A Good Yarn (Blossom Street #2)(3)
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.