Summer on Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber
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pushed him away—a reconciliation that led directly to our marriage.
“Thank you,” I whispered and touched her arm.
Margaret made some gruff, unintelligible reply and moved to the table at the back of the store. She pulled out a chair, sat down and took out her crocheting.
“I put up the poster you made for our new class,” I told her, doing my best to conceal the emotion that crept into my voice. The last thing I’d expected from Margaret had been her blessing, and I was deeply touched by her words.
She acknowledged my comment with a nod.
The idea for our new knitting class had been Margaret’s. “Knit to Quit,” she called it, and I loved her suggestion. Since opening the yarn store five years earlier, I’d noticed how many different reasons my customers—mostly women but also a few men—had for learning to knit. Some came looking for a distraction or an escape, a focus to take their minds off some habit or preoccupation. Others were there because of a passion for the craft and still others hoped to express their love or creativity—or both—with something handmade.
Four years ago, Courtney Pulanski, a high school girl, had signed up for my sock-knitting class, which contributed to her successful attempt to lose weight. Hard to believe Courtney was a college senior now and still a knitter. More importantly, she’d kept off the weight she lost that summer.
“I hope Alix takes the hint,” Margaret said, cutting into my thoughts.
I missed the connection. “I beg your pardon?”
“Alix is smoking again.”
It wasn’t as if I’d missed that. She smelled of cigarettes every time she walked into the store. There was no disguising the way smoke clung to her clothes and her hair. And yet Alix seemed to think no one noticed, although of course everyone did.
“My guess is she’d like to quit.”
“Then she should sign up for the class,” Margaret said emphatically. “She could use it.”
How typical of Margaret to feel she knew what was best for everyone. Currently, though, I was more amused than annoyed by her take-charge attitude.
My first customer of the morning—a woman I’d never met before—stepped into the shop and fifteen minutes later, I rang up a hundred-dollar yarn sale. A promising start to the day.
As soon as the door closed, Margaret set aside her project, an afghan for our mother who resides at a nearby assisted-living complex. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
“Happen with what?” I asked.
“This adoption thing.”
I froze. I should’ve known Margaret wouldn’t leave the subject alone. At least not until she’d cast a net of dire predictions. I understood that this impulse was one she couldn’t resist, just as I understood that it was motivated by her protectiveness toward me. But I didn’t need to hear it right now.
“What’s that?” I asked, hoping my irritation didn’t show.
“Have you talked to a social worker yet?”
“Well, of course.” I’d spoken to Anne Marie, and she’d recommended Evelyn Boyle, the social worker who’d been assigned to Ellen and had handled her adoption. Anne Marie and Ellen fit so perfectly together that their story had inspired me to look beyond my fears. So Brad and I had approached Evelyn.
Margaret shook her head, which annoyed me even more.
“Anne Marie gave me the phone number of the woman who helped her adopt Ellen,” I said.
Margaret’s brows came together in consternation and she tightened her lips.
“What now?” I asked, trying to remain calm.
“I wouldn’t recommend that.”
“Why not? It’s too late anyway.”
“This social worker deals with foster kids, right?”
“I guess so.” I knew so, but didn’t see how that was relevant. “Why should it matter?”
My sister rolled her eyes, as though it should be obvious. “Because she’s got children in her case files,” Margaret said with exaggerated patience. “She probably has lots of kids and nowhere to place them. Mark my words, she’ll find a reason to leave some needy child with you. And not a baby, either.”
“Margaret,” I said pointedly, “Brad and I are going to adopt an infant. This social worker, Evelyn, is helping us through the process, nothing more.”
Margaret didn’t respond for several minutes. Just when it seemed she was prepared to drop the subject, she added, “Finding an infant might not be that easy.”
“Perhaps not,” I agreed, unwilling to argue. “We’ll have to wait and see what the adoption agency has to say.”
“It might be expensive, what with lawyers and everything.”
“Brad and I will cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Margaret looked away, frowning slightly, as if she needed to consider every negative aspect of this process. “There are private adoption agencies, too, you know.”
I did know about them, but it made better financial sense to approach the state agency first.
“What about adopting from outside the country?”
Margaret was apparently trying to be helpful, but I wasn’t convinced I should let down my guard.
“We’re holding that in reserve,” I said.
“I hear it’s even more expensive than private adoptions.”
“Yes, well, it’s another option to investigate….”
Margaret’s shoulders rose in a deep sigh. “Are you going to tell Mom?”
With our mother’s fragile health and declining mental condition it wasn’t something I’d considered doing. “Probably not…”
Margaret nodded, her mouth a tight line.
“Mom has a hard enough time remembering that Cody’s my stepson,” I reminded her. On our last visit she’d asked copious questions about the “young man” I’d brought with me.
My sister swallowed visibly. “Mom didn’t recognize Julia when we went to see her a few days ago.”
I felt a jolt of pain—for Margaret, for her daughter, Julia, for Mom. This was the first time Margaret had mentioned it. Our mother’s mental state had declined rapidly over the past two years and I suspected that in a little while she wouldn’t recognize me anymore, either. Margaret and I shared responsibility for checking in on her and making sure she was well and contented. These days my sister and I had taken over the parental role, looking after our mother.
I could pinpoint exactly when that role reversal had taken place. It’d been the day Mom’s neighbor found her unconscious in the garden. She’d collapsed while watering her flowers. Everything had changed from that moment on.
Our mother had ceased to be the woman we’d always known. Living in a care facility now, she was increasingly confused and uncertain. It broke my heart to see Mom struggling so hard to hide her bewilderment at what was happening to her.
“Mom will be happy for you,” Margaret mumbled. “At some point her mind will clear and she’ll realize you have an infant.”
I smiled and hoped this was true, although I had my doubts… and I knew Margaret did, too.
The bell above the door chimed before we could discuss it further, and I glanced up at an attractive young woman who’d entered the shop. I hadn’t seen her before.
“Hello,”