Back on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #4)

Back on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #4) Page 17

“No. It’s just that I’d rather end our relationship on a positive note. I’ll understand if you decline but I’m hoping you won’t.”

Colette saw the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m…not sure it would be a good idea.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “But if you do agree, I’ll give you my word of honor that I’ll never trouble you again.”

The silence between them crackled with tension. She told herself she should run away from him, run in the opposite direction, and discovered she couldn’t. Even knowing that he was involved in illegal activities and likely to be arrested, she couldn’t refuse him this one request.

“All right,” she said reluctantly.

Colette was terrified of spending an evening with him, because of what he might say—and because of what she couldn’t.

CHAPTER 12

“If more people knitted and crocheted, the world would see fewer wars and a whole lot less road rage.”

Lily Chin, www.lilychinsignaturecollection.com

Lydia Goetz

The prayer shawl class was going well. Susannah, in particular, was learning quickly, full of enthusiasm for knitting. Before she’d even finished her first project, she’d already purchased a pattern and yarn for a sweater she planned to make for her daughter, Chrissie.

Alix was a great help to me in this class. And knitting, as usual, brought its calming effect. She was more relaxed, more optimistic and I hadn’t heard her say anything negative about the wedding in at least a couple of weeks.

Colette managed to learn the basic stitches, although I have to admit she didn’t take to it as easily as I’d hoped. It’s like that sometimes with beginning knitters. Almost always, a new knitter will catch on after a few simple instructions. Soon it’s as if they’ve been knitting all their lives. Then there are others who struggle with each step and get discouraged when they see how slow they are compared to everyone else. In the previous class, I’d explained to Colette that each person learns at his or her own pace, reminding her that it isn’t a competition. I felt confident that as she continued to knit she’d become more comfortable with the process.

Margaret joined the class, too. I’d hoped sitting down with the others and forming new friendships would help her. And I thought concentrating on the act of knitting would soothe her, especially since she’d stopped doing any handiwork at all. The attack on Julia had been more than a month ago, and my sister was still focused, to the exclusion of everything else, on finding the man responsible. I can’t tell you how many times she called the police asking for an update on the case.

Some days there was no explaining her behavior. Out of the blue, she’d get restless and angry and reach for the phone. The way she talked to the police embarrassed me; no matter what she said about Detective Johnson, I couldn’t believe the man was a slacker.

I’d tried hard to be patient with her and while I understood how she felt, I honestly thought it would be best for Julia if my sister let go of her anger. But Margaret refused to do that, refused to rest until the man who’d hurt her daughter was charged in a court of law.

The knitting class took place late on Wednesday afternoons, when Chrissie could fill in for Susannah and Colette at the flower shop. She’d visited A Good Yarn recently, and I’d enjoyed our conversation; Chrissie had a quick humor and wide-ranging interests. We’d spoken about the resurgence of traditional women’s crafts. She’d chosen this as the subject for her Art History essay, and I found that exciting. Knitting was so many things, could be so many things. Including art.

That afternoon in late March, Susannah and Colette arrived together, toting their yarn and needles. They immediately sat down at the table, in the same chairs they used every class, and pulled out their projects. I noticed that Susannah was almost finished, while Colette had only about a third of hers done.

“We got the biggest flower order last week,” Susannah told me, her voice shimmering with enthusiasm. “A man named Christian Dempsey placed a standing order—ten dozen roses, to go to the same address every Friday. For a year!”

“Now that’s love,” I said, joking. I have a wonderful husband, but I couldn’t imagine Brad ordering me one dozen roses, let alone ten. Let alone for a year.

“It really helps,” Susannah said. “Revenue was down for March and this new order makes a huge difference. Orders for wedding flowers are starting to come in, too.”

“That’s terrific!” I was genuinely pleased for Susannah and wanted her to know that.

During our conversation Colette had remained suspiciously quiet. I smiled at her and walked over to examine her knitting. I saw that the tension in her work had loosened in the past week and praised her effort. She returned my smile and made a small joke about relaxing more. I rarely saw her outside class these days and I missed our morning chats over tea. I understood her reluctance to join me, however. Margaret made it difficult, especially now that she was in a perpetual bad mood. Right now, she was helping a customer choose yarn for a baby sweater. I could only hope her demeanor wouldn’t discourage the young woman, who was new to my store.

Alix was the last to arrive, breathless after racing across the street. “I was late getting out of the kitchen,” she said as she sat down in her usual chair. She took her knitting out of her backpack and set it on the table.

