A Holiday Yarn (2 page)

For this week, Mary had decided the right thing was hosting the family meeting there, although she had confessed to Nell why she had done it: guilt. Mary was well aware that her grandfather's leaving the home to her was a thorn in some of her cousins' sides. "Maybe hosting the gruesome meeting will eliminate a little of the tension."

"As nice as Mary is," Pamela continued, "she didn't inherit the Pisano brains. She doesn't think things through, like that silly column she writes, chatting about things that are often none of her business. It's an embarrassment, just like the bed-and-breakfast will be. I don't know how I got into this family. There are times I think I'm adopted."

Nell held back a smile. "Well, maybe it's a small-town thing--we like her column. She makes people feel good--or not good, if that's what they deserve. Mary has a sense of humor. She's perceptive."

Pamela laughed. " 'Crazy' is the word family members use. And this ridiculous decision about my grandfather's estate will prove it. It's insane. And it's going to kill her; you mark my words."

She paused, then spoke a little louder in case Nell might miss her message over the background chatter and Christmas music.

"Kill her," she said. This time she looked at Nell intently, waiting for her response.

"Mary has more energy than a teenager. There's no need to worry about that."

Pamela dismissed Nell's comment with a toss of her head.

Every hair remained in place, the sharp angle of platinum still aimed at one smooth, sculpted cheek. She finished her tea silently.

Outside, the wind blew and a loose awning flapped against the window. Nell wondered when the snow would come. They'd had one good snow a week earlier that had set the holiday mood, covering yards and flower beds, delighting children as they dug out their sleds and ice skates and built igloos in their front yards. It excited the Harbor Road merchants too, as the snow was luring holiday shoppers out in full force. Another snow would be coming soon; she could feel it in her bones.

A shadow blocked the sunlight, and Nell looked up to see Tommy Porter, his chin tucked against the front of his police uniform. He was looking into the shop, oblivious of Nell.

Reflected in the blackness of his dark glasses, Nell could see Pamela's face. She was looking back at Tommy with a disinterested look on her face. Disinterested, but with a touch of amusement.

Another policeman walked up, and Tommy spun around, startled, as if he'd been caught doing something against regulations. He managed a laugh at whatever his partner said, then followed him down the street without a backward glance.

"Not one of my fans," Pamela said, watching Tommy walk away. She pushed back her chair. "His brother Eddie and I had a good time one summer--for a while, anyway." She stood and pulled on her fur jacket. "I was so young then. Young and foolish."

She was talking mostly to herself, but the end of her sentence had turned hard. Foolish. Not a word one assigned easily to Pamela Pisano.

Pamela slipped on her leather gloves and pushed the memory away. "I'll give Mary credit for one thing--she hired some entertaining men to work around that place. Somehow, I didn't think she had it in her. It has certainly eased the pain." She smiled then, a careful smile that allowed no crease, and waved good-bye to Nell. "It was lovely seeing you," she said, the words trailing over her shoulder as she turned and moved toward the door, her head high, her slender body silhouetted against the winter light.

Just outside the door she stopped and lifted a cigarette to her lips, her head turning both ways, as if expecting someone to appear with a lighter. Her smile was in place, practiced.

Two young mothers were pushing strollers down the street and stopped to look at the Alfa Romeo parked at the curb. Sleek and polished. Just like the woman standing beside it. They looked at Pamela with the same envy, then stepped aside as she strode to the driver's-side door.

Across the street, Ham Brewster was unlocking the door to his gallery. He glanced across the street at the car and the woman beside it.

Although Pamela pretended not to notice, Nell suspected she was acutely aware of every admiring glance, like models on a runway or celebrities before a camera, whose images become defined by photographs.

Pamela touched the door handle, then looked over the car and down the road. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head, apparently pleased with what she saw.

Slipping her keys back into her bag, she stepped up onto the curb and strode purposefully down the street, a playful smile lifting her lips.

Chapter 2

"
S
he came in to take a class," Mae Anderson told Nell later that day. "She was mad as a wet hen when Izzy showed her the class schedule. It didn't suit her fancy. 'Who in heaven's name would want to knit baby clothes?' That was what she said. My answer was, 'Who wouldn't?' They're making those cute little cuddle wraps for kids in Africa. Now, who in their right mind wouldn't want to do that?"

