Summer on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #6)(77)

Her answer was a noncommittal shrug.

“Is that a yes or a no?” I asked, my patience growing thin. She glared up at me. “I guess.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I was willing to assume she wanted to go to work with me. “There’s a new shipment of yarn that needs to be priced.” One thing I could count on was Casey’s interest in collecting a paycheck. Other than those mishaps early on, she’d done a fairly good job at every task I’d given her.

“Will Margaret be there?” she asked.

It was the f irst real sentence Casey had uttered all morning.

“Yes. And Brad will stop by after work to take you home.”

She shrugged again, which appeared to be her universal response this morning.

It took me a moment to realize why she’d asked about Margaret.

“You can bring your crocheting if you want,” I said, wanting her to know I’d paid attention.

She lifted one shoulder halfheartedly.

As far as breakfast-table conversation went, that was it. Unaware of the tension between Casey and me, Cody chattered away at astounding speed. I could hardly keep up with the rapid switching of subjects, but fortunately all he required was an occasional

“Wow” or “Really?”

The three of us left the house and I dropped Cody off at the day camp. There was a f ield trip for his age group today—to the aquarium—and that was his very favorite activity. Casey remained silent as I continued on to the store. I worked hard at remembering what Alix had told me about the years she herself had spent in foster care. She’d had varied experiences, some good, some bad. She’d said that Casey was probably afraid to let anyone know what she enjoyed, as though she wasn’t allowed to have any fun. At this point it was diff icult to say that Casey took much pleasure in anything—with the one exception of our day at Green Lake.

When I pulled up at the church, Cody leaped out of the car and ran toward his friends without a backward glance. He used to kiss my cheek, but that had changed this summer. He no longer considered it “cool” to show me affection in front of his friends. I missed his goodbye hugs, but I understood. Cody was growing up.

I must have smiled because Casey gave me an odd look.

“What’s so funny?”

“Cody,” I said, and explained why.

For just an instant I thought Casey might’ve been amused. I’d been waiting for her to lower her guard. For the past two days I’d been tiptoeing around the issue of her discontent and now I decided to confront it.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” I asked as gently as I could.

She turned to me as if to gauge the sincerity of my question.

“I’d thought—hoped, really—that you’ve enjoyed your time with our family.”

The shrug was back, and Casey kept her gaze directly ahead of her. “It’s okay.”

“Okay!” I echoed in mock outrage.

Casey actually grinned. “If you must know, staying with you has been better than most summers.”

Admitting that was quite a concession on her part. “That’s more like it,” I said.

Casey’s mood seemed to improve once we got to the yarn store. I wanted to tell her that being there had the same effect on me. I could be angry or depressed or just plain tired. Yet the moment I entered my store, whatever was pressing on my heart instantly lifted.

The only other place I felt that same serenity was inside a church. But a yarn store? For reasons I can’t even begin to explain, my shop on Blossom Street produced in me a contentment I’d rarely found since that f irst diagnosis of cancer back when I was a teenager. As soon as I got there, so did three customers. It almost seemed as if they’d been waiting for me to turn over the Open sign, because a moment later, all three women walked in. Margaret served the f irst woman and was busy with the other two when another customer came in with a knitting problem. I immediately saw what she’d done wrong and we sat together at the back table while I explained her mistake, which was relatively easy to f ix. Using a crochet hook, I had to go down about f ifteen rows. I’m always surprised by the number of knitters who can’t bear to see someone unravel their work. This woman closed her eyes while I dropped the stitch.

After Casey had priced the new yarn and arranged it in the correct cubicles, she sat with Whiskers on her lap and stroked the cat for an hour straight. I was astonished that she could sit still for that long. Whiskers spent hours every day asleep in the front window, so this much attention was unusual. He purred with contentment; Casey’s lap had obviously become one of his favorite places.

I grabbed lunch when I could between customers, bringing back a take-out container of salad for Casey.

“I’m going for a walk,” Casey announced around two and headed out the door. She’d timed her declaration perfectly, waiting until I was busy f iguring out yardage for a sweater project for Mary Kilborn, an experienced knitter. Because I was poring over a computer program that listed the brand name and skein yardage for every company, I barely had a chance to react to her statement.

“Brad will be here at—” I didn’t get to f inish as Casey was already gone and well out of earshot.

“Never mind,” I said. Brad wouldn’t appear for another two hours and Casey would surely be back by then. As was so often the case with her, I was wrong. Brad showed up before Casey did.