A Good Yarn

The adjustment to life without my dad has been hardest on Mom, though; she’s aged ten years in the last fourteen months. She’s emotionally shrunken—I don’t know what else to call it. She’s become frail and sad and uninterested in much. And she’s shrunk physically, too, as if her body is reflecting her inner state, which is one of grief, of diminished expectations. In fact, at her last doctor’s appointment, we learned that Mom is a full inch shorter than she was a few years ago.

The results of her osteoporosis tests aren’t back yet. All at once, Mom has a number of medical problems, and I attribute this decline in her health not only to grief but to loneliness. My father was her anchor, her companion.

Although it sounds like a cliché, it seems as though part of her is missing; without him, she can’t function the way she once did. I understand that, and to some degree I experience the same feeling. Dad was such a vital part of the woman I am.

When I arrived early Sunday afternoon, I found my mother in the backyard pruning her roses, fussing over them. Her flower garden is her pride, one of the few things she still cares about. She prunes the roses, she tells me, so they’ll grow stronger. I consider Dad’s death in the same light. Losing him helped me discern what was important in my life, what was real. Mostly, I needed to find my own path to happiness and to accept the challenges of independence. It was losing my father that gave me the courage to enlarge my life, and I did this by opening my own store—and through my relationship with Brad.

I stood in the open doorway watching her for a few minutes. Caught up in her gardening, Mom didn’t hear me. She had on a big straw hat to shield her face from the sun and wore her green garden gloves. There was a bucket at her side in which she dumped the clippings. I didn’t want to frighten her so I called her name softly.

“Lydia!” Mom turned toward me as I stepped out of the house. “I thought you’d be here sooner.”

“So did I, but I got sidetracked after church.”

“By Brad and Cody?”

I nodded. “I’m meeting them in an hour. We’re going to walk around Green Lake.” The three-mile stroll was good exercise and I get far less of that than I should. Brad, on the other hand, is in marvelous shape and can run circles around me. Cody has a golden retriever named Chase—because of his terrible habit of chasing after everything and everyone. Cody would probably bring his dog, but he’d been warned to keep Chase on his leash. Maybe I’d get a book on dog-training and work with Cody to teach him some basic commands. Anyway, this afternoon would be fun and I was half tempted to take my in-line skates, just so I could keep up with the two—or rather, three—of them.

My mother’s hand trembled as she snipped another branch. I’d noticed the shaking more often lately. “What did you have for lunch, Mom?” I asked. Her eating habits were atrocious, and Margaret and I worried that she wasn’t getting the nutrition she needed. We also worried about her medications. My fear was that some days she took more than prescribed and on others she skipped them entirely.

“What did I eat for lunch?” Mom repeated as though she needed to think about this.

“Lunch, Mom?” I coaxed gently.

“Tuna and crackers,” she recalled and looked at me with such a triumphant smile that I smiled back.

Still, I had to ask, “That’s all?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry. Now, don’t pester me by insisting I eat when I don’t have an appetite. Your father used to do that. I didn’t like it then and I refuse to listen to it now.”

“All right, Mom.” I’d leave it for now, but we’d have to check out some alternatives. Meals on Wheels, perhaps. Or a part-time housekeeper if, between us, Margaret and I could afford one. I’d discuss it with her soon.

“Next Sunday is Father’s Day,” Mom pointed out. “Will you take me to the cemetery? I’d like to put a vase of my roses on your dad’s grave.”

“Of course. Margaret and I will both come.” I was speaking out of turn and hoped my sister would agree to accompany us. She’d been so prickly and out of sorts lately. The closeness we’d briefly shared had evaporated like a shallow rain puddle in the sun. Whatever was wrong, she didn’t feel comfortable enough to share it with me, and frankly, that hurt. We’ve come a long way in our relationship, but it was situations such as this that reminded me how far we had yet to go.

As if the strength had gone out of her legs, Mom reached for a patio chair and sat down. Lifting the hat from her head, she wiped her forehead with one arm. “My goodness, it’s hot.”

I glanced at the temperature gauge my father had hung on the side of the house, and it read seventy-four degrees, which surprised me because it didn’t feel that warm. Of course, my mother had been working outside for at least an hour, more likely two.

