Starting Now (Blossom Street #9)(9)

A deep sense of loss filled Libby. All these weeks of being unemployed had eaten at her self-esteem, chipped away at the very foundation of her belief in herself. She wanted to feel her mother’s reassuring arms around her, encouraging her, giving her fortitude to move ahead and not be disheartened.

Libby glanced around the shop. A number of knitted samples were artfully displayed throughout. Toward the back of the room was a long table, presumably for classes. Two girls, probably around thirteen or fourteen, sat there and appeared to be deep in conversation. One seemed to be helping the other.

Robin, with no time to spare, walked directly up to the counter. The woman who waited on her greeted her by name and inquired about Ruth, Robin’s mother. The two chatted briefly while Robin paid for her mother’s yarn. The purchase took less than three minutes and then Robin turned to leave.

“I’ll join the gym on my way home from work and give you a call tonight,” Robin told Libby just before she reached the door. She glanced at her watch, grimaced, and was gone.

Libby remained rooted to the spot.

“Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asked.

Libby realized she was making something of a spectacle of herself. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to stand here like a flamingo in the middle of a pond. It’s just that I haven’t been inside a yarn store in years—not since I was a kid.”

“You’re welcome to take a look around.”

“Thanks, I will,” Libby said, feeling foolish and a bit self-conscious. She wandered over to one of the display cases next to the wall and picked up a fire-engine-red skein of yarn. Reading the label, she was surprised to discover the yarn was made from corn silk.

“That just recently came into the store,” the clerk told her. “My name’s Lydia Goetz, by the way.”

“Libby,” she said, “Libby Morgan.” She set the yarn back in the bin.

“We have yarn made from soy, too. And there’s a new yarn made from milk.”

“Do people still knit with wool?” With all this alternative fiber, Libby had to wonder. Maybe real wool had become passé.

Lydia smiled. “Oh, yes. The vast majority of the yarn we carry is made from wool. There are lots of blends, though. The world of knitting has changed drastically in the last several years. You’d be amazed.”

“I already am.”

Lydia automatically straightened out a bin, restacking the skeins. “If you need any help just say the word.”

Libby nodded and started toward the back of the store where the two teens sat.

“Hi,” one of the girls said. “I’m Casey and that’s my mom. She owns the shop.”

“Hi, Casey.” Libby smiled at the girl. She realized Casey wasn’t knitting but crocheting.

Casey appeared to notice Libby’s interest. “I’m much better with a crochet hook than I am with knitting needles. This is my friend Ava; I’m teaching her to crochet.”

Ava glanced up briefly, but didn’t make eye contact.

“What are you making?” Libby asked the two.

Casey was friendly enough but Ava appeared shy and preoccupied.

“We’re working on preemie caps. Mom and the other knitters and crocheters make caps for the babies in the hospital. Seattle General. It’s right up the street.”

Libby knew it well. “It looks like you’re doing a great job.”

“Not me,” Ava said, her head lowered. “Mine looks like crap.”

Libby knew exactly how she felt. Her own first attempts had been pretty bad. “I learned to knit when I was your age and my first pieces looked horrible. You know what my mother said? She told me I had to knit all the ugly ones before I learned how to make them pretty.” Several times Libby had wanted to quit and throw her scarf away, but her mother’s simple words had helped her stick to it. She’d been right, too. By the time she’d finished her third or fourth project, Libby had noticed a difference in her stitches and the tension. When she’d first started knitting the stitches were so tight she could barely get the yarn to move on the needles. Gradually she’d relaxed. By then she’d knit a scarf, a dishcloth, another scarf, and had started on a vest. The vest hadn’t turned out half bad and she’d worn it with pride.

“My mother died last year,” Ava whispered. She looked up then with eyes that were rimmed with sadness.

Libby’s throat thickened. She wanted to tell the girl she’d lost her mother at the same age, but she rarely spoke of her mother. And yet the words tumbled from her lips. “I’m sorry; I know what it’s like to lose your mother,” she whispered. “Mine died when I was about your age, too.”

“Ava hangs with me,” Casey said, covering the awkward silence that followed. “Otherwise Ava’s stuck with her older brother and he can be a real …”

“Casey,” Lydia called out to the girl. “Why don’t you show Libby the hat tree?”

“Okay, it’s over here.” Casey set her work down on the tabletop and led Libby to the opposite side of the store. What looked to be a tall coatrack with a number of short, stubby hooks was nearly completely covered in impossibly small knit and crocheted caps. “These are all for the preemies,” the teenager explained.

Libby removed one of the hats and examined it.