepted the beer and smiled his thanks. “Can I do anything to help with dinner?”

“Not a thing. Everything’s almost ready.”

“You’ve done all right for yourself, little sister,” he said, sounding almost sad. He tipped back the beer bottle and took a drink.

“So have you,” she told him.

Rick chuckled softly. “Have I?”

“My goodness, Rick,” she said, trying to lighten his somber mood. “You’re a pilot for a major airline. It’s your dream come true.” Her brother had worked his way up through the ranks. For as long as Carol could remember, Rick had talked about being a pilot. From the time he could drive, he started hanging around airports, talking to the pilots, learning what he could.

He smiled as if in agreement. “I should be happy, then, right?”

“You aren’t?” She went into the living room, abandoning the salad she’d set on the counter. The finishing touches could wait. Sitting across from him, she leaned close. “What’s wrong?”

“Sorry, sorry.” He laughed off the question. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m fine. Forget I said anything.”

“I’m not going to forget it. Now, tell me what’s on your mind. You didn’t come all this way to check out my view for the umpteenth time.”

He shrugged, dismissing her question. “Actually, I was in a great mood until I saw what you’ve done with the place.”

“Exactly what have I done?” Carol asked with a smile. “And why would that ruin your mood?”

Her brother looked around, and, after a few minutes, frowned. “I don’t know exactly, but there’s a difference.”

He’d noticed. Actually, everything was in the same place it’d been during his last visit. The furniture was all the same, too; outwardly very little had changed. Yet the condo felt transformed. The flowers and polished wood and shining glass were small things, but they expressed her new attitude toward home and what it meant. This was a place of love, a place waiting to welcome a child.

“There is a difference,” Carol confirmed, “but I’m the one who’s changed. I’m happy, Rick, genuinely happy.”

The forlorn expression on her brother’s face was enough to bring tears to her eyes. “And you’re not,” she said softly.

“No,” he breathed. He leaned forward and braced his arms against his legs, letting the beer dangle between his parted knees. “Nothing seems right without Ellie.”

Her brother and Ellie had divorced a year ago. He’d never spoken of the breakup before, and his willingness to introduce the subject now was an indication of how miserable he was.

“I’m still in love with her,” he confessed, “but I screwed up.”

Carol held her breath. Because she loved and respected both her brother and his wife, she’d done her best to stay out of it. The one conversation she’d had with Ellie since the divorce had been awkward and unsettling, and Carol hadn’t phoned her since.

Carol wasn’t the only one in the dark, either. Even her parents didn’t know what had caused the dissolution of Rick’s marriage. Whatever it was, he seemed to regret his divorce and want his ex-wife back. “Have you been in touch with Ellie?” she asked.

Rick nodded. “She said it’d be better if we went our separate ways. I tried, Carol, I gave it a real effort, but my life isn’t any good without her. I had no idea it would be like this.” He briefly tilted his head toward the ceiling and forcefully expelled his breath. “I hear she’s dating again.”

“That must hurt.” Rick and Ellie had been college sweethearts. Carol remembered the first time she’d met the outgoing blonde. She’d instantly liked Rick’s girlfriend and had hoped to have her as a sister one day.

“The thought of Ellie with some other man is driving me insane. All I can think about is how stupid I’ve been. I’d give anything to work this out with her. If it meant quitting my job, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“I’m so sorry.” Carol felt at a loss to help him, especially since she still didn’t know what had gone wrong.

“Yeah, I am, too.”

“Do you want to explain what happened?”

“Ellie didn’t tell you?” he asked, his eyes widening. “I assumed she had.”

Carol shook her head. “I called her after you told me she’d filed for divorce, but she said she’d rather not discuss it.” She didn’t add that Ellie had been sobbing at the time. Until the end, Carol had hoped the two of them would be able to settle their differences and reunite. After the divorce, though, it seemed Ellie was intent on moving forward with her life.

“I’m away from home so much,” her brother said. “It gets lonely, you know?”

This was what Ellie had implied but Carol had refused to accept it. Rick would never do such a thing, she’d told herself. He was her older brother, her hero. Still, she had to know. “You … didn’t have an affair, did you?”

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t like that … But Ellie—well, she can’t accept the fact that I’m around beautiful women on the job and away from home. It became a trust issue.”

Carol wouldn’t feel entirely comfortable with Doug constantly being around other women, either, but she didn’t say so. Her brother didn’t need to hear about her own insecurities.

“I don’t know why she felt that way,” Rick went on. “It’s Ellie I love.” He wiped his face in a weary gesture. “I tried to convince her that she’s the only woman for me but she wouldn’t listen. I can’t believe she threw away our marriage because she didn’t trust me.”

Carol couldn’t believe it, either, but she kept her thoughts to herself. There were two possibilities: Ellie had been jealous and irrational or there was more to Rick’s behavior than he was saying.

“I did everything I could to talk Ellie out of the divorce,” he continued. “Okay, so maybe I was tempted, but hell, what am I supposed to do every night? Sit in my hotel room and watch television? I did go out occasionally. Can you really blame me for that?”

Maybe there was some basis for Ellie’s distrust. Still, Carol found it practically inconceivable that her brother would cheat on his wife. He was an honorable man but he was a man, and if he had a drink with a flight attendant or a female pilot now and then—was that so bad? Perhaps Ellie had simply overreacted.

“I suppose I should be grateful we delayed having a family,” he mumbled.

Carol agreed; if there was anything to be grateful for, it was that. She hated the thought of children suffering the upheaval of a broken home.

“Ellie wanted kids, but I wasn’t ready.”

Carol nodded.

“Any idea what I should do now?” he asked, peering at her as if she could provide him with answers.

She patted his arm gently, not knowing how to respond. Rick could be his own worst enemy. He’d always been a sociable person, the life of the party, a natural daredevil, and she’d loved and admired him as her gallant older brother. It saddened her to see how unhappy he was.

“You need to prove yourself to Ellie.”

“But how?” he cried. “I’m telling you, Carol, I’m at my wits’ end. Ellie claims she doesn’t want to see me again.”

“Perhaps you could write to her.”

“Write what?”

“A letter,” she said. “Better yet, use e-mail. Tell her you’re an idiot.”

“I think she already knows that.” For the first time since they’d started talking, she saw a hint of smile on his face. “What if she won’t answer me?”

“Don’t take no for an answer. Let her know you aren’t giving up.”

“Should I send her flowers? That kind of thing?”

“Bring her strawberries and fresh fruit from the Pike Place Market.” Fresh fruit was available in Juneau, but it was extremely expensive. “A whole basket,” Carol suggested. “As I recall, Ellie loves blueberries.”

“She does?”

“Rick! You should know that. She was your wife.”

“That’s the problem,” her brother moaned. “I didn’t pay her near enough attention. I didn’t realize how much I loved her until it was too late.”

“Then you’re going to make up for lost time.”

He grinned, and it was the same boyish smile she remembered from childhood. “Your enthusiasm is catching. You really think I can win her back?”

“Yes,” she cried. It felt good to have her brother turn to her, to need her help. Rick had made a mistake and hadn’t fought for his marriage, but she’d do everything she could to support him.

12
CHAPTER

ALIX TOWNSEND

Laurel owed Alix, so she had her roommate cover for her the minute Jordan Turner showed up at the video store on Tuesday night. As soon as she saw that he was getting ready to leave, she slipped out front and pretended to be on break. Her hand shook as she lit a cigarette; she leaned against the building and took a deep drag, hoping the nicotine would calm her.

When the door opened and Jordan stepped outside, Alix called to him.

“Hi,” she said.

He looked over his shoulder. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“All right. I didn’t see you earlier,” she lied. “I put aside The Matrix for you if you’re still interested.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks.”

“I aim to please.” She reached for her cigarettes and silently offered him one.

“No, thanks.”

She should’ve guessed he was a nonsmoker. She stared at the tip of her lit cigarette. “I’m trying to cut back. These are the low-nicotine cigarettes, but I swear I’m going to end up with a hernia getting any taste out of this.”

He chuckled at her stupid joke and a warm, happy feeling came over her.

“I’ve seen you around the neighborhood,” Jordan said.

“Alix Townsend. Alix, spelled A-L-I-X.” She thrust out her hand, which he shook. “You’re Jordan Turner,” she went on before he had a chance to introduce himself. “Your driver’s license is on file. You live off Fifth Avenue, don’t you?” She didn’t mind letting him know she was interested. She thought of the boy she’d once known with the same name, but that was years ago, back in grade school. He’d been a decent kid, and she’d had a crush on him, but it felt like something that had happened in another time and another place.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Could it be the same Jordan Turner? She studied him, wondering if it was possible. She took another deep drag of the cigarette in an effort to calm her rattled nerves.

No, this couldn’t be the same Jordan Turner, she decided. Still, her memories of him were fleeting and she wasn’t absolutely sure. She might have dredged up the courage to ask, except that he continued the conversation.

“I don’t work far from here.”

So he stopped in for videos on his way home from work. Lots of people did.

“You can tell a lot about a person from the videos they rent,” she said casually. She tossed the cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it with the toe of her combat boot.

“I’ll bet you can.”

“Do you want to know what I learned about you?” This was one of her best conversational gambits—character analysis through movie selection—although she didn’t have much opportunity to use it.

He grinned, and she was struck by how cute he was when he smiled. Laurel couldn’t understand what Alix saw in a guy as average as Jordan. She couldn’t explain it to her friend, either. Someone attracted to a guy who rented XXX videos just wouldn’t get it.

Jordan leaned against the wall beside her. “Go ahead and tell me what you’ve figured out.”

Flustered now, Alix suddenly found it difficult to express herself. She faltered and struggled with what she wanted to say and to her utter humiliation, she couldn’t do it. In one final attempt to redeem herself, she gestured weakly with her hands and said. “They’re cool, you know.”

“Cool?” Jordan repeated. “You mean I pick cool movies?”

“Yeah.” She wanted to crumple onto the sidewalk and disappear.

“Thank you.”

The heat was radiating from her face. “I’ve got to get back to work,” she said gruffly and without another word, she practically ran back into the store.

To make matters worse, Laurel was waiting for her. “How’d it go?” her roommate asked eagerly the instant Alix returned.

Alix glared at her.

Laurel raised both hands. “That bad, huh?”

A sick feeling attacked Alix’s stomach. It was like the nausea she’d experienced as a kid when her parents started to fight. That painful sensation used to corrode her stomach—as if she were somehow responsible for every bad thing that had befallen their lives. Jordan might be the same Jordan Turner she’d once known, but there’d been no time to ask. And she couldn’t now, not after she’d run away!

“You okay?” Laurel asked, studying her.

Alix brushed aside the question and marched to the back of the store, where she walked into the employee rest room. The toilet was disgusting. She didn’t want to guess how long it’d been since the last cleaning. The blue additive didn’t begin to disguise the yellow ring around the inside of the bowl. Funny she’d notice that now.

Standing in front of the sink, Alix stared into the mirror. The voices that came to taunt her were familiar ones. They were the ugly, negative voices that shouted words she tried to ignore. Voices that laughed in her face and said she was a loser. No matter what she did or how hard she tried, she’d never amount to anything. Her life was doomed. This was her lot. She’d never earn more than minimum wage, never be loved, never have a real home with things that normal people took for granted, like a phone and a dishwasher.

Pressing her hands to her face, Alix closed her eyes and felt the dark misery descend. She could feel its oppressive weight settle on her shoulders, shoving her down to a place deep inside. She tried unsuccessfully to shake off the depression, tried to shake off the ugly words that echoed in her mind.

