The Shop on Blossom Street (14 page)

“In the hands of a knitter, yarn becomes the medium that binds the heart and soul.”

—Robin Villiers-Furze, The Needleworks Company, Port Orchard, Washington

LYDIA HOFFMAN

A
nother Friday had come to an end. The knitting session was one of the best ever, with Alix laughing a lot and Jacqueline more relaxed and tolerant than I’d ever seen her. Carol was at home—doctor’s orders. By the time I turned over the closed sign on the shop door and headed upstairs to my apartment, I was exhausted. But this was a good kind of tired. When I first opened A Good Yarn, I’d had plenty of empty hours to work on my own projects.

Not anymore. I had a continuous stream of customers and I was intermittently busy most days. I needed to thank Jacqueline the next time I saw her. She’d spread the word about the store, and two of her affluent friends had recently stopped by. Despite all her threats to quit the class, she showed up each and every Friday. And Jacqueline’s country club friends had purchased four hundred dollars’ worth of yarn. With big sales like these I didn’t need to worry about making the rent payment, which was one of my biggest concerns when I opened my door.

I wasn’t actually earning enough to pay myself a real salary yet, but I was managing the rent and after less than three months in business, that excited me. My strategy was to live simply and believe in myself.

When I arrived upstairs, I left the smaller windows in the living room open. A gentle breeze filtered through. Whiskers was all over me, weaving between my feet in an effort to attract my undivided attention. I love my cat and he’s excellent company, but there are days I’d like a few moments to myself to unwind. Whiskers’s demands come first, however.

I opened a can of his favorite tuna and set it down. He’s terribly spoiled, but I can’t help it. While Whiskers chowed down on dinner, I sorted through the day’s mail and came upon an envelope with a familiar scrawl. Margaret.

I hesitated before I tore it open. Inside were two thank-you notes, one from each of my nieces, thanking me for the sweaters I’d recently knit. It was the first time they’d formally acknowledged my gifts. In the past I’d often suspected Margaret hadn’t given them the things I made them.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have reacted by phoning my sister. Except that our strained relationship showed recent signs of improvement, and I was feeling encouraged. Before I could change my mind, I punched out her telephone number.

At the first ring, I nearly did change my mind and hang up. But I knew she had Caller ID and would immediately contact me and ask why I’d phoned.

Hailey answered on the second ring.

“I got your thank-you note,” I told her.

“Mom said we should write you, but I would have anyway. It’s a cool sweater, Aunt Lydia. I love the colors.”

“I’m glad you like it.” I’d chosen a lime-green yarn and accented the cuffs and button bands with bright orange. It turned out to be really cute, even if I do say so myself.

“Mom’s here,” Hailey said and before I could tell her it wasn’t necessary to interrupt Margaret, my sister was on the line.

“Is everything all right?” she demanded in that gruff unfriendly tone she holds in reserve for me.

“Of course,” I assured her. “I got the note from the girls today and I—”

“You only ever phone if something’s wrong.”

That was categorically untrue but I didn’t want to argue with her. Normally I avoided calling Margaret because the experience was so often unsettling.

“I’m fine, really.” I tried to laugh but it sounded phony.

“Have you seen that handsome UPS driver lately?”

I could feel my face heat up at the mention of Brad. I hadn’t phoned her to talk about him. “He was by the other day.” Instantly I tried to think of something to distract her from the subject of Brad Goetz, and couldn’t.

The UPS driver was as friendly as ever but he no longer asked me out. He knew about my cancer now, and that explained it. I was grateful he didn’t force me to invent plausible-sounding excuses. But when he’d left after his most recent visit, I’d experienced a twinge of regret. That slight but unmistakable sense of loss stayed with me the rest of the afternoon.

“Did you suggest the two of you get together?” Margaret pressed.

“No. I…” That was all I got out before my sister cut me off.

“Why not?”

“I—”

“You keep telling me this shop of yours is an affirmation of life.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“Well, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is.”

It distressed me that my sister seemed to enjoy harassing me. “It’s my life, Margaret.”

“Life?”
She said it scornfully. “What life? All you do is work and knit, which
is
your work. Oh sure, you visit Mom and have a couple of friends, but—”

It was my turn to cut her off. “I make my own decisions about the men I date.”

Margaret acted as if she hadn’t heard me. “Ask him out for a beer,” she insisted.

“No!”

“Why not?”

I wasn’t sure why I was so adamant. “Because…”

“You’re afraid.”

“All right, I’m afraid,” I almost shouted, “but that doesn’t change anything.”

“Get over it.”

“Oh, Margaret, you make everything seem so easy.”

“Ask him out and don’t call me again until you do.”

