Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(68)

“I do,” Barbie insisted. “Ellen would have the mother who loves her and her biological father. This couldn’t have worked out better if you’d planned it.”

“But I didn’t,” Anne Marie said wryly.

“And that’s why it’s so perfect. Promise me one thing.”

“Okay.”

“Promise you’ll tell me everything when you come to pick up Ellen on Friday night. Oh—and I want to meet him soon.”

A few minutes later, Anne Marie put the phone down, wearing a huge grin. Despite Barbie’s optimism, she hoped she wasn’t counting on too much—and at the same time she felt encouraged by Tim’s dinner invitation. She sensed he was attracted to her, just as she was to him. In fact, she found herself thinking about him far too often, thinking about the two of them—and their daughter.

Her biggest fear was that she might be setting herself up for a major disappointment, one that would hurt Ellen, too.

Chapter 24

After thirty years in the courtroom telling yarns, I started to learn how to make it. The biggest revelation was that yarn, like society, is only held together by friction—and then only loosely.

—Cecil Miskin, owner, Buffalo Gold, www.buffalogold.net Lydia Goetz

“Casey!” Cody shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Phone!”

Casey stuck her head out her bedroom door. “I got a phone call?” she asked, sounding more than a little surprised. In the month and a half Casey had been living with us, she hadn’t received a single call. When I’d asked her about this, she’d shrugged off the question, answering it with one of her own.

“Why make friends when I’ll be moving at the end of the summer anyway?”

That left me with another question, which I didn’t ask. According to Evelyn Boyle, Casey had attended school in this neighborhood for most of the school year. Did Casey actually mean she hadn’t made a single friend in that whole time? Of course it might just be that none of her school friends were part of the summer program. But then why didn’t she keep in touch with them? It didn’t seem natural to purposely avoid friends, even short-term ones. I’d made friends at summer camp while I was growing up and on vacation with my family. Some of those friendships had been brief, but they’d almost all left me with pleasant memories.

I’d noticed how reticent Casey was about opening up to others. That explained why it’d taken weeks for her to come outside her bedroom for anything other than meals. She liked the three of us, I could tell, and she enjoyed learning and doing new things. Brad and I had grown attached to her. In fact, we’d gone so far as to discuss taking her on as our foster daughter, but Evelyn had already made arrangements with a good family. Twice now, Casey had come to the yarn store and worked for me. Well, maybe worked was a slight overstatement. She wanted to help, so I let her put price tags on skeins of yarn and restock the shelves. Despite a few mistakes, I paid her. Within half an hour, she’d blown that f irst twenty dollars, buying a cover for an iPod she didn’t have. She managed to hold on to the second twenty a bit longer. Two hours, I’d say. Casey seemed to be doing better in her classes, too. I’m convinced that was due to Brad, who’d begun to check her homework every night. He showed limitless patience as he sat with her and explained fractions. The concept was hard for Casey to grasp. She seemed reassured when I told her I’d had a diff icult time with fractions, too. For her, the breakthrough came while she was baking a cake. I’d picked up a variety of mixes, which she made at least twice a week. We’d eaten more cake since her arrival than in the previous two years.

She was mixing a cake when Brad pointed out that she didn’t need to pour in the water and oil separately if she could f igure out how to add a cup and a quarter of water to a third of a cup of oil in the same measuring container. The two of them worked it out together. That practical lesson in fractions led to understanding, and for the f irst time she seemed to actually get it. I was still waiting for Casey to come to the phone. “Who is it?” she called out.

“I don’t know,” Cody yelled. “It’s a boy.”

I smiled. Now, this was an intriguing development. As if she had no interest in answering the phone, Casey came slowly out of her bedroom and shuff led down the hall. I was knitting in the living room, while Brad read the paper—

typical after-dinner activities, in other words. I didn’t listen in on Casey’s phone call, but I was relieved to know she was making friends.

The conversation ended after less than five minutes. I was jolted when she banged down the receiver and raced back to her bedroom. She slammed the door so hard I swear it shook the whole house. Brad glanced up from the paper. “What was that all about?”

“I have no idea, but I think I should f ind out.”

His nod told me he agreed.

I gave Casey ten minutes to cool down, then knocked politely on her bedroom door.

She ignored me.

“Casey?” I called. “What’s wrong?” I knew better than to ask if anything was wrong. From experience I realized she’d deny it. No answer.

Tentatively I opened the door and stepped inside to see her sprawled on the bed, face buried in her arms. She wasn’t crying or showing any other sign of distress. But then, I’d never seen Casey cry.

I stood by the edge of the bed and gently stroked her hair. She shook off my hand.