The Shop on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #1)(77)

“Do you like to bake?”

Alix nodded. It was her dream to attend a cooking school and be the kind of chef who prepared fancy dinners at places like the ones Jacqueline and her husband frequented. Or maybe one day she’d have her own catering business. She didn’t talk about this often. Over the years she’d worked in a few restaurants and she loved the craziness in the kitchen. She’d tried to get on at Annie’s but the video store had offered her a job first.

“Do you have plans for Saturday night?” Jordan’s thumb stroked the back of her hand.

“Not really.”

“Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“Annie’s Café?” A meal there was as close to restaurant dining as she got.

“Not this time. How about a real three-course dinner at a fish and steak house?”

That sounded like a dress-and-panty-hose place. But the thought of turning him down didn’t so much as enter her mind. Maybe, just maybe, Jacqueline would be willing to give her a second chance at a fashion makeover.

It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

CHAPTER 37

“In knitting, as in everything else, you learn as much from your mistakes as you do from your successes.”

—Pam Allen, Editor, Interweave Press

LYDIA HOFFMAN

I suppose it sounds melodramatic to say I felt my life was over. Still, that’s exactly what I believed as I lay in the hospital bed with the sterile scents of rubbing alcohol and antiseptic wafting around me. I’ve always detested the smell of hospitals. For someone who’s spent as much time in them as I have, you might think I would’ve grown accustomed to it by now. I haven’t, though. The X-rays revealed what I’d feared most. Another tumor had formed. If there was anything to be grateful for, it was that this one was accessible through my sinus cavity, without the necessity of drilling into my skull.

The tumor was gone now and the biopsy had been completed. Unfortunately the results were inconclusive, and a tissue sample had been sent out for a second opinion. With my medical history no one was willing to take chances.

Margaret’s bouquet of carnations sat on the table at my bedside and cheered me. It was the first time my sister had ever sent me flowers. Our relationship was changing, but even her gesture of support wasn’t enough to get me through this.

In my heart I knew what was coming and I couldn’t bear it. Not again. Everything within me wanted to scream how unfair this was. Like a little girl, I wanted to jump up and down and throw a temper tantrum.

Dad’s not here to help me anymore, and the sense of abandonment I experienced was overwhelming. Irrational as it might seem, I was furious with my father for dying. I’m so angry. Angry with Dad. Angry with God. Angry at the world.

Having spent most of two days drugged for the surgery, I now found the escape of sleep unavailable. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was Brad’s face. All I heard was his voice. What kept coming to mind was the last confrontation we had, that day on the phone, when I told him I didn’t want to see him again. I made it as plain as I could that I was not interested in continuing our relationship.

He didn’t understand, of course, that I was doing him a favor and seemed bent on arguing, trying to change my mind. I regret the things I said, but I couldn’t tell him the truth, so I’d led him to believe my interests lay elsewhere.

I knew Margaret strongly disapproved of my breaking up with Brad. However, I told her this is my life and I make my own decisions. That shut her up, but I could tell she was furious. I can deal with her displeasure, though. I have dealt with it nearly all of our lives.

I don’t think she’s blamed me for the return of the cancer. I’ve tried to be grateful for that one small bit of compassion on my sister’s part. When I told her the news, she grew very solemn and told me how sorry she was.

As if my thoughts had conjured her up, Margaret stood in the doorway to my room. “I see the flowers arrived,” she said, looking ill-at-ease. She glanced around warily, as if she half expected an orderly to grab her, throw her on a gurney and wheel her off for experimental surgery.

“The flowers are very nice,” I told her. “It was a thoughtful thing to do.”

“So,” she said, tentatively stepping closer to the bed. “How did the tests go?”

I shrugged because there wasn’t anything to say. “About the same as last time.”

Margaret’s eyebrows rose in sympathy. “That bad?”

I made a genuine effort to smile, but the best I could manage was a grimace.

“Mom wanted to come….”

I nodded. My mother didn’t know the reason I’d been admitted, and I wanted to keep it that way. On reflection, if there’s anything positive about my father’s death, it’s that he went quickly. Mom wouldn’t have been able to cope with a long illness.

I suspect Margaret’s a lot like our mother, and her willingness to visit me now revealed how much our relationship had evolved over the past few months.

Once she figured it was safe to relax, Margaret pulled the visitor’s chair to the side of my bed.

“I’m glad you came,” I told her, “because there are a few things I want to discuss.”

It was as if she hadn’t heard me. “I don’t think now is a good time….”

“Please.” The tone of my voice seemed to reach her, even if my words didn’t.