Kitabı oku: «A Good Yarn»

About the Author

When DEBBIE MACOMBER first decided to write a novel, people called her a hopeless dreamer. As a young, dyslexic mother of four active children, no one believed she had what it took to write a book, except Debbie. She wrote—for years. But each time she completed a story and mailed it off to a publisher, the manuscript was returned, stamped “rejected.” As tough as it was to keep her spirits alive, Debbie never gave up.

But all her perseverance paid off and Debbie’s heartwarming novels have made her a New York Times bestselling author with sales of over fifty-one million novels worldwide.

Also by Debbie Macomber

THURSDAYS AT EIGHT

THE SHOP ON BLOSSOM STREET

Available now from MIRA^® Books

A Good Yarn
Debbie
Macomber

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Mary Colucci, Executive Director Warm Up America! Foundation

and

David Blumenthal, President

Warm Up America! Foundation

Thank you both

for bettering

the lives of so many

1
CHAPTER

“Making a sock by hand creates a connection to history; we are offered a glimpse into the lives of knitters who made socks using the same skills and techniques we continue to use today.”

—Nancy Bush, author of Folk Socks (1994), Folk Knitting in Estonia (1999) and Knitting on the Road, Socks for the Traveling Knitter (2001), all published by Interweave Press.

LYDIA HOFFMAN

Knitting saved my life. It saw me through two lengthy bouts of cancer, a particularly terrifying kind that formed tumors inside my brain and tormented me with indescribable headaches. I experienced pain I could never have imagined before. Cancer destroyed my teen years and my twenties, but I was determined to survive.

I’d just turned sixteen the first time I was diagnosed, and I learned to knit while undergoing chemotherapy. A woman with breast cancer, who had the chemo chair next to mine, used to knit and she’s the one who taught me. The chemo was dreadful—not quite as bad as the headaches, but close. Because of knitting, I was able to endure those endless hours of weakness and severe nausea. With two needles and a skein of yarn, I felt I could face whatever I had to. My hair fell out in clumps, but I could weave yarn around a needle and create a stitch; I could follow a pattern and finish a project. I couldn’t hold down more than a few bites at a time, but I could knit. I clung to that small sense of accomplishment, treasured it.

Knitting was my salvation—knitting and my father. He lent me the emotional strength to make it through the last bout. I survived but, sadly, Dad didn’t. Ironic, isn’t it? I lived, but my cancer killed my father.

The death certificate states that he died of a massive heart attack, but I believe otherwise. When the cancer returned, it devastated him even more than me. Mom has never been able to deal with sickness, so the brunt of my care fell to my father. It was Dad who got me through chemotherapy, Dad who argued with the doctors and fought for the very best medical care—Dad who lent me the will to live. Consumed by my own desperate struggle for life, I didn’t realize how dear a price my father paid for my recovery. By the time I was officially in remission, Dad’s heart simply gave out on him.

After he died, I knew I had to make a choice about what I should do with the rest of my life. I wanted to honor my father in whatever I chose, and that meant I was prepared to take risks. I, Lydia Anne Hoffman, resolved to leave my mark on the world. In retrospect, that sounds rather melodramatic, but a year ago it was exactly how I felt. What, you might ask, did I do that was so life-changing and profound?

I opened a yarn store on Blossom Street in Seattle. That probably won’t seem earth-shattering to anyone else, but for me, it was a leap of faith equal to Noah’s building the ark without a rain cloud in sight. I had an inheritance from my grandparents and gambled every cent on starting my own business. Me, who’s never held down a job for more than a few weeks. Me, who knew next to nothing about finances, profit-and-loss statements or business plans. I sank every dime I had into what I did know, and that was yarn and knitters.

Naturally, I ran into a few problems. At the time, Blossom Street was undergoing a major renovation—in fact, the architect’s wife, Jacqueline Donovan, was one of the women in my first knitting class. Jacqueline, Carol and Alix, my original students, remain three of my closest friends to this day. Last summer, when I opened A Good Yarn, the street was closed to traffic. Anyone who managed to find her way to my store then had to put up with constant dust and noise. I refused to let the mess and inconvenience hamper my enthusiasm, and fortunately that was how my clientele felt, too. I was convinced I could make this work.

I didn’t get the support you might expect from my family. Mom, bless her, tried to be encouraging, but she was in shock after losing Dad. She still is. Most days, she wanders hopelessly around in a fog of grief and loss. When I mentioned my plan, she didn’t discourage me, but she didn’t cheer me on, either. To the best of my memory, she said, “Sure, honey, go ahead, if you think you should.” From my mother, this was as rousing an endorsement as I could hope to receive.

My older sister, Margaret, on the other hand, had no qualms about drowning me in tales of doom and gloom. The day I opened my store, she marched in with a spate of dire forecasts. The economy was down, she told me; people were hanging on to their money. I’d be lucky to stay afloat for six weeks. Ten minutes of listening to her ominous predictions, and I was ready to rip up the lease and close my door—until I reminded myself that this was my first official day on the job and I had yet to sell a single skein of yarn.

