A Good Yarn (Blossom Street #2)(26)

“We’ll probably just have a barbecue in the backyard and watch the fireworks on TV,” my sister added.

I stared at her. I couldn’t help it. Seattle had two incredible fireworks displays every year. The first was at Myrtle Edwards Park on the waterfront and the second at Lake Union’s Gas Works Park north of downtown. The fireworks on the lake were timed to patriotic music—a stirring experience and one that always dramatized for me what we were really celebrating.

Margaret lived on Capitol Hill, not far from Blossom Street, which was a perfect location for viewing the Lake Union display. I couldn’t believe that she’d choose to sit in front of her television rather than stand outside her front door.

“What about Julia and Hailey?” I adored my nieces, aged fifteen and ten, respectively. We’d grown even closer in the past year, when my rather tense and complicated relationship with their mother had begun to relax. I used to think Margaret tried to keep the girls away from me out of spite, but in retrospect I understood that she was protecting them. She was afraid of letting her daughters love me too much, for fear I’d get sick again. If I lost my battle with cancer and died, my nieces would be devastated.

Margaret focused on busywork, reorganizing one of the yarn bins. “The girls already have plans.”

“Oh.”

“Julia’s going to Lake Washington with friends and Hailey’s going camping with the neighbors.”

“So it’ll just be you and Matt?”

Margaret shrugged, her back to me. “Looks that way.”

I waited a moment, then decided to say something. I’d drop a hint to see if she responded. “Brad said he ran into Matt recently.”

Turning slowly, Margaret studied me and seemed to be searching for some clue that I’d learned the truth. “Matt didn’t mention it.”

“No need, I suppose,” I said casually.

“Probably not,” my sister agreed.

“Will you invite Mom over?” I asked next. I hated the thought of her spending the holiday alone. We’d somehow gotten through the year without Dad and all the terrible firsts that accompanied the death of a family member. The first Thanksgiving and Christmas were the worst for me, followed by Valentine’s Day and then the Fourth of July.

“I didn’t say anything to her. What about you?” Margaret was hedging, and I could see that she’d rather I dealt with Mom.

“Do you want me to talk to her?” I asked, which was another way of saying I’d be responsible for keeping our mother occupied over the holiday.

“That would be best,” my sister said.

I found it an effort not to point out that it would make more sense for Mom to join Margaret and Matt. A backyard barbecue would be ideal for her and a lot less strenuous than a trip to the ocean, if that was indeed what Brad and I decided to do.

“She’ll have a better time with you,” Margaret murmured apologetically.

Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer. “You could have told me, you know,” I said softly, hoping to broach the subject of Matt’s unemployment in a nonconfrontational manner.

“Told you what?”

I couldn’t understand why Margaret continued to maintain the pretense. “That Matt’s been out of a job for months. I’m your sister—you should be able to talk to me.”

Margaret glared at me but didn’t say a word.

“Is it some deep, dark secret you’re ashamed of letting anyone know?” I cried, unable to conceal the pain and anger I felt.

“This is Matt’s business and mine. It’s none of your concern.”

I reached for my knitting and sat down. Knitting is a great tension reliever for me. My hands were moving quickly as I worked on my current project, a sweater I wanted to put on display.

“There isn’t anything I don’t tell you,” I reminded her. The past year I’d shared everything, and I do mean everything, with my sister. I’d confided my fears, my joys, my hopes, my…my soul. My knitting increased in speed, keeping pace with my outrage.

“This is different,” Margaret returned evenly. She picked up her crocheting, jerking it so hard the ball of cotton yarn fell to the floor. Scrambling to pick it up, she tucked it under her arm and started in with the hook, her fingers moving as quickly as mine.

“How’s it different?” I challenged.

“It’s not me, it’s Matt.”

“He told Brad. Your husband felt comfortable enough letting Brad know, but my own sister didn’t tell me.” I felt a sense of betrayal, even more so now that Margaret’s attitude was out in the open. She hadn’t shown the least bit of remorse, although I’d hoped she would admit how much she’d wanted to talk to me. Apparently that had never been the case.

“Who Matt tells is his business.” Margaret’s eyes were focused on her project, a poncho for Julia. Her hand flew as she worked, her concentration fierce.

“Exactly.” I tugged viciously on the ball of yarn, yanking it out of the wicker basket. It went tumbling to the floor.

Margaret scooped up the pretty blue yarn and placed it in my basket, and as she did I noticed that her hands were shaking. I resisted the urge to touch her, to let her know I cared and that I wanted to help if I could. I would’ve done it but I feared her rejection, feared she’d turn away from me again, and I couldn’t have borne that.