“Would you like to go out for dinner, Mom?” I asked, thinking that would be a treat for us both.

“No, thank you, honey. I’m not hungry. I met Dorothy Wallace at the Pancake Breakfast the Knights of Columbus held after Mass and we ate our fill.”

Translated, she had one small pancake without butter or syrup, followed by a lunch of tuna and crackers, and she’d probably skip dinner altogether.

“Besides, Margaret phoned and she’s stopping by with the girls later this afternoon.”

Some of my worry left me. Margaret would make sure Mom had a decent meal at the end of the day.

“She enjoys working with you,” my mother continued. “She’s not one to say it, but she does.”

I wondered if I should mention my concerns about my sister. I decided against it, although Margaret had been weighing heavily on my mind since my conversation with Brad earlier in the week. There was no need to bring Mom into this. She’d certainly mention my concerns to my sister, and that would infuriate Margaret; she would resent me for discussing her with Mom, and then I’d hear about it for weeks.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked.

Her smile was distracted. “I’d love a glass of iced tea.”

I went inside and poured one for each of us, then added slices of lemon. Several other lemons had shriveled up and I tossed them without telling Mom. A quick look in the refrigerator had revealed a carton of milk a month past its expiry date and a package of liquefying spinach. I’d tossed those too. When I returned to the patio, Mom had replaced the hat and was sitting with her back to the sun.

I joined her and handed her the glass, savoring the warm sunshine against my skin, the sound of birds in the distance along with the swish, swish of the sprinkler watering the lawn.

“Tell me about the shop,” Mom suggested. “Did you get in any new yarn this week?”

She especially enjoyed the stories about my customers; so many of them had become my friends, especially Jacqueline, Carol and Alix, my original class members. We’ve created a real bond, the four of us, and it’s rare for me not to see them during the week. If nothing else, one or two always showed up for the charity knitting session on Fridays.

I talked nonstop for almost twenty minutes about the shop and described the three women who’d recently signed up for the sock class. The one who interested Mom most was Courtney Pulanski, the seventeen-year-old granddaughter of Vera Pulanski, a regular.

“I’m thinking of holding a potluck once a month,” I said, wanting her opinion on this new idea—partly to allow her to feel involved and partly because I trusted her instincts. Over the years, she’d been a valuable sounding board to my father in his businesses.

“Do you have room at the store?”

“I think so, if I do a bit of shuffling.” When I first opened my doors, there was room to set up a large table for classes, but as I’d brought in additional lines of yarn, much of that space had disappeared. Now the table, which sat six people, was surrounded by several displays.

“Are you sure you want food around all that yarn?”

My mother echoed my own reservations. “I thought we’d sit at the table where I hold my classes and put the food on a card table in the office.”

My mother raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “It might work, but what would be the purpose of these monthly potlucks?”

Good question. “Well, I want my customers to get to know one another. Plus, when one person shows the others what she’s knitted, it inspires them.” It was for this very reason that I often knit up patterns for display in the shop. “You could join us, Mom,” I said enthusiastically. “Margaret and I would love that.” As often as possible, I try to include her. Both Margaret and I work at giving Mom little things to look forward to so she feels active and alive.

From the way Mom frowned, I doubt she heard me. “Hold a monthly show-and-tell session and keep the food out of it. If you want to eat, go to a restaurant afterward.”

I liked that idea. “Thanks, Mom.”

I could tell she was pleased I’d come to her for advice. I’m sure it’s something she missed, since she’d so often taken that role with my father. We sat and chatted for another thirty minutes and then I left to meet Brad and Cody.

They were in the parking lot at Green Lake waiting for me, Chase tugging at the leash.

“Hi,” I called as I climbed out of the car. Chase wasn’t the only one eager for this outing.

Cody raced over to the car and briefly hugged me. “Can we go now?”

His father patted his head. “Okay, sport, but don’t get too far ahead of us, all right? And hold on to Chase.”

Cody didn’t take time to answer. He was off like a rocket, boy and dog together, Cody’s young legs pumping with an energy I envied.