As you might’ve guessed, Margaret and I have a complicated relationship. Don’t get me wrong; I love my sister. Until the cancer struck, we were like any other sisters with the normal ups and downs in our relationship. After I was initially diagnosed with brain cancer, she was wonderful. I remember she brought me a stuffed teddy bear to take to the hospital with me. I still have it somewhere if Whiskers hasn’t gotten hold of it. Whiskers is my cat and he tends to shred anything with a fuzzy surface.

It was when I went through the second bout of cancer that Margaret’s attitude changed noticeably. She acted as if I wanted to be sick, as if I was so hungry for attention that I’d brought this horror on myself. When I took my first struggling steps toward independence, I’d hoped she’d support my efforts. Instead, all I got was discouragement. But over time, that changed and eventually all my hard work won her over.

Margaret, to put it mildly, isn’t the warm, spontaneous type. I didn’t understand how much she cared about me until I had a third cancer scare just a few months after I opened A Good Yarn. Scare doesn’t come close to describing my feelings when Dr. Wilson ordered those frightening, familiar tests. It was as if my entire world had come to a sudden halt. The truth is, I don’t think I could’ve endured the struggle yet again. I’d already decided that if the cancer had returned, I would refuse treatment. I didn’t want to die, but once you’ve lived with the threat of death, it loses its potency.

My come-what-may attitude disturbed Margaret, who wouldn’t accept my fatalism. Talk of death unsettled her, the way it does most people, but when you’ve been around death and dying as much as I have, it seems as natural as turning off the lights. I don’t look forward to dying, but I’m not afraid of it either. Thankfully, the tests came back negative and I’m thriving, right along with my yarn store. I mention it now because it was during those weeks that I discovered how deeply my sister loves me. In the last seventeen years, I’ve only seen her cry twice—when Dad died and when Dr. Wilson gave me a clean bill of health.

Once I returned to work full-time, Margaret bullied and cajoled me into contacting Brad Goetz again. Brad, who drives the UPS truck that makes deliveries to A Good Yarn, is the man I’d started seeing last year. He’s divorced and has custody of his eight-year-old son, Cody. It would be an understatement to say Brad is good-looking; the fact is, he’s drop-dead gorgeous. The first day he came into the store, wheeling several cartons of yarn, it was all I could do to keep the drool from dripping down my chin. I got so flustered I could hardly sign for the delivery. He asked me out three times before I finally agreed to meet him for drinks. Given my experience with male-female relationships, I was sure I’d be completely out of my element dating Brad. I would never have found the courage to say yes if not for Margaret, who harassed me into it.

I always say that A Good Yarn is my affirmation of life, but according to my sister I was afraid of life. Afraid to really live, to venture outside the tiny comfortable world I’d created inside my yarn store. She was right and I knew it, but still I resisted. It’d been so many years since I’d spent any amount of time with a man other than my father or my physician that I had the social finesse of a dandelion. But Margaret wouldn’t listen to a single excuse, and soon Brad and I were having drinks together, followed by dinners, picnics with Cody and ball games. I’ve come to love Brad’s son as much as I do my two nieces, Julia and Hailey.

These days Brad and I see quite a bit of each other. During my cancer scare, I’d pushed him away, which was a mistake as Margaret frequently pointed out. Brad forgave me, though, and we resumed out relationship. We’re cautious—okay, I’m the one who’s taking things slow, but Brad’s fine with that. He was burned once when his ex-wife walked out, claiming she needed to “find herself.” There’s Cody to consider, too. The boy has a close relationship with Brad, and while Cody loves me too, I don’t want to disrupt that special bond between father and son. So far, everything is going well, and we’re talking more and more about a future together. Brad and Cody are so much a part of my life now that I couldn’t imagine being without them.

Although it took her a while, Margaret is finally in favor of my yarn store. After a shaky start, my sister is a believer. She’s actually working with me now. That’s right, the two of us side by side, and that’s nothing short of a miracle. Occasionally we regress, but we’re making strides. I’m so glad she’s with me, in every sense of the word.

Before I get too carried away, I want to tell you about my shop. The minute I laid eyes on this place I saw its potential. Despite the construction mess, the temporary drawbacks and shifting neighborhood, I realized it was perfect. I was ready to sign the lease before I’d even walked inside. I loved the large display windows, which look out onto the street. Whiskers sleeps there most days, curled up among the skeins and balls of yarn. The flower boxes immediately reminded me of my father’s first bicycle shop, and it was almost as if my dad was giving my venture his nod of approval. The colorful but dusty striped awning sealed the deal in my mind. I knew this old-fashioned little shop could become the welcoming place I’d envisioned—and it has.

The renovation on Blossom Street is almost complete. The bank building has been transformed into ultraexpensive condos and the video store next to it is now a French-style café, cleverly called The French Café. Alix Townsend, who took my very first beginners’ knitting class, worked at the old video store, and it’s somehow fitting that her first real job as a pastry chef is in exactly the same location. Unfortunately, Annie’s Café down the street is closed and vacant, but the space won’t be empty for long. This is a thriving neighborhood.

The bell above my door chimed as Margaret stepped inside. It was the first Tuesday morning in June, and a lovely day. Summer would be arriving any time now in the Pacific Northwest.

“Good morning,” I greeted her, turning from the small coffeemaker I keep in the back room that’s officially my office.

