Blossom Street. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
and helpful; what seemed like a fair financial arrangement had been settled upon. Grant refinanced the house for the third time and paid off their cars and their credit card bills with whatever equity he could extract, so they were both essentially debt-free. He was instructed to pay alimony for two years, plus child support until the children were out of high school. They would share college expenses. He hadn’t been late with a check yet, but then the state made sure of that. Bethanne would have to find a job soon, but for a dozen different reasons, she delayed.
It was now six months after the divorce had been finalized, and the fog was only starting to clear. She told herself she had to live one day at a time as she learned to deal with what her family and friends called her “new reality.” The problem was, she preferred her old reality….
Bethanne sipped her tea, which had begun to cool. She was startled from her thoughts when the door off the kitchen banged open and sixteen-year-old Annie came in, red-faced and sweating. Tendrils of wet hair pressed against the sides of her face. She wore a halter top and spandex shorts, and had apparently been out for a lengthy run. Because Annie had always felt close to her father, she’d taken the divorce particularly hard. Soon after Grant moved out, Annie had started running and would often go five and even ten miles a day. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the only change in her daughter’s behavior. The new friends she’d acquired were a bigger concern.
Bethanne worried endlessly about Annie and the company she kept. The girl’s anger was focused on Tiffany, and Bethanne suspected that Annie’s new friends encouraged her more outrageous acts. While Bethanne was no fan of the other woman, whom she’d discovered to be fifteen years younger than her ex, she was afraid Annie might do something stupid in her zeal to retaliate against Tiffany, something that would involve the police.
Andrew had talked to Bethanne several times about various things he’d learned Annie had done. These included signing Tiffany up for magazine subscriptions, leaving her name and number with sales staff and scheduling appointments, all in Tiffany’s name. However, Annie remained scornfully silent whenever Bethanne tried to bring up the subject.
“You didn’t leave me a note,” Bethanne chastised mildly as Annie walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold bottle of water.
“Sorry,” the girl mumbled unapologetically. She twisted off the lid, leaned back her head and gulped down half the contents. “I figured you’d know. I run every day.”
Bethanne did know, but that was beside the point.
“How’d it go at the employment agency?” her daughter asked.
Bethanne sighed, wishing Annie hadn’t mentioned it. “Not good.” She’d known this job search would be difficult, but she’d had no idea how truly painful the process would be. “When I told the interviewer about my baking skills, he didn’t seem overly impressed.”
“You should work in a bakery.”
Bethanne had already considered that, but being around food for eight hours a day didn’t appeal to her.
“Andrew and I were the envy of all our friends.” Annie sounded almost nostalgic. “We had the best birthday parties and birthday cakes of anyone.”
“I used to organize great scavenger hunts too, but there’s little call for that these days.”
“Oh, Mom.” She rolled her eyes as she spoke.
“I’ll look seriously once the summer is over.”
“You keep putting it off,” Annie chided.
Her daughter was right, but after all these years outside the job market, Bethanne didn’t think she possessed any saleable skills. She was terrified that she’d end up at a grocery store asking people if they wanted paper or plastic for the rest of her life.
“I was thinking of selling cosmetics,” she said tentatively, glancing at Annie for a reaction. “I could set my own hours and—”
“Mom!” Her daughter glared at her. “That’s pathetic.”
“Lots of women make a very nice income from it, and—”
“Selling cosmetics is fine for someone else, but not you. You’re great at lots of things, but you’d make a terrible salesperson and we both know it. There’s got to be something you can do. Where’s your pride?”
For the last sixteen months it’d been swirling in the bottom of a toilet bowl. “I’d hate an office job,” Bethanne said. She wasn’t convinced she could ever adjust to a nine-to-five routine.
“You should do something just for you,” Annie insisted. “I’m not even talking about a job.”
Everyone Bethanne knew, including the counsellor she’d briefly seen, had told her the same thing. “When did you get so smart?” she teased.
“Isn’t there anything you’d like to do just for fun?”
Bethanne shrugged. “You’ll laugh and tell me it’s pathetic.”
“What?”
She sighed, reluctant to say anything. “I saw a yarn store the other day and was thinking how much I’d like to knit again. It’s been years. I made you a baby blanket, remember?”
“Mom,” Annie cried, flinching as though Bethanne had embarrassed her. “Of course I remember it. I slept with that yellow blankie until I was ten.”
“I used to enjoy knitting, but that was years ago.”
The front door opened, then slammed shut. Andrew, coming home from his part-time job at the local Safeway. He entered the kitchen, shucking off his backpack, and without a word to either of them, opened the fridge and stared inside. Apparently nothing interested him more than a soda, which he removed. He closed the door, leaning against it, and frowned at them.
“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from Bethanne to his younger sister.
“Mom’s talking about wanting to knit again,” Annie said.
“It’s only something I’m thinking about,” Bethanne rushed to add.
“You can do it,” Annie told her firmly.
“Yeah,” Andrew agreed and popped the top of his soda.
But Bethanne wasn’t sure she could. It all seemed to require too much energy—finding a job, organizing her life, even knitting. “Maybe I will,” she murmured tentatively.
“You’re not putting this off the way you have everything else.” Annie opened the pantry door and pulled out the Yellow Pages. “Where was that yarn shop?”
Bethanne bit her lower lip. “Blossom Street.”
“Do you remember the name of it?” Andrew asked.
Annie flipped to the back of the massive directory.
“No, but listen—”
With her finger on the page, Annie looked up, eyes flashing with determination. “Found it.” She smiled triumphantly at her brother, scooped up the phone and punched out the number before Bethanne could protest. When she’d finished, Annie handed the receiver to her mother.
A woman answered. “A Good Yarn,” she said in a friendly voice. “How may I help you?”
“Ah, hello … my name is Bethanne Hamlin. I guess my name doesn’t matter, but, well, I was wondering if you still offer knitting classes.” She paused to take a breath. “I used to knit years ago,” she went on, “but it’s been a very long time. Perhaps it’d be better if I visited the store.” Bethanne’s gaze rose to meet her daughter’s.
“Give me the phone,” Annie demanded and without waiting for a response, grabbed it from her.
“Yes, that sounds great. Sign her up,” Annie ordered. She reached for a pad and paper and wrote