Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(53)

At f irst Casey didn’t realize I’d spoken to her. “Me?” she asked as she looked around the table.

“Yes, you,” I said, laughing. “If you like, I’ll teach you to knit,”

I offered yet again.

She gave me her usual shrug. “I guess so.”

“It’s not hard,” Cody piped up after he’d carried his plate to the sink. “Mom taught my whole class to knit last winter. Everyone made patches for Warm Up America, even the boys. Then Aunt Margaret crocheted them all together and we donated the blanket to a veterans’ home in West Seattle.”

For the f irst time since I’d mentioned knitting, Casey actually seemed interested.

“Knitting helps with math, too,” Cody told her as if he were an expert.

“Speaking of math,” Brad inserted, looking at Casey. “How’s your class?”

Casey replied in the same indifferent way she typically did. “All right, I guess. Math is stupid.”

“Unfortunately it’s a necessary part of everyday life.”

“I know,” she said a bit defensively.

“If you want, I’ll check over your homework,” Brad suggested. He’d made the offer before, but Casey had always turned him down f lat.

“If you want,” she said after a moment.

Brad and I exchanged a private smile.

While Cody cleared the serving dishes, Brad and Casey sat in the living room as he reviewed her homework. I couldn’t hear everything he said but they certainly had a lively discussion. Afterward, Casey moved to the kitchen table and exhaled loudly as she threw herself into a chair. “I have to do this assignment over,” she muttered. I patted her shoulder encouragingly and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.

Tuesday afternoon, shortly before one, Casey showed up at A Good Yarn, backpack slung over her shoulder. She’d taken the bus by herself. I was nervous about her coping with the different transit schedules, but Casey assured me it wasn’t a problem. Apparently she was more skilled at f inding her way around than I’d assumed, for which I was grateful.

“Hi,” I said, waiting until Mrs. Sinclair, a repeat customer, had paid for her purchase. “I ordered lunch from across the street.”

“Oh, thanks.” Casey went to the back of the shop, to the table where I taught classes.

My sister had been unusually quiet about Casey. They’d met a couple of times, but just brief ly. I’d only recently told her that Casey would be with us until she’d f inished summer school. Margaret’s reaction was to roll her eyes.

“I ordered us a Reuben,” I said to Casey, sitting down with her.

“As you can see, they’re huge. I f igured we could split one.”

I’d left a knitting instruction book, a pair of size ten needles and a bright variegated skein of worsted weight yarn on the table for her, as well. It’s been my experience that it’s easier to pick up knitting basics when you’re using larger needles and a thicker yarn.

“What’s in a Reuben?” Casey asked, eyeing the sandwich suspiciously.

I set her half on a paper plate and slid it across the table.

“Corned beef and mustard, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut,” I answered.

Casey studied it; her nose wrinkled as if she wasn’t sure she was going to like this. “How do they get the corn in the beef ?”

“There isn’t any corn as far as I know.” Funny, I’d never stopped to wonder where the name had come from.

“And who’s this Reuben guy?”

“That I don’t know, either,” I told her. “But whoever he is, he invented a wonderful sandwich.” I reached for my half and took the f irst bite. It was just as tasty as I remembered. I opened the bag of potato chips and emptied them out on a spare plate, then poured a large bottle of iced tea into two glasses.

“Go ahead and give it a try,” I urged Casey, who seemed to do nothing more than stare at it.

She picked up her sandwich and tentatively took one small bite. Her eyes brightened. “Hey, this is good.”

“Told you so.”

By this time I’d eaten nearly half of mine. Still, Casey was f inished before me.

“That was really good.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

I collected our paper plates and stuffed them in the recycling bin. “Ready for your f irst knitting lesson?”

Casey nodded.

I pushed yarn and needles toward her and sat in the adjoining chair. “How’d school go today?” I asked, making conversation as I delved into the center of the skein, searching for the beginning strand.

“I got an A on my homework.”

I paused to say, “Casey, that’s fantastic!” I’d located the strand I wanted and tugged it free.

Predictably, she shrugged at my compliment, but I knew she was pleased. Once Brad heard the news, he would be, too. I was proud of them both. Proud of Brad because he’d offered his help, been repeatedly rejected and yet tried again. And proud of Casey, too, because she’d been willing to admit she needed help. I had to show her how to cast on two or three times. She couldn’t seem to grasp the technique. In the end I simply did it for her. Unfortunately, things didn’t go any more smoothly when it came to learning the basic knit stitch. To her credit, Casey did try. I could see she was becoming frustrated, so I told her about other people I’d taught to knit.