She didn’t answer me right away and when she did it was more of a grumble than an actual response. Knowing my sister and her moods, I decided to bide my time. If she’d had an argument with one of her daughters or with her husband, she’d tell me eventually.

“I’ve got a pot of coffee on,” I announced as Margaret walked into the back room and locked up her purse.

Without commenting, my sister pulled a freshly washed cup from the tray and reached for the pot. The drip continued, sizzling against the hot plate, but she didn’t appear to notice.

Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer and my resolve to give her a chance to get over her bad mood disappeared. “What’s wrong with you?” I demanded. I have to admit I felt impatient; lately, she’s brought her surly moods to work a little too often.

Facing me, Margaret managed a tentative smile. “Nothing … sorry. It’s just that this feels a whole lot like a Monday.”

Because the shop is closed on Mondays, Tuesday is our first workday of the week. I frowned at her, trying to figure out what the real problem was. But she’d assumed a perfectly blank expression, telling me nothing.

My sister is a striking woman with wide shoulders and thick, dark hair. She’s tall and lean, but solid. She still looks like the athlete she used to be. I wish she’d do something different with her hair, though. She wears the same style she did in high school, parted in the middle and stick-straight until it hits her shoulders, where it obediently turns under, as if she’s tortured it with a curling iron. That was certainly part of her teenage regimen—the curling iron, the hair spray, the vigorously wielded brush. The style’s classic and it suits her, I suppose, but I’d give anything to see her try something new.

“I’m going to post a new class,” I said, changing the subject abruptly, hoping to draw her out of her dour mood.

“In what?”

Ah, interest. That was a good sign. For the most part, all the classes I’d held had gone well. I’d taught a beginners’ class, an intermediate and a Fair Isle, but there was one I’d been thinking of offering for a while.

“It’s such a difficult question?”

My sister’s sarcasm shook me from my brief reverie. “Socks,” I told her. “I’m going to offer a class on knitting socks.”

With the inventive new sock yarns on the market, socks were the current knitting rage. I carried a number of the European brands and loved the variety. My customers did, too. Some of the new yarns were designed to create an intricate pattern when knitted. I found it amazing to view a finished pair of socks, knowing the design had been formed by the yarn itself and not the knitter.

“Fine.” Margaret’s shoulders rose in a shrug. “I suppose you’re going to suggest knitting them on circular needles versus the double-pointed method,” she said casually.

“Of course.” I preferred using two circular needles.

Margaret would rather crochet and while she can knit, she doesn’t often. “There seems to be a lot of interest in socks lately, doesn’t there?” Her tone was still casual, almost indifferent.

I regarded my sister closely. She always had a list of three or four reasons any idea of mine wouldn’t work. It had become practically a game with us. I’d make some suggestion and she’d instantly tell me why it was bound to fail. I missed having the opportunity to state my case.

“So you think a sock class would appeal to our customers?” I couldn’t help asking. Good grief, there had to be something drastically wrong with Margaret.

Personally, I was fond of knitting socks for reasons beyond the current popularity. The biggest attraction for me was the fact that a pair of socks was a small project. After finishing an afghan or a Fair Isle sweater, I usually wanted a project I knew I could complete quickly. After knitting for endless hours, I found it gratifying to watch a sock take shape almost immediately. Socks didn’t require a major commitment of either time or yarn and made wonderful gifts. Yes, socks were definitely my choice for this new class. Because Tuesday seemed to be my slowest business day, it made sense to hold the sessions then.

Margaret nodded in answer to my question. “I think a sock class would definitely attract knitters,” she murmured.

I stared at my sister and, for an instant, thought I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes. I stared harder. As I mentioned earlier, Margaret rarely cries. “Are you feeling okay?” I asked, just in case, keeping my voice gentle. I didn’t want to pry, but if something really was wrong, she needed to know I was concerned about her.

“Stop asking me that,” she snapped.

I sighed with relief. The old Margaret was back.

“Would you make a sign for the window?” I asked. Margaret had much more artistic ability than I did. I’d come to rely on her for the window notices and displays.

With no real show of enthusiasm, she shrugged again. “I’ll have one up before noon.”

“Great.” I walked over to the front door, unlocked it and flipped the Closed sign to Open. Whiskers glanced up from his perch in the front window, where he lazed in the morning sun. Red Martha Washington geraniums bloomed in the window box. The soil looked parched, so I filled the watering can and carried it outside. From the corner of my eye I saw a flash of brown as a truck turned the corner. A familiar happiness stole over me. Brad.

Sure enough, he angled the big truck into the parking spot in front of Fanny’s Floral, the shop next to mine. He hopped out, all the while smiling at me.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” I said, reveling in his smile. This man smiles with his whole heart, his whole being, and he has the most intense blue eyes. They’re like a beacon to me. I swear I can see those eyes a mile away, they’re that blue. “Have you got a yarn delivery?” I asked.

“I’m the only delivery I have for you today, but I’ve got a couple of minutes if there’s coffee on.”

“There is.” It was our ritual. Brad stopped at the shop twice a week, with or without a load of yarn—more often if he could manage it. He never stayed long. He filled his travel coffee mug, took the opportunity to steal a kiss and then returned to his deliveries. As always, I followed him into the back room, pretending to be surprised when he eased me into his embrace. I love Brad’s kisses. This time he started with my forehead, then gradually worked his way down my face until he reached my lips. As his mouth moved over mine, I could feel the electricity through every inch of my body. He has that kind of effect on me—and he’s well aware of it.