Brad and I started walking at a brisk pace. As always on a sunny weekend day, the place was crowded with people and dogs. We passed a man with a guitar who sat on the grass strumming folk songs and a toddler chasing after a butterfly. There were a couple of canoes close to the shore. Brad and I walked side by side, keeping an eye out for Cody and Chase.

“How’s your mother?” he asked, knowing I’d spent part of the afternoon with her.

Right then, I didn’t want to launch into a long discussion about my anxiety over Mom. That conversation wasbest reserved for Margaret, and I’d initiate it soon. “She’s about the same,” I said, which was true enough. “My sister and the girls are visiting later today. Mom needs that.”

“Speaking of Margaret, has she said anything to you?”

“About what?” I asked cautiously.

Brad reached for my hand and we entwined our fingers. I smiled up at him, forgetting Margaret. It’s times like these, when we’re feeling close and connected, that I get lost in a sensation of such bliss I can barely contain myself. Like any woman, I hunger for love, marriage, a family. Because of the cancer, I didn’t think I’d ever have that chance. Every single day, I was grateful all over again for Brad, grateful to have him in my life, grateful to be loved by him despite my imperfections and flaws. He says the fact that I’ve battled cancer not once but twice makes me a two-time winner. I am a winner and I feel so incredibly blessed.

“I think I know what Margaret’s problem might be,” Brad said, jolting me out of my reflection.

“You do?” I was a little reluctant to talk about Margaret at the moment; I preferred to revel in my own contentment.

“Yeah. I ran into Matt at the hardware store yesterday afternoon,” Brad told me.

My brother-in-law is a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. I consider him a good balance for my sister, who usually has a pessimistic slant on things. Matt doesn’t take life as seriously as she does. I find that he doesn’t overreact the way she tends to and—even more appealing—he never holds grudges.

“What did Matt have to say?” The four of us had gone out on occasion, and Brad and Matt had hit if off. Margaret invited us over for dinner a few months ago, and we’d played cards until the wee hours of the morning. I’d hoped to see more of them socially, but so far we hadn’t.

“He’s not working.”

“What do you mean, not working?” Matt had been with Boeing for as long as I could remember, probably twenty years.

“Not working as in he got laid off.”

“What? When?”

“Three months ago.”

“No.” That couldn’t be right. Three months? Margaret hadn’t said a word about this for three months? I was in shock.

“That’s what he told me. He’s been pounding the pavement, looking for work, but nothing’s happening for him.”

My heart sank. “But I thought …” I didn’t know what I thought. This was crazy. I’m Margaret’s only sibling, and if she couldn’t talk to me, then who could she confide in?

“Matt seemed to think I knew, so I played along.”

The tingling feeling that usually precedes tears came over me. Sure enough, I felt my eyes prickling and my throat closing up.

“Are you going to cry?”

I sniffled and nodded. “You’d think she could’ve told me,” I said hoarsely.

“At least you know why she’s been so tense lately.”

That didn’t help. “I’d hoped my own sister would trust me, but I was obviously wrong.” I swiped the tears from my eyes before they could roll down my cheeks. Now I understood, and so much of Margaret’s behaviour at the shop lately started to make sense. Not only had she been moody, but she hadn’t purchased new yarn in weeks, or bought anything from the French bakery across the street. In fact, now that I thought about it, I realized she hadn’t spent any money at all unless it was absolutely necessary.

“I should’ve known,” I whispered, suddenly feeling guilty. “I should’ve figured it out.”

“How could you?”

My sister isn’t the easiest person in the world to read, but in my heart I felt I should’ve recognized the signs. And maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the news; layoffs at Boeing always merited an article or two. I hadn’t even noticed….

“Are you going to say anything?” Brad asked.

I considered my answer carefully. “I don’t think so.” For her own reasons, Margaret hadn’t seen fit to share this information with me. I wouldn’t force her to do so now, but I hoped that in time, she’d feel she could. Until then, all I could do was love her, be patient with her short-tempered comments and wait for her to trust me.

“You will, you know,” Brad insisted softly. “I know you too well, Lydia. You won’t be able to keep this buried for long. It just isn’t in your nature.”

