Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(43)

“Okay,” he said. “Listen, anytime is f ine. You say when and where, and I’ll be there.”

Without any deliberation, Anne Marie mentioned a nearby park and suggested they meet late Wednesday afternoon.

“I’ll be there,” he said again.

“What should I tell Ellen?” she asked, wondering how she’d introduce him.

“Tell her I’m your date,” he said after a moment.

“My date?” So he knew she was a widow. He’d implied as much when he’d asked about Ellen’s adoptive father and she’d refused to answer him.

“Have you got a better idea?”

“No…I guess not.”

“It’s settled, then?”

“Yes.” She wished she felt more comfortable with this, but she was committed now, whatever the outcome. “Not a word about the two of you possibly being related,” she warned.

“Not a word. You have my promise.”

Whether he kept his promises remained to be seen.

Chapter 15

When I was nine years old my mother gave me a pair of shiny silver aluminum knitting needles and a ball of bright purple yarn and showed me how to cast on for a pair of mittens. I can still remember my excitement as the yarn came alive in my f ingers and turned itself magically from string into a lumpy mitten. I never dreamed then that knitting would become my friend, my refuge, my psychiatrist, sometimes my enemy, and ultimately lead to my career.

—Jean Leinhauser, Author, Designer, Publisher, Teacher Lydia Goetz

My yarn store is closed on Mondays, which I reserve for appointments, meetings and housework. Margaret usually visits Mom on Mondays and I try to stop by on Wednesdays. We include her in weekend activities whenever possible. That Monday morning began with the three of us at the breakfast table—Cody, Casey and me. They seemed to be getting along, I’d noticed, exchanging occasional comments with each other, often about Chase. Animals had a way of breaching people’s defenses, allowing them to connect. I’d seen that with Whiskers, too.

Cody was dressed for day camp and Casey had her books set out for her remedial math class. She never asked for help with homework, although both Brad and I had offered. Her streak of independence was as wide as the Columbia River. Most days I felt she simply tolerated us. Meanwhile, I was working hard to f ind common ground with her.

She made that diff icult with her mood swings and generally negative attitude. My hope was that today’s visit with her brother—which she didn’t know about yet—would somehow make a difference.

“I’ll pick you up after class this morning,” I told her casually. Casey looked up from her cereal bowl. “Why are you doing that?”

“I thought we’d go to lunch,” I said. I wanted to surprise her with the visit—but I didn’t want to disappoint her if it all fell through.

Casey frowned, as though she wasn’t pleased with the idea of joining me for lunch.

I’d discovered that her brother’s name was Lee Marshall and he’d recently turned eighteen.

For a minute I thought Casey was going to say something. I half expected her to insist she didn’t need any favors but she didn’t, which was a relief. I didn’t feel like arguing with her.

“Casey f ixed my backpack,” Cody piped up. “The zipper was stuck and she got it to work.”

The girl shrugged, dismissing his appreciation. “No big deal.”

“Well, Cody’s grateful and so am I.”

“You could’ve done it just as well,” she said. Cody had the same problem earlier and I’d had real diff iculty getting the zipper unstuck. “Maybe I could have, and maybe not. But I didn’t have to worry about it because you already f ixed it. Thank you, Casey.”

“Mom isn’t very strong,” Cody was quick to explain. “She had cancer, you know, and it’s hard for her to do some stuff.”

I bit my tongue to avoid contradicting Cody. My having had cancer had nothing to do with my ability to slide a zipper up or down.

“You had cancer?” Casey frowned as she looked at me.

“Twice,” Cody said importantly. “In her head.”

I made a feeble gesture with my hand, hoping to change the subject. So much of my life had revolved around my illness that I didn’t speak of it all that often these days. But since Casey was obviously curious, I felt I should explain. “I was f irst diagnosed as a teenager and then later as a young adult.”

“Are you going to die?”

This wasn’t a question most people asked, even if they wondered about it. Anyone who did persist couched the enquiry in more subtle terms, referring to my “prognosis” or “remission.”

“Everyone eventually dies, Casey. It’s part of the human condition.” I felt that was too philosophical, so I smiled. “But I’m hoping to live a good, long time and become a problem to my children.” I made that plural because of our hopes for adoption. Her concern touched me; I hadn’t expected it of her. Casey nodded and returned to her cereal.

Casey and Cody left the house together and I tore into my weekly routine of housekeeping and laundry. I didn’t have any appointments other than the one at the juvenile facility in south Seattle early that afternoon.

The morning sped by and soon it was almost twelve and time to pick up Casey. She slid sullenly into the passenger seat and slammed the door, sitting there without a word for several minutes. Then out of the blue she asked, “Do you want me to get my things f irst?”