He held me just long enough to let me regain my equilibrium. Then he released me and picked up the coffeepot. He was frowning when he turned around.

“Is there a problem between Margaret and Matt?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to assure him everything was fine, but before I could utter a word I stopped myself. All at once I realized I didn’t know. “What makes you ask?”

“Your sister,” he said in hushed tones. “She isn’t herself lately. Haven’t you noticed?”

I nodded. “Something’s definitely up with her,” I agreed, remembering how she’d declined the opportunity to wage verbal battle with me.

“Do you want me to ask her?” Brad inquired, forgetting to whisper.

I paused, afraid Margaret would take offense and snap at Brad the same way she had at me. “Probably not.” But then I changed my mind. My sister was half in love with Brad herself. If anyone could make it past that protective barrier of hers, he’d be the one. “Maybe, but not now.”

“When?”

“Perhaps we should all get together soon.”

Brad shook his head. “It’d be better if Matt wasn’t around.”

“Right.” I nibbled on my lower lip. “Do you have any other ideas?”

Before he could answer, Margaret tore aside the curtain to the back room and glared at us. Brad and I started, no doubt looking as guilty as we felt.

“Listen, you two lovebirds, if you’re going to talk about me I suggest you lower your voices.” With that, she dropped the curtain and stomped into the store.

2
CHAPTER

ELISE BEAUMONT

Retirement was everything Elise Beaumont had hoped it would be, and everything she’d feared. On the positive side, the alarm portion of her clock-radio had been permanently shut off. She woke when her body told her she no longer needed sleep, ate when she felt hungry and not when the school library set her break.

Then there were the negatives. For years she’d scrimped and saved, wanting to build her own home on her own small piece of land. After months of searching, months of visiting housing developments, she found the area and the development she’d always dreamed of. It was on the outskirts of the city, and if it didn’t have an ocean view, it was still beautiful, overlooking a grove of conifers. She could imagine having coffee on her small patio, watching deer emerge from the trees in the early morning. She raided her investment account and put down a large chunk of cash. She’d assumed the developer was a reputable one; to put it bluntly, he wasn’t. She, along with a handful of others, had been cheated and misled. Then the company declared bankruptcy within a month, and as a result she had no home, no savings and mounting legal bills. It was a nightmarish situation that continued to get worse.

As she lay in bed, she recalled that for years she’d wanted to travel beyond the Puget Sound area, where she’d been born and raised. Well, she couldn’t afford that now. But for the first time in her adult life she felt the urge to follow her creative bent. She planned to knit again and take an oil painting class. Having spent most of her career around books, she’d toyed with the idea of writing a novel. Maybe a children’s story … She was open to trying just about anything—once the class-action suit against the builder was settled. Until then, she could only obsess about her lack of funds and the legal battle before her.

Her life was on hold until she was free of this mess. It was all a waiting game now as the attorneys filed the paperwork and the lawsuit worked its way through the court system. At best, it would be a year before she and the others saw even a fraction of their money. If they did, and that was a big if. All she could do was hope and pray that all wasn’t lost.

The problems with the builder were only the start of her difficulties. Certain her house would be completed on time, she’d let go of the lease on her apartment. That had been an early mistake. The vacancy rate in Seattle was low and not only would it be difficult to find a new place, she was terrified of using the better part of her pension on an overpriced apartment. At her daughter’s suggestion, Elise had moved in with her. Just for a little while, she’d promised herself. Except that it had already been six months….

No—Elise refused to spend another second thinking about this financial disaster. It only depressed her. In her eagerness to have her own home, she’d lost practically everything. At least she had her health, her daughter and grandchildren, her sanity.

“Grandma, Grandma,” six-year-old John cried as he pounded urgently at her bedroom door. “Are you awake? I want to come in, okay?”

Elise slid out of bed and opened her bedroom door. Her freckle-faced grandson smiled crookedly up at her. His crop of carrot-colored hair stood nearly straight up, just the way Maverick’s once had. Her youngest grandson’s hair color often brought her ex-husband to mind. Elise hadn’t seen him for more than brief periods over the past thirty years. How she’d ever managed to meet, let alone marry, a professional gambler was something she couldn’t explain even now. He’d been her one wild, impulsive fling.

But … how she’d loved him. Elise had been head over heels for that man. They were married within weeks of their first meeting—which had happened in a grocery store, of all places. Before long, Aurora was born, but the problems had already started. At the time, Marvin “Maverick” Beaumont was working for an insurance firm, but he had an addiction to cards and gambling, and it’d nearly destroyed them both. In the end, Elise felt she had no option but to leave him. Whenever she’d threatened divorce, he’d begged her to reconsider, begged her to give him another chance, but it was the same pattern over and over until Elise finally realized she had to get him out of her life. It still hurt. She’d never loved another man with the same intensity as she had Maverick. She’d tried, but no one else had made her feel the way he had.

