Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)

Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6) Page 26

Casey was quiet after that, as though the conversation distressed her.

“Cody’s going to be with his mother tomorrow afternoon.

Would you like to come by the yarn store after school?” I asked her as we f inished our meal.

At f irst Casey didn’t realize I’d spoken to her. “Me?” she asked as she looked around the table.

“Yes, you,” I said, laughing. “If you like, I’ll teach you to knit,”

I offered yet again.

She gave me her usual shrug. “I guess so.”

“It’s not hard,” Cody piped up after he’d carried his plate to the sink. “Mom taught my whole class to knit last winter. Everyone made patches for Warm Up America, even the boys. Then Aunt Margaret crocheted them all together and we donated the blanket to a veterans’ home in West Seattle.”

For the f irst time since I’d mentioned knitting, Casey actually seemed interested.

“Knitting helps with math, too,” Cody told her as if he were an expert.

“Speaking of math,” Brad inserted, looking at Casey. “How’s your class?”

Casey replied in the same indifferent way she typically did. “All right, I guess. Math is stupid.”

“Unfortunately it’s a necessary part of everyday life.”

“I know,” she said a bit defensively.

“If you want, I’ll check over your homework,” Brad suggested. He’d made the offer before, but Casey had always turned him down f lat.

“If you want,” she said after a moment.

Brad and I exchanged a private smile.

While Cody cleared the serving dishes, Brad and Casey sat in the living room as he reviewed her homework. I couldn’t hear everything he said but they certainly had a lively discussion. Afterward, Casey moved to the kitchen table and exhaled loudly as she threw herself into a chair. “I have to do this assignment over,” she muttered. I patted her shoulder encouragingly and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.

Tuesday afternoon, shortly before one, Casey showed up at A Good Yarn, backpack slung over her shoulder. She’d taken the bus by herself. I was nervous about her coping with the different transit schedules, but Casey assured me it wasn’t a problem. Apparently she was more skilled at f inding her way around than I’d assumed, for which I was grateful.

“Hi,” I said, waiting until Mrs. Sinclair, a repeat customer, had paid for her purchase. “I ordered lunch from across the street.”

“Oh, thanks.” Casey went to the back of the shop, to the table where I taught classes.

My sister had been unusually quiet about Casey. They’d met a couple of times, but just brief ly. I’d only recently told her that Casey would be with us until she’d f inished summer school. Margaret’s reaction was to roll her eyes.

“I ordered us a Reuben,” I said to Casey, sitting down with her.

“As you can see, they’re huge. I f igured we could split one.”

I’d left a knitting instruction book, a pair of size ten needles and a bright variegated skein of worsted weight yarn on the table for her, as well. It’s been my experience that it’s easier to pick up knitting basics when you’re using larger needles and a thicker yarn.

“What’s in a Reuben?” Casey asked, eyeing the sandwich suspiciously.

I set her half on a paper plate and slid it across the table.

“Corned beef and mustard, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut,” I answered.

Casey studied it; her nose wrinkled as if she wasn’t sure she was going to like this. “How do they get the corn in the beef ?”

“There isn’t any corn as far as I know.” Funny, I’d never stopped to wonder where the name had come from.

“And who’s this Reuben guy?”

“That I don’t know, either,” I told her. “But whoever he is, he invented a wonderful sandwich.” I reached for my half and took the f irst bite. It was just as tasty as I remembered. I opened the bag of potato chips and emptied them out on a spare plate, then poured a large bottle of iced tea into two glasses.

“Go ahead and give it a try,” I urged Casey, who seemed to do nothing more than stare at it.

She picked up her sandwich and tentatively took one small bite. Her eyes brightened. “Hey, this is good.”

“Told you so.”

By this time I’d eaten nearly half of mine. Still, Casey was f inished before me.

“That was really good.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

I collected our paper plates and stuffed them in the recycling bin. “Ready for your f irst knitting lesson?”

Casey nodded.

I pushed yarn and needles toward her and sat in the adjoining chair. “How’d school go today?” I asked, making conversation as I delved into the center of the skein, searching for the beginning strand.

“I got an A on my homework.”

I paused to say, “Casey, that’s fantastic!” I’d located the strand I wanted and tugged it free.

Predictably, she shrugged at my compliment, but I knew she was pleased. Once Brad heard the news, he would be, too. I was proud of them both. Proud of Brad because he’d offered his help, been repeatedly rejected and yet tried again. And proud of Casey, too, because she’d been willing to admit she needed help. I had to show her how to cast on two or three times. She couldn’t seem to grasp the technique. In the end I simply did it for her. Unfortunately, things didn’t go any more smoothly when it came to learning the basic knit stitch. To her credit, Casey did try. I could see she was becoming frustrated, so I told her about other people I’d taught to knit.

