The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society (9 page)

Hannah was tired of feeling like everything she did was wrong.

She could see the lights of her mom’s trailer ahead in the distance, but she couldn’t tell if Gentry’s truck was there. The darkness would hide her until she could get close enough to see. And if the truck was there, then she’d decide whether she could risk sneaking inside to her bedroom, where she could lock the door behind her. Not that a flimsy doorknob lock would stop a pig like Gentry, but it was better than nothing, and Hannah was tired of sleeping outside half the time.

A hundred yards farther down the road, she breathed a
sigh of relief. No truck. She paused beside the front porch—a jumble of redwood decking that sagged dangerously—and stored her plastic bag of knitting in its hiding place. She kept the new book the librarian had given her pressed tightly under her arm, not wanting her mother to see the title if she was still awake. If her mom caught her reading
A Little Princess
, she’d never hear the end of it.

Who do think you are? The princess of the trailer park?
That was her mother’s favorite question after she’d had a few beers. No need to add fuel to that fire by letting her see the book.

Hannah had lots of practice opening the screen door without letting it squeak. The trick was to move slowly, not to rush. The flimsy wooden door behind it opened noiselessly, and Hannah shut both doors in turn with a soft
click
.

“Where the hell have you been?”

She jumped about a mile. “Jeez, Mom, you scared me.” Her mother was sprawled on their Salvation Army couch smoking a cigarette. On the orange crate–turned–end table beside her, the ashtray overflowed with butts.

“It’s after nine o’clock. You’re grounded.”

Hannah forced herself not to roll her eyes. Her mother was always grounding her, but she never enforced it. “I was just hanging out with Kristen and those guys. We lost track of the time.”

Her mother snorted. “Yeah, right.” She paused. “What’s that under your arm?”

The hairs on the back of Hannah’s neck stood up. “Nothing. Just a book for school.”

“Let me see.” Her mother stuck out a bony hand. The men and the drinking and the cigarette smoke made her look twenty years older than the other moms. Hannah was always relieved, at least partly, when her mother didn’t show up for school music programs or the class picnic at the end of the year.

Her mother read the title of the book and snorted. “Baby stuff,” she said, flipping the book back towards Hannah, who caught it in self-defense.

“It was assigned,” Hannah said in the dead tones she’d learned to use with her mother. No hint of emotion whatsoever. Her mom would jump on any whiff of pleasure or pain and stamp it out. Her mother wanted her to be as numb as she was.

“You’re still grounded.”

“Okay.”

She could feel her mom’s eyes on her, but she didn’t meet them. These kinds of nights were the worst of all, when her mom was spoiling for a fight. Finally, she sighed and waved her hand, cigarette trailing smoke, toward the back of the trailer.

“Go on. Get the hell out of here. Gentry might be here soon, and the sight of you just pisses him off.”

“Yes ma’am.” She walked away, not too slow and not too
fast, swallowing the words she wanted to say. That if Gentry wasn’t here by nine, he wasn’t coming. That her mother was a fool to take up with a man like that. That someday Hannah would leave this trailer and never, ever come back.

She closed her bedroom door carefully behind her. No use trying to slip into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. If her mom heard her, it would only give her another excuse to yell at her. Or worse.

Hannah laid the book on the scarred dresser next to the bottle of hand lotion she’d gotten her mother for Christmas. She’d fished it out of the trash can the next day and kept it. She’d saved the money herself to buy it, and she wasn’t about to let it go to waste just because her mother thought it wasn’t expensive enough, said it smelled like crap.

Hannah pulled on the old T-shirt she slept in and turned out the light. Her bed was a mattress, no box spring, tucked into a corner of the room. She could get up at five, when her mother would be out like a light, and take a shower. Maybe even read some of the new book once the sun came up.

A Little Princess
. What could a girl like the one on the cover of the book, a girl in a pink dress with long golden curls, possibly know about her life?

She drifted off to sleep thinking of Courtney McGavin’s mom and what it would’ve been like to ride home in that minivan, glad that no one could see the tears sliding down her cheeks.

“You’re going to Nashville with who?” Jeff sat on the edge of their king-size bed clipping his toenails. Merry hated it when he did that. He never picked up the results of his effort, just left them there on the expensive hardwood for her to sweep up. When they’d first been married, she hadn’t minded picking up after him. Now she minded a lot.

“I’m going with that teenager Eugenie’s brought into the Knit Lit Society. I really didn’t have much choice in the matter once Eugenie got the idea in her head.”

“And so I have to give up my golf day tomorrow for some random girl we don’t even know?”

“Just this one Saturday. I’ll be back by dinnertime. Maybe before.”

He tossed the nail clippers onto his nightstand and rose up off the bed just enough to pull back the covers and climb in. “Some other week, Merry. I know you think golf is for fun, but I’m entertaining some potential clients.”

“Jeff—”

“Next Saturday. Or maybe the one after that.” He smiled.

“I can help out. I just need more notice.”

Merry sighed. She was disappointed, but she was also partly relieved. Now she had an excuse to put off the unwanted trip. “You don’t have to push so hard, Jeff. We’re doing well. I hate to see you work yourself this hard.”

“Did you remember to get my dry cleaning?” he asked, changing the subject. “I need my gray Burberry suit for a meeting on Monday.”

“It’s in the closet.”

