Summer on Blossom Street Read online

  I heard the back door close and turned to see my sister, Margaret. She’s worked with me almost from the first day I opened the shop. Although we’re as different as any two sisters could be, we’ve become close. Margaret is a good balance for me, ever practical and pragmatic, and I think I balance her, too, since I’m much more optimistic and given to occasional whimsy.

  “Good morning!” I greeted her cheerfully, unable to disguise my happiness.

  “It’s going to pour,” she muttered, taking off her raincoat and hanging it in the back storeroom.

  My sister tends to see the negative. The glass would always be half-empty to Margaret. Or completely empty—if not shattered on the floor. Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to her attitude and simply ignore it.

  When she’d finished removing her coat, Margaret stared at me, then frowned. “Why are you so happy?” she demanded. “Anybody can see we’re about to have a downpour.”

  “Me? Happy?” There wasn’t much point in trying to hold back my news, even though I knew Margaret was the one person who wouldn’t understand my pleasure. She’d disapprove and would have no qualms about imparting her opinion. It’s her pessimistic nature, I suppose, and the fact that she worries about me, although she’d never admit that.

  Margaret continued to glare. “You’re grinning from ear to ear.”

  I made busy work at the cash register in order to avoid eye contact. I might as well tell her, although I dreaded her response. “Brad and I have applied for adoption,” I blurted out, unable to stop myself. “And our application’s been accepted.”

  A startled silence followed.

  “I know you think we’re making a mistake,” I rushed to add.

  “I didn’t say that.” Margaret walked slowly toward me.

  “You didn’t need to say anything,” I told her. Just once I wanted Margaret to be happy for me, without doubts and objections and concerns. “Your silence said it all.”

  Margaret joined me at the counter next to the cash register. She seemed to sense that her reaction had hurt me. “I’m only wondering if adoption’s a wise choice for you.”

  “Margaret,” I began, sighing as I spoke. “Brad and I know what we’re doing.” Although Margaret hadn’t said it openly, I could guess what concerned her most. She was afraid the cancer would return. I’m well aware of the possibility and have been ever since its recurrence ten years ago. It was a serious consideration and one that neither Brad nor I took lightly.

  “Brad agrees?” My sister sounded skeptical.

  “Of course he agrees! I’d never go against his wishes.”

  Margaret still didn’t look convinced. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes.” I was adamant. Sometimes that’s the only way to reach her. “Brad knows the risks as well as I do. You don’t need to spell it out, Margaret. I understand why you’re afraid for me, but I’m through with living in fear.”

  Margaret’s eyes revealed her apprehensions. She studied me and after a moment asked, “What if the adoption agency doesn’t find you a child?”

  This was something Brad and I had discussed and it could certainly happen. I shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. We’ll take the chance.”

  “You want an infant?”

  “Yes.” I pictured a newborn, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, gently placed in my waiting arms. I held on to the image, allowing it to bring me comfort, to fill me with hope.

  To my surprise Margaret didn’t immediately voice another objection. After a thoughtful minute or two, she said in low tones, “You’d be a good mother…you already are.”

  I’m sure my jaw fell open. The shock of Margaret’s endorsement was almost more than I could take in. This was as close as Margaret had ever come to bestowing her approval on anything regarding my personal life. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d been partially responsible for Brad and me getting back together when I’d pushed him away—a reconciliation that led directly to our marriage.

  “Thank you,” I whispered and touched her arm.

  Margaret made some gruff, unintelligible reply and moved to the table at the back of the store. She pulled out a chair, sat down and took out her crocheting.

  “I put up the poster you made for our new class,” I told her, doing my best to conceal the emotion that crept into my voice. The last thing I’d expected from Margaret had been her blessing, and I was deeply touched by her words.

  She acknowledged my comment with a nod.

  The idea for our new knitting class had been Margaret’s. “Knit to Quit,” she called it, and I loved her suggestion. Since opening the yarn store five years earlier, I’d noticed how many different reasons my customers—mostly women but also a few men—had for learning to knit. Some came looking for a distraction or an escape, a focus to take their minds off some habit or preoccupation. Others were there because of a passion for the craft and still others hoped to express their love or creativity—or both—with something handmade.

  Four years ago, Courtney Pulanski, a high school girl, had signed up for my sock-knitting class, which contributed to her successful attempt to lose weight. Hard to believe Courtney was a college senior now and still a knitter. More importantly, she’d kept off the weight she lost that summer.

  “I hope Alix takes the hint,” Margaret said, cutting into my thoughts.

  I missed the connection. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Alix is smoking again.”

  It wasn’t as if I’d missed that. She smelled of cigarettes every time she walked into the store. There was no disguising the way smoke clung to her clothes and her hair. And yet Alix seemed to think no one noticed, although of course everyone did.

  “My guess is she’d like to quit.”

  “Then she should sign up for the class,” Margaret said emphatically. “She could use it.”

  How typical of Margaret to feel she knew what was best for everyone. Currently, though, I was more amused than annoyed by her take-charge attitude.

  My first customer of the morning—a woman I’d never met before—stepped into the shop and fifteen minutes later, I rang up a hundred-dