Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)

Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6) Page 37

By the time they’d parked and reached the hospital’s main entrance, Phoebe saw Clark pacing just inside. He seemed agitated and nervous, which was understandable. This had to be a tense night for him and his mother.

His face brightened the moment he saw her. But a frown formed as soon as he realized Leanne had accompanied her. The glass doors slid open and Leanne ran toward Clark, hugging him hard. “Clark, this is such terrible news.”

“Leanne,” he said, hugging her back. Over her mother’s shoulders, his eyes searched out Phoebe.

“Where’s Marlene?” Leanne asked. “She must be frantic.”

Clark dropped his arms and led the way into the hospital foyer.

“She…she left.”

Phoebe stared at him. “You don’t know if your father’s going to survive the night and your mother went home? ”

“Yes, well…Dad seems to be doing better.”

“Since when?” Phoebe asked, her suspicions building.

“A while ago,” Clark said, meeting her gaze head-on.

“That’s terrif ic,” Leanne murmured, glancing from one to the other.

“Was Max ever desperately ill?” Phoebe asked, refusing to break eye contact with Clark. She wanted him to know he hadn’t fooled her. When he’d f irst phoned, she’d hated being so mistrustful of his intentions; now it seemed she’d been right. Clark was willing to use anything to win her back, even an out-andout lie. She shouldn’t be surprised and yet she was. At the same time she was sickened that he’d sink to this level—that he’d exploit his father’s condition in this way.

“Now that I’m here,” she said, “I might as well check at the nurses’ station to see for myself how Max is doing.”

“They’re very busy,” Clark immediately countered.

“He’s in ICU, isn’t he?”

Clark exhaled. “Actually, he was moved earlier….” He let the rest fade. “Why don’t we all have a cup of coffee and I’ll update you?”

“So your father made a miraculous recovery in the last thirty minutes.” She didn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

“He’s doing well enough for Mom to go home, but you have to understand he’s still at serious risk.”

Phoebe didn’t believe it.

“I could do with a cup of coffee,” Leanne said. “Decaf, of course. Anything with caffeine would keep me awake for hours.”

“You two go ahead,” Phoebe told them. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes. I’m going to use the ladies’ room.”

Clark stared after her as she hurried down the hall to the public restrooms. Once inside, she pulled out her cell phone, called directory assistance and had them connect her with the hospital’s receptionist.

“Could you please tell me what room Max Snowden’s in?” she began and silently asked God to forgive the lie. “I’d like to order f lowers online and apparently they need a room number.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Before long the woman was back. “Our records show that Mr. Snowden was released from the hospital two days ago.”

“I see,” Phoebe said through gritted teeth. “Thank you for your trouble.”

“It was my pleasure.”

It would be Phoebe’s pleasure to tell Clark what she thought of him. When she stepped out of the restroom, Clark and Leanne stood in the hallway waiting for her.

“Time to go, Mother,” she said f irmly.

Leanne cast her a confused glance. “But…what about coffee with Clark?”

Phoebe marched past him. “We aren’t having coffee with Clark.”

“Phoebe,” her mother said, struggling to keep pace with her.

“What’s gotten into you? You’re being rude. Clark’s father is very ill. Like you, I’m disappointed that Marlene isn’t here, but Clark told me she’s been with Max for days and is emotionally and physically exhausted.”

Phoebe stopped and turned to face her mother and Clark. “If that’s the case, then she wasn’t at the hospital.”

“But of course she was,” Leanne protested. “The entire family was gathered here…. Clark was just telling me about it.”

“That’s very interesting, Mom, since Max was released two days ago.” She looked directly at Clark. “Did you think I couldn’t call the hospital switchboard?”

He glared back at her and refused to answer.

“If anything like this ever happens again,” she said slowly and distinctly, “I’m calling the police.” She wanted to be sure he understood this wasn’t an idle threat. “I’m serious, Clark. One more incident like this and I’ll report you as a stalker.”

Her mother whirled around and confronted Clark, an expression of shock and disbelief on her face. “Is that true?” she demanded.

“Clark Snowden is the last person you should be asking about the truth,” Phoebe said in a withering voice as she turned and headed out the door, toward the parking garage. Her mother scurried after her, half trotting in an effort to keep up. Angry as she was, Phoebe couldn’t get away from Clark fast enough. If she’d ever had any doubts or second thoughts, this had sealed it. Thank goodness she’d followed her instincts and brought her mother along.

Leanne didn’t say anything for several minutes. “I think you might be right about Clark,” she f inally said, breathless by the time they entered the parking garage. “That man isn’t to be trusted.”

Chapter 27

With my work as a designer, I feel like I am leaving a legacy to pass on to future generations. I can’t imagine either of my children growing up without a relationship with knitting. I cannot wait until my kids are old enough to learn to knit, and we can sit and knit together. What other line of work allows you to create like this, alongside your family?

—Chrissy Gardiner, knit designer and teacher, www.gardineryarnworks.com

Lydia Goetz

I couldn’t help worrying about Casey. Ever since she’d received that phone call from Lee she’d been withdrawn and, frankly, difficult. Some days were definitely better than others, but this morning was apparently destined to be a bad one. When I called Casey for breakfast, I heard her slamming things around her bedroom and when she finally deigned to show up, she didn’t so much as offer a greeting or even an acknowledgement. Now, sitting at the kitchen table, she slouched over her cereal bowl almost as if she was afraid someone would jerk it away. I tried talking to her and her responses, such as they were, came in the form of grunts and growls. My efforts were mostly ignored.

“Would you like to come to the yarn store with me?” I asked. Her classes were over, so her other option was day camp.

“I’m going in early, even though I have class tonight.” I don’t know why I bothered to explain.

Her answer was a noncommittal shrug.

“Is that a yes or a no?” I asked, my patience growing thin. She glared up at me. “I guess.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was willing to assume she wanted to go to work with me. “There’s a new shipment of yarn that needs to be priced.” One thing I could count on was Casey’s interest in collecting a paycheck. Other than those mishaps early on, she’d done a fairly good job at every task I’d given her.

“Will Margaret be there?” she asked.

It was the f irst real sentence Casey had uttered all morning.

“Yes. And Brad will stop by after work to take you home.”

She shrugged again, which appeared to be her universal response this morning.

It took me a moment to realize why she’d asked about Margaret.

“You can bring your crocheting if you want,” I said, wanting her to know I’d paid attention.

She lifted one shoulder halfheartedly.

As far as breakfast-table conversation went, that was it. Unaware of the tension between Casey and me, Cody chattered away at astounding speed. I could hardly keep up with the rapid switching of subjects, but fortunately all he required was an occasional

“Wow” or “Really?”

The three of us left the house and I dropped Cody off at the day camp. There was a f ield trip for his age group today—to the aquarium—and that was his very favorite activity. Casey remained silent as I continued on to the store. I worked hard at remembering what Alix had told me about the years she herself had spent in foster care. She’d had varied experiences, some good, some bad. She’d said that Casey was probably afraid to let anyone know what she enjoyed, as though she wasn’t allowed to have any fun. At this point it was diff icult to say that Casey took much pleasure in anything—with the one exception of our day at Green Lake.

When I pulled up at the church, Cody leaped out of the car and ran toward his friends without a backward glance. He used to kiss my cheek, but that had changed this summer. He no longer considered it “cool” to show me affection in front of his friends. I missed his goodbye hugs, but I understood. Cody was growing up.

I must have smiled because Casey gave me an odd look.

“What’s so funny?”

“Cody,” I said, and explained why.

For just an instant I thought Casey might’ve been amused. I’d been waiting for her to lower her guard. For the past two days I’d been tiptoeing around the issue of her discontent and now I decided to confront it.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” I asked as gently as I could.

She turned to me as if to gauge the sincerity of my question.

“I’d thought—hoped, really—that you’ve enjoyed your time with our family.”

The shrug was back, and Casey kept her gaze directly ahead of her. “It’s okay.”

“Okay!” I echoed in mock outrage.

Casey actually grinned. “If you must know, staying with you has been better than most summers.”

Admitting that was quite a concession on her part. “That’s more like it,” I said.

Casey’s mood seemed to improve once we got to the yarn store. I wanted to tell her that being there had the same effect on me. I could be angry or depressed or just plain tired. Yet the moment I entered my store, whatever was pressing on my heart instantly lifted.

The only other place I felt that same serenity was inside a church. But a yarn store? For reasons I can’t even begin to explain, my shop on Blossom Street produced in me a contentment I’d rarely found since that f irst diagnosis of cancer back when I was a teenager. As soon as I got there, so did three customers. It almost seemed as if they’d been waiting for me to turn over the Open sign, because a moment later, all three women walked in. Margaret served the f irst woman and was busy with the other two when another customer came in with a knitting problem. I immediately saw what she’d done wrong and we sat together at the back table while I explained her mistake, which was relatively easy to f ix. Using a crochet hook, I had to go down about f ifteen rows. I’m always surprised by the number of knitters who can’t bear to see someone unravel their work. This woman closed her eyes while I dropped the stitch.