The repulsive names her mother had called her rang through her head. She could hear a teacher’s chastisement and belittling comments next, and the humiliation returned as strong now as it had been twelve years earlier. She wanted to bury all the hurtful words. Instead they reverberated through her mind with such force she nearly slumped to the rest room floor.

A knock sounded at the door, startling her. Alix jerked her head toward the noise.

“Alix, you in there?”

Laurel. Damn. “What?” she snapped.

“He’s back.”

“Who?”

“The guy you were just talking to. I don’t know his name.”

Alix bit her lower lip. “You help him.”

“He asked for you.”

“Why?” she asked, frowning.

“I don’t know,” Laurel said irritably. “Am I supposed to read minds, too?”

“I’ll be out in a minute, all right?” Alix straightened, brushing her hands through her hair as she came to grips with this information. She wondered what possible reason Jordan could have for seeking her out.

Because her face was beet-red, she ran cold water over her hands and then brought them to her cheeks, not caring what it did to her makeup.

She didn’t know how much time had passed before she finally found the courage to come out and face Jordan.

He was standing at the counter waiting. He smiled as she approached.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked as if he’d interrupted her. She didn’t want to give him the impression that she was happy to see him, and in truth, she wasn’t. After humiliating herself once, she didn’t feel like doing it again. Not this soon, anyway.

“You said you’d put aside The Matrix for me?”

Her relief was intense. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. I’ve got it up front.” She moved past him and behind the counter to the spot where she’d placed the video.

“I appreciate you doing that for me.”

“No problem,” she said, busying herself with the computer screen. She rang up the total and asked for his card. After he’d paid her the rental fee, she set the video in its protective plastic case, then slipped it inside a bag and handed it to him over the counter. “We’ve got a special on microwave popcorn this week if you’re interested.”

“No, thanks. I bought a case at Costco my last visit. I’ve got enough popcorn to last me for the next ten years.”

She rested her elbows on the counter, feeling awkward and a bit embarrassed. She had no idea what to say, what to ask. If she mentioned the Jordan Turner from sixth grade, it would sound like a pick-up line. “Uh, any other movies you want me to put aside for you?” That wasn’t exactly a scintillating question but at least it made sense.

He shrugged. “Can’t think of any at the moment, but if I do I’ll let you know.”

“Okay.”

With a nod, Jordan left. The glass door closed and as if by magic Laurel appeared. “What did he want?”

“A movie, what else?”

“How come he only wanted you to help him?”

Alix didn’t feel inclined to go into the details. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“There’s no need to get all snappy with me.”

The door chimed and to Alix’s astonishment, Jordan stuck his head inside. “Alix, what time do you get off work?”

She was too shocked to answer immediately. “Eleven. I close three nights a week.”

“Do you close tomorrow?”

“No. I’m here until nine on Wednesdays.”

“Do you want to meet for coffee then? After work?”

“Ah …” She found it hard to believe he was actually asking her out. Well, sort of out. “Yeah, I guess,” she said as if it wasn’t any big deal.

“Great, I’ll see you then.” He waved and was gone.

A bubble of happiness rose up inside her. It demanded every ounce of restraint she possessed not to stamp her feet with joy.

13
CHAPTER

“Knitting—my Amazing Grace.”

—Nancie M. Wiseman, Editor, Cast On magazine and author of Classic Knitted Vests and The Knitter’s Book of Finishing Techniques

LYDIA HOFFMAN

My mother phoned me early in the week to suggest she, Margaret and I go out to the cemetery together on Memorial Day to visit my father’s grave. It had only been a few months since we laid Daddy to rest. These were difficult days for Mom as she had yet to find her footing as a widow.

I readily agreed to join her, but I wondered about Margaret’s response. She’d managed to manipulate the situation so we didn’t see each other on Mother’s Day. At every family function, my sister acts prickly and standoffish. It seems she’d prefer to forget we have the same parents. More than once, the thought has passed through my mind that Margaret would rather I was the one who’d died instead of our father. That isn’t a pleasant notion to entertain, but given her attitude, I feel it’s true. Yet I continue to try. Some perverse part of me refuses to let go. She’s my sister. Having been so close to death, I feel that even though we might not like each other, we need each other.

I arrived at my mother’s place early Monday afternoon and found Mom sipping tea on the back patio near her garden. She’d dressed in her long black skirt and silk blouse and sat in the wicker chair, enjoying the sunshine.

The roses were trimmed and budding, and the sweet aroma of the lilac bush scented the air. I could see from the linen hankie clutched in her hands that Mom had been weeping.

I moved beside her, wordlessly pressing my hand to her shoulder. She glanced up and managed a teary smile before she laid her hand over mine and gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. “I still miss him, you know.”

“Me, too,” I whispered, emotion choking my voice.

“Dad would be upset to see us so maudlin. It’s such a lovely day and soon I’ll have both my daughters with me. How can I possibly be sad?” She reached for the teapot and I realized she’d brought out a second cup, expecting me to join her. Without asking she poured and I sat down beside her.

We chatted a bit. Mom was full of questions about A Good Yarn, my beginning class and the three women who’d signed up. I mentioned Jacqueline, Carol and Alix frequently and talked to her about my other customers, too. Slowly, one by one, I was building my clientele and perhaps just as importantly, I was making friends. My world expanded a little more with each day and I was happy. Whiskers was, too, and has taken to spending time in the shop, often sunning himself in the front window. My cat’s become a real conversation starter, and charms my customers no end. He accepts all the attention as his due.

Because of the holiday weekend, my beginners’ class decided to skip the previous Friday. Jacqueline and Carol were both going out of town. Alix didn’t divulge her plans, but I suspected she didn’t have much opportunity to get out of the city.

I was pleased with the progress each woman had made. I’d had a bit of a challenge talking Jacqueline into staying in the class. She’d planned to quit before the third session, but I convinced her to keep at it. I had the feeling she wanted me to change her mind and I’m glad I did. There’d been a couple of rough moments when Alix dropped a stitch during the second class and let loose with a blue streak that nearly put Jacqueline in a coma. Immediately I suggested Alix find an alternative method of expressing her frustration. To my surprise, she apologized and my appreciation for her increased. Alix isn’t so bad once you get to know her.

Carol’s my star pupil, already half done with the baby blanket, and eyeing other projects. She’s been coming by the shop at least twice a week, often staying to chat. Whiskers sat in her lap a couple of times, just to show he approves of my choice of a friend.

Mom loves hearing stories about my customers. We talk nearly every day. She needs that and frankly, so do I. I might be thirty years old but a girl never outgrows her need for her mother.

“Margaret and the girls will be here at one,” Mom said conversationally, but I wasn’t fooled. She was giving me fair warning. She set her china cup in the saucer and rested her hands in her lap. My mother possesses a natural grace I envy. Margaret’s a great deal like her in that regard.

I’m not sure how to describe my mother. One might well assume she’s as fragile as she looks, but that’s not the case. She’s strong in ways I can only admire. She was a fierce advocate for me in dealing with the doctors and the insurance company during my bouts with cancer. She’s loving and generous and constantly tries to meet the needs of others. Her one drawback is in coping with sickness. She couldn’t bear to see me—or anyone else—suffer and tended to simply withdraw. Fortunately, Dad was always there for me.

“Are Julia and Hailey coming with Margaret?” I asked. My two nieces are a source of wonder to me. The likelihood of my ever bearing children was slim to none, so my sister’s daughters hold an important place in my heart. Margaret seemed to sense this and, for whatever reason, jealously guarded her daughters, keeping them away from me as much as possible.

Julia and Hailey, however, recognized my genuine affection and much to Margaret’s consternation, loved me unabashedly. Their undiluted joy at every chance encounter rankled Margaret so much that she did whatever she could to block my access to my nieces.

“Grandma!” Nine-year-old Hailey loped into the backyard, her arms extended. When she saw me, she squealed with delight and after hugging my mother, vaulted into my arms, nearly strangling me in her enthusiasm.

Fourteen-year-old Julia was a bit more restrained, but her eyes revealed her pleasure at seeing me. I stretched out my free arm to her and when she stepped toward me, we clasped hands and I squeezed her fingers. How tall Julia had grown, more woman than child now, and such a beauty. My heart swelled with pride at the sight of her.

“Aunt Lydia, will you teach me how to knit?” Hailey begged, still clinging to me.

I looked over my shoulder just in time to see my sister and brother-in-law come out the back door and onto the patio where I sat with my mother and the girls. From the frown Margaret wore, I could see she’d heard the question. “I’d love to teach you, but it’s up to your mother.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Margaret said sharply. Hailey placed her arm around my shoulders, unwilling to release me.

“Hello, Matt,” I said.

My brother-in-law grinned and winked at me. I remember when Matt and Margaret first started dating. Because she’s five years older than me, I viewed seventeen-year-old Matt as mature and sophisticated, a man of the world. They’d married young and my father disapproved, believing Margaret should wait until she’d graduated from college. She did finish her schooling but hasn’t used her education in the way Dad wanted. My sister has worked at a number of jobs through the years but she’s never found any position that’s really suited her. Margaret is currently employed part-time at a travel agency, but she’s never discussed her job with me. I do applaud her decision to be home as much as possible for the girls, but I’ve avoided sharing my thoughts, uncertain of their reception.

After a brief exchange of chitchat and news, we drove out to the cemetery in two cars. Mom had brought a large bouquet of lilacs from her garden, and Julia and Hailey set them in the receptacle at my father’s gravesite. A large number of American flags flapped in the wind across the cemetery, reminding us of the men and women who sacrificed their lives for our country.

I’ve always found cemeteries curious places. As a child, I had an almost ghoulish fascination with tombstones. I especially enjoyed reading the epitaphs on those from the 1800s and early 1900s. While Margaret and my parents paid their respects to my grandparents, I’d invariably wander off. I broke my leg when I was five when a statue of the Virgin Mary fell over on me. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad that I’d been climbing on her at the time, hoping to look at her face.

I never really knew my grandparents. One set lived on the East Coast and visited only on rare occasions. My mother’s family had come to Seattle at the time of the Great Depression, but her parents had died shortly after I was born. Each Memorial Day we visited their graves and placed flowers by their headstones. I felt little emotion for my long-dead relatives, perhaps a twinge now and then, wishing I remembered them, but that was about it.

Now as I stared down at my father’s marker, so fresh and new, a surge of harsh grief came over me. The marble tablet said so little. His name, JAMES HOWARD HOFFMAN, and the dates of his birth and death: May 20, 1940—December 29, 2003.

Birth to death, and all that appeared between those two events was a dash. That silent dash said nothing about his two tours of duty in Vietnam, or his unwavering love for his wife and daughters. That dash couldn’t possibly reveal the countless hours he’d spent at my bedside, comforting me, reading to me, doing whatever he could to help me. There are no words to describe the depth of my father’s love.

The familiar blinding pain struck me then. One consequence of the tumor that continues to linger is migraine headaches. With the new medicines now available, I can almost always catch them early. The telltale signs are unmistakable. This one, however, had caught me by surprise.

I fumbled in my purse for the pills I carried with me constantly. My mother, aware of my situation, came toward me when she saw me stumble. “Lydia, what is it?”

I breathed in slowly and deeply. “I need to get home,” I whispered, closing my eyes to the blinding sunlight.

“Margaret, Matt,” Mom called urgently. She slid her arm around my waist. Within minutes she’d bundled me into the car but instead of having Matt drive me to my own small apartment above the yarn shop, my mother insisted on bringing me to her house.