“Are you serious?” I couldn’t
believe
she’d say anything like that to me.

“Dead serious.” She disconnected the phone.

I stared at the receiver a full minute before I stepped away. Margaret could be so dictatorial. My own sister refused to speak to me until I contacted a man she’d only seen once, and briefly at that? Well, she could forget it; I wasn’t giving in. That decided, I went to find something decent for dinner.

Because I feel diet is so important in maintaining a healthy body, I avoid processed foods as much as possible. On occasion I microwave a frozen entrée, but only rarely. I did that evening, however, because my head was spinning. Margaret had said I should invite Brad out for a drink. Okay, so maybe she had my best interests at heart. Maybe, just maybe she was right, and it was time for me to throw caution to the winds. The women in my knitting class seemed to think so, too. But I had no idea how.

At nine, I phoned her back.

Knowing my sister, I half expected her to slam down the receiver but I didn’t give her the chance. “What do I say?” I asked. “I’ve already turned him down twice. Now that he knows I’ve had cancer, he probably isn’t interested. He might tell me no.”

“He might. And I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” I muttered under my breath and to my surprise Margaret laughed. Generally not even a stand-up comic can get a response out of my sister. She’s one of those deadpan women born without a funny bone. I had no idea I was so amusing.

“I mean it,” I said.

“You’re actually asking
me
for help?”

“Yes. If you refuse to talk to me until I make a fool of myself over a man, then the least you can do is tell me how to go about it.”

That shut her up, but not for long.

“Tell him you’ve had a change of heart.”

“Okay.” My voice must have betrayed my lack of confidence.

“Then tell him you think it might be nice for the two of you to have a beer one night if he’s still interested. Offer to buy and then leave the ball in his court.”

That sounded reasonable.

“Are you going to do it?” Margaret asked.

I leaned against the wall, fiddling with my hair. “Yeah,” I said, “I think I will.”

I sounded brave on Friday night, but by Monday morning it was a different story. It would’ve been easier if Brad had come with a delivery later in the week, but he didn’t. As luck would have it, he showed up Monday afternoon when I wasn’t expecting him.

“Hi,” I said. “I don’t usually see you on Mondays.” Now that was a clever remark, I thought with disgust, especially since I’m officially closed on Mondays.

“Not usually,” he said, wheeling the stack of boxes over to the cash register. “How are you doing?”

“Great.” Instantly my mouth went completely dry.

Brad handed me the computerized clipboard, just the way he always did, so I could sign my name. I looked at it as if I’d never seen it before.

“I need a signature,” he said.

Thankfully I was able to manage that much. I glanced down long enough to finish the task and returned the clipboard. Brad smiled and headed out the door.

“Brad,” I called out.

He looked back.

I came out from behind the counter and walked toward him. My mind whirled with everything Margaret had suggested I say and in my eagerness, the words rushed out, stumbling all over themselves. “I’ve had a change of heart, that is, if you’re still interested. If you aren’t, I understand perfectly, and I’m making a complete idiot of myself, and…and let’s have a beer one night. Oh, and I’ll buy. Margaret said I should buy and—”

His eyes widened as he held up one hand. “Whoa.”

I clamped my mouth shut.

“Now start over at the beginning, only slower this time.”

I was convinced my face was brighter than any fire truck in Seattle. “I’ve reconsidered your invitation to meet for a drink after work.”

A smile appeared on his face and I could tell he was pleased. “I’d enjoy that.”

A warm feeling replaced the chill that had left my teeth chattering. “Good.”

“How about Friday night after you close the shop?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

He reached for the cart, whistling on his way back to the truck. A few minutes after he left, I realized I was humming. I had a date!

Hot damn. I had a date. Just wait until Margaret heard about this.

JACQUELINE DONOVAN

J
acqueline had her day all planned. She had a nail appointment at nine, followed by lunch with her friends, then major shopping, a few necessary errands and finally home. Tuesday was her busiest day of the week; she arranged it that way on purpose. Preoccupation was the key to forgetting that her husband would be spending part of the night with another woman.

While she was at the mall, she’d make sure she was justly rewarded for turning the other way, although she still had to grit her teeth every time she thought about it.

Just minutes before she planned to leave for the nail salon, the phone rang. For half a moment, she was tempted to ignore it, but then she saw that it was Reese’s cell. Reluctantly she picked up the receiver.

“I need a favor,” her husband said urgently. “I’m in a meeting and I forgot my briefcase at the house.”

“Do you want me to drop it off?” It would mean she’d be late for her nail appointment, but Reese wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary. She intended to spend a good deal of his money that afternoon, so the least she could do was accommodate him.

“Would you, Jacquie? I’d come back for it, but I need it ASAP.”

