Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(54)

“Does everyone have as much trouble as I’m having?” she asked. She bit her lip as she clutched the two needles. At one stage she held one needle under her arm as she wove the yarn around the tip of the other.

“Some do,” I said.

Margaret wandered by and threw me a look I recognized from our childhood. It said I should have my sanity checked. Maybe so, but I wasn’t willing to abandon hope yet. Soon my nerves were frayed to the breaking point. Unfortunately, Casey’s were, too. When the needle slipped out of her grasp and clattered onto the f loor, Casey bolted upright and threw down the entire project.

“I can’t do this!” she yelled.

“Casey.”

“I hate knitting. I don’t want to do it.”

I longed to reassure her, to remind her that knitting came more quickly to some than it did to others. I didn’t want her to give up so easily. Apparently I hadn’t relayed that message effectively enough.

“You don’t have to learn to knit if you don’t want,” I f inally said.

“I don’t. It’s stupid.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but realized there was no point. Picking up the yarn and needles, I set them back on the table. I was disappointed, although I made an effort not to show it.

“Would you like to read?” I asked, thinking I’d send Casey down to Blossom Street Books and let her choose a novel. Otherwise, I didn’t know how I’d keep her entertained for the rest of the afternoon.

“No,” she said f latly.

“So what would you like to do?”

Casey looked bored. “Do you have a TV?”

“Sorry, no.”

The bell above the door chimed and Jacqueline Donovan, a good friend of mine, walked in. Jacqueline and Reese, her architect husband, had taken a cruise to Hawaii and they’d just returned. I was eager to see her, so I left Casey to her own devices for a few minutes.

“Jacqueline!” I said, hurrying toward her with my hands out.

“You’re back. Did you have a fabulous trip?”

“It was incredible. You and Brad should take a cruise sometime.”

I’d love that; unfortunately I couldn’t see it happening in the near future, especially if we were adding a baby to our family. As she headed toward the yarn displays, Jacqueline burbled with all kinds of stories. She’d read a knitting magazine on the plane and decided she had to knit this wonderfully intricate vest for Reese. She examined an expensive hand-dyed alpaca yarn, choosing a lovely deep brown shade. I rang up her purchase. When we’d said goodbye, with promises to see each other soon, I walked back to the table. To my astonishment, Margaret was sitting with Casey.

The two of them were crocheting.

Not knitting, crocheting.

Casey glanced up at me and broke into a smile. “This is fun,”

she said.

“Fun,” I repeated, struck nearly speechless.

“I can do this.”

“She’s crocheting a washcloth.” Righteousness rang in my sister’s tone. “Look at her work, Lydia. The girl’s a natural.”

I wanted to wipe that grin off Margaret’s face, which wasn’t very generous of me. The thing is, she’d succeeded where I’d failed. Casey was relaxed, conf ident and actually enjoying herself.

“At the rate she’s going,” Margaret said, “she’ll have it done before we close up shop.”

“I’m impressed,” I told them both. I meant it. The bell above the door chimed again, and I left to greet my customer. As I turned away, an unexpected feeling of happiness came over me. Who would’ve guessed that my sister, not me, would be the one to reach Casey?

My f irst instinct had been a twinge of jealousy; however, that quickly passed. Margaret, so judgmental and disapproving of Casey, had been patient enough to teach the girl crocheting. I was grateful for her kindness.

Maybe there was hope for all of us—Casey, Margaret and me

Chapter 19

“Hutch” Hutchinson

Hutch was already at the table with Alix, Margaret and Lydia when Phoebe arrived. He’d come ten minutes early, and it wasn’t the thrill of learning a new pattern that had enticed him to leave his off ice ahead of schedule. It was the thrill of falling for Phoebe Rylander. At quarter past six, Hutch discovered that he’d checked his watch no fewer than ten times when Phoebe burst through the door, breathless and f lushed.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, hurrying to the back of the store. The spot next to him was empty. Hutch had arranged it by placing his briefcase on the chair until she showed up. Then, and only then, did he conveniently remove it.

Phoebe pulled out the chair and sent him a f leeting grin as she sat down, breathing hard. He wondered if something had happened and hoped she’d tell him. They’d planned to go for coffee after class.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything,” Lydia assured her.

“We’ve just started.”

“Oh, good.” Phoebe removed her knitting from the bag she carried, still a little out of breath.

Phoebe must’ve run the entire way from the clinic to Blossom Street, a distance of several blocks. He should know; after the past two classes, he’d walked her to the garage where she parked her car.

“So, how’s everyone doing?” Lydia asked.