It wasn’t long before I was in bed in the room where I’d spent most of my childhood. The shades were drawn. Mom draped cool washcloths on my forehead and then tiptoed out of the room to allow me to sleep.

I knew that once the medication had been given a chance to work, I’d sleep for a couple of hours. Afterward I’d be fine, but reaching that point—the beginning of relief—was difficult.

Soon after my mother left and the horrible throbbing was at its peak, I heard the bedroom door creak open again. Although I was completely prone and my eyes were closed, I knew it was my sister who’d walked into the room.

“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Her words were weighted with bitterness. “You can’t let a day pass without being the center of attention, can you?”

I found it hard to fathom that my sister would seriously believe I’d intentionally bring on a migraine for the sake of a few minutes’ attention. If Margaret had ever suffered with one, she’d know differently. But I was in no shape to argue, so I kept silent.

“Someday it’s only going to be the two of us, you know.”

I did know and wanted so badly to have a good relationship with my sister. If I hadn’t been hounded by pain I would’ve tried to explain how much I wished things could be different between us.

“If you think I’m going to step in and pick up where Mom and Dad left off, you’re sadly mistaken.”

I almost smiled. I couldn’t imagine Margaret doing anything of the kind.

“I refuse to pamper and spoil you. It’s time you grew up and became an adult, Lydia. In fact, it’s long past time you accepted responsibility for your own life. As far as I’m concerned, you can look for sympathy elsewhere.” Having made her great pronouncement, she stalked out of the room.

The sound of the slammed door reverberated through my head. My lungs froze and my heart skipped a beat. With the cool washcloth over my face, it took me a moment to realize tears had dripped from my eyes.

Now more than ever, I was convinced that a relationship with Margaret was impossible.

14
CHAPTER

JACQUELINE DONOVAN

Jacqueline checked her reflection in the hall mirror and sighed, praying for patience. Paul and Tammie Lee had invited her and Reese to their home for a barbecue. She couldn’t refuse; Paul would easily see through any excuse. Trapped, Jacqueline had no choice but to grit her teeth and make the best of it.

“Are you ready?” Reese asked for the third time.

Grumbling under her breath, Jacqueline joined him. He was jingling his car keys and pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen door that led to the garage.

“Can’t we get out of this?” she asked, knowing it was impossible.

Reese gave her one of his looks. He had several expressions that spoke as clearly as words, and over the years she’d come to identify them all. This one was the off-center humorless smile that conveyed his displeasure at something she’d said or done.

“What’s wrong this time?” she asked, fuming. “Don’t tell me you’re actually looking forward to this barbecue?” Heaven only knew what Tammie Lee might prepare for their dinner. Grilled possum? Barbecued squirrel?

“Don’t you see?” her husband said. “Paul wants us to get to know Tammie Lee and love her the way he does.”

Jacqueline shook her head in a gesture of denial and frustration. “It’s not going to happen, no matter how many barbecues he insists we attend.”

“The least you can do is give Tammie Lee a chance.”

Jacqueline was beginning to resent Reese’s attitude. Her husband was well aware of the importance of marrying the right person. He hadn’t chosen her because of her cute smile. Their parents were good friends, and she’d attended all the best schools and so had he. Yes, she’d loved Reese, but there was so much more to finding an appropriate marriage partner than love, which in her opinion was highly overrated, anyway.

She feared Paul was fast becoming like his father, with his brains situated somewhere below his waistline. Only Paul had married the girl. If he held genuine feelings for Tammie Lee, then her son should do as his father had and set her up someplace, visiting her once a week. Jacqueline didn’t know the extent of her husband’s monetary investment in his Tuesday-night woman, but she suspected it was substantial. She hadn’t checked his financial records after the first year, preferring not to learn the truth. His absence each Tuesday night told her all she needed to know.

They rode in silence to Paul and Tammie Lee’s house, a respectable two-story near Kirkland with a nice view of Lake Washington. Smoke spiraled from the backyard and Jacqueline suspected they’d already put on the meat. Good! The sooner this family gathering was over the better.

Reese rang the doorbell and together they stood on the steps and waited. Tammie Lee opened the door in bare feet, frayed jean shorts and a maternity top, looking like she’d stepped out of the 1960s television series Petticoat Junction.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she drawled, reaching for Jacqueline’s hands and practically dragging her into the house.

“Mom. Dad.” Paul was directly behind his wife. He shook hands with his father and briefly hugged Jacqueline.

Jacqueline didn’t mean to start the afternoon off on a negative note, but she didn’t think it was a good idea for Tammie Lee to be traipsing around the house barefoot. God knows what she could step on or where she might slip.

“I hesitate to mention this, but shouldn’t you be wearing shoes?” She’d asked out of genuine concern for the girl, but Jacqueline could see from the way Paul’s mouth thinned that he was annoyed with her.

“I know you’re right,” Tammie Lee said, leading everyone through the house and into the freshly mowed backyard. “Bless his heart, Paul keeps telling me the same thing, but I just can’t make myself wear shoes. I kick ‘em off the minute I walk in the door. Then last week I made the mistake of walking around the yard in my bare feet and I stepped on a slug.”

Jacqueline cringed.

“I started screaming like the Holy Spirit had come down upon me.”

Paul chuckled. “I’ve never run so fast in my life. I thought she’d been attacked by a swarm of bees or something.”

The patio table was already set and Tammie Lee held up two pitchers of iced tea. “Sweetened or unsweetened?” she asked.

In Jacqueline’s view, iced tea should be served only one way and that was unsweetened. Anyone who wanted to add sugar could do so at the time it was served.

“Unsweetened,” she said and took her place at the table.

“I’ll have the same,” Reese said.

Tammie Lee poured the tea and handed a glass to Jacqueline, who frowned at the green leaf floating on top. “There seems to be something in my tea,” she said, picking up her spoon to remove it.

“That’s a mint leaf,” Tammie Lee said. “My mama wouldn’t let me serve iced tea without fresh mint and lemon slices.”

Feeling like a fool, Jacqueline leaned back in her chair, determined not to say another word. Of course it was mint—she should’ve recognized it—but with Tammie Lee one never knew what to expect.

“This is very pleasant. It was nice of you to invite us over,” Reese said.

Jacqueline stared daggers at him. Nothing about this day was pleasant and he damn well knew it.

“Actually it was Tammie Lee’s idea,” Paul said, standing in front of the barbecue. To her relief, whatever he was cooking smelled divine. The meat sizzled and Paul coated it liberally with some garlicky kind of sauce.

“Yes,” Tammie Lee said, returning to the patio with a notebook and pen. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with Jacqueline and Reese. She opened her notebook to a clean page. “I wanted to ask you about family traditions,” she said eagerly. “It’s just so important for Paul and me to start some family traditions, and I wanted to include yours as much as possible.”

“Traditions?” Jacqueline repeated as if she’d never heard the word before.

“Yes, you know. Like Derby Day?”

Jacqueline exchanged a quizzical look with her husband.

“The Kentucky Derby,” Tammie Lee explained, glancing from one to the other as if expecting them to smile and nod and exclaim “of course.”

“My daddy and all my uncles would wear their white suits and Panama hats, and Mama and my aunts would cook for days.”

“We don’t feel as strongly about the Kentucky Derby here in Seattle as your family does, sweetheart,” Paul said, joining them at the round patio table. He shared a smile with his father. “Tell her about Christmas, Mom.”

“Christmas,” Jacqueline repeated. “What about it?”

“How you used to hang my stockings on the fireplace mantel every Christmas Eve.”

“Yes, but I haven’t done that in years.”

“What about football?” Tammie Lee said excitedly. “Y’all enjoy football here, don’t you?” Her drawl had thickened as she grew more enthusiastic.

“Oh, yes.” It was Paul who answered this time. “Both Dad and I are Husky fans.”

“That’s wonderful! We’ll do tailgate parties. Mama says tailgate parties are a lot like church. All the women dress up in their Sunday best and cook up a tornado. Then we spend hours praying for a miracle.”

Both Paul and Reese laughed but Jacqueline didn’t see the humor in it. “Why would you pray?”

Tammie Lee grinned. “So our team would win.”

Jacqueline managed a tight smile.

As it turned out, the barbecue wasn’t as bad as Jacqueline had feared. She’d had visions of her daughter-in-law’s centerpiece being prepared by a taxidermist, but Tammie Lee had set out a lovely floral arrangement.

All in all, the afternoon was reasonably pleasant—to use Reese’s word—despite Jacqueline’s dire predictions. Dinner consisted of a delightful guacamole and blue corn chips, grilled brisket and potato salad, which was surprisingly good. The jalapeno cornbread was a bit spicy, but Jacqueline had a small piece. Reese raved about the meal, and Tammie Lee beamed with pleasure at his endless compliments. Now that she’d reduced her work hours, her daughter-in-law had time to lavish on meals to please her husband. As a young married woman, Jacqueline had done the same thing. These days, her interest in cooking was nil.

On the drive home, Reese and Jacqueline were silent. Most of the dinner conversation had revolved around family traditions. Apparently Tammie Lee’s family had quite a few, and she happily described each one in lengthy detail, frequently mentioning Aunt Thelma and Aunt Frieda, as well as “Mama” and “Daddy.” Jacqueline had begun to wonder if the girl was homesick.

Well, if she was, Tammie Lee could pack her bags and go visit her mama. With his wife out of the house, perhaps Paul would come to his senses.

“We didn’t have a lot of traditions with Paul, did we?” Reese said as they pulled out onto the freeway entrance.

“Of course we did,” she countered, although she’d been hard-pressed to think of any over dinner. “We made gingerbread houses with him every Christmas, remember?”

“Yes, but that was years ago, when he was a kid.”

“And there was always the Easter Egg hunt at the country club.”

“Yes, and Paul and I used to bring you breakfast in bed every Mother’s Day.”

“That’s right,” Jacqueline said, instantly feeling a sense of relief. She hadn’t failed completely as a mother. “Just because we didn’t dress up in those dreadful white seersucker suits and Panama hats to watch the Kentucky Derby doesn’t mean we didn’t have meaningful traditions with our son.”

Reese took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at her. “Do you remember the year Paul insisted on making you Eggs Benedict?”

“Oh, my goodness, it took Martha months to get the stovetop clean.”

“But you ate every bite. You were such a trouper,” Reese said. “I don’t think I ever loved you more than I did that day.”

Jacqueline’s smile faded as she stared out the passenger window. They had loved each other, and in their own ways, they still did. All this talk about traditions and family had stirred up the dust of bygone years, swirling a storm of happy memories in her direction. It was all a bit unsettling.

“I’m glad Paul and Tammie Lee want to start traditions with their daughter,” Reese said as they neared the house. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Jacqueline answered softly. She very much wanted that for her grandchild. She imagined a little girl, dark-haired like Paul, her small arms reaching up to Jacqueline. Tammie Lee might not be her first choice of a wife for her son, but Paul seemed happy. Soon he’d make her a grandmother. Yes, there were a few compensations to be found in this marriage.

Whatever the reason, Jacqueline felt better than she had in months. Perhaps Reese was right and she was being too hard on the girl.