She’d made a genuine effort to socialize, with the hope of marrying again. The closest she came was when Aurora turned fifteen, but Elise discovered that Jules, a symphony musician she’d been dating, had a wife and two daughters living in San Francisco. Devastated, she’d avoided relationships ever since. There was something to be said for a simple life.

Looking perturbed, Elise’s daughter rounded the hallway corner. “John, I told you to leave your grandmother alone,” Aurora chastised. She reached for his arm and dragged him away from Elise’s door. “I’m sorry, Mom. I told the boys to let you sleep in this morning,” she added, casting Elise an apologetic glance.

“It’s all right, I was awake.” Living with her daughter, a stay-at-home mom, and her family might not have been part of Elise’s retirement plans, but for the moment this arrangement suited them both. Her furniture was in storage and her life on hold, but she had a roof over her head.

While Elise waited for the lawsuit to get settled, she paid Aurora and David rent. The amount was small at their insistence, but it was still a boon to the tight family budget. Elise also helped her daughter with the children. David, Elise’s son-in-law, was a computer specialist who set up software systems for companies across North America and was often away for a week or two at a time. Elise and Aurora, always close, were company for each other, and Elise appreciated her daughter’s encouragement and support.

“Can you take us to the park this afternoon?” John pleaded.

“Perhaps,” Elise said, hating to refuse him anything. “I have a few errands to run this morning and I don’t know how long they’ll take.”

“Can I come?” John was such a dear boy, anxious to go and see and do. He’d raced into the world a full month early and had yet to stop.

“No, sweetie, you’ve got kindergarten this morning.”

His face fell instantly but he accepted her refusal with a good-natured shrug and quickly disappeared down the hallway to join his older brother.

“I thought I’d go down Blossom Street and check out that yarn store,” Elise informed her daughter.

She could tell Aurora was pleased about her renewed interest in knitting. After a recent visit to her attorney’s office, Elise had walked down the renovated street and noticed the yarn store, which she’d mentioned to Aurora.

Elise was pleasantly surprised by the changes on Blossom Street. For years the area had been an eyesore, with its seedy-looking establishments. The renovations weren’t what she’d expected. Instead of tearing down the older buildings, the architect had refurbished what was already there and renewed a deteriorating neighborhood. The shops were appealing with awnings and flowers and sidewalk displays. The impression she’d been left with was of a warmly traditional neighborhood, a lovely little world unto itself. It was hard to believe that just a few blocks over, high-rises stretched toward the sky. Just down the hill were the huge financial enterprises, insurance complexes and other major businesses that made up downtown Seattle.

While looking in the window of A Good Yarn, Elise had noticed a sign that advertised knitting classes. She might not be able to enjoy her retirement the way she’d hoped, but she wasn’t going to become a recluse afraid to spend a dime, either. Besides, knitting might keep her mind off her financial difficulties.

After a cup of tea in her room, Elise dressed for the day. She’d maintained her slim figure and chose a peach-colored pantsuit that was both stylish and comfortable. Although it was early June and sunny, the weather remained cool and she would need the matching jacket once she got outside. She pinned a small pink cameo over the top closure of her white blouse. It was the nicest piece of jewelry she owned. Maverick had given it to her before they were even married and she loved it and wore it often.

To his credit, Maverick had stayed in touch with their daughter, although not as regularly as Elise felt he should. For her own part, she wanted nothing to do with him, but she didn’t begrudge Aurora the opportunity to know her father; she never had. She considered their relationship entirely separate from her. She paused, frowning. Twice that morning she’d thought about Maverick. It wasn’t as though she ever really forgot him—how could she with her grandson so physically similar—but she rarely indulged her memories of him. She didn’t want to think about him or remember the days and nights of love.

After running a brush through her shoulder-length brown hair, she tied it back at the nape of her neck. Untouched by gray, it was her one vanity. Her hand froze as yet another memory wrapped itself around her heart. Maverick had loved her hair down. She’d worn it in a tidy bun at the library but at the end of the day, the first thing he did was reach for the pins to loosen her thick tresses. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” he’d whisper and she’d smile…. Irritated, she tightened her lips and cast the thought from her mind.

Aurora was pouring milk into bowls of cereal when Elise walked into the kitchen.

“You look nice, Mom,” she commented.

Compliments embarrassed Elise and she dismissed her daughter’s words with a shake of her head.

“Have a good day at school,” Elise told the boys as she opened the front door.

They watched her leave, their faces glum, as if she’d abandoned them to some malicious fate. Her grandsons were her joy but she hardly knew how Aurora managed. She marveled at her daughter’s skill as a wife and mother.

Elise sometimes feared she’d failed on both counts. She was never meant to be a wife, and her two years of married life had proved as much. Aurora was the one treasure she’d managed to salvage from that shipwreck of a marriage. Her daughter, as tall as her father at six feet, was a blessing beyond compare. In more ways than Elise cared to admit, they’d grown up together. Thankfully they’d stayed close.

Maverick had faithfully paid his child support each month, and when the spirit moved him, he’d phoned Aurora from wherever he was currently living, which seemed to be in a different part of the country each time. Soon after their wedding, he’d given up any pretense of an ordinary job—although he’d been quite successful at insurance sales—and devoted his energy to gambling. Roots were a detriment to a professional gambler. And if settling down wasn’t conducive to a gambler’s life, a family was even less so. While Elise was in labor, her loving husband had started up a poker game in the waiting room and completely missed the birth of his only child.

