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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.”