A Good Yarn (Blossom Street #2)(36)

LYDIA HOFFMAN

I could hardly wait for Brad to make his neighborhood deliveries and come to the store. I’ve read my share of romance novels, so I can say with authority that if ever there was a romantic hero, it’s Brad. Because I’ve lived with cancer from the time I was sixteen, I’ve been absorbed by threats and fears. But despite my terrible scare last year, my life had never been better and for someone like me that’s a little frightening—as though feeling confident and happy is testing fate, somehow.

I think I mentioned that Dr. Wilson found something on a routine checkup and I was convinced the cancer was back. My attitude was fatalistic. It was during this time that I broke up with Brad. Without giving him a reason, I shoved him out of my life with the flimsiest of excuses. He didn’t walk away easily. I loved how he fought for me, how he stood by me until I made it too painful for him to stay. Then, naturally, I learned I was fine, but at that point, I couldn’t blame Brad for not wanting anything more to do with me. Thankfully he was willing to listen when I came to my senses. Once again, I had Margaret to thank; without her encouragement I don’t know what would’ve happened. That was all in the past now, and I felt so grateful to have Brad in my life.

On the phone the night before, he and I had talked about our Fourth of July plans. He wanted to wait until he saw me before we confirmed the barbecue at Margaret and Matt’s. I always get as excited as a kid about this holiday. Mostly I was looking forward to being with Brad and Cody—and away from work, because I could use the break.

The shop had been so busy lately, which was good but physically draining. I was on my feet a solid eight hours every day. Margaret did as much as she could, but she was preoccupied with the situation at home and hadn’t been as much help. She tried, though, and I was doing my best to be supportive and understanding.

My Friday knitting sessions were consistently productive; Jacqueline, in particular, came every week and spent hours knitting squares for Warm Up America. Granted, she had the most free time, since Alix was working and Carol was staying home with little Cameron. Still, Jacqueline’s generosity with her time and money impressed me.

Then there was my sock class. The women were an interesting mix and I was getting to know them. They were loosening up a bit, and that was a good sign. I love the way knitting brings people together. As diverse as these women seemed to be, in personality, in background and in age, they were beginning to enjoy each other’s company. The class got off to a difficult start because Elise was so short-tempered that first day, but her apology went a long way toward smoothing things over and I was grateful. The tone of the class was set by Elise, I noticed. She’s a natural leader, and while I wish I could’ve been the one dictating mood, I wasn’t.

Just after ten, I saw Brad’s truck in front of the shop. I waited for him to stroll through the door and address me as “Beautiful.” It’s part one of our private ritual—which then moves into my office for part two, a little kissing and caressing. I preferred to do that away from Margaret’s interested eye.

Not that it mattered. She was late—again. It had become almost normal for her to show up thirty minutes after I opened for the day. I didn’t want to nag her but I found it irritating that she’d grown so slack about her responsibilities. Eventually I’d need to speak to her about it, but now wasn’t the time.

The bell over the door chimed and I relaxed. Everything was better when I could spend a few minutes alone with Brad.

“Hi,” he said, wheeling the boxes of new yarn toward me.

“Hey, what happened to ‘Morning, Beautiful’?” I teased. “Did I sprout big ears overnight or something?”

“Or something,” he murmured.

“Brad? Is everything all right?” He wasn’t his usual cheerful self, and that had me worried. I could see everything wasn’t all right; I didn’t really need to ask. The way he refused to look at me was answer enough.

“Everything’s fine—I think.” But he hesitated.

“Is it Cody?” I asked, immediately concerned.

“No, no, Cody’s fine.”

I love Brad’s son. Every now and then, Cody would slip and call me Mom, and I loved the sound of it. If things went as I hoped, I’d soon be his stepmother.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I insisted.

“It’d be best if we talked later,” he said.

“About what?” I wasn’t going to let him walk out the door without explaining.

Brad heaved a sigh and seemed to wish he was anyplace in the world but my yarn store. We’d been involved with each other for a year, and in all that time I’d never seen him like this.

“Forget this later business. Just tell me,” I said again.

“I can’t be with you on the Fourth,” he blurted out.

My disappointment was sharp, but I tried to hide it. “Oh. Any particular reason?”

He seemed to pretend he hadn’t heard me and unloaded the dolly, stacking the boxes next to the cash register. Out of habit I signed my name on his automated clipboard.

“Brad,” I said urgently. “Whatever it is can’t be that bad.”

He straightened, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more serious or less sure of himself. “You’d better sit down.”

“No.” I adamantly refused. “I’ll stand. Just say what you have to say.” I could feel a numbing sensation starting in my feet and working its way up my ankles and calves. I think it was then that I knew. I could almost predict what was coming. I’ve had this kind of conversation twice before; both times, the men who’d claimed to love me decided it was over. Back then, I didn’t blame either of them. Loving me was a bad bet, since my prognosis wasn’t all that good. Twice, I’d faced the possibility of death, and I couldn’t expect them to face it with me. But now…