Now that all my students were present, I checked their work and commented on the progress Susannah and Alix had made. Everyone was doing well and I took pleasure in complimenting their efforts. Actually, the pattern’s relatively easy, even for a novice knitter, and Alix, of course, was equal to the challenge of her more complicated lace shawl.

I was interested in learning who would knit a prayer shawl and why. My little group of knitters was teaching me.

I pointed out that the border was knit in a seed pattern of knit three, purl three. “Does anyone have a comment on the pattern?” I asked, curious about what the women would say.

“I’ll bet the three stitches are significant,” Colette murmured as she switched the yarn from the back to the front in order to purl.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Three is a significant number in our culture.”

“Faith, hope, love,” Alix stated in a thoughtful tone.

“Mind, body, spirit,” Susannah said.

“Past, present, future,” Colette threw in. I wondered again if living day to day was all she could handle.

“What about birth, life, death.” This came from Margaret, who’d finished with her customer. Dressed in her dark sweater, she hovered in the doorway, a gloomy and forbidding presence. It figured, of course, that she’d be the one to bring up the subject of death.

I didn’t meet her eyes as I circled the table. “All excellent observations,” I murmured.

“Why knit a shawl?” Margaret went on. “I mean, we could be knitting anything for someone who needs a bit of TLC.”

“True.” I agreed with her there. A lap robe or any of a dozen other projects would do just as well.

“Why a shawl, then?” Alix asked.

I shrugged. “What do the rest of you think?”

Colette spoke first. “Wrapping a shawl around someone is a symbolic embrace. That’s how it seems to me, anyway.”

The others nodded.

“I like what Colette said—it’s like a hug.” Susannah sounded as if she was thinking out loud. “I can’t be with my mother as much as I’d like, so when I mail her this shawl, it’ll be like reaching out to her with an embrace, letting her know how much I love her and miss her.”

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

“She’s more active than she’s been in the last couple of years. Before the move, she spent hour after hour in her rocking chair, watching TV—mostly the Food Channel. Since she’s lived at Altamira, she’s interacting with other people more and taking small trips with them. Last week she went on a garden tour and loved every minute of it.”

“Hey,” Alix teased. “I guess this means your mother’s off her rocker.”

We all laughed. I wish I could say something that positive about my own mother. But I could see she was losing ground. Every time she had another health crisis, she deteriorated a little more. With Margaret consumed by the carjacking and Julia’s emotional state, we hadn’t really discussed Mom. I sometimes wondered if my sister had even noticed our mother’s recent decline. Still, I decided I could deal with Mom for the moment; Margaret needed to focus on her daughter. Unfortunately, Julia had refused counseling, although the doctor had recommended it.

“I’m knitting my shawl for Jordan’s grandmother,” Alix said. “Grandma Turner is this really wonderful lady. I felt so welcomed by her. I felt like she understood me and, you know, she was just as interested in my stories as I was in hers.” Alix smiled in wonder. “Jordan wanted me to meet her, and I was afraid she’d say something about how different we are.”

“Why would she do that?” I demanded, ready and willing to defend my friend.

“Who could blame her?” Alix said calmly. “Think about it. Jordan’s going to be a pastor in his own church one day, the same as his father and grandfather. You have to admit I’m not exactly a typical pastor’s wife.” She hesitated, biting her lip as she set her knitting in her lap. “I get the feeling that his mother would’ve preferred it if Jordan had fallen in love with someone else.”

“I can’t believe that!” I hated that Alix thought this, and I wasn’t convinced it was even true. I’d met Susan Turner a couple of times. She was a knitter herself and had come by the shop for yarn and then later for a pattern book. We’d talked about Alix and Jordan, but I couldn’t recall anything in her attitude that indicated uncertainty toward Alix.

“I shouldn’t have brought up the subject,” Alix said, splaying her fingers as if to release the tension.

“You’ve got the wedding bell blues,” Susannah said with a laugh, but there was sympathy in her voice.

Alix picked up her knitting again. “Does anyone mind if we don’t talk about the wedding?”

“Not at all,” I assured her. I stepped behind Alix’s chair and patted her shoulder.

“In case anyone’s wondering, I’ve decided to give the shawl to my daughter Julia,” Margaret said. She’d joined us at the table and had begun knitting, her fingers nervous. “I’m hoping this will bring her solace and comfort after what happened.”

“How is she?” Colette asked.

“How do you expect she is?” Margaret snapped. “The poor kid doesn’t sleep more than three or four hours at a time. Her grades have slipped and she doesn’t leave the house except to go to school. Some days she can’t even manage that. And,” she said with a sigh, “she won’t see a counselor.”