Blossom Street Brides (Blossom Street #10)(53)

The thought of Max on the road for hours on end shook her. Tired and weary on a motorcycle was a deadly combination. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me beforehand.”

He chuckled. “I remember not so long ago when I rode twenty hours straight just so I could spend time with you.”

“If I’d known what you were doing I would have worried then, too.”

“Don’t fret, all is well, we’re both safe and sound.”

Seeing that he was back and in the office, it wouldn’t do any good to argue. “Call me when we can talk longer, okay?”

“Sure, honey, but remember I’ve got that dinner with Kendall-Jackson tonight.”

“I know.”

“No more fretting over Annie, okay?”

“Okay.” Then, because she couldn’t help being curious, she asked, “How’s Rooster?”

Max chuckled. “I’m afraid he’s too lovesick to think straight.”

“Is that so?” This was an interesting development.

“I recognize the look because it’s the same one I wore after I met you. Any real conversation is beyond him at the moment. I need to repeat nearly everything I say because his head is so high in the clouds it’s affected his brain.”

“And this was what happened to you?”

“The minute I laid eyes on you I knew I was in trouble. I might as well have given it up because you owned my heart from that moment forward.”

“Oh, Max, I do love you so.” His words were the balm she needed after this trying day. First it was the conversation with Annie, followed by Grant’s efforts to manipulate her.

“We’ll muddle through whatever the future holds. I’m sorry about Annie.”

Bethanne knew they would both make the right decision. A decision that would affect their lives and their businesses. Perhaps most compelling of all is the impact it would have on her children.

Chapter Twenty

In my knitting world, the most exciting and rewarding part is the process of creating a new hand-knit design. When seated in my Devonshire studio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, I am at my happiest and inspired. My design research, reference books, and deliciously new Rowan yarns around me—a certain black-and-white cat contentedly sprawled across a pile of newly knitted design swatches …

—Martin Storey,

designer and author

Lydia had been busy at the shop all Thursday morning. Thankfully, Margaret was available to help. Social knitting would start soon, and she expected a full house. She’d also been waiting for Evelyn Boyle, Casey’s social worker, to return her call all day, but unfortunately she was with a customer when the phone rang, so Lydia paused and waited while Margaret picked up the line.

Sure enough, Margaret placed her hand over the receiver and said, “It’s Evelyn.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Lydia said to the customer, who was an accomplished knitter, “I need to take this call.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “I can finish up here by myself without a problem.”

Lydia hurried into her small office and closed the door. Reaching for her desk phone, she sank into the chair.

“Evelyn?” Lydia asked.

“Lydia, I got your voice mail. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to phone sooner; it’s been a hectic week. What’s the problem?”

Now that she had Casey’s social worker on the phone, Lydia wasn’t sure where to start. “It’s just a question,” she said, not wanting to make more of this than necessary.

“Apparently, it’s an important one. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard you sound more distressed. Tell me what’s happening.”

“I’m worried about Casey,” Lydia whispered, which was probably more than obvious. “She’s been having horrible, horrible nightmares recently.”

“Tell me about them.”

Lydia swallowed tightly. “She wakes up screaming and is so distraught that I have to spend an hour or more with her before she calms down enough to go back to sleep. Evelyn, the poor girl trembles and clings to me with all her might.”

“What is the dream about?”

Lydia felt like a terrible failure as a mother. “I don’t know; she refuses to talk about it.”

“That’s not uncommon. Can you tell me when these nightmares started?”

“A while ago now,” Lydia answered, thinking back over the last several months. “She had nightmares from the first, but nothing like this. The ones where she wakes up screaming started about a year after we first adopted her.”

“About the time Casey hit puberty?”

“Yes.” Come to think of it, Lydia recalled that the first nightmare came shortly after Casey had started her period. She woke up the entire house with her screams in the middle of the night, frightening them all half to death.

“Dreams like this often happen with these children,” Evelyn explained. “Many of them, and I’m including Casey in this, have gone through more trauma by the time they’re five or six years old than you or I will face in a lifetime. Some have experienced unimaginable terror and abuse.”

“Casey?” Lydia’s voice trembled with the question. The thought of this child she’d come to love with all her heart going through any kind of abuse deeply distressed her.