I scoffed at him, but I realized he was probably right.

6

CHAPTER

ELISE BEAUMONT

Elise discovered that she was looking forward to starting the sock class. Without letting her daughter know, she’d purchased yarn to knit David, her son-in-law, the first pair. It was a small way of showing her appreciation for his kindness in allowing Elise to live with them during this legal mess. According to a recent update from the attorney, there hadn’t been much progress yet; patience was advised. She still felt mortified that, after all her careful planning, she’d ended up living with her daughter and son-in-law, no matter how temporary that arrangement was.

The afternoon before the Tuesday class, Elise sat on the patio reading, an activity that never failed to satisfy her. Her love of books went back to when she was a child. She was an early reader, and could remember sitting in her crib with a book in her hands, utterly content. That love of books had served her well through the years.

Today she was rereading Jane Austen’s Emma, something she did every decade or so. There were books like that, the true classics she returned to time and time again. Austen, the Brontës, Flaubert and her favorite, George Eliot. These writers described women’s lives and emotions in ways that still resonated a century or more later. She’d just reached the scene where Mr. Knightley chastises Emma when Aurora opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the patio to join her. “Can we talk for a few minutes, Mom?” she asked tentatively. Aurora sat on the chair next to the chaise longue where Elise reclined with her legs stretched out. Her daughter held a tall glass of tea, ice cubes clinking. She was obviously nervous.

“Of course.” Elise carefully inserted her bookmark and closed Emma. Judging by the way Aurora leaned forward, this was important.

“I want to talk about Daddy,” her daughter informed her, diving headfirst into the most unpleasant of subjects.

Elise was always cautious about anything to do with her ex-husband. Maverick was a slick and dangerous man, personable to the degree that it was difficult to refuse him whatever he might want. “I suppose that would be all right.” Her daughter knew the basic story of how Elise had met Maverick, fallen stupidly in love and married him. The marriage hadn’t lasted eighteen months, two years on paper.

Oh, how that man could talk. Elise swore he could charm a rattlesnake. From the time she was a teenager, she’d known she wasn’t a particularly attractive woman. Maverick had adamantly claimed otherwise, and being young and naive, Elise had delighted in those compliments, swallowing them whole. She’d believed him because she so badly wanted to be as lovely as he said she was. When she was with Maverick she felt beautiful, but it didn’t take her long to realize she was living a fool’s dream.

“What about your father?” Elise asked, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

“You loved him once, right?”

That was a tricky question and difficult to answer. Maverick had come into her life when she’d been at a vulnerable age, when hormones had overruled common sense. At the time, she’d believed she was in love but later acknowledged that it had been lust they’d shared and not love. Love lasts. What they shared didn’t. Yet, all these years after the divorce, she still dreamed of him, yearned for him and wished with everything she held dear that their marriage had turned out differently. The relationship might have worked if Elise could have found a way to accept the man he was.

Unfortunately she hadn’t and it was too late for them. Over the years he’d flitted about the country and, in her view, wasted his life. In some respects she had, too, Elise recognized sadly.

“Mom, you did love him, didn’t you?” Aurora repeated anxiously.

“Yes, I did.” So much that even now it frightened her to admit it.

Her daughter relaxed visibly. “We keep in touch, you know.”

Elise was aware of that. Maverick lived among the dregs of society, as she liked to put it, making his living from card-playing and God knew what else. But apparently he was successful—enough to support Aurora all her life and through college.

Besides his regular payments and then tuition, he’d always sent extra for their daughter’s birthday and at Christmas. The first seventeen years following their divorce, he wrote Aurora once a month but they were never long letters. Mostly he sent postcards to let her know where he was and if he was winning. Winning had always been important to Maverick. In fact, it was everything to him. He lived in search of the elusive jackpot that would set him up for life. To the best of Elise’s knowledge, he’d never found it.

“If you want to keep in touch with your father, that has nothing to do with me,” she primly informed her daughter. Elise had read those postcards, too, and wished she hadn’t—because she was afraid it meant she still cared, still hungered for what was destined never to be.