Catching the #47 bus, Elise rode it down Pill Hill toward Blossom Street, getting off three stops before the Seattle Public Library, which had recently undergone a huge renovation. Through her work at the school library, Elise had met some of Washington’s most influential librarians. They included Nancy Pearl, who’d organized the “If All Seattle Reads the Same Book” program. Cities, large and small, across the United States had followed Seattle’s lead. Elise was delighted that this idea had become so popular. It demonstrated that the library remained an important part of the community.

Stepping off the bus, she clutched her purse close to her side. The area had once been known for its pickpockets and muggers. That didn’t seem to be the case now, but one could never be too careful.

She walked past Fanny’s Floral and stopped to admire a display of purple carnations. She’d never seen carnations in quite that color before and was tempted to bring home a bouquet for Aurora. She probably shouldn’t waste money on flowers, but still … Well, she’d think about it.

A snoozing tabby cat was curled up in the display window of the yarn store. Elise opened the door and a small bell rang. Apparently accustomed to the sound, the cat didn’t stir.

“Good morning,” a pleasant-faced woman greeted her. Another, older woman stood by the counter and nodded in Elise’s direction.

“Yes, it is,” she said, instantly warmed by the younger woman’s friendliness. This was an attractive shop, well-designed and not overcrowded with yarn. Elise liked that she could see over the top of each display case. “I’ve come to inquire about classes,” she said, distracted by the colors and textures all around her. There were projects displayed on top of the cases, cleverly arranged on wire frames. Her eye was drawn to a sweater with a dinosaur knit into the front. Both Luke and John would love that. Perhaps one day she’d make it for her grandsons.

“We’re enrolling for a sock class this week.”

“Socks,” Elise repeated, unsure this was a project that interested her. “I’ve knit with five needles before, but it’s been a long time.”

“These are knitted up on two circular needles,” the woman told her. “Here, let me show you what I mean.” She led Elise toward the middle aisle, where a row of plastic feet displayed knitted socks. The patterns were intricate—far more complicated than Elise cared to tackle. It’d been years since she’d picked up knitting needles and she wasn’t eager to sabotage her efforts with a project beyond her capabilities.

She was about to say as much when the woman explained that the designs were part of the yarn itself.

“You mean I don’t have to do anything but knit?”

“That’s correct. The yarn is self-patterning.” She went on to list the price of the class, the day and the cost, which included all the supplies she would need. “By the way, I’m Lydia Hoffman and that’s my sister, Margaret. She works with me.”

“Elise Beaumont,” she said and smiled at both women. On closer inspection it became more obvious that they were related. The older one, Margaret, was large-boned but the other, Lydia, was petite with delicate features. Yet their faces were similar in shape, with pronounced cheekbones and large dark eyes. When she realized she was staring, she added, “I recently retired and thought I’d take up knitting again.”

“That’s a wonderful idea.”

Elise smiled at Lydia’s enthusiasm. Margaret’s attention had returned to whatever she was doing at the counter, which apparently involved catalogues and order forms.

“A class seems like a good place to start,” Elise said.

Lydia nodded. “I’m so glad you decided to stop by.” She continued toward the back of the shop, where a table and chairs were set up. “If you’re free on Friday afternoons, I’d like to invite you to our charity knitting sessions, too.”

“Another class?” Elise could only afford one.

“Not exactly. There’s no cost. A number of my regulars come here to knit for different charitable projects and organizations. You’d be most welcome, Elise.” She talked about Warm Up America, the Linus Project and ChemoCaps for people undergoing chemotherapy.

“Do you supply the yarn?” Elise asked, conscious once again of her limited budget.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Lydia said. “Or at least some of it. Patrons have donated leftover yarn for the Warm Up America blankets, and anyone who purchases yarn for one of the other projects can buy it at a discount.”

“Perhaps I’ll do that.” Elise’s schedule was nearly empty and she was looking for ways to fill it. So far, she’d joined a readers’ group that met once a month at a branch of the Seattle Public Library, and had volunteered to fold church newsletters. A strong supporter of the local blood bank, she’d also volunteered to handle the desk every Monday morning until noon.

“Would you like to sign up for the sock class?” Lydia pressed. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

Again Elise’s spirits lifted at the other woman’s friendliness. “Yes, I think I would.” She opened her purse and removed her checkbook. “How many will be in the class?” she asked as she signed the check.

“I’d like to limit it to six.”

“Has there been a lot of interest?”

“Not yet, but I only put the ad in the window Tuesday morning. You’re the first person to join.”

“The first,” Elise repeated, and for reasons she could only guess at, being first gave her a sense of pleasure.

She decided to buy those flowers for Aurora, after all.