Izzy's store manager was counting out receipts for the Seaside Knitting Studio as she talked, her rimless glasses balanced precariously on the end of her long nose. Mae wore a thick red sweater with sleigh bells all over it--her December uniform, Izzy called it. Her thin eyebrows lifted occasionally to emphasize a word.

"Who wouldn't do what?" Izzy mumbled around a plastic bag of needle protectors that she held between her teeth. She was kneeling on the hardwood floor on the other side of the main room in the knitting studio, slipping packets on a rotating display stand. A thick midthigh cable sweater engulfed her narrow shoulders and hips and kept her warm against the store's drafts.

Nell looked over at her niece. "Mae said Pamela Pisano was in. She's making the rounds. I had tea with her this morning."

"Why would you do that?" Izzy asked. She sat back on her legs and eyed the display, adjusting a wayward packet.

"Why, indeed." Mae closed up the computer and locked the drawer beneath the checkout counter. "It's a wonder she doesn't break both legs with those fancy boots she wears."

"She has beautiful clothes; that's true. It's important to her job, I suppose. If she dressed like I do, she'd lose readers." Nell grinned at Mae's grumpiness and tried to force a smile from the store manager. "She's interesting."

"Pretentious," Mae muttered.

Cass stuck her head around the corner from the small galley kitchen. "Not to mention that she wears fur.
Animal
fur. Did you check out that white jacket?" Smelling food, Cass hurried over and relieved Nell of two white bags that held their dinner.

"Seriously, Aunt Nell, I thought you were running this morning. Did you have tea with Pamela Pisano on purpose?" Izzy asked.

Nell laughed. "Come on, now. Where's the Christmas spirit? She's not a bad person."

"That's debatable," Mae said. "Besides being mad as a hatter about all the baby-clothes knitting classes, she was appalled that we didn't offer a special class for lefties."

Izzy laughed. "Maybe she's right. Maybe I should schedule a class for left-handed knitters. They're forgotten sometimes."

"Fiddlesticks," Mae said. She straightened a sprig of mistletoe hanging above her computer.

"Well, let's give her a break," Nell said. "Her job must be stressful."

"Humph." Mae pulled a heavy black purse from beneath the counter. "How many men has this 'nice' woman left stranded in the mess of her affairs? But enough of her. I'm leaving. Tonight's my Sweet Adeline rehearsal--women's barbershop harmony at its finest. We've been booked for several tree lightings, and we're getting very good, if I do say so myself." Mae's long face broke into a wide smile, and she began jiggling her skinny hips, humming "Jingle Bell Rock" on her way to the door.

Door chimes announced Birdie Favazza's arrival. She gave the dancing figure a surprised look and broke into delighted laughter. "I think there's potential for you, dear Mae. Maybe you'd like to join my tap-dancing class? Or the Rockettes, perhaps?"

Mae threw her head back in a throaty laugh as she made a dancing exit, her laughter floating behind her.

Birdie slipped off her backpack and looked around at the store. "Izzy, this is amazing. A holiday wonderland."

Izzy grinned. "You like it? Mae would have had me spray-painting the whole place red and green, with talking elves and animated Santas bobbing around every corner. I restrained her a little."

Nell walked over to a table with a wooden sleigh piled high with glittery yarn. She remembered the sleigh from Izzy's parents' Kansas City home. The memory came back with surprising force--Izzy and her brothers, their eyes huge as they tumbled down the stairs on Christmas morning, greeted by an enormous tree and piles of brightly wrapped presents.

Izzy had her own tree in the yarn shop, in the middle of the room. The branches were heavy with dozens of small socks, booties, hats, and scarves that customers had knit up for Father Northcutt's homeless shelter.

Nell looked into the children's room--the Magic Room, customers called it. In one corner stood a rocking reindeer that Angus McPherron had carved for Izzy. The old man had even painted the nose red, a concession just for her, he said, since painting the beautiful pine seemed disrespectful. Candy canes strung on a red velvet ribbon circled the room, and red and green plaid cushions invited small bodies to settle down with a book or toy truck.