15
CHAPTER

CAROL GIRARD

Carol had been in a good mood all week. She and Doug had impulsively gone out for a wonderful Thai dinner last night, she’d had some encouraging conversations with her online group, and her knitting skills were improving daily. She was looking forward to her class the following day, the fourth in the series. In the last three weeks she’d begun to really enjoy knitting and tackled it with the same energy and enthusiasm she brought to everything in her life. Her first blanket had been a bit flawed; it had a few uneven stitches, so she’d donated it to the Linus Project and bought the yarn for a second one. She had much better control of the yarn’s tension and was pleased with how this new blanket was turning out.

Carrying in the mail, she set it on the table. An envelope addressed to her was on top and Carol recognized the married name of a college friend who’d moved to California. She tore open the envelope, excited to hear from Christine. It didn’t take her long to discover that it wasn’t a letter as she’d hoped, but a birth announcement.

In that instant, Carol’s good mood spiraled downward. She caught her breath and sank into a kitchen chair as she read the details about Christine’s infant born just two weeks earlier on May 27th. A baby boy, the card said.

Christine was the kind of woman who did everything according to a predetermined schedule. That included marrying the perfect man, getting pregnant exactly when she’d planned to, and then delivering a healthy baby.

Carol swallowed hard. Few people would understand the depression she felt at that moment. Only her online friends could fully appreciate her feelings.

Carol sat staring at the wall as she tried to overcome her sense of inadequacy and frustration. She was genuinely happy for Christine and Bill. Yet at the same time, she wanted to pull her hair out and scream at the heavens—demand to know why she wasn’t pregnant. Why her body didn’t function the way other women’s bodies did. These were all questions she’d asked herself dozens of times, questions she’d asked every expert she’d met, and still she had no answers.

Eventually she would have a baby. Carol had to believe that. But it was taking so much longer than she’d ever imagined. The waiting was the most maddening. She had to wait for the medical appointments with the specialists. Then she had to wait for the tests, wait for the treatments and wait again for additional treatments. They weren’t pleasant experiences, either. Forget about privacy and modesty. Forget about everything except this compulsion to have a child.

Carol’s periods had become far more than a monthly nuisance; it was as if her whole world centered on her menstrual cycle. And when they did start, her heart broke and she struggled with the bitterness of disappointment.

Every month that passed—every period that came—was like an hour chimed off by a grandfather clock. At best she had only twelve opportunities a year to conceive and if she wanted a second child or possibly a third, God only knew how many more years that would take.

Carol knew a lot of her friends thought of her as obsessed and moody. She was. But she was also afraid, so terribly afraid.

Making love with Doug had taken on a routine quality. Sex on schedule. And then the frantic wait, the frequent visits to the bathroom, just to check. Had her period started? And when it did …

This IVF had to work, it just had to.

If only someone could give her a definite answer. If only Dr. Ford would tell her and Doug one way or the other whether they could ever have a child. If his diagnosis was negative then they’d learn to deal with it, make adjustments, make other plans.

Instead he allowed them to hope and twice now, they’d plummeted into despair when the IVF failed and she’d miscarried. Twice they’d recovered, willing to try again, willing to do anything and everything, sacrifice all, for a baby.

Carol rubbed her eyes and stood to put on water for a cup of tea—decaffeinated, of course. She’d begun to avoid so many foods for fear they would hinder conception. Her grocery list read like an inventory list for a health food store. Some experts felt diet was critical; other medical professionals disagreed. Carol wasn’t taking any chances. She was going to try anything that might help her stay pregnant.

In so many ways it felt as if her entire life was on hold. She’d left a promising career, went to the best doctors, ate all the right foods, listened to all the motivational tapes and repeated the mantras she’d learned. She had to believe her mind could control her body and that the sheer force of her determination would eventually give her what she wanted most.

Filling the teakettle with water, she set it on the burner and sat down again while she waited for the water to boil. A short handwritten note from Christine caught her eye. Carol hadn’t noticed it at the bottom of the birth announcement. Christine’s lovely cursive said: “I haven’t heard from you in so long!”

There was a very good reason for that. Carol’s friendship with Christine wasn’t the only one she’d allowed to lapse. She’d ignored many of her close friends, mainly because the struggle to get pregnant demanded so much energy. Most of the women she knew were already mothers, and her friends with children socialized primarily with other friends who had children.

Carol and Doug had less and less in common with these friends, whose lives seemed to revolve around babies and playgrounds and birthday parties. If that wasn’t bad enough, there were often lengthy discussions that excluded them. Conversations about schools or day care, about tantrums and teething problems.

Then there were the so-called friends who dismissed their difficulties, who trivialized her desire for a child. One heartless woman in the office had laughingly suggested Carol was welcome to raise one of her four. Other people wanted to comfort her by saying it wouldn’t be long now and modern medicine was so wonderful that within a year’s time she was sure to be pregnant. Well, she wasn’t, and the most horrible fear of all had taken root. There might never be a baby for her and Doug. She could hardly bear it, but she’d rather face the truth than continue like this.

The kettle whistled and she slowly stood and poured the boiling water into the pot. She couldn’t allow such negative thoughts to invade her mind. That only made things worse. She had to believe. She couldn’t let a birth announcement do this to her. God had given her a sign. She had to believe, push aside all negative thinking. She had faith….

The door opened and Carol whirled around, surprised to realize it was so late. “Doug! Is it that time already?” She tried to sound cheerful but knew she’d failed.

“You okay?” he asked, studying her.

“Of course.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked, returning her attention to the teapot.

“Sure. It was fine.”

Doug immediately zeroed in on the mail. He walked over to the table and discovered Christine and Bill’s birth announcement. She watched his face as he read it, and wanted to cry out in pain at the longing she saw in his eyes. After a moment he set it aside as if it were a matter of only the slightest interest. She knew otherwise.

“They had a boy,” she said, fighting to keep the emotion out of her voice.

“So I see.”

It should’ve been them, she wanted to scream. They should be the couple mailing out birth announcements. They were good people. They had a strong marriage and they’d be wonderful parents….

The infertility was a constant stress on their marriage. Doug had dealt with as much of the indignity as she had. The semen collection in a bathroom off Dr. Ford’s waiting room, the post-coital examinations—all of this was dreadful for him.

People assured her that one day they’d laugh about it. Carol didn’t think that was possible.

“I’m almost half done with the second baby blanket. I have another class tomorrow afternoon.”

Her husband nodded and grabbed the newspaper, heading for his favorite chair in the living room.

Carol wanted to shout at him to talk to her. Instead she bit her tongue and began preparing dinner, a meal she had no appetite for.

16
CHAPTER

ALIX TOWNSEND

Sitting at a window table in Starbucks, Alix concentrated on moving the stitches from one needle to the other and completing the row. No one else in class seemed to have a problem with this basic knitting concept. Carol was already working on her second blanket. Jacqueline was having a few difficulties, but not nearly as many as Alix. No matter how hard she concentrated, Alix would start out with a hundred and seventy-one stitches and by the time she finished the row, there’d be a hundred and eighty or more. Or less, depending on what she’d done wrong.

Lydia reassured her on a regular basis that this was a common problem and explained with limitless patience that Alix wasn’t completing the stitch properly. Well, duh! Then she’d show her again. And Alix would make the same stupid mistake. She didn’t care; she wasn’t giving up until she learned to knit, even if it killed her. She already had thirty bucks invested in this project!

At the end of the row Alix paused, sipped her frappuccino, a rare treat, and counted the stitches. Damn! A hundred and eighty-three! She’d done it again and added stitches where she shouldn’t. “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, which was a tame version of what she was thinking. Apparently being around Jacqueline was rubbing off on her. She barely used the F-word anymore.

Shoving the knitting onto her lap, Alix closed her eyes, trying to ignore the frustration. This class was supposed to help her with anger management? That was a joke if she’d ever heard one.

Even more irritating, Laurel was at the apartment with John and had asked Alix to stay away for a couple of hours. She didn’t know what was going on with those two, but Alix didn’t think it could possibly be good. Things had gotten pretty intense between them recently. John had been making regular appearances at the video store, and Alix hated the way Laurel gushed all over the sleaze. As far as she was concerned, John was bad news.

Once her nerves were calm, Alix carefully unraveled the row, taking out one stitch at a time, which took more effort than it did to complete the frigging row in the first place. Two stitches from the end of the row, she lost her grip on the needle and dropped a stitch. A muttered curse escaped before she could stop herself.

Good thing Jacqueline wasn’t there to hear it. She was offended each and every time the knitting got the better of Alix, which unfortunately was often. Still, she was improving.

Thus far, Alix had avoided a confrontation with the other woman, but she could feel one brewing. At best Jacqueline tolerated Alix, and Alix felt the same way about her.

Jacqueline had a twisted view of the world, in Alix’s opinion. The only things that seemed important to her were pretense and prestige. At each class, she sat and chatted away, putting on airs as if anyone really cared who she saw at social events and club meetings. Most of the time, Alix didn’t know who she was talking about, anyway. Jacqueline spent most of the lesson name-dropping or discussing some ritzy party she’d attended. Well, la-di-da!

Biting down on her lower lip, Alix managed to pick up the dropped stitch and then just before she could slip it onto the needle, she lost it and the whole thing unraveled another two rows.

She muttered an even more furious curse under her breath and was tempted to ditch the entire project. If she had any sense she’d throw it in the garbage, needles and all, and slam out the door.

Alix felt someone’s presence and glanced up to find Jordan Turner standing next to her table. Her mouth went dry and her mind went blank. He was the last person she’d expected to see.

“Looks like you’re having a bit of trouble.” He pulled out the chair beside her, turned it around and sat down facing her.

All Alix could do was stare at him with her mouth hanging open. She hadn’t seen him in a couple of weeks. After suggesting they have coffee sometime, he’d vanished. Alix had been bummed out ever since. It was the story of her life; the minute she showed interest in a guy he either ended up in jail or skipped town.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, making sure he knew she wasn’t pleased to see him.

“Actually, I came in looking for you.” He folded his arms over the top of the chair and leaned toward her.

“Sure you did.” That was the type of line John fed Laurel. Alix wasn’t going to fall for it.

“It’s the truth. You can talk to Danny. I went into the store and asked him if he knew where I could find you.” Danny worked part-time during the day shift and was reliable. If she asked him about it, he’d be square with her.

Ignoring Jordan, she caught the dropped stitch and finished the row before she raised her eyes. “Why were you looking for me?”

“I thought I’d buy you a cup of coffee. Are you always this difficult?”

She fixed her gaze on him and refused to blink. “Not really.”

“So this I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude is for my benefit?”

She smiled despite her mood. “You could say that.”

Her lack of welcome apparently didn’t bother him. “Any particular reason?”

Alix picked up her knitting again. It sounded childish and petty to say she was disappointed because he’d led her to believe he’d be by to take her to coffee. Then … nothing. Rather than tell him all that, she started knitting again, paying close attention to her stitches, concentrating as she completed the action of slipping it onto the next needle. “I haven’t seen you around lately,” she said casually.

“Are you implying you missed me? I thought a lot about you while I was away, you know.”

She shrugged, looked up and felt a smile lift one side of her mouth. “I might have.”

He liked hearing that; Alix could tell by the way he shifted in his chair and leaned closer. He watched her for a moment and then asked, “What are you knitting?”

“A baby blanket for the Linus Project.”

Jordan nodded. “I’ve heard of that. There was a notice in the church bulletin about it a couple of months ago.”

Damn, he went to church, too? She really knew how to pick ‘em. “Don’t think I’m doing this wonderful deed out of the kindness of my heart,” she said gruffly. “I’m not putting this much effort into a baby blanket out of civic duty.”

“Then why knit it for the Linus Project?”