“Dad and I talk every now and then.”

Elise knew that too. When Aurora was a child, she’d been so excited whenever her daddy called. As an adult, she reacted the same way. Aurora hadn’t been disillusioned by her father yet, and Elise hated the thought that eventually her daughter would face the same disappointment she had. Maverick didn’t intend to hurt those he loved. He was simply careless with the feelings of others; the people he claimed to love never came first with him. He just couldn’t be trusted. If he said he’d be home by nine, he meant he’d be home at nine unless there was a card game going. His moods were dictated by whether he won or lost. If he won, he was elated and jubilant, swinging Elise in his arms and planning celebration dinners. If he lost, he suffered fits of anger and despair.

“He’s coming, Mom,” Aurora announced. She looked directly into Elise’s eyes.

“Coming,” Elise repeated as a numbing sensation spread through her. “To Seattle?”

Aurora nodded.

“Is there some big poker tournament taking place here?” Not that she was likely to know about it.

“He’s coming to see me,” Aurora added with more than a hint of defiance.

“How … fatherly,” Elise murmured sarcastically. “Once every five or ten years he—”

“Mom!”

“Sorry.” Elise clamped her mouth shut before she could say something she’d regret.

“This is what I never understood about you and Dad.” Her daughter seemed to be struggling to hold on to her composure. “You make me feel like I’m being disloyal to you because I choose not to ignore my father.”

“I do that?” This was a painful revelation, and Elise swallowed hard. All she’d wanted was to protect Aurora from certain disillusionment.

Aurora nodded and the tears that brightened her eyes were testament to the truth of her words.

“I’m so sorry. I never realized … I—I did that.” The guilt was nearly overwhelming.

“But you do. Never once in all the years I was growing up did I hear my father say a negative thing about you. Not once, Mom, and yet I can’t remember you ever saying a kind word about him.”

“That is not true.” Elise had tried hard to hide her feelings toward Maverick from their daughter. Surely she’d succeeded—hadn’t she? Gazing into her daughter’s pain-filled eyes, Elise realized that she hadn’t.

Aurora’s shoulders rose in a deep sigh. “Please, Mom, I don’t want to argue about this.”

“I don’t, either.” Racked with self-recrimination, Elise patted her daughter’s knee. “Your father is … your father. I wish I’d given you a better one, but that’s my mistake, not yours.”

“See what I mean?” Aurora cried. “You don’t have anything good to say about him.”

“I was the one married to him, remember? I loved Maverick but we weren’t meant to be together.”

“I know he failed you. He admits it.”

“He failed you too.”

“In some ways, yes, he did,” Aurora agreed, “but in other ways he was a wonderful father.”

Elise understood that Aurora had to believe this. Maverick was the only father she had, and his behavior, his long absences, were all she knew. If she’d ever wondered why he traveled as much as he did, she’d never asked her mother.

“So,” Elise said. The numbness had started to leave her. “Your father is visiting Seattle.”

“Yes, he is.” Aurora seemed to be waiting for more of a response.

“I don’t have a single qualm about you seeing your father,” Elise assured her. “He hasn’t even met his grandsons.”

“He’s looking forward to that.”

Again Aurora stared at Elise as if expecting something more.

“I don’t have to see him,” Elise said. Any encounter with him would be impossible. If Aurora wanted permission to visit with her father, then that was fine with Elise. But when it happened, Elise didn’t plan to be anywhere in the vicinity. “Have him over for dinner or whatever. I’ll conveniently be out for the evening or however long you need.”

Maverick would thank her. Elise was fairly sure he wasn’t any more interested in seeing her than she was in seeing him. They hadn’t spoken in years. There’d been no reason for them to have contact, which was the way Elise preferred it.

“You won’t be able to avoid seeing Dad,” her daughter said, her eyes fluttering in every direction.

“What you do mean?” Elise demanded as a sinking feeling settled over her.

“Dad will be staying here.”

“At the house?” Elise was aghast. This couldn’t be true, but she knew from the undeniable confirmation in Aurora’s face that it was. The numbness was back in full force, and spreading down to her legs. “Does he know I’m living with you?”