Blossom Street (Books 1-10). Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
“No, thanks. I bought a case at Costco my last visit. I’ve got enough popcorn to last me for the next ten years.”
She rested her elbows on the counter, feeling awkward and a bit embarrassed. She had no idea what to say, what to ask. If she mentioned the Jordan Turner from sixth grade, it would sound like a pick-up line. “Uh, any other movies you want me to put aside for you?” That wasn’t exactly a scintillating question but at least it made sense.
He shrugged. “Can’t think of any at the moment, but if I do I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.”
With a nod, Jordan left. The glass door closed and as if by magic Laurel appeared. “What did he want?”
“A movie, what else?”
“How come he only wanted you to help him?”
Alix didn’t feel inclined to go into the details. “How am I supposed to know that?”
“There’s no need to get all snappy with me.”
The door chimed and to Alix’s astonishment, Jordan stuck his head inside. “Alix, what time do you get off work?”
She was too shocked to answer immediately. “Eleven. I close three nights a week.”
“Do you close tomorrow?”
“No. I’m here until nine on Wednesdays.”
“Do you want to meet for coffee then? After work?”
“Ah …” She found it hard to believe he was actually asking her out. Well, sort of out. “Yeah, I guess,” she said as if it wasn’t any big deal.
“Great, I’ll see you then.” He waved and was gone.
A bubble of happiness rose up inside her. It demanded every ounce of restraint she possessed not to stamp her feet with joy.
13
CHAPTER
“Knitting—my Amazing Grace.”
—Nancie M. Wiseman, Editor, Cast On magazine and author of Classic Knitted Vests and The Knitter’s Book of Finishing Techniques
LYDIA HOFFMAN
My mother phoned me early in the week to suggest she, Margaret and I go out to the cemetery together on Memorial Day to visit my father’s grave. It had only been a few months since we laid Daddy to rest. These were difficult days for Mom as she had yet to find her footing as a widow.
I readily agreed to join her, but I wondered about Margaret’s response. She’d managed to manipulate the situation so we didn’t see each other on Mother’s Day. At every family function, my sister acts prickly and standoffish. It seems she’d prefer to forget we have the same parents. More than once, the thought has passed through my mind that Margaret would rather I was the one who’d died instead of our father. That isn’t a pleasant notion to entertain, but given her attitude, I feel it’s true. Yet I continue to try. Some perverse part of me refuses to let go. She’s my sister. Having been so close to death, I feel that even though we might not like each other, we need each other.
I arrived at my mother’s place early Monday afternoon and found Mom sipping tea on the back patio near her garden. She’d dressed in her long black skirt and silk blouse and sat in the wicker chair, enjoying the sunshine.
The roses were trimmed and budding, and the sweet aroma of the lilac bush scented the air. I could see from the linen hankie clutched in her hands that Mom had been weeping.
I moved beside her, wordlessly pressing my hand to her shoulder. She glanced up and managed a teary smile before she laid her hand over mine and gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. “I still miss him, you know.”
“Me, too,” I whispered, emotion choking my voice.
“Dad would be upset to see us so maudlin. It’s such a lovely day and soon I’ll have both my daughters with me. How can I possibly be sad?” She reached for the teapot and I realized she’d brought out a second cup, expecting me to join her. Without asking she poured and I sat down beside her.
We chatted a bit. Mom was full of questions about A Good Yarn, my beginning class and the three women who’d signed up. I mentioned Jacqueline, Carol and Alix frequently and talked to her about my other customers, too. Slowly, one by one, I was building my clientele and perhaps just as importantly, I was making friends. My world expanded a little more with each day and I was happy. Whiskers was, too, and has taken to spending time in the shop, often sunning himself in the front window. My cat’s become a real conversation starter, and charms my customers no end. He accepts all the attention as his due.
Because of the holiday weekend, my beginners’ class decided to skip the previous Friday. Jacqueline and Carol were both going out of town. Alix didn’t divulge her plans, but I suspected she didn’t have much opportunity to get out of the city.
I was pleased with the progress each woman had made. I’d had a bit of a challenge talking Jacqueline into staying in the class. She’d planned to quit before the third session, but I convinced her to keep at it. I had the feeling she wanted me to change her mind and I’m glad I did. There’d been a couple of rough moments when Alix dropped a stitch during the second class and let loose with a blue streak that nearly put Jacqueline in a coma. Immediately I suggested Alix find an alternative method of expressing her frustration. To my surprise, she apologized and my appreciation for her increased. Alix isn’t so bad once you get to know her.
Carol’s my star pupil, already half done with the baby blanket, and eyeing other projects. She’s been coming by the shop at least twice a week, often staying to chat. Whiskers sat in her lap a couple of times, just to show he approves of my choice of a friend.
Mom loves hearing stories about my customers. We talk nearly every day. She needs that and frankly, so do I. I might be thirty years old but a girl never outgrows her need for her mother.
“Margaret and the girls will be here at one,” Mom said conversationally, but I wasn’t fooled. She was giving me fair warning. She set her china cup in the saucer and rested her hands in her lap. My mother possesses a natural grace I envy. Margaret’s a great deal like her in that regard.
I’m not sure how to describe my mother. One might well assume she’s as fragile as she looks, but that’s not the case. She’s strong in ways I can only admire. She was a fierce advocate for me in dealing with the doctors and the insurance company during my bouts with cancer. She’s loving and generous and constantly tries to meet the needs of others. Her one drawback is in coping with sickness. She couldn’t bear to see me—or anyone else—suffer and tended to simply withdraw. Fortunately, Dad was always there for me.
“Are Julia and Hailey coming with Margaret?” I asked. My two nieces are a source of wonder to me. The likelihood of my ever bearing children was slim to none, so my sister’s daughters hold an important place in my heart. Margaret seemed to sense this and, for whatever reason, jealously guarded her daughters, keeping them away from me as much as possible.
Julia and Hailey, however, recognized my genuine affection and much to Margaret’s consternation, loved me unabashedly. Their undiluted joy at every chance encounter rankled Margaret so much that she did whatever she could to block my access to my nieces.
“Grandma!” Nine-year-old Hailey loped into the backyard, her arms extended. When she saw me, she squealed with delight and after hugging my mother, vaulted into my arms, nearly strangling me in her enthusiasm.
Fourteen-year-old Julia was a bit more restrained, but her eyes revealed her pleasure at seeing me. I stretched out my free arm to her and when she stepped toward me, we clasped hands and I squeezed her fingers. How tall Julia had grown, more woman than child now, and such a beauty. My heart swelled with pride at the sight of her.
“Aunt Lydia, will you teach me how to knit?” Hailey begged, still clinging to me.
I