She might as well admit the truth, and looked up, wanting to gauge his reaction. “It’s a way to serve the community hours the court assigned me.” If that didn’t scare him off, then nothing would. She believed in being honest, and if this clean-cut guy was still interested in her, great. If not, she was better off knowing that now.

“Court-ordered community service? Why?”

“I crossed the law and the law won,” she said, finishing the row and paying less attention to the stitches than she should. “But it was a bogus rap and the judge knew it. I got community service instead of jail time. Does that shock a good boy like you?”

“No.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him but let it slide.

“My mother knits.”

Alix stopped herself just in time from telling him that her mother was in prison. Enough honesty for today, she decided; no need to overload him with the truth. His interest flattered her, and she rather liked the fact that he’d sought her out. Glancing up, she was tempted to ask what grade school he’d attended, still wondering if he was the Jordan Turner she’d once known. She only half remembered what that boy had looked like, although she recalled he’d worn glasses. Unlike this Jordan. She might have asked, except that he posed a question instead.

“Are you hungry?” He looked over his shoulder at the display counter in the front. “They’ve got great scones if there are any left. Want one?”

“I could eat,” she said which wasn’t the most gracious statement she’d ever made.

He got up and walked to the counter. Alix watched him for a moment and tried to calm her pounding heart. She turned back to her knitting and finished the row, then triumphantly counted exactly one hundred and seventy-one stitches. Jordan returned to her table, a coffee cup in one hand, with a plate and scone balanced on top of it. In the other hand he carried a second plate with a scone.

“We’re in luck,” he said as he set everything down on the small round table. “They only had two left.”

She nodded, accepting the scone. “Thanks.”

Jordan took a sip of his drink. “Danny didn’t actually know where you’d be and I just happened to see you in the window as I walked by.”

She broke the scone in half and was grateful this had been the only table available when she’d arrived an hour earlier. Normally she wouldn’t have sat in view of the entire street. It depressed her to see what was happening to the neighborhood, mainly because she sensed it was only a matter of time before she and Laurel lost the apartment. If that happened, it wouldn’t be long before she’d be back to sleeping in cheap, rat-infested hotel rooms every night. Getting another apartment would mean taking on a second job and waiting tables for tips in places decent guys like Jordan didn’t frequent.

“Where’ve you been?” Alix asked, since he hadn’t volunteered the information. He’d said he was away.

He sipped his coffee, then put it down. “I was running a youth retreat at Warm Beach.”

Alix didn’t have a clue what that was. “This whole time?”

“Not entirely, but the church needed help with the organization, so I worked in the Stanwood office for a few weeks.”

“Oh.” This was the second time he’d mentioned church, and she’d begun to feel a niggling suspicion.

“It’s nice to know you missed me,” he murmured.

“I didn’t say that,” she said a bit more defensively than she’d intended.

He chuckled.

Alix was relieved to see she hadn’t offended him. “Well, maybe I missed you a little.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You got any more youth retreats you need to organize?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. Frankly, I hope not. When I accepted the job as youth minister, I expected to spend my time with the teenagers here in the Blossom Street neighborhood.”

Alix felt as if her world had caved in. “You’re … a preacher?”

“Youth minister,” Jordan corrected. “I’m currently working at the Free Methodist church in the neighborhood, the one right off Blossom.” His mouth twitched; he seemed to be suppressing laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she muttered irritably.

“Nothing. It’s just that you made it sound as if being a minister was like being a drug lord. Or worse.”

“It’s just that …” Alix was aghast and words failed her—as they always did when she was flustered.

“I’m a youth minister, Alix,” he said and reached for her hand. He smiled then. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“It is you!” Damn, she’d thought so and wished like crazy that she’d said something first.

“Remember sixth grade at Jackson Elementary? It took me a while to make the connection myself.”

“I thought it might be you…. I can’t believe it.” Her mind flashed back to grade school and she narrowed her eyes as she studied him. “We were in the same class, remember?”

“What I remember,” Jordan said, grinning, “was that you sat next to Jimmy Burkhart.”

Alix remembered Jimmy as though it was yesterday. She’d given him a bloody nose and ended up in the principal’s office, and all because Jimmy had been teasing her about wanting to marry Jordan Turner. She and half the other girls in the sixth grade had been agog over the preacher’s son—and now, apparently, Jordan had followed in his father’s footsteps. He was a minister. Damn, wouldn’t you know it?

“I had a valentine for you.”

She stared up at him, overwhelmed by the memory of that fateful year—the year her mother had tried to kill her father.

“I brought it to school and you weren’t there and you never came back.”

Alix didn’t answer. The night before the sixth-grade Valentine party, her mother shot her father. Both had been drinking heavily and then, inevitably, a fight had broken out. Soon the police had arrived, followed by paramedics. Her mother was led away in handcuffs and because there were no relatives to take them, Alix and her brother had been shuffled off to foster homes. That night was the beginning of the end of Alix’s family life, sad as it’d been. Her mother had been sent to prison, and her father, once he was released from the hospital, drifted away, losing contact with his children. Soon she and Tom were wards of the state. With all the turmoil, Alix had never returned to Jackson Elementary … and the valentine Jordan claimed to have for her.

“So,” Jordan said, leaning closer. “I was wondering what you would’ve said if I’d asked you to be my sixth-grade valentine?”

She nearly laughed aloud. Yeah, sure. The daughter of drunks and the son of a preacher. Somehow, she didn’t think this relationship was going to last.

17
CHAPTER

“With a little practice and patience, our hands learn to knit, then our minds are free to enjoy the process.”

—Bev Galeskas, Fiber Trends

LYDIA HOFFMAN

Business was beginning to pick up and I was pleased. I’d sold out of most of my inventory in nearly every yarn weight. I already had my second order into my main supplier. My first beginners’ class was about to officially end. I couldn’t believe six weeks had gone by so quickly. I was thrilled that after five weeks, my three students claimed they wanted to continue, so I agreed to extend the course. Because each class member was working on a different project now, except Alix, I suggested we turn Friday afternoons into a knitting support group. That way, they could all bring in whatever they wanted to work on, and I’d be there to help them at each stage of development. Despite their differences, these three dissimilar women were becoming friends. I could see it happening. Friends with each other and my friends, too.

As for their skills as knitters, Carol’s the most adept and has started a felted hat project.

Alix and Jacqueline still struggle with the basic stitches, but Alix has limited time to knit and Jacqueline—well, Jacqueline’s attitude bothers me. She’s obviously not fond of her daughter-in-law, although she’s never spoken openly about her. Jacqueline has started eyeing other projects now and is leaning toward the pricier yarns. Alix paid for her yarn a little each week, which made it abundantly clear that this is an extravagance. Still, the group simply wouldn’t be the same without her.

Just when I was ready to close on Tuesday afternoon, I saw my sister walking across the street toward the shop. She’d only come here once before, on my first day of business. She’d taken such pride in forecasting financial disaster, but I refuse to allow her to get me down and I braced for a confrontation.

When Margaret entered the store, I knew instantly that something was wrong. She hadn’t come to spread doom and gloom or chastise me. Her face was pale and she seemed close to tears.

“Margaret, what is it?” I hurried toward her.

“I—I …” She had trouble speaking and grabbed my hand so hard I almost cried out.

“Come,” I said, steering her to the back of the store where I had the table and chairs set up for my class. “Sit down. Can I get you a glass of water?”

Margaret shook her head. I’ve never seen my sister this upset. I couldn’t imagine what had caused her distress or driven her to approach me.

“Dr. Abram’s office phoned,” she said, looking up at me as if I should be able to figure out the problem from that little bit of information. I didn’t know who Dr. Abram was. I wondered if Matt had fallen ill or been involved in some kind of accident. Another possibility loomed and filled me with dread.

“Is this about Mother?” I asked. The thought of something happening to Mom so soon after losing Dad terrified me.

“No,” she cried. “This is about me. Dr. Abram said my mammogram needs to be retaken.” She grabbed my hand again. “It seems—it seems I have a lump in my breast.” My sister stared up at me, eyes wide and fearful.

I’ll admit I was shaken by this and sat down next to her. The pressure on my hand increased when she realized I understood.

“I’m so afraid,” Margaret whispered.

“This doesn’t mean you have cancer.” I tried to sound reassuring, but it was difficult. Margaret was thinking the same thing I was. I’d already been on intimate terms with the big C. Mom and Dad had always worried that they’d passed on a genetic flaw that made us vulnerable to the disease. Two of our grandparents had died of it. When I’d first been diagnosed, Mom had insisted Margaret be thoroughly checked, as well. Everything had seemed all right then—but now …

“When’s the second mammogram scheduled?”

“I … was just there…. The technician wouldn’t tell me anything. She said Dr. Abram would have the results read. Then he’d like to see me.”

“Oh, Margaret, I’m so sorry. What can I do to help?”

“I … don’t know. I haven’t told anyone.”

“Matt?”

She sighed heavily. “I didn’t want to scare him.”

“But he’s your husband! He has a right to know.”

“I’ll tell him when I have something to report.”

Her voice was cold, and I knew better than to argue. My sister did things her own way and in her own time. Pressuring her wouldn’t do any good.

“How did you feel when you found out you had cancer?” Margaret asked.

I had to strain to make out the words. I’d been sixteen during my first illness and I hadn’t known what I do now or even what I did the second time. The day I learned the tumor had grown back was the worst of my life. I was well aware of what lay ahead and in some ways death seemed preferable.

I knew what this could mean to my sister, and I couldn’t hide my reaction. “I was frightened, too,” I told her.

Her grip on my hand tightened briefly.

“How long have you been keeping this to yourself?” I asked and gently smoothed the hair away from her face.

“Five days,” she whispered and then added urgently, “I want you to promise me something.”

“Of course,” I assured her. Margaret had never asked anything of me before and I was willing to comply, no matter what.

“Don’t tell Mom.”

I hated keeping secrets from our mother but in this case I agreed with Margaret. It was useless to upset Mom until we had the facts.

“Thank you,” she whispered, clearly relieved.

“Anything, Margaret. You know that.”

Her gaze held mine. “Would you …” She hesitated. “I know I shouldn’t ask, but would you go to the doctor with me?”

“Of course.” I’d been planning to offer.

She seemed shocked. “You’d do that?”

I nodded.

“You’d have to close the shop.”

“I won’t let you face this alone.”

Her eyes swam with tears and I reached for a box of tissues and handed her one. Then, because I’ve always regretted that Margaret and I aren’t close, I put my arms around her.

“I’ll be with you, Margaret.”

“Thank you.” She sobbed against my shoulder for a minute before she regained her composure. Breaking away from me, she blew her nose and sniffled. “I’ll do what I can to get the appointment on a Monday—but if I can’t …”

“It doesn’t matter what time of day it is or even what day,” I insisted. I intended to help my sister through this, no matter what.

Margaret seemed about to speak when the bell above the door chimed. I wanted to groan at the interruption, but I was in business and my job was to serve my customers. Even at quarter past five …

The friendly whistle told me it was Brad Goetz, my UPS deliveryman. He wheeled in three large boxes and set them next to the cash register. “How’s it goin’?” he asked as he handed me the computerized clipboard, leaning against the counter.

“Really well,” I said and quickly signed my name, eager to push him out the door.

“Every time I come by I see women in the shop, especially on Friday afternoons.”

“I’ve got a class then.”

“That explains it.” He seemed oblivious to my efforts to steer him toward the exit. “I bet you’re pretty beat at the end of the day.”

“Some days,” I agreed.

