Blossom Street (Books 1-10). Debbie Macomber
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look at me like that. We’re just friends. He’s the ex-husband of the woman my husband left me for.” There were a few gasps. “His ex-wife and my ex-husband are married now,” she said matter-of-factly, “and we get together once in a while to talk things over. How we feel about it and all that.”
“When did they get married?” Courtney asked and seemed surprised.
“Just recently. It wasn’t unexpected, but it helps to have someone to discuss this with. Paul’s great.” She took a deep breath. “He’s a few years younger and well, he’d like us to have a more … romantic relationship. I promised to consider it, but in the end I decided we’d be more valuable to each other as friends. I told him the only way I’d go out with him was if his mother came along to chaperone.”
Elise and Courtney laughed.
“I’m encouraging him to see someone closer to his own age.”
“What about you?” Margaret asked. “Are you ready to date?”
Bethanne shook her head. “Not yet. Dating means I’d have to shave my legs and wear panty hose. That’s more bother than it’s worth at this point.”
“You don’t shave your legs?” Courtney asked with an appalled look. “I do practically every day.”
“Annie, too.” Then Bethanne shrugged. “I got out of the habit in my thirties.”
“What about you, Court?” I asked, feeling comfortable enough with the teenager to shorten her name. “Will you be able to join the support group?”
“I’ll come until school starts,” she said, “and I might even be able to come after that, but I’d need to discuss it with my advisor. I think my Tuesday schedule should be okay.”
“Hey,” Elise said, “who says we have to meet at the same time? We could make it after school, instead, and then Courtney could join us for sure. Does that work for everyone?”
An immediate chorus of agreement followed. “Three o’clock it is,” I announced.
The bell chimed and one of my all-time favorite knitters came into the shop. “Jacqueline!” I cried, cheered to see her. It’d been a couple of weeks since we’d talked. She was a regular at the Friday charity sessions, but she’d been on a trip with her husband.
“I’m back from New York City and here for a yarn fix,” she informed me. Everyone at the table knew Jacqueline, so introductions weren’t necessary.
She had that look in her eye, a look I recognized. Those of us who are addicted to yarn seem to share it. Jacqueline was among my best customers; she could afford to buy as much yarn as she wanted and she did, without restraint. She’d told me recently that Reece had set aside a room in their house for her yarn stash. I envied her all that space. Jacqueline had every intention of knitting each skein—once she found the project best suited to it. I, too, had a million projects waiting. We both had more yarn tucked away than we could possibly knit in an entire lifetime, or even two.
Jacqueline sat down next to Elise and admired her work. She tended to dominate the conversation, but no one really minded. Her enthusiasm for yarn and knitting was contagious.
The phone rang and my ever-efficient sister answered it. I wasn’t paying much attention but when she replaced the receiver and walked over to the table, where I sat with the class, I noticed the color had drained from her face.
Margaret placed her hand on my shoulder. “It’s Mom,” she managed to say. “We need to get to Swedish Hospital right away.”
“What happened?” My heart was instantly in my throat.
“She collapsed—the neighbor found her on the patio. No one knows how long she was there.”
I leaped up from the chair, ready to rush out, when I realized I had a store full of customers. Several women were browsing among the yarn displays and one was flipping through patterns. Not to mention my class …
“Go,” Jacqueline insisted. “I’ll mind the business until you get back. Just go.”
“Can I do anything to help?” Elise asked.
“Me?” That was Bethanne.
“I can stay, too,” Courtney said.
I was overwhelmed by gratitude for their kindness and compassion. “Thank you. Thank you all so much.” These women were more than my customers and my students. They were my friends.
Margaret had her purse by the time I went to collect mine. When I came out of the office, Brad had just arrived with a delivery. He stood near the door.
“We have to leave,” Margaret was telling him as she signed for the yarn. “It’s Mom. She’s been rushed to the hospital.”
He looked at me, frowning with concern. “Is she going to be all right?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “I don’t know anything yet.” I couldn’t control my reaction, my need for comfort, for him. I reached out to Brad. I needed his arms around me one last time, for courage and strength. He seemed to understand that intuitively, and when I moved toward him, he drew me into his embrace.
“We have to go,” Margaret said in a low voice.
He released me, and I thanked him wordlessly, then rushed out of the store.
The staff at Swedish was wonderful, although it took what seemed like hours before we were able to talk to anyone. I berated myself over and over for not being more available to my mother. She was never demanding of my time and grateful for whatever I gave her. I did visit two or three times a week, but clearly that wasn’t enough.
Margaret saw her as often as she could, too. But Mom needed more than scattered visits from her two daughters. I was nearly choking on guilt and so, I suspected, was my sister.
Margaret hated being inside a hospital. It was because of the smell, she said, which immediately made her feel anxious. I’d spent practically my entire youth in one and had grown so accustomed to it that I no longer noticed. Margaret had a firm grip on my arm, and for once she was relying on me.
We were asked to wait in a sitting room until the doctor could update us on Mom’s condition. The chairs were comfortable, and a television was on, playing a soap opera—ironically it was General Hospital. I didn’t pay attention, didn’t hear a single word. My mind whirled with guilt and fear and recriminations. I was certain I’d failed my mother and that everything was somehow my fault.
A physician appeared and, as if our movements were synchronized, Margaret and I stood simultaneously.
The doctor came straight to the point. “Your mother is in serious condition. She’s in a diabetic coma.”
This was a shock to both of us.
“We’ve got her stabilized and I expect her insulin levels to even out, but this is a disease that is not to be taken lightly.”
“No one in the family is diabetic,” Margaret said. “We had no idea Mom could come down with this.”
“She lives alone?”
We both nodded.
Again the physician was straightforward. “Well, I’d suggest you investigate placing her in assisted living.”
He wanted us to take our mother out of the only home she’d known for the last fifty years. I didn’t know if I could do that—but I realized we had no choice.
30
CHAPTER
ELISE BEAUMONT
The house was quiet when the light tap sounded at Elise’s bedroom door. She was waiting for Maverick. She was so in love with this man that she’d lost all sense of propriety. She knew what he was, knew it to the very depths of her heart, but