“I’m on my way.”

He told her where to find it near his desk in the den. Jacqueline went in there and found the briefcase just where he’d said it would be. The den was in Reese’s section of the house and she rarely ventured inside. For a moment, she lingered, trailing her fingers over the perfectly aligned books on the mahogany shelves. On rare occasions Reese smoked a cigar and the scent of rich tobacco and leather was more prominent in this room than anywhere else in the house.

A sense of nostalgia filled her and a longing she could hardly explain. She felt a dull ache as she remembered the love they’d somehow let slip away. The love of their early years…She never allowed herself to acknowledge the isolation they’d forced upon each other. She did now, and the sadness settled over her like a heavy rain-drenched coat.

It was hard to figure out precisely when it’d happened to them or why. His Tuesday-night mistress was a symptom of their alienation, not a cause. They were already drifting apart when
she’d
entered the scene. Slowly, through the years, Jacqueline and Reese had lost that closeness. They were both at fault; Reese was stubborn—but so was she.

Their marriage had eroded to the point that they were roommates more than partners, friends more than lovers. It happened to many couples—she’d heard enough veiled hints and outright confessions from other women to be aware of that. Still, it didn’t lessen her feelings of acute loss. Putting aside her thoughts, she reached for the briefcase and hurried to the garage.

Jacqueline phoned the nail salon from her car as she headed directly to Blossom Street. The renovations were going well, although parking was still impossible. Jacqueline suddenly realized Reese hadn’t told her where she should leave her car.

She tried calling him, but apparently he’d turned off his cell. Twice around the block turned up nothing. The street wasn’t wide enough for her to double park, either. After wasting a precious ten minutes in a fruitless effort to secure a parking space, she pulled into the alley behind A Good Yarn. It wasn’t the best area of town in which to leave an expensive car, and Lydia had warned them against using it, but Jacqueline didn’t have any choice. The alley was narrow and dark and she shuddered involuntarily as she quickly locked the car.

When she got to the construction site, Reese was nowhere to be seen. However, as soon as she arrived at the trailer, his project manager greeted her. Jacqueline couldn’t recall his name, although she was fairly certain Reese had mentioned the young man. It’d been a long time since she’d kept track of his employees’ names.

“Thanks,” the youthful-looking man told her. “I know Reese was pretty upset about forgetting this.”

“It wasn’t any problem,” she murmured, stepping over a pile of rebar on her way out.

Grumbling under her breath, she walked across the street and down the block to the alley entrance. Unfortunately the yarn store wouldn’t be open for another twenty minutes, or she could’ve walked through there. As she entered the darkened alley, Jacqueline’s anger increased steadily. No wonder her marriage was in trouble. Instead of greeting her personally, Reese had sent his assistant—as if he took for granted that she’d interrupt her entire day on his behalf. Next time he could damn well retrieve his own briefcase.

Disgruntled, Jacqueline was halfway into the alley before an eerie warning sensation crawled up her spine. She stopped and looked suspiciously around. Nothing. She relaxed and mentally chastised herself for being foolish. The sun had yet to clear the tops of the buildings and the area remained cool and shady. She moved forward two more steps and stopped again as the sensation grew stronger, more compelling.

Her imagination was running away with her, Jacqueline decided. She’d watched one too many episodes of
CSI
. Still, her fear persisted, growing more intense by the moment. But she had to get to her car. What alternative did she have? It was either that or stand here all morning.

She was no more than twenty feet from her Mercedes when two men stepped out from the shadows. They loomed in front of her, half-obscured by the darkness. Menacing. She couldn’t see their faces clearly but she saw their sneers. They were street people, she thought, unkempt and filthy.

“What do we have here?” one called to the other, who moved quickly to block her exit.

Jacqueline broke into a cold sweat. Instinct told her to run, but she feared her legs were about to collapse. And in her heels, she had little chance of escaping if they decided to chase her.

“Kindly get out of my way,” she demanded and was rather pleased with her bravado.

“Kindly,” the second man, the taller of the two, echoed in a falsetto voice, raising his right arm and dangling his wrist. “We got ourselves a genuine
lady
here.”

“High society.”

“Lots of money.”

“Now give it up, bitch.”

Jacqueline clutched her purse tighter against her side. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Never could refuse a dare, could we, Larry?”

“Shut up,” the other man shouted, obviously angry that his friend had said his name. He pulled out a switchblade and brandished it in front of Jacqueline.

Despite her determination to remain calm, she gasped. The blade gleamed in what little light had broken through the alley.

He held out his arm as if he expected her to meekly hand over her purse, and Jacqueline realized this wasn’t a request but a command. Any resistance would surely be met with violence.