He grinned then, as if he’d made his point. “So why don’t you relax and have a drink with me?”

This was his second invitation and of all the bad luck, he had to ask me in front of my sister.

“You should go,” Margaret said from the back of the shop.

“Yeah,” Brad said, eagerly leaping on Margaret’s encouragement. “We can stay right here in the neighborhood. There’s a nice bar maybe two blocks away. No commitments, just a few minutes to relax and unwind.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’d better not.” I walked over to the door and all but opened it. He still didn’t take the hint.

Brad raised his hands in frustration and glanced in Margaret’s direction. “Is it something I said?”

“No … no.” I didn’t want him to think that.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s not you,” Margaret called out. “It’s my sister. She’s afraid.”

I wanted to shout at Margaret to kindly keep her trap shut, but I couldn’t. I much preferred to tell him the truth in some other way and at some other time, but the choice had been taken away from me. Rejecting him over and over again seemed cruel. Although I didn’t want to do it like this, I owed him my honesty.

“I’ve had cancer,” I said bluntly. “Not once, but twice, and furthermore I don’t have a single guarantee that the tumor won’t grow back again and the next time I might not be so fortunate.”

“Cancer?” he repeated and from the shocked look on his face I knew it was the last thing he’d expected me to say.

“The big, ugly scary kind,” I said, unable to hide my sarcasm. “You don’t want to make an emotional investment in me because it might not pay off. That’s the problem with cancer.”

“I … didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. How could you? I appreciate the offer,” I said again, and I was sincere about that. “In fact, I’m downright flattered. But I’m saving us both a lot of grief, so please just accept my refusal and leave it at that.” I walked away from him and went to the back of the store where I sank down next to my sister.

Margaret glared at me.

I heard the door close as Brad walked out of the shop. “Why did you do that?” my sister demanded.

“Do what?”

“Turn him down! What harm would it’ve done to have a beer with the guy?”

I covered my face with both hands, unwilling to admit that it’d been so long since I’d been on a date, I didn’t know how to act around a man.

“He’s cute and he’s interested.”

“I know,” I whispered.

“You said you started this shop as an affirmation of life.”

I nodded. “I did—” Margaret didn’t allow me to finish.

“Then live. Get involved in life, Lydia. You should be thanking your lucky stars a man like that wants to date you. Good grief, what is it with you?”

“I … I …” I was so disconcerted I couldn’t put two words together.

“Live, Lydia,” she said again. “Get out there and find out what life’s all about. And do it before you shrivel up—or die.”

18
CHAPTER

JACQUELINE DONOVAN

Jacqueline had been a member of the birthday club since joining the Seattle Country Club years ago. Once a month, a group of nine friends got together to celebrate their birthdays. If no one had a birthday that particular month, they celebrated anyway.

For June they chose a Mexican restaurant. While the ambience wasn’t really up to their usual high standards the food was excellent. After the women had finished a leisurely lunch and several margaritas, four of the waiters came to their table wearing large sombreros. It was time to serenade the birthday girl. One of the waiters had a guitar slung over his shoulder. Another brandished a pair of maracas.

“Señoritas, you celebrate a birthday, sí?”

“Sí,” Bev Johnson, president of the women’s group, told him. “It’s Ginny’s birthday.” She pointed across the table at the other woman, who blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl.

The man with the guitar strummed a few chords and strolled over to Ginny. “Would you like the long version or the short version?” he asked.

Jacqueline loved to see her normally poised and collected friend flustered by the attention. “By all means the short version.”

All four of the waiters immediately got down on their knees as they sang the traditional birthday song with a definite Mexican flair. The nine women at the table laughed and applauded, Jacqueline included.

She’d needed this outing in order to put Tammie Lee’s pregnancy out of her mind. Despite everything, Paul seemed genuinely in love with his wife; Reese, too, was taken with her. That left Jacqueline feeling like the villain of the piece. But even if Tammie Lee wasn’t quite as manipulative or tasteless as Jacqueline had assumed, she was so obviously wrong for Paul.

After Ginny blew out the candle on her small cake, and passed it around for everyone to taste, the party broke up. Jacqueline was waiting in line to pay the cashier when Bev came to stand beside her.

“I ran into Tammie Lee last week,” the president of the women’s club said.

Jacqueline froze. Bev was the most influential member of the association and she could only imagine what her friend thought of Paul’s wife. Already Jacqueline could feel the heat creep up her neck. She could think of no way to explain her son’s lapse in judgment.

“Haywood said he approved their application to the club.” Haywood was Bev’s husband and in charge of admissions.

“Naturally Reese and I were very pleased they were accepted.” It was gratifying to know that her years of volunteer work with the country club were paying dividends.

“We’ve always liked Paul.”

Jacqueline smiled. Anyone would be impressed with her son. He was charming and intelligent and destined to succeed in life. She had to restrain herself from bragging about his accomplishments.

“I understand Tammie Lee’s going to work on the cookbook committee.”

Jacqueline’s heart fell. She’d hoped to speak privately to the committee chairwoman and suggest that perhaps Tammie Lee might serve more effectively somewhere else. The thought of her daughter-in-law’s recipe for boiled peanuts and cheese grits in the Country Club Cookbook made Jacqueline shudder. What an embarrassment! She couldn’t allow that to happen.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to Louise about that.”

“It’s a stroke of genius,” Bev said.

It was Jacqueline’s turn to pay her lunch tab, and she set the cash on the counter, breathing far too fast. Surely she’d misunderstood Bev. She stepped aside after collecting her change and waited while the other woman paid.

“A stroke of … genius?” Jacqueline repeated as they started out the restaurant door.

“Why, yes. I first met Tammie Lee a few months ago. Haywood and I instantly fell in love with her. She’s a breath of fresh air that our women’s group badly needs. She’s so energetic. Don’t you just love that sweet southern accent of hers? I swear I could listen to her speak all day.”

Jacqueline had to bite her tongue to keep from admitting how irritated she was by Tammie Lee’s twang.

“It’s no wonder Paul fell in love with her. I think Haywood’s halfway there himself.”

“Oh.” Jacqueline wasn’t sure how to respond.

“The committee puts out a cookbook every two years and it’s always the same people and the same recipes. Just how many recipes for Cranberry Mold do we need?”

Jacqueline refrained from mentioning that she’d been the one to submit the gelatin recipe, which had long been a club favorite.

“Tammie Lee had some wonderful ideas, and frankly I’m thinking of asking her to chair the committee. Louise has done it for several years and she’s ready to try her hand at something else.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Jacqueline could no longer remain silent. She respected Bev’s opinion, but in this case her friend was wrong. Tammie Lee would be an embarrassment to them all.

“I know, of course, that with a baby due in the next few months, I can’t ask her to take on any additional responsibility,” Bev said as she neared the parking lot. Her convertible BMW was parked next to Jacqueline’s Mercedes. “I don’t want to overwhelm her. Paul would never forgive me, although I think Tammie Lee’s a natural.”

“Yes, yes, she’s going to have her hands full,” Jacqueline agreed and stood rooted to the spot, too stunned to move while Bev climbed into her car and drove off. Had the entire world gone mad? Jacqueline wondered. Was she the only one who recognized Tammie Lee as the insincere little manipulator she was?

Her thoughts troubled, Jacqueline pulled into the garage at home and was astonished to realize she couldn’t remember driving there. One moment she was in the restaurant parking lot and the next she was in her own garage.

Another surprise awaited her when she found Reese in the kitchen. He was dressed in one of his best suits and either he was home early or ready to take his blonde out for the evening. Jacqueline didn’t ask. She’d rather not know than have to hear him lie.

She put away her purse and glanced at the mail, paying special attention to the sale flyers. When she’d finished, she walked over to the liquor cabinet and reached for a bottle of gin. “Want one?”

“I’m driving.”

Jacqueline shrugged. “I’m not.” The margaritas had long since worn off.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What makes you think anything’s wrong?”

Reese frowned. “I’ve never known you to drink this early in the afternoon.”

“Some occasions call for it.” She turned around to study this man with whom she’d spent most of her life. She knew him so well—and yet she didn’t know him at all.

“Where were you?” he asked.

She couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested or making small talk. Jacqueline found it curious that he was questioning her whereabouts; he’d done that a few times recently but she had no idea why.

“Out with the girls. For our monthly birthday lunch.”

“You might invite Tammie Lee on one of your outings sometime.”

He had to be joking. “Why would I do that?”

“Because she’s your daughter-in-law and it would be one way of welcoming her into the family.”

“I refuse to be a hypocrite. She isn’t welcome. She’s tolerated and frankly even that’s becoming difficult.” If one more person sang her daughter-in-law’s praises, Jacqueline swore she was going to scream. “Why does everyone think Tammie Lee’s so terrific? I don’t get it.”

Reese stared at her for a long moment. “Have you ever asked yourself why Paul fell in love with her?” His voice was cool and controlled, which usually indicated that he was curbing his anger.

“Of course I understand why Paul married her. He was ruled by hormones instead of common sense.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Reese shouted, slapping his palm against the kitchen counter.

Jacqueline nearly leaped out of her skin at her husband’s uncharacteristic display of temper.

“Tammie Lee is loving and caring and generous. The only person who doesn’t see it is you and only because you’re so blinded by your own agenda for our son you refuse to open your eyes.”

Jacqueline stared at him. “Are you suggesting I’m a cold, selfish bitch, Reese?” How dare he speak that way to her!

It looked as if he meant to leave without any kind of response, but apparently he changed his mind. “Perhaps you should answer that question yourself,” he said.

Then he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

19
CHAPTER

“Handknitting is a soothing and comforting means of creative expression that can result in a warm, useful and lovingly knitted garment … what a bonus.”

—Meg Swansen, Schoolhouse Press

LYDIA HOFFMAN

The three women in my knitting class sat around the table, eager for the last scheduled lesson. Before I could start, however, Jacqueline spoke up.

“I’d like to let everyone know I’ve decided against returning for the new session.” She meant our knitting “support group,” for which I charged five dollars a week.

No one made any protest, so I felt I should say something. “I’m sorry to hear that, Jacqueline.” I was, and my feelings weren’t entirely mercenary, although I knew if she stayed, Jacqueline would be inclined to purchase the higher-end yarns.

“I’m not,” Alix said without so much as a second’s hesitation.

“I didn’t expect anything different from you,” Jacqueline muttered, not hiding her scorn.

Truth be known, I was just as glad not to be stuck refereeing those two, although it did make for an amusing moment now and then. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two women who disliked each other more intensely. I’d believed that their animosity had lessened in the past few weeks, but apparently I’d read the situation completely wrong. Once again, my lack of experience when it came to relationships was showing.

Jacqueline was difficult to know—and to like. I did give her credit, though; she’d made a genuine effort to learn to knit and had nearly completed the baby blanket she was making for her first grandchild.

“I felt I should attend the last class and tell everyone what I’d decided.”

“Like we’d care,” Alix mumbled under her breath.

Standing behind Alix, I placed my hand on her shoulder as a way of asking her to keep her comments to herself. Through the last six weeks, I’d discovered that for all her crusty exterior the girl was actually quite sensitive. Even a hint of criticism was enough to make her withdraw.

“I don’t think I could stop knitting now if I wanted to,” Carol said. She was working on a sweater for her brother. The cashmere yarn was the most expensive in the shop and she’d bought it in a creamy gray.

“I’m going to continue, too,” Alix said, glaring across the table at Jacqueline as if to suggest the older woman lacked willpower. “I’m gonna get this blanket right no matter what it takes.”