“Does everyone have as much trouble as I’m having?” she asked. She bit her lip as she clutched the two needles. At one stage she held one needle under her arm as she wove the yarn around the tip of the other.

“Some do,” I said.

Margaret wandered by and threw me a look I recognized from our childhood. It said I should have my sanity checked. Maybe so, but I wasn’t willing to abandon hope yet. Soon my nerves were frayed to the breaking point. Unfortunately, Casey’s were, too. When the needle slipped out of her grasp and clattered onto the f loor, Casey bolted upright and threw down the entire project.

“I can’t do this!” she yelled.

“Casey.”

“I hate knitting. I don’t want to do it.”

I longed to reassure her, to remind her that knitting came more quickly to some than it did to others. I didn’t want her to give up so easily. Apparently I hadn’t relayed that message effectively enough.

“You don’t have to learn to knit if you don’t want,” I f inally said.

“I don’t. It’s stupid.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but realized there was no point. Picking up the yarn and needles, I set them back on the table. I was disappointed, although I made an effort not to show it.

“Would you like to read?” I asked, thinking I’d send Casey down to Blossom Street Books and let her choose a novel. Otherwise, I didn’t know how I’d keep her entertained for the rest of the afternoon.

“No,” she said f latly.

“So what would you like to do?”

Casey looked bored. “Do you have a TV?”

“Sorry, no.”

The bell above the door chimed and Jacqueline Donovan, a good friend of mine, walked in. Jacqueline and Reese, her architect husband, had taken a cruise to Hawaii and they’d just returned. I was eager to see her, so I left Casey to her own devices for a few minutes.

“Jacqueline!” I said, hurrying toward her with my hands out.

“You’re back. Did you have a fabulous trip?”

“It was incredible. You and Brad should take a cruise sometime.”

I’d love that; unfortunately I couldn’t see it happening in the near future, especially if we were adding a baby to our family. As she headed toward the yarn displays, Jacqueline burbled with all kinds of stories. She’d read a knitting magazine on the plane and decided she had to knit this wonderfully intricate vest for Reese. She examined an expensive hand-dyed alpaca yarn, choosing a lovely deep brown shade. I rang up her purchase. When we’d said goodbye, with promises to see each other soon, I walked back to the table. To my astonishment, Margaret was sitting with Casey.

The two of them were crocheting.

Not knitting, crocheting.

Casey glanced up at me and broke into a smile. “This is fun,”

“Fun,” I repeated, struck nearly speechless.

“I can do this.”

“She’s crocheting a washcloth.” Righteousness rang in my sister’s tone. “Look at her work, Lydia. The girl’s a natural.”

I wanted to wipe that grin off Margaret’s face, which wasn’t very generous of me. The thing is, she’d succeeded where I’d failed. Casey was relaxed, conf ident and actually enjoying herself.

“At the rate she’s going,” Margaret said, “she’ll have it done before we close up shop.”

“I’m impressed,” I told them both. I meant it. The bell above the door chimed again, and I left to greet my customer. As I turned away, an unexpected feeling of happiness came over me. Who would’ve guessed that my sister, not me, would be the one to reach Casey?

My f irst instinct had been a twinge of jealousy; however, that quickly passed. Margaret, so judgmental and disapproving of Casey, had been patient enough to teach the girl crocheting. I was grateful for her kindness.

Maybe there was hope for all of us—Casey, Margaret and me

Chapter 19

“Hutch” Hutchinson

Hutch was already at the table with Alix, Margaret and Lydia when Phoebe arrived. He’d come ten minutes early, and it wasn’t the thrill of learning a new pattern that had enticed him to leave his off ice ahead of schedule. It was the thrill of falling for Phoebe Rylander. At quarter past six, Hutch discovered that he’d checked his watch no fewer than ten times when Phoebe burst through the door, breathless and f lushed.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, hurrying to the back of the store. The spot next to him was empty. Hutch had arranged it by placing his briefcase on the chair until she showed up. Then, and only then, did he conveniently remove it.

Phoebe pulled out the chair and sent him a f leeting grin as she sat down, breathing hard. He wondered if something had happened and hoped she’d tell him. They’d planned to go for coffee after class.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything,” Lydia assured her.

“We’ve just started.”

“Oh, good.” Phoebe removed her knitting from the bag she carried, still a little out of breath.

Phoebe must’ve run the entire way from the clinic to Blossom Street, a distance of several blocks. He should know; after the past two classes, he’d walked her to the garage where she parked her car.

“So, how’s everyone doing?” Lydia asked.

Hutch held up his scarf. In his own opinion he’d made exceptional progress, especially considering where he’d started.