Although she wasn’t aware she’d released it, her designer bag fell to the asphalt.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” a brusque female voice shouted from behind Jacqueline. “Aren’t you on probation, Ralph? Be a real shame to see your sorry ass back in jail so soon.”

It took Jacqueline a moment to recognize Alix Townsend’s voice. Alix, the girl she considered a felon and a crude punk rocker, had risked her own life and come to her rescue.

“Stay out of this,” Larry growled, baring his teeth at the two women.

“Sorry, guys,” Alix said, waltzing forward, “but this lady happens to be a good friend of mine.”

Jacqueline stayed where she was, incapable of moving. Even her breathing had gone shallow.

Larry looked at the purse. “You want her for yourself,” he muttered. He clenched the knife tighter and raised it.

A clicking sound followed but the noise didn’t immediately register in Jacqueline’s mind. Then she understood. Alix carried a switchblade of her own.

“They can have the money.” Jacqueline didn’t care; she just wanted both of them out of this mess without getting hurt.

“No, they can’t,” Alix yelled as the two men started toward them. “Get over to the yarn store.”

“No.” Jacqueline didn’t know where she found the courage, but she scooped up her purse and swung it wildly at the two men. She’d paid seven hundred dollars for the Gucci bag and it served her well, connecting with a solid crunch against the shorter man’s head. Ralph howled with pain.

“What’s going on back here?” Lydia shouted from the rear door of her shop.

“Call 9-1-1,” Jacqueline screamed, panic raising her voice.

Alix crouched forward, her arms outstretched with a switchblade firmly gripped in her left hand. The men looked at the two women and at the empty door frame where Lydia had stood only seconds earlier. They glanced at each other and then ran for it, racing past Jacqueline and Alix.

As soon as they were out of sight, Jacqueline started to shake. The trembling began in her hands, and quickly moved down her arms and legs until it seemed that her knees had taken on a life of their own.

“Are you okay?” Alix asked.

Jacqueline shook her head.

“The police are on their way,” Lydia called.

“Larry and Ralph are gone now.” Alix wrapped her arm around Jacqueline’s waist and guided her through the back door of Lydia’s shop.

The table where they sat for their classes seemed a mile away before Jacqueline reached it and literally fell into a chair.

“I…I could’ve been murdered.” She’d seen the look in those men’s eyes. God only knew what they would’ve done to her if Alix hadn’t come into the alley when she had.

“Alix,” she gasped. “You saved my life.” In that moment, Jacqueline wanted to call back every ugly thought she’d ever had regarding the young woman. She didn’t care what color Alix dyed her hair. The girl had saved her from a fate she could hardly imagine.

Alix sat down next to her, and Jacqueline soon noticed that she was badly shaken, too. She’d put on a brave front when she confronted the two men, but she’d been terrified.

A siren blared outside and Lydia dashed to the front of the store to wait for the patrolmen. A few minutes later, two police officers entered the shop.

All three women started talking at once. Jacqueline felt she should be the one to explain; she was the one who’d been accosted, after all. She continued speaking, raising her voice in order to be heard above the other two.

“One at a time, ladies,” the first officer said, holding up his hand. He was young and clean-cut and reminded her of her son. Paul would be outraged when he learned she’d nearly been mugged.

The officer started with Jacqueline and when he’d finished, he asked Alix a few questions and finally Lydia. Each woman described the men in slightly different ways, although Alix seemed reluctant to discuss the matter. At first she didn’t reveal their names, but if Alix had forgotten, Jacqueline hadn’t.

With their descriptions known, plus their first names, it made sense that the two hoodlums would be apprehended shortly. Jacqueline had already decided to press charges. All the while she was speaking, she clutched her Gucci bag with both hands.

“You two know each other?” the patrolman asked, glancing from Jacqueline to Alix.

“Of course,” Jacqueline said. “We’re taking knitting classes together.”

“Yeah,” Alix muttered, and defiantly tilted her chin in their direction as if daring him to challenge her. “Jacqueline and I are friends.”

“She saved me from God knows what,” Jacqueline murmured.

The officer shook his head. “It would’ve been smarter just to give them your purse.”

Jacqueline knew he was right. All the survival manuals stated that in such a situation, the best course of action was to drop the purse and run.

Once the policemen had left, Jacqueline looked over at Alix who remained seated at the table across from her. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You owe me.”

Jacqueline nodded in full agreement. She still wasn’t sure what had led Alix into the alley. When questioned by the police she explained that she’d seen Jacqueline go in there and didn’t think it was a safe place for her friend to be. So she’d followed her. And Jacqueline would be forever grateful that she had.

Her one concern was that she owed Alix now. She could only speculate what the girl would want as payment.