Back on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #4)(109)

Christian’s great-aunt looked somewhat condescendingly at Elliott Dempsey. “My age has nothing to do with this.”

“Dad,” Christian said. “Aunt Betty—”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Yes, dear,” he said, struggling to hide a smile. He turned to his father. “I do have some news for you.”

Elliott smiled expectantly.

“You’re going to become a grandfather in three months.”

Christian’s father leaped to his feet, rushing over to congratulate them. But Elizabeth was not appeased. “If you don’t marry this woman and give that baby your name, I swear to you right now, I’m cutting you out of my will.”

“Aunt Elizabeth,” Christian said, grinning. “That baby’s a little girl and her name is Elizabeth Catherine Dempsey.”

“I…I—” Elizabeth sputtered.

“We’re naming her after you,” Colette said, “and Christian’s mother.”

“You’re getting married? For the love of heaven, please tell me you’re getting married,” Elizabeth cried. “The sooner the better.”

Christian winked at Colette, but then his expression sobered. “Actually, no.”

“No?” Elizabeth bellowed loudly enough to bring Doris running in from the kitchen.

“Is everything all right?” the housekeeper asked anxiously.

Stricken, Elizabeth nodded. “Everything’s delicious, Doris, thank you. You can bring out dessert in a few minutes.”

“What’s for dessert?” Christian asked.

“Christian, don’t be cruel,” Colette said and held up her left hand, revealing the gold band on her ring finger. “Christian and I were married Thursday afternoon by my friend’s husband.”

“I certainly hope he’s a minister,” Elizabeth said under her breath.

“He is,” Colette told her. “We got the license first thing Monday morning and Jordan Turner married us as soon as the waiting period was over.”

“Thank God!”

“Then we phoned my parents and told them our news.”

“All of it?” Elizabeth asked.

“All of it,” Colette said. “They’re pleased for us, more than a little surprised about the baby, but delighted.” She paused. “Telling Derek’s parents was more difficult, but they wished us well.”

“A girl named after me,” Elizabeth repeated slowly, proudly. “It’s about time you did something right,” she said, reaching for her fork again. “Even if you didn’t invite me to the wedding.”

Elliott raised his wineglass to congratulate them. “Under the circumstances, Aunt Elizabeth, I think we can forgive the oversight.”

Colette turned to smile at her husband, the man she loved, the man whose child she carried. They’d decided to call her Beth, and when she brought her daughter home from the hospital, Colette would wrap her in the prayer shawl she’d knit with Lydia and her other friends.

CHAPTER 41

“Granny was knitting a lovely lacy sweater. She had a piece of paper with tick marks and numbers on it. ‘Where is your pattern?’ I asked. She replied, ‘A pattern? God gave you a brain, didn’t he?’ Granny was a thinking knitter. I wanted to be just like her.”

René Wells, Granny and Me Designs

Lydia Goetz

I was pleased that Julia and Hailey were with Mom when I visited. She chatted on endlessly about her childhood, and the girls listened attentively. It was a relief to see my mother in such high spirits. She was showing signs of improvement, I thought.

After about thirty minutes, the girls left and it was just Mom and me.

“You’re looking so happy,” Mom said as I brushed her hair, getting her ready for an early dinner. The prayer shawl I’d knit was tucked around her shoulders. She wore it almost constantly these days and I found that gratifying. Of all the things I’d knit Mom through the years, this was the one I felt most strongly about because so many of those stitches held my hopes and prayers for her.

“Lydia?” she asked as I stroked the brush down the length of her hair.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Who were those nice young girls?”

I smiled, but it was a smile of sadness and resignation. “Those are Margaret’s daughters, Julia and Hailey.”

My mother sighed. “Oh, of course. What’s the matter with me that I can’t remember my own granddaughters?”

“Mom, don’t worry. Julia and Hailey know who you are and that’s what’s important.” The diagnosis was official now. Mom had Alzheimer’s. As the disease progressed, I knew there’d come a time when Mom no longer recognized me. I’d deal with it; I would have no choice. I’d remember her as the young wife in photographs from the ’60s and ’70s, as the mother who’d walked me to school and sewed my Halloween costumes, as the grief-stricken widow and the old woman she was now. And all the moments in between. My mother.

“Is Margaret coming?” Mom asked in a tentative voice.

“Soon.” My sister would come by sometime on Monday. We alternated visits, which helped. I was grateful for Margaret and the way taking care of Mom had strengthened the bond we shared as sisters.