"Birdie's right. It's a fairyland," Nell said.

"Great. I'm glad you like it. But enough with the decorations," Izzy said. "If we don't feed Cass soon, she'll start eating them."

Cass echoed the sentiment loudly, and they followed one another down three steps into the familiar comfort of the back room. Izzy had already started a fire in the old stone fireplace in the corner, and Purl, the shop cat, was settled on a love seat in front of the dancing flames. From small speakers up near the ceiling, Andrea Bocelli sang about the holidays in soft, tender tones.

"Salve for my soul," Birdie murmured. She settled in next to Purl and pulled a ball of emerald green mohair from her bag.

"Wow. Amazing color." Cass walked over for a closer look.

"It's from Mary's blanket." Birdie pulled the finished blanket from a plastic bag at her feet--a soft, lacy blend, with deep blues woven into the patchwork design and a hint of rose edging the squares.

Izzy nearly dropped the wineglasses. "It's gorgeous. A knit quilt."

They'd been admiring it in stages for weeks, but the finished blanket was the sea itself, rolling and renewing--smooth, vibrant waves of color.

"Mary couldn't have imagined anything this elegant when she asked us to knit blankets for her B and B. You're a hard act to follow, Birdie."

Cass filled the wineglasses and passed them around. "The ocean looked like that this week. It's the winter light--it was so amazing, we took Sam back out to take photographs."

"Sam?" Izzy looked up. "He . . . he was so busy last week. But that's good that he took the time. I hope he got some great shots."

Izzy's tone was odd. Sam was always out photographing something beautiful or interesting or arresting--it's what an award-winning photographer did. Before Nell could comment, Izzy wiped away the concern with a quick smile. She picked up a glass of wine and took a sip.

Birdie folded the afghan back into its bag. "I told Mary we'd drop this off tonight, Nell, just to give her an idea of what's coming. With all those relatives around, she needs something lovely to look at."

"Good idea. I think they're taking a toll on her. She missed writing her column two days in a row."

"My brother Pete hung out with a few of the Pisanos at the Gull this week," Cass said. "They know how to party up a storm, he says. I don't think Pamela hangs out with them, though--only when she has to."

Birdie laughed. "Somehow I can't see Pamela Pisano in the Gull. I ran into her at city hall today. She said today's the last gathering of the clan. It was said with great relief."

Nell lifted the lid from the soup tureen and set it aside. Steam spiraled up, filling the room with the scent of garlic and wine, fresh thyme and parsley and butter. Nell changed her mother's bouillabaisse recipe each time she made it, adding this or that. A splash of Muscadet, a pinch of saffron. Ever-changing soup, just like life.

"Pamela wields a mighty sword at those meetings, I'd suspect," she said, stirring the soup with a wooden spoon.

"She wields something; I'm sure of that," Birdie said. "My sympathies are with dear Mary, surrounded by all those relatives wanting to make sure they get their share of the newspaper or magazine world that Enzo owned. Or whatever it is they do at those meetings."

Izzy brought in a basket of warm rolls, and Nell motioned everyone to the table. "Please don't let it get cold."

In minutes, soup bowls were filled and favorite chairs claimed as they settled around the fire, glasses of wine and heaping bowls of bouillabaisse on the coffee table. For a few minutes the only sounds in the room were the crooning of the Italian tenor and the gentle slurping of Nell's latest version of the French soup.

Birdie wiped a flake of parsley from the corner of her mouth and put down her spoon. "Ah. The best yet."

Nell smiled. It wouldn't be bouillabaisse without Birdie's predictable response. "Did Pamela end up buying any yarn? It's odd we all seemed to bump into her today."

"I'm not sure. She said she might do a feature on contemporary knitting fashions in her magazine--that's why she wanted to take a class. She said it would give her a better feeling for how to plan it. And it'd be cool if she mentioned us. The only classes that fit her schedule, though, were for knitting baby sweaters. It didn't make her happy." Izzy shrugged.

"I think she's anti-kid," Cass said. "But she has a point--you
do
have a lot of baby classes, Iz. Is the old clock ticking?"