I had to admire Alix’s determination. She was still rather clumsy in her handling of the yarn and needles, but she refused to give up. I suspect she undid as many rows as she knit in the first few weeks. Thankfully, she’d learned what she was doing wrong and was progressing nicely. Her biggest hindrance was lack of time.

“Are you saying I’m a quitter?” Jacqueline asked, challenging Alix.

“If the fancy shoe fits, then walk in it. It’s no biggie, right? You certainly won’t be missed by me.”

Jacqueline and Alix’s constant bickering wore on my nerves. But before I could react, Carol leaped in.

“I have news,” she said in a blatant effort to change the subject. I was grateful to her.

“Oh, good.” I didn’t bother to hide the relief in my voice.

“Monday morning Doug’s taking me in for the last IVF attempt.”

Although she presented a cheerful facade, I sensed—and I’m sure the others did, too—a deep-seated fear. I hoped everything would work this time and Carol would carry the pregnancy full-term. She’d been going in for regular appointments, although she hadn’t given us details. She’d talked briefly to the group about her fertility problems and a bit more to me privately, but not much. My heart ached for her.

To my surprise, it was Jacqueline who spoke first. “Oh, my dear, I certainly wish you success. Reese and I only had the one child and we longed for a second.”

“At this point Doug and I would be ecstatic with just one.” Her smile trembled.

“I so wished for a daughter.”

“Didn’t you mention that your son and his wife are having a girl?” I seemed to remember that from an earlier conversation with Jacqueline.

“Yes.”

Jacqueline had been suspiciously quiet about her son and Tammie Lee lately. It made me wonder if something had happened that she preferred not to discuss. With her it was hard to tell. While Carol and Alix had grown comfortable with each other, Jacqueline remained emotionally distant. I had the impression that the only women she allowed into her life were her country club friends.

Alix kept her head lowered and concentrated on her knitting. “I think only people who really want kids should have them.” She’d said something similar to this earlier, I recalled. She seemed to have strong feelings about it. I could only assume that was because of her own experience.

“I do, too,” Carol agreed. “What I don’t understand is why so many couples who love children seem to have such difficulty getting pregnant. When I think back on all the years I put off having a family, I want to weep. I thought I had lots of time, but how was I to know?” A pained look came over her.

“What about you?” Alix asked, glancing in my direction.

I was sure my face went scarlet, although why the subject of children should bother me, I don’t know. In response I shook my head.

“What?” Alix demanded. “You don’t want kids?”

“I’m not married.”

“That didn’t worry my mother. She was six months pregnant with my brother before she got around to marrying my father. It was the worst mistake of her life, she claims, but that didn’t stop her from having me.”

“A child can’t be blamed for the circumstances of his or her birth,” Carol said.

“Yeah, well, that’s not the way I heard it.” Alix jerked viciously on the ball of yarn. “It’s no big deal. I survived.”

“Surely a lovely young woman like you will marry one day,” Jacqueline said, directing the comment at me.

Jacqueline had a tendency to catch me off guard once in a while. Only moments earlier she’d expressed compassion and understanding for Carol, and her comment about me being lovely—well, that was an unexpected compliment.

“Thank you, but …” I let the rest fade. I’d rather not reveal the details of my life if I can help it.

“But what?” Carol pressed.

“But—well, I don’t think I’d make a very good wife.”

“Why not?” Alix again. “You’d sure as hell be a better wife than my mother ever was.”

This conversation was fast becoming uncomfortable. “Husbands have … expectations.”

Alix looked up with a puzzled frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I could see the other two were equally curious. “I’ve already gone through two bouts of cancer. It’s possible that our family has a predisposition to it.”

“Do you have it now?”

“No, thank God, but my older sister had a recent scare.” Thankfully Margaret’s second mammogram had been clear. I’d gone to the doctor’s office with her and given her the support she needed. Afterward she’d invited me to lunch to celebrate the results.

This was the closest I’d felt to my sister since I was a teenager. Perverse as it sounds, I’m grateful for the alarm that initial mammogram caused. For the first time in years, my sister and I had something in common—fear. And for the first time ever, I was the one who had the greater knowledge … and the authority of personal experience.

“Why can’t you get married?” Alix asked.

I sighed. I really didn’t want to get into this. “There’s no guarantee the cancer won’t come back,” I said simply.

I discovered all three women staring at me with blank expressions.

“In case you haven’t noticed, life doesn’t exactly come with guarantees,” Alix said. “I should know about that.”

“If it did, I’d be a mother by now,” Carol added.

“She’s right,” Jacqueline said, gesturing toward Carol.

My sister had been saying the same thing. Our lunch had gone well until she’d mentioned Brad. I hadn’t seen the UPS guy for several days and as far as I was concerned, the question of my dating him was a moot point. After two rejections, I doubted he’d ask me out again. Really, why should he? I’d made it plain that I wasn’t interested.

“I haven’t been on a date in so long, I’m not sure how to act,” I told my friends. It was the truth.

“You just act normal,” Carol said as if that was understood.

“Just be yourself,” Jacqueline threw in. To my astonishment, she drew out her knitting. I’d had the impression earlier that she intended to make her big announcement and leave. I was glad to see her join the others.

“Hey, do you have the hots for some guy?”

Naturally Alix would ask such a question. “Of course not.” My denial was fast and firm. Once again, the heat in my face reflected my embarrassment.

“You do so,” Carol said, watching me. She laughed softly. “All right, give. Who is he?”

I shook my head, refusing to answer. “It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late.” Jacqueline leaned toward me.

“Tell us the name,” Alix encouraged.

They wouldn’t drop the matter and I could think of nothing to say or do that would take the conversation elsewhere.

“Come on, Lydia,” Alix insisted again. “Tell us.”

I hesitated, then with a deep sigh told them about Brad. “He won’t ask me out again,” I said when I’d finished.

“Probably not,” Alix agreed. “What you have to do now is ask him out.”

Both Jacqueline and Carol nodded. It seemed Brad had won Margaret to his side and now my entire knitting class, too.

20
CHAPTER

CAROL GIRARD

Sunday night before the IVF procedure, Carol waited until she was sure Doug had fallen asleep. When she heard the heavy, even cadence of his breathing, she slipped out of bed and crept silently into the living room.

She loved the view of Puget Sound at night. From her living room window, she could see the dark, shimmering water. Beyond West Seattle was Vashon Island and the lights of the Kitsap Peninsula.

Sinking into her favorite chair, she dropped her head back and ordered her mind and her body to relax. She couldn’t go into this procedure tense; she had to will her body to accept the fertilized eggs, to accept the baby or babies she yearned for.

She didn’t understand what was happening to her. If she wanted a child so much, then why did her body reject pregnancy after pregnancy? Nothing added up, nothing made sense, no matter how often she tried to analyze the situation.

Her own body had become her worst enemy, it seemed; her womb had betrayed her in the most fundamental way, by denying her the ability to reproduce. She was fast approaching a time when her age would make it impossible to conceive. Already her egg production had started to fall off.

While outwardly everyone was sympathetic, Carol knew her friends were bored with the subject. She also knew how badly her mother wanted grandchildren. All her mother’s friends carried around purseloads of pictures of their grandkids, while her own mother sat by, silent and depressed. Neither Carol nor Rick had given her bragging rights. She said it jokingly, but Carol felt her mother’s disappointment as keenly as she felt her own.

To this point, Doug’s parents had been supportive and encouraging, but they too were weary of waiting. Thankfully, his younger sister had made them grandparents twice over, but his father was hoping for a grandson to carry on the family name. The pressure wasn’t explicit but it was there and Carol nearly suffocated under the weight of it.

Tears filled her eyes. Never in all her life had she wept as much as she had in these last few years. Before long, she had a thick wad of tissues in her hand.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. She’d submitted to every therapy available and ingested a pharmacy full of drugs. All those drugs. God only knew what she’d done to her body or what risks she’d taken, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing mattered except having a baby. She was willing to swallow anything, inject her stomach with drugs, volunteer for any experimental program, if there was even the slightest possibility it would help her get pregnant—and stay pregnant.

“What are you doing out here?” Doug came into the room wearing striped pajama bottoms and no top; it was how he always slept. He sat down across from her. “What’s the matter? Can’t you sleep?”

Afraid that he might hear the tears in her voice, she shook her head.

He didn’t say anything and they sat together in silence. After a few minutes, her husband stood up and stretched out his arm to her and pulled her into his embrace.

“You should try to sleep,” he said.

“I know.”

He didn’t try to lead her back to bed and she was grateful.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I don’t think I can sleep without you.”

She smiled, comforted by the knowledge that she was as much a part of him as he was of her.

A ferry glided toward Vashon Island and Carol forced her attention onto its slow progress from Fauntleroy to Southworth. The terrible tension returned and she had to ask the one question that had hounded her for months. “What are we going to do if I don’t get pregnant this time?” Her words came out a broken whisper. “Adopt?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“I can’t wait. I need to know now.”

“Why?”

“What if the adoption agencies decide we aren’t fit parents? What if we can’t get an infant the way we want? What … what if the IVF fails again? Oh, Doug, I shouldn’t think like that and yet I can’t stop myself.”

Doug’s sigh rumbled from deep within his chest. “Then don’t think like that. If the IVF fails, we’ll adopt and if we aren’t accepted by the agency, then we won’t have children. Other couples have survived and we will, too.”

“No … we won’t.”

“Carol.”

“It might be all right between us for a while, but then one day you’ll look at some little boy or girl and—” The lump in her throat made it impossible to continue.

Doug didn’t try to deny it. “Don’t say that.”

She gave a helpless shrug.

“What makes you think we won’t be able to adopt? Other couples our age adopt. Why can’t we?”

“Because we’re too late.”

“Too late? Why is it too late?”

“Because the waiting lists are years long. By the time they get to our name, we’ll be in our midforties.”

“You’re erecting roadblocks where there aren’t any.”

Carol couldn’t respond. Her misery was too great. It was easy for Doug to say she was agonizing over nonexistent problems; it wasn’t his body that failed them month after month.

“We’re going to have a baby,” Doug said.

“Don’t say that,” she cried.

“Carol, stop it. You’re getting hysterical.”

“I’m hysterical and frightened and depressed and—”

“Defeated. Why go through with the procedure if you’ve already decided it isn’t going to work?”

“Because I have to know.”

“You want to know that you can’t get pregnant?” he asked gently.

Doug thought he was helping but he wasn’t. In fact, he was making everything worse. “Just leave me alone.”

“Carol, for heaven’s sake …”

“I don’t want you here. I need some time by myself.” It was like this with the drugs, these wild mood swings. They’d been warned; nevertheless, Carol was caught unprepared.

Doug stood up and walked over to the window. Gazing into the moonlit night, he rubbed his hand over his face as though considering his options. “I don’t think I should leave you alone.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“Please just go.”

“You need me.”

“Not now … I need to be by myself.”

“Carol …” He turned toward her.

“Please, Doug.”

He hesitated and then reluctantly walked into the bedroom.

As soon as he was gone, Carol wanted him back. She wanted him to take her in his arms and reassure her of his love. She wanted him to tell her he’d love her to the end of time, with or without a child.

Closing her eyes, she fought off the ugly negative voices that harassed her from all sides and tried to think positive thoughts. It was a technique she’d learned from her online support group—creating the image of what you want and seeing it in such clear detail that you begin to accept the possibility … the reality.

