A Good Yarn (Blossom Street #2)(44)
LYDIA HOFFMAN
Somehow I made it through the Fourth of July, thanks to my family. Matt and Margaret were so good to me, and Mom only asked about Brad once. I don’t know what Margaret said, but his name was conspicuously absent from our conversations for the rest of the day.
Mom seemed especially quiet and even a bit confused. I spent as much time with her as I could, talking to her about the garden, the yarn shop, a TV show we’d both seen. My thoughts were with Brad, though, and with Cody. I experienced my grief as physical pain, as an ache in my chest—I think that’s what people mean when they talk about a broken heart. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it: that Janice was with them and I wasn’t. I tried hard to remember that Cody needed his mother.
After our barbecued chicken, coleslaw and corn—an all-American feast—I brought out a box of assorted pastries from the French Café. I’d included some cream puffs and napoleons, which were Alix’s specialties. I hoped to see her on Friday at the shop. Once we’d finished dessert I took Mom home; she was too tired by then to wait for darkness to fall and the fireworks to begin.
We gathered, Matt, Margaret and I, to watch the fireworks, and as they burst over the Seattle skyline, tears rolled down my cheeks. I’d hardly ever felt more wretched or alone.
I wasn’t good company. It’d been almost two weeks, and I knew I could make it if I didn’t think about the future, if I coped with one day at a time. If I could get through today, I told myself, I’d find the courage to confront the next day and the next.
It didn’t help that Brad continued to work the same route. Tuesday morning he told Margaret he’d requested a transfer but had been denied. I believed him. Last year, when I’d ended our relationship, he’d applied for—and received—a transfer and then later, when things were settled between us, he’d requested his old route back. Now the powers that be were obviously tired of this. So we were stuck seeing each other on a regular basis.
After weeks of depression over Matt’s unexpected job loss, Margaret seemed to have cheered up considerably. I didn’t know if this was an act for my benefit. In any case, I chose to believe that because Margaret loves me, she was trying to bolster my mood and create a supportive environment. I valued her support and this new tenderness.
I also needed Margaret as a buffer between Brad and me. He’d been in the shop four or five times since our last conversation and, thankfully, my sister was available to deal with him. This saved me, because I wasn’t ready to pretend our relationship was merely casual. I couldn’t speak to him without letting my emotions show and that would’ve humiliated me all the more.
Besides Margaret, one of my few comforts during this bleak time was the charity knitting group. They came Friday afternoons to work on a number of projects. When I first suggested this idea, my original class decided that they’d knit patches for Warm Up America. The nine-by-seven-inch pieces are crocheted together by Margaret to form blankets. This is her contribution to the effort. The patches make for an easy project, and each requires only a small commitment of time. Jacqueline, Carol and Alix lead busy lives, so this worked well for them. They also liked the idea of being involved in the same projects.
Elise wanted to come, but hadn’t yet. I’d given her some donated yarn and she was knitting a blanket for the Linus Project at home. Alix had knit a couple of blankets for them, too, between classes at the Seattle Cooking Academy and her part-time job at the French Café.
Margaret was in the store when all three of the women from my original class showed up on Friday afternoon. She’d become as fond of them as I had. The first to arrive was Jacqueline.
“I’m back,” she announced as she swept into the shop. Jacqueline was always one to make an entrance. Margaret and I have come to love the way she broadcasts her arrival, although at one time it annoyed me. As always, Jacqueline looked like the society matron she is, every hair in place. She once told me never to discount the effectiveness of a good hair spray. I would’ve laughed if she hadn’t been serious.
I’ve given up trying to keep track of all the traveling Jacqueline and Reece do. In the past year, they’d been on a cruise in the Greek islands, a walking tour of England’s Lake District and most recently they went salmon fishing in Alaska. That, according to Jacqueline, was a longtime dream of her husband’s. To my utter amazement, she loved it and even brought me some smoked salmon.
“How are you?” Jacqueline asked, gazing into my eyes. She didn’t wait for a response before pulling me into a tight hug.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
She took her place at the table and brought out her knitting. Her patch was knit in super-wash, hand-dyed wool at fourteen dollars a skein, but that was Jacqueline. Price was rarely a consideration. And in her generosity, she always bought her own yarn for the charity projects, rather than accepting donated leftovers from me.
“I see I’m the first one here,” she said, looking around. This was unusual in itself. “Well, I’ve got great news and I’ll tell you first.” She smiled widely. “Tammy Lee’s pregnant again! Reece and I are beside ourselves.”
I remember how she’d once objected strenuously to her southern daughter-in-law and called her “white trash” and a “breeder.” My friend had experienced a change of heart, largely due to Tammy Lee’s patience and her loving personality—as Jacqueline’s the first to admit. Jacqueline adores little Amelia and I was sure she’d feel exactly the same about this new baby.