3
CHAPTER

BETHANNE HAMLIN

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Bethanne Hamlin lamented as she pulled into the driveway of her Capitol Hill home. The house, built in the 1930s before it was deemed unsafe and unfeasible to use brick on top of an earthquake fault, had been her dream home. She’d fallen in love with it the moment she saw it. The short steep driveway ended at the basement garage. Concrete steps led to a small porch, and the front door was rounded, like the door to a fairy-tale cottage, she’d always thought. A gable jutted out from the second-floor master bedroom. The window seat there overlooked the entire neighborhood. Bethanne had often sat in that window and read or daydreamed. It was in this beautiful home that she’d once lived her perfect life. Her fairy-tale life …

She turned off the engine and sat in her five-year-old Plymouth, searching for the resolve and the strength to enter her house with a smile on her face. Taking a deep breath, she slid out of the car, reaching into the backseat for her groceries.

“I’m home,” she called out as she opened the front door, doing her best to sound cheerful.

She felt relief when silence greeted her.

“Andrew? Annie?” She placed the grocery bag on the kitchen countertop, filled the teakettle and set it on the burner. Before the divorce she’d never been much of a tea drinker, but in the last year she’d become practically addicted, drinking two or three pots a day.

“I’m home,” she announced a second time. Again, no response.

After a few minutes, the kettle began to whistle, and she poured the steaming water over Earl Grey tea bags in the ceramic pot that had once belonged to her grandmother. Then she carried it to the breakfast table.

Sitting in the small alcove, she tried to make sense of her life. Tried to make sense of everything that had happened to her and her children over the past two years. Nothing felt right anymore. It was as if the seasons no longer followed each other in proper succession. Or as if the moon had suddenly replaced the sun … She still had trouble understanding what had happened—and why.

It’d all started sixteen months earlier on the morning of Valentine’s Day. The kids were awake and banging around inside their bedrooms, getting ready for school. A little earlier, when she could hear Andrew and Annie squabbling over the bathroom, she’d thrown on her housecoat and started down to the kitchen to make breakfast. Then, as she reached the door, she’d noticed her husband sitting up in bed, knees bent, face in his hands. Bethanne’s first thought was that Grant had the flu. Any other morning, he was already up and dressed for work. He loved his job as a broker for a successful real estate company. He earned enough so that Bethanne could stay home with the children; from the time Andrew was born, and Annie thirteen months later, she’d felt the children should be her career. Grant had supported her decision. He liked having her home, accessible to him and the children, and appreciated the elegant business dinners she frequently prepared for him and his colleagues.

“Grant?” she’d asked, completely unsuspecting of what was to follow.

He’d looked up and Bethanne had read such pain in his eyes that she sat down on the bed and placed her hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” she’d asked gently.

Grant couldn’t seem to speak. He opened his mouth as if to begin, but no words came.

“Mom!” Annie shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “I need you.”

Torn between her husband’s needs and those of her children, Bethanne vacillated, then squeezed Grant’s arm. “I’ll be right back.” Actually it took ten minutes, and both kids had left the house by the time she returned.

Grant’s position was unchanged when she walked into the bedroom, his expression just as bleak.

“Tell me,” she’d whispered urgently, her mind whirling as she wondered what could possibly be wrong. Grant had been to see the doctor for a physical the week before; everything seemed fine, but there’d been the routine tests. Perhaps Dr. Lyman had found something and Grant was only now able to tell her. She sat down next to him again, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Grant had announced in a voice so hoarse that he didn’t sound like himself.

She’d kissed his cheek and felt him stiffen. “Grant, please—tell me what’s wrong.”

He’d started to weep then, huge sobs that shook his whole body. In the twenty years of their marriage, she could only recall a handful of times that her husband had revealed such deep emotion. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he cried.

“Just tell me!”

He gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “You’re a good woman, Bethanne, but …” He faltered. “But I don’t love you anymore.”

At first she could only assume this was a hoax and she giggled. “What do you mean, you don’t love me anymore? Grant, we’ve been married for twenty years. Of course you love me.”

He closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, so sorry, but I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. I can’t carry on with this … this charade any longer.”

Bethanne was dumbstruck, staring at Grant. This was the man she’d loved and slept with all these years and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he’d become a stranger.

“What happened?” she asked uncertainly.

“Please,” he begged, “don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” At that moment she was more perplexed than angry. Rather than take his words personally, Bethanne immediately went into her problem-solving mode. Whatever was wrong could be fixed, the same way you’d have a broken faucet or a faulty outlet repaired. You just called a plumber or an electrician. Whatever was wrong simply needed the appropriate attention and then everything would go back to working as it always had.

“There’s a reason I don’t love you anymore,” her husband said from between clenched teeth. He tossed aside the comforter and got out of bed. His obvious irritation took her aback.

“Grant, what’s gotten into you?”

He climbed into his pants, hiked them up and closed the zipper. “Are you really this dense, or do I need to spell it out?”

In a matter of seconds he’d gone from tears to tyrant. “Spell out what?” she asked, innocently turning up her hands to receive whatever he had to tell her. She was more shocked by his rudeness than by what he was saying.

He paused, one arm in the sleeve of his shirt. He spoke without looking at her and without emotion. “There’s someone else.”

It hit Bethanne then; she finally understood. “You’re having an … affair?” She went numb and her mouth was instantly dry. Her tongue seemed to swell to twice its normal size, making speech impossible. In no way could this be true. She refused to believe it—Grant would never betray her like this. She’d know if he was cheating. Men had affairs in movies and in books. It was the sort of thing that happened to other women, other marriages, not hers. She’d clung to a surreal sense of denial for those first few minutes as he continued to dress for work.

