The Shop on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #1)(36)

“What I remember,” Jordan said, grinning, “was that you sat next to Jimmy Burkhart.”

Alix remembered Jimmy as though it was yesterday. She’d given him a bloody nose and ended up in the principal’s office, and all because Jimmy had been teasing her about wanting to marry Jordan Turner. She and half the other girls in the sixth grade had been agog over the preacher’s son—and now, apparently, Jordan had followed in his father’s footsteps. He was a minister. Damn, wouldn’t you know it?

“I had a valentine for you.”

She stared up at him, overwhelmed by the memory of that fateful year—the year her mother had tried to kill her father.

“I brought it to school and you weren’t there and you never came back.”

Alix didn’t answer. The night before the sixth-grade Valentine party, her mother shot her father. Both had been drinking heavily and then, inevitably, a fight had broken out. Soon the police had arrived, followed by paramedics. Her mother was led away in handcuffs and because there were no relatives to take them, Alix and her brother had been shuffled off to foster homes. That night was the beginning of the end of Alix’s family life, sad as it’d been. Her mother had been sent to prison, and her father, once he was released from the hospital, drifted away, losing contact with his children. Soon she and Tom were wards of the state. With all the turmoil, Alix had never returned to Jackson Elementary…and the valentine Jordan claimed to have for her.

“So,” Jordan said, leaning closer. “I was wondering what you would’ve said if I’d asked you to be my sixth-grade valentine?”

She nearly laughed aloud. Yeah, sure. The daughter of drunks and the son of a preacher. Somehow, she didn’t think this relationship was going to last.

CHAPTER 17

“With a little practice and patience, our hands learn to knit, then our minds are free to enjoy the process.”

—Bev Galeskas, Fiber Trends

LYDIA HOFFMAN

B usiness was beginning to pick up and I was pleased. I’d sold out of most of my inventory in nearly every yarn weight. I already had my second order into my main supplier. My first beginners’ class was about to officially end. I couldn’t believe six weeks had gone by so quickly. I was thrilled that after five weeks, my three students claimed they wanted to continue, so I agreed to extend the course. Because each class member was working on a different project now, except Alix, I suggested we turn Friday afternoons into a knitting support group. That way, they could all bring in whatever they wanted to work on, and I’d be there to help them at each stage of development. Despite their differences, these three dissimilar women were becoming friends. I could see it happening. Friends with each other and my friends, too.

As for their skills as knitters, Carol’s the most adept and has started a felted hat project.

Alix and Jacqueline still struggle with the basic stitches, but Alix has limited time to knit and Jacqueline—well, Jacqueline’s attitude bothers me. She’s obviously not fond of her daughter-in-law, although she’s never spoken openly about her. Jacqueline has started eyeing other projects now and is leaning toward the pricier yarns. Alix paid for her yarn a little each week, which made it abundantly clear that this is an extravagance. Still, the group simply wouldn’t be the same without her.

Just when I was ready to close on Tuesday afternoon, I saw my sister walking across the street toward the shop. She’d only come here once before, on my first day of business. She’d taken such pride in forecasting financial disaster, but I refuse to allow her to get me down and I braced for a confrontation.

When Margaret entered the store, I knew instantly that something was wrong. She hadn’t come to spread doom and gloom or chastise me. Her face was pale and she seemed close to tears.

“Margaret, what is it?” I hurried toward her.

“I—I…” She had trouble speaking and grabbed my hand so hard I almost cried out.

“Come,” I said, steering her to the back of the store where I had the table and chairs set up for my class. “Sit down. Can I get you a glass of water?”

Margaret shook her head. I’ve never seen my sister this upset. I couldn’t imagine what had caused her distress or driven her to approach me.

“Dr. Abram’s office phoned,” she said, looking up at me as if I should be able to figure out the problem from that little bit of information. I didn’t know who Dr. Abram was. I wondered if Matt had fallen ill or been involved in some kind of accident. Another possibility loomed and filled me with dread.

“Is this about Mother?” I asked. The thought of something happening to Mom so soon after losing Dad terrified me.

“No,” she cried. “This is about me. Dr. Abram said my mammogram needs to be retaken.” She grabbed my hand again. “It seems—it seems I have a lump in my breast.” My sister stared up at me, eyes wide and fearful.

I’ll admit I was shaken by this and sat down next to her. The pressure on my hand increased when she realized I understood.

“I’m so afraid,” Margaret whispered.

“This doesn’t mean you have cancer.” I tried to sound reassuring, but it was difficult. Margaret was thinking the same thing I was. I’d already been on intimate terms with the big C. Mom and Dad had always worried that they’d passed on a genetic flaw that made us vulnerable to the disease. Two of our grandparents had died of it. When I’d first been diagnosed, Mom had insisted Margaret be thoroughly checked, as well. Everything had seemed all right then—but now…