The Shop on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #1)(91)

“At the shop.”

“It’s Monday. I thought you took Mondays off.”

“I do, but there are always a million things to do here and well, it’s where I’m most comfortable.” I did all my best thinking with walls of yarn around me. I’d always looked upon skeins of yarn as unfulfilled promises—the way some people, writers or artists, look at a blank page. The potential is there, and it’s up to us to make something with that yarn or write something on that page. It’s the sense of possibility I find so exciting.

Actually, I gave a lot of thought to that analogy. My relationship with Brad held promise and because of my fears I’d let him go. I didn’t do anything with all those possibilities.

“You’re calling about Brad, aren’t you?”

Sometimes Margaret seems like a mind-reader. “If you must know…yes. Have you heard from him?”

“Me? What makes you think he’d contact me?”

“Wishful thinking, I suppose.” Even over the telephone line, I could tell my sister was amused by my question.

“Are you going to call him?”

The idea had been swirling around inside my head all week. “I might.”

“Then why are you calling me?” The gruffness I’d experienced so often with her was back in full force.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe because I was hoping you’d tell me I was doing the right thing and that I wouldn’t make a complete idiot of myself in the process.”

Margaret hesitated for only a moment. “If I were you, I’d go for it.”

“You would?” Hope sprang to life.

“Call me back once you do, okay?”

“Okay.” I had to pause to be sure the warmth in her voice was directed at me. “Margaret.” I swallowed, finding it difficult to continue.

“What?”

“I wanted to thank you for being so wonderful these last few months.”

My gratitude must have taken her aback, because she didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Time seemed to be suspended and then I thought I heard a soft sigh.

“It’s very nice to have a sister, you know,” she whispered.

I couldn’t have agreed with her more.

Once I’d determined that the only thing to do was call Brad, I was on a mission. I’d rehearsed several approaches before I dialed his home number later that evening.

His son answered on the second ring. “Hello, Cody,” I said.

“Hi.” He sounded unsure as if he didn’t recognize my voice.

“I’m Lydia. Remember? We met a little while ago.”

“I remember! You’re the lady who owns the yarn store. You said you were going to knit me a cool sweater with a green-and-yellow dinosaur on it.”

I smiled to myself. “I’ve already started it.” I’d put the project aside when I went into the hospital, but with concentrated effort, I could have it finished by the end of the week. “Is your dad home?”

“Just a minute. I’ll get him for you.”

My heart died a hundred deaths in the time it took Brad to pick up the receiver. It must’ve been less than a minute but it seemed closer to an hour before I heard his familiar voice.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” My mouth was so dry, my tongue refused to cooperate. “It’s Lydia.” His silence was nearly my undoing, but I forged ahead, simultaneously blessing and cursing Margaret for encouraging this.

“What can I do for you?” he finally asked.

“Could we meet and talk?” I asked.

“When?”

“Whenever it’s convenient for you.” I wanted to shout the sooner, the better, but it depended on his schedule and not mine.

“All right. I’ll let you know when I can arrange it.”

I waited for him to say something else and when he didn’t, I had no choice but to end the conversation. “I’ll wait to hear from you, then.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” The line went dead and I was left standing with the receiver in my hand and the dial tone in my ear.

This was much worse than I’d imagined. I’d secretly hoped that once Brad heard the sound of my voice, he’d be so pleased that whatever pain I’d caused him would evaporate. How foolish I’d been not to consider his feelings.

Over the years Margaret’s complaint about me had been that I was self-absorbed. I know she resented the fact that Mom and Dad focused their attention on helping me through my ordeals. I’d always believed that her accusations were unfair, based on her own jealousies and insecurities, but now I began to see things differently.

How cheated she must have felt. Cheated and abandoned. For the first time, I wondered if she could be right about me. I couldn’t have done anything about my cancer, but I could’ve changed my reaction to it. I had the victim mentality down to an art form.

I remained standing in my kitchen, toying with the idea of calling Margaret again, when the phone rang, startling me. I grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“I can meet you in half an hour at The Pour House.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” he said as if that should be obvious.

“All right.” The phone clicked as he hung up.