She pictured herself pregnant, her stomach extended, wearing a cheerful maternity top. Doug’s hands rested on her tummy and he bent over and kissed her belly. When he straightened, his eyes were full of love and pride. That was the image she held on to, the picture she framed in her mind. She refused to let her doubts defeat her.

At some point during the night, she must have fallen asleep on the sofa. Before dawn, she stirred and climbed back into bed. Pressing her body against Doug’s, she cuddled him close and draped her arm across his waist.

When she woke again, Doug was cuddling her. “Are you awake?” he whispered.

“I am now.” She groaned and rolled onto her back.

“What time did you come to bed?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t look.”

He nibbled on her ear. “Do you feel better?”

She managed a soft smile. “Yes.”

“Good.”

She could hear coffee brewing in the background. “Is it time to get up already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She struggled into a sitting position and offered Doug a tired smile.

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” he asked.

He told her in a thousand different ways. “Yup,” she said in the middle of a loud yawn.

“This is a very important day, you know,” Doug said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I do know,” Carol whispered. This was the day she’d welcome Doug’s child into her womb.

21
CHAPTER

ALIX TOWNSEND

Alix stepped outside the video store and lit up a cigarette. She was cutting back, but giving up smoking was difficult. Taking a long drag, she savored the immediate soothing effect and exhaled, tilting her head upward. It was when she started to take a second puff that she noticed Jordan Turner walking down the opposite side of the street. A sense of dread filled her; she didn’t want to talk to him.

What was the point? He obviously wasn’t interested in her. Oh sure, she amused him, but he saw her as a leftover challenge from the sixth grade—the girl he wanted to save. Another notch in his ministerial belt. Preachers couldn’t accept that Alix wasn’t looking for salvation. Oh, sure she’d ridden the church bus to Sunday School. Her parents would’ve been willing to let her go anywhere if it meant she was out of their hair for an hour or two. She’d done the Jesus thing at ten and eleven, but it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Been there, done that, and been awarded the prize Bible for memorizing scripture.

She’d been on her own since she was sixteen and one of the hardest lessons life had taught her was that the only person she could rely on was herself. It wasn’t a lesson she was likely to forget.

Crushing out her half-smoked cigarette, Alix went back inside the store, hoping Jordan would take the hint and leave her alone.

“That was quick,” Laurel muttered as Alix joined her behind the counter.

“I’m going into the back room.”

Laurel frowned. “Why?”

“If you-know-who comes in, tell him I’m not working tonight.”

“Are you still avoiding Jordan?”

“Just do it,” Alix snapped and hurried to the back of the store before the preacher man caught up with her. It’d been two weeks since they’d bumped into each other at Starbucks and he’d dropped his bomb. The explosion still reverberated in her ears. Jordan was a minister—and she wanted nothing to do with him or his God.

No more than a minute later, Laurel appeared, and she didn’t look any too pleased. “He saw you.”

Alix whirled around. “Then tell him I’m busy.”

“I already tried that.”

This was getting irritating. “So tell him something else. I don’t want to talk to him.”

“You can’t hide forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” Alix insisted, which was a pretty weak argument.

“Do what you want,” Laurel said. “But he told me he was going to wait until you came out.” With that, her roommate and supposed friend returned to the front of the store.

Alix waited an agonizing ten minutes and figured that by then Jordan would’ve given up on her. No such luck. Arms crossed, he stood by the microwave popcorn display next to the cash register. His eyes narrowed when he saw her.

Rather than try to avoid him anymore, she strolled purposely toward Jordan. “You don’t take a hint, do you?” she asked bluntly.

“Not easily,” he admitted. “Let’s talk.”

“I can’t.” She’d already squandered her fifteen-minute break and that was her last of the evening. The video store wasn’t doing a robust business, but they were busy enough.

“Meet me after work.”

Alix shrugged. She might as well get this over with. “All right.”

“Your word is good?”

The challenge in his voice offended her sense of pride. “Damn straight it is! I’ll be at Starbucks ten minutes after closing.”

“Make it Annie’s Café.”

“Fine, Annie’s.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

It could’ve been Alix’s imagination, but she thought she saw Jordan wink at Laurel on his way out the door. She wondered what the hell that was about and then decided it didn’t matter. If he was interested in her friend, then fine. She hoped the two of them would be very happy. Jordan was a damn sight better than that slimy used-car salesman.

Only Alix did care, and she was in a bitch of a mood for the rest of her shift. By eleven o’clock Laurel was no longer speaking to her and left in a huff. Alix was just as glad to be rid of her.

Exactly ten minutes after closing out the till, locking up the store and making the deposit, Alix walked into Annie’s. The café was half a block down from the video store. As a treat every payday, Alix bought herself dinner there. The food was good, plentiful and cheap.

Jordan was in a booth reading the menu when she approached. She scowled at him and said, “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Yeah? And your point is?”

“I don’t have to be here.”

He raised his eyebrows. “True, but I figure you owe me an explanation as to why you ditched me in sixth grade.”

“I didn’t ditch you. I … I got caught up in circumstances beyond my control.”

“All right, but consider it common courtesy to explain what happened.”

He’d obviously been taught etiquette. She, on the other hand, didn’t know anything about it.

“Listen,” she said aggressively, “we can spend the rest of the evening arguing about something that happened in grade school or we can talk. You decide.”

It was all too apparent that Jordan intended to pester her until he got the answers he wanted. She’d already decided she’d rather not get involved with a minister, but he was making that difficult. Frowning, she slid into the booth across from him.

“What’s wrong, Alix?” Jordan asked.

This was an interesting approach but before she could answer, the waitress appeared. Alix knew Jenny, who worked swing shift, and she watched as the older woman glanced between them, not bothering to hide her surprise.

Folding over the top sheet of her pad, Jenny asked, “What can I get you two?”

Jordan closed the plastic-coated menu. “I’m thinking about a bacon cheeseburger with the works.” Then he looked at Alix. “How about you?”

Her mouth watered at the thought of one of Annie’s mammoth cheeseburgers. But first she had to find out who was paying for it. “You buying? Or am I getting my own?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t.”

Alix tucked the menu behind the sugar canister. “I’ll have the same.”

“Two bacon cheeseburgers,” Jordan said. “And two Cokes.” He gave Alix a questioning smile and she nodded.

Jenny wrote down the order and left.

As soon as the waitress was gone, Jordan rested his hands on the table. “So,” he began.

Squarely meeting his gaze, Alix sighed heavily. “So I’m not interested in church,” she said.

“Why not?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly the church-going kind.”

“And what kind is that?”

Alix rolled her eyes. “Ladies who wear hats and gloves and exchange polite conversation with a few ‘praise the Lords’ thrown in.”

Jordan’s head reared back and he snorted with laughter. “You’re describing a garden party, not church. I can tell you haven’t attended in a while.”

“I went to Sunday School back in grade school but skipped the church part,” she told him. The truth was, she’d gone a few times but left early, bored by all the preaching. “Like I said, I’m not interested.”

Jenny brought their Cokes and Jordan waited impatiently before he responded.

“How do you know?” he burst out when she was gone.

“Jordan, I think you’re great.” She took a long sip of her drink. “I remember your dad and he was nice, too.” Jordan’s father had come to the house once to talk to her mother, after Alix had been awarded that prize Bible. It was the one and only time he’d stopped by, and she didn’t blame him for never visiting again.

“How do you know you’re not interested in church unless you try it? Why don’t you come one Sunday and see?”

“Listen,” Alix said, trying to be as honest as possible. “I don’t need anyone to save me.”

He frowned. “So that’s what you think?”

“Damn straight.”

“You’ve certainly got me figured out,” he said, a little sarcastically.

Being rude was natural for her, but she was determined to keep the peace until after she’d eaten the cheeseburger. After all, he was paying for it. And she was hungry.

“Why is it so important for me to go to church?” she demanded, and then answered for him. “It’s because you want to change me.”

“No,” he argued. “I want to see you.”

Sure he did!

“I liked you in sixth grade and I like you now. Do I need an excuse?” He leaned across the table, unwilling to break eye contact.

“I’m not your type.”

“Did you decide that on your own, or did someone else make up your mind for you?”

She bristled at his question. “I make up my own mind.”

She could see he was growing angry. His hand clenched the silverware wrapped in a paper napkin. “Let me see if I understand you. I was all right to hang with until you found out I’m someone you knew ten or twelve years ago—who just happens to be a minister?”

Alix lowered her eyes and refused to answer.

“You liked me just fine in grade school, and now you don’t?”

That bacon cheeseburger had better show up fast, because holding her tongue was damn difficult. Alix bit the inside of her lip.

“The least you can do is answer me.”

“What do you want me to say?” she snapped. “That it doesn’t matter? Well, it does.”

“What changed?”

She opened her mouth and then faltered, unsure of herself. “You’re … You’re …” She gestured toward him, making circular motions with her hands. “You’re … good.”

“Good?” Jordan repeated. “What do you mean by that?”

She folded her arms and searched with growing desperation for Jenny. It never took this long for an order to come up. Her stomach growled and reminded her it’d been midafternoon since her latte and she was hungry. As soon as her meal arrived, she could say what she wanted and take her cheeseburger home. Only he was confusing her. All she could think about was how badly she’d wanted to attend that valentine party. She hadn’t told him, but she’d had a valentine for him, too.

“You know what I mean,” she challenged.

“No, I don’t,” Jordan said, “so you’d better explain it to me. What the hell makes me good?”

She blinked and realized he was serious. “God,” she whispered.

His expression went blank. “God?”

She nodded. “You’re this lily-white guy who grew up with a perfect family. I didn’t. You had parents who loved you. I didn’t. You—”

“None of that’s relevant,” he countered, cutting her off.

“My mother did jail time for shooting my father. Did you know that?”

He nodded slowly. “There was plenty of talk about it, but all I wanted to know was what had happened to you.”

“Oh.” This was unexpected.

Alix nearly sighed in relief when Jenny appeared with two plates. The cheeseburger was left open and the cheese had melted perfectly. The French fries glistened and sizzled, fresh from the fryer. Her mouth watered just looking at her meal.

“I asked my dad to find out where you were. He tried, but didn’t get anywhere. Apparently you and your brother had already been sent to foster homes in another part of the city,” Jordan said.

Alix reached for the salt shaker but her eyes didn’t leave his the whole time she salted her fries. “You did?”

He nodded and picked up a fry.

Hungry though she was, Alix hadn’t touched her food. “What made you decide to go into the ministry? Like father, like son?”

“That’s a story for another night.” He added lettuce and a slice of tomato to his burger and closed it before taking his first bite.

Alix bit into her burger, too. “Just remember I don’t need you to save me,” she said, still chewing.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

She swallowed and drank some more of her Coke.

“Why not?”

“It’s not what I do. I leave the salvation up to God. He saves, I just point the way.” He took another fry, dipping it into a small pool of ketchup he’d squirted onto his plate.

She still didn’t trust him. “I don’t get it.”

“What’s to get?”

“You,” she said. “Wanting to see me.”

He cast her a strange look. “Is there some law that says I’m not supposed to be attracted to you? I liked you in sixth grade and I still think you’re kinda cute.”

He liked her? He thought she was cute? “You do?” she asked and was mortified by the slight quiver in her voice.

“I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t.” He stretched out his hand and stole one of her French fries.

“Hey.” She slapped his hand.

He laughed and gave her his sliced pickle.

They finished eating, talked about movies they’d both seen and then left the café an hour later. “Are you going to stop avoiding me now?” Jordan asked.