Blossom Street (Books 1-10). Debbie Macomber
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problem with that?”
Lydia hesitated. “Not really, as long as you’re respectful to me and the other class members.”
“Sure. Fine.” Alix glanced down at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. If you need me for anything, I’m almost always at the video store.”
“Okay.” All of a sudden Lydia didn’t sound as confident as she had before.
The video store was busy when Alix returned, and she hurried behind the counter.
“What took you so long?” Laurel demanded. “Fund asked where you were and I told him you’d stepped into the ladies’ room.”
“Sorry, I went outside for a cigarette.” According to the labor laws, she was entitled to a fifteen-minute break.
“Did you meet any of the construction guys?”
Alix shook her head as she moved over to the cash register. “Not a one. Four o’clock, and those guys are out of here faster than Seabiscuit.”
“We got to get ourselves a union,” Laurel whispered.
“Benefits.” Alix knew she was back in that dream world again. One day she’d find a job that paid more than minimum wage. It would be nice to have an apartment all to herself and not share it with Laurel. Laurel lived on the edge and was in danger of slipping off entirely. Alix’s biggest fear was that when Laurel went, she’d take Alix with her.
5
CHAPTER
“If you can knit, purl and follow instructions, you can make anything.”
—Linda Johnson, Linda’s Knit ‘N’ Stitch, Silverdale, Washington
LYDIA HOFFMAN
I was afraid Margaret could be right and A Good Yarn would fail before it even had a chance to get off the ground. So far, only three women had signed up for the knitting class and Alix, the latest one to enroll, looked like a felon. I couldn’t imagine how Jacqueline and Carol would react to a classmate who sported a dog collar and wore her hair in purple-tinged spikes. I’d encouraged Alix to join, and then the moment she left the store I wondered if I’d done the right thing. What was I thinking? What was I thinking?
The construction noise wasn’t quite as disruptive now, which was a relief, but that hadn’t brought any more customers into the shop. On a positive note, I hadn’t had this much uninterrupted knitting time in months. I should’ve been counting my blessings, I suppose, but I was too worried about the lack of walk-in traffic.
Every knowledgeable person I’ve talked to about opening the store suggested I have enough money in the bank to pay for a minimum of six months’ expenses. I do, but I hope and pray I’ll be able to keep at least part of my inheritance intact. Now that I’ve actually taken the risk, I feel bombarded with second thoughts and fears.
Margaret always does that to me. I wish I understood my sister. Some days I think she hates me. A part of me recognizes what the problem is: I was the one who got all of Mom and Dad’s attention, but I needed them. I refuse to believe that my sister would seriously think I was so hungry for attention that I wished the cancer upon myself.
Even more than Margaret resented me, I resented the cancer. I longed to be healthy and normal. I still live my life standing directly under a thundercloud, fearing lightning will strike again. Surely my one and only sibling can appreciate my circumstances and support my efforts to support myself!
On Wednesday morning, I was knitting a pair of socks for display, my concentration focused on shaping the gusset, when the bell above the door chimed. Thrilled at the prospect of a customer—and potential class member—I stood with a welcoming smile.
“Hello, there.” The UPS driver walked into the shop, wheeling his cart stacked five high with large cardboard boxes. “Since I’m going to be making regular deliveries to the neighborhood, I thought I should introduce myself.” He released the cart and thrust out his hand. “Brad Goetz.”
“I’m Lydia Hoffman.” We shook hands.
He passed me the computerized clipboard for my signature. “How’s it going?” Brad asked as I signed my name.
“It’s only my second week.” I bypassed his question rather than confess how poor business actually was.
“The construction will be finished soon, and customers will flock to your store.” He smiled as he said it and I felt instantly grateful and—shocking as this sounds—attracted, too. I was so starved for encouragement that it was only natural, I suppose, but I was drawn to him like a bird to the sky. I hadn’t felt that particular tug in a very long while. Shamelessly, I glanced at his ring finger and saw that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
This is embarrassing to admit, but my sexual experience is limited to a few groping attempts at lovemaking in the back seat of my college boyfriend’s car. Then the cancer returned. Roger was with me for the second brain surgery, but his calls and visits stopped shortly after I started chemotherapy and lost all my hair. Bald women apparently weren’t attractive, although he claimed otherwise. I think it had more to do with the fact that he saw me as a losing proposition, a woman who could die at any time. A woman who couldn’t repay his emotional investment. Roger was a business student, after all.
Brian had been my high school boyfriend and his reaction was the same as Roger’s. He hung around for a while, too, and then drifted away. I didn’t really blame either one.
My breakups with Roger and Brian, if you could even call them that, were inevitable. A few short relationships followed after Roger, but no one worth mentioning. After my earlier experiences, I should’ve realized that most men aren’t romantically interested in a two-time cancer patient. Without sounding like a martyr, I understand how they feel. Why get emotionally involved with a woman who’s probably going to die? I don’t even know if I can have children or if I should. It’s a subject I prefer not to think about.
“My grandmother used to knit,” Brad said. “I hear interest in it’s been revived in the last couple of years.”
Longer, although I didn’t correct him. Damn, but he was good-looking, especially when he smiled, and he seemed to be doing a lot of that. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, eyes a woman could see a block away. He wasn’t overly tall, which was nice. I’m barely five foot three, and when I stand next to someone who’s six feet or taller, it’s intimidating. Brad was just right and that was the problem. I didn’t want to notice anything about him, about the boyish, charming way his dark hair fell over his forehead or how the dark-brown uniform stretched across his broad shoulders. But I did notice all those things … and more.
“What are you knitting?” he asked, gesturing down at my current project. He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Looks like socks.”
“They are.”
“But you’re only using two needles. When Grandma knit socks, she had maybe half a dozen.”
“These are circular needles. It’s a more modern method,” I explained, holding up the half-completed project for his inspection. He seemed interested and I continued chattering away, giving him far more information than he probably wanted. “Until only a few years ago, socks were knit using the five-needles method. But now it’s possible to knit them on two circular needles, or even one except that it’s forty inches long. Notice the yarn, too,” I blathered on. “I haven’t changed colors to make these stripes. The striped pattern is in the yarn itself.”
He touched the strand of yarn and seemed genuinely impressed. “Have you been knitting long?”
“For almost ten years.”
“You don’t look old enough to be out of high school, let alone open a yarn store.”
That was a comment I’ve heard far too often. I smiled in an offhand manner, but the truth is, I don’t consider it a compliment.