“What about my shoes? Did you pick them up at the repair shop?”

“Done.” In between two trips to the grocery store and a run to the post office. A fairly light day errand-wise, truth be told.

“Thanks, sweetie. You’re great.” He didn’t move but puckered his lips, his signal for Merry to twist around and contort her body until she could lean over and give him a good night kiss. In another couple of months, she wouldn’t be able to do that.

“ ’Night, Jeff.”

Some nights, like tonight, she was particularly grateful for the dark because it hid the expression on her face when she kissed him. The one that said she’d rather not be kissing him at all. The one that gave away the secret she was still keeping from him. The one that said she was lonely, even though she’d gotten everything she thought she ever wanted.

Maxine’s Dress Shop was wedged in between two larger storefronts on the downtown square, its more modern design setting it apart from the high Victorian facades of Sweetgum Savings Bank on one side and Hartzler’s Insurance on the other. The crisp late October day demanded a sweater, and Esther had left her black cashmere cardigan hanging in the closet at home. To be honest, she had left it there on purpose so she would have a reason to be seen entering Maxine’s. And she would definitely need a sweater at Letha Askew’s house. The woman had suffered from one long, continuous hot flash for months now. Consequently she kept her thermostat somewhere in the subzero range.

Looking at her, an observer would never guess at Esther’s distress over Frank’s health problems. At least he hadn’t dropped dead of a heart attack in the last month, but he was
still stubbornly refusing to schedule the bypass surgery. For the first two weeks she’d nagged. Then she’d cajoled. She’d even asked her son, Alex, to speak to his father, but their rather desultory conversation led nowhere. Finally, she’d resorted to the icy silence that had ruled the house since.

The old-fashioned bell over the door to the shop rang to announce Esther’s entrance.

“Esther. Good morning.” Camille St. Clair rose from a stool behind the counter near the front. “How are you today?”

Esther would have preferred that Camille address her as Mrs. Jackson as Camille’s mother had always done, but she supposed those days were gone. The informality of the Knit Lit Society meant that Camille was free to call her by her first name.

“I’m fine, thank you.” She looked around the shop, attractively arranged she must admit, with its stylish mannequins and jewelry displays. “Do you have a plain black cardigan? I’d prefer cashmere, but cotton would do.” Perhaps she should have returned Camille’s greeting more warmly, but some sense of distinction needed to be preserved in Sweetgum.

Camille’s smile didn’t waver. “I have a wraparound in cashmere,” she said, moving around the counter to stand near Esther. “Or a more traditional style in a cotton-silk blend.”

“I need a size 2,” Esther said. “Or perhaps a 0. Also I’m in a bit of a hurry.” She glanced at her watch to emphasize her words.

“Of course. Follow me,” Camille said as pleasant as could be, but Esther could tell from the way the girl’s smile dimmed slightly that she’d gotten the message.

“Would you prefer to take them back to the dressing room to try on?” Camille asked. She plucked the sweaters from the freestanding racks as they moved through the shop.

“Here will be fine.” Esther paused in front of the three-way mirror outside the dressing room door. Camille hung the sweaters on a nearby rack.

“That’s a lovely dress,” Camille said. “Is it Diane von Furstenberg?”

Esther was gratified that the girl knew enough to appreciate her designer original. “Yes. I bought it in New York last year.” She smoothed the modern black-and-white print of the silk jersey and adjusted the tie at the waist.

Camille frowned. “I’m not sure either of these cardigans will do it justice.” She slipped the plainer of the two sweaters from its hanger and held it out for Esther as if she were helping her on with her coat. “But since your dress is a wrap style too, this traditional cut might be better. Belting a sweater on top of that wrap dress might make you look thicker through the middle.”

Esther bristled. “I just need something to keep me warm during bridge club,” she snapped and slid one arm and then the other into the sweater. She quickly stepped away from Camille and moved toward the three-way mirror.

Hmm. Well, it would have to do, especially since Camille was right about the other style adding too much to her midsection.

“I’ll take this one,” she said with as much asperity as she could muster. “I’d like to wear it out of the store.”

“Of course. I can cut the tags off for you.”

Esther followed her to the counter and watched as Camille rang up the sale.

“I brought something for you,” Esther said, reaching into her voluminous handbag and withdrawing a plastic sack. “The usual arrangement.” She set the sack on the counter.

Camille looked at it, then at Esther. “Are you sure?” Esther ignored her question and signed the credit card slip. She handed the paper and ballpoint pen back to the girl.

“Thank you.” Esther stood still while Camille removed the tags. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“You know, I’d be happy to help you with your knitting sometime if you’d like. With a little extra coaching, I’m sure you’d get the hang of it.” She eyed Esther’s dress approvingly once more. “I know a wonderful black silk yarn with pre-strung beads. It would make an amazing shawl to go with that dress.”

“Perhaps. I need to finish the project I’m working on right now first.”

Camille gave her a funny look. “Well, I’m happy to help.

Anytime.”

“I’ll keep your offer in mind,” she said to Camille. “Thank you for your help.” Gracious but distant. Kind but not familiar.

And if she felt a little wistful that she couldn’t accept Camille’s offer of assistance with her knitting, she neatly tucked the feeling away with all the others that she refused to acknowledge. Just as she had never acknowledged, in their entire encounter, that she was paying Camille to do her knitting for her.