“When? How?” she managed to stutter.

“We met at the office,” Grant said. “She’s another agent, recently joined the company.” He sighed heavily. “I tried to make it work with you and me, but it’s no good. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” There was a pleading quality in his voice, quickly replaced by anger. “Damn it, Bethanne, don’t make things any more difficult than they already are.” As if he’d planned this for days, he opened the closet door and extracted a suitcase, which he set on the bed.

“You’re … leaving?”

He answered by opening his dresser drawers and lifting out his clothes. Bethanne winced as she watched him drop a stack of neatly folded undershirts on the bottom of the suitcase. Grant was extremely particular about his T-shirts, which had to be folded just so. He was meticulous about every aspect of his personal appearance and that perfectionism extended beyond his hair and clothes.

“Where … where will you go?” Her head was crowded with questions, and it seemed the most inessential ones rose to the surface first.

“I’m moving in with Tiffany,” he announced.

“Tiffany?” she repeated, and why she should find humor in the midst of the most horrible moment of her life, she would never know. All at once she was laughing. “You’re leaving me for a woman named Tiffany?”

He glared at her as if she were truly demented and just then perhaps she was. “Go,” she said, almost flippantly, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “I just want you to go.”

As if to prove her point, she’d marched all the way down to the basement and collected a second, even bigger suitcase, which she hauled to their bedroom. As she climbed down and then back up the stairs, she racked her mind, trying to remember if she’d ever met this Tiffany. To the best of her recollection she hadn’t. Grant’s office was filled with women, but she’d never suspected he was capable of such treachery. Although she was panting by the time she’d dragged the large suitcase up two flights of stairs, she didn’t pause for breath, her anger carrying her.

She flopped the empty suitcase carelessly on the bed, and a cloud of dust spread over the white comforter, which she ignored. Then she threw open the closet door, grabbed his suits around the middle and yanked them out, still on their hangers. Unceremoniously, she shoved them into the suitcase.

“Bethanne!” he shouted. “Stop it.”

“No,” she bellowed at the top of her lungs. Then, more quietly, she asked, “How long has this thing with you and Tiffany been going on?” When he didn’t reply, she demanded, “How old is she, anyway?” Once she’d started on this line of questioning, she couldn’t stop. “Is she married, too, or am I the only one being tossed aside?”

Grant refused to meet her gaze.

“A while?”

Again Grant refused to look at her as she packed his suitcases. She’d begun just throwing in his clothes but had quickly reverted to habit—folding, straightening, arranging.

“A month? Two months? How good is she in bed?”

“Bethanne, don’t.”

“How long?” She wouldn’t stop until he told her the truth.

Grant released a laborious sigh as if her relentlessness had broken him down. “Two years.”

“Two years!” she cried, consumed with rage. “Get out of this house.”

He nodded.

“Get out, and don’t come back.” In that moment she meant it. But not long afterward, she’d desperately wanted him home again. It embarrassed her now to remember how frantic she’d been to win back her husband’s affection. She’d been willing to do anything—see a counselor, beg, bribe, reason with him. At one point, just before the settlement hearing, she would’ve given up ten years of her life for Grant to return to his family.

But when Grant moved out of the house and in with Tiffany, he had no intention of returning. She’d nearly been destroyed by that. Eventually she’d had to accept it: Grant was never coming home. He didn’t love her anymore and nothing she said or did would change his mind.

Her marriage was dead, and burying it had virtually obliterated her self-esteem. If not for her children, Bethanne didn’t know what she would’ve done. Andrew and Annie needed her more than ever, and only for them did she continue.

When she’d finally made an appointment with an attorney, the man had been straightforward and helpful; what seemed like a fair financial arrangement had been settled upon. Grant refinanced the house for the third time and paid off their cars and their credit card bills with whatever equity he could extract, so they were both essentially debt-free. He was instructed to pay alimony for two years, plus child support until the children were out of high school. They would share college expenses. He hadn’t been late with a check yet, but then the state made sure of that. Bethanne would have to find a job soon, but for a dozen different reasons, she delayed.

It was now six months after the divorce had been finalized, and the fog was only starting to clear. She told herself she had to live one day at a time as she learned to deal with what her family and friends called her “new reality.” The problem was, she preferred her old reality….

Bethanne sipped her tea, which had begun to cool. She was startled from her thoughts when the door off the kitchen banged open and sixteen-year-old Annie came in, red-faced and sweating. Tendrils of wet hair pressed against the sides of her face. She wore a halter top and spandex shorts, and had apparently been out for a lengthy run. Because Annie had always felt close to her father, she’d taken the divorce particularly hard. Soon after Grant moved out, Annie had started running and would often go five and even ten miles a day. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the only change in her daughter’s behavior. The new friends she’d acquired were a bigger concern.

Bethanne worried endlessly about Annie and the company she kept. The girl’s anger was focused on Tiffany, and Bethanne suspected that Annie’s new friends encouraged her more outrageous acts. While Bethanne was no fan of the other woman, whom she’d discovered to be fifteen years younger than her ex, she was afraid Annie might do something stupid in her zeal to retaliate against Tiffany, something that would involve the police.