"People like knitting baby things at holiday time; that's all. I have a scarf class, too. And a socks class, so there." Izzy tossed a ball of yarn at Cass. "Pamela will find other ways to occupy her time while she's here, I'm sure. She said there were some--and I quote--'hot bodies' over at the B and B, which helped make the time pass."

"Pamela has always loved men," Birdie said. She began casting on stitches.

"Fodder for a TV reality show maybe?" Izzy said. "Housewives of Sea Harbor, beware."

"Batten down the hatches." Cass laughed. "She touches Danny Brandley, and she'll find herself in a lobster trap."

Nell laughed. "It's good she has something to occupy her. She's definitely not happy about Mary's opening a B and B."

"Frankly, she's not alone," Birdie said. "Some of my neighbors are ready to throttle Mary--and Pamela has encouraged them. She attended a meeting the other night at Henrietta O'Neal's. Henrietta is sure that once the B and B opens, sin, promiscuity, and a tavern in the carriage house are sure to follow. She's quite furious about the whole thing. I didn't know she had that much steam in her eighty-year-old body, but she's raising a nor'easter over this."

"People can be uncomfortable having strangers in their neighborhoods," Nell said. "The Pisano estate is so large, though, I don't imagine the neighbors will even know when guests are there."

"Well, it certainly won't bother me, and I'm one of the closest neighbors. I think I need to have a talk with Henrietta and set her straight."

"Pamela seemed to think Mary wasn't up to running a guest home. She said it will
kill
Mary," Nell said.

"She said that to me, too. A strange choice of words. Mary is as strong as an ox. A good fisherman's wife--and she's quite young by my standards. What, mid-forties? Running a bed-and-breakfast might kill Pamela, but not Mary." Birdie carried her empty bowl to the table and brought back a fresh bottle of wine.

"Birdie's right. She's doing a terrific job on Enzo's house." Nell collected the other bowls and took them into the kitchen alcove, then retrieved her knitting bag from the bookcase.

Izzy lifted her blanket from a basket near the fireplace and stretched it across her knees. "I'm getting there. What do you think, Aunt Nell?"

Nell slipped on her glasses and examined the blocks of color--rich gold, some with a hint of green, a touch of rose and lavender that Izzy had expertly knit into a wavy design. She could imagine a tired guest wrapped up in the impossibly soft alpaca wool blend, wanting to settle down for a long winter's nap. "It's beautiful," she said.

Mary Pisano's vision imagined each bedroom in Ravenswood-by-the-Sea with its own ambience, its own color theme, and each room would have an inviting, unique blanket at the end of the bed. Thanks to the Seaside Knitters and a few friends, her vision was nearing reality.

As the fire burned low, talk turned away from the Pisanos to the first holiday parties of the season, Christmas pageants, food collections, and the growing pile of cuddles, tiny baby buntings ready to send off to mothers in South Africa.

Birdie held up the beginnings of her cuddle--a small, soft yarn envelope, big enough to hold a tiny baby. They'd all knit a few over the next few weeks and send them to Soweto to cuddle babies to sleep. "And now," she said, covering a yawn, "my time has come. An early night for me, my dears."

Nell agreed. They'd leave now and deliver Mary's blanket, and she might be home before Ben fell asleep.

"Go, both of you," Izzy urged. "Cass and I will clean up--and then we're off to a holiday party at the Ocean's Edge."

"And don't worry one split second about the rest of this soup, Nell," Cass called across the room. "I'll see that it finds a loving home."

Nell laughed. Nearly all Thursday night dinners ended up in Cass's tiny refrigerator, feeding the lobster fisherwoman for at least a few days before she had to start opening her stash of canned beans. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and slipped into her coat. "Have fun, you two. Is Sam meeting you, Iz?"

Izzy didn't answer. Instead, she busied herself changing the music selection on her iPod, as if it were somehow critically important that Andrea Bocelli give equal time to Norah Jones.

Nell looked for a movement of Izzy's narrow shoulders. A smile. A shrug. When nothing came, she forced the frown from her face and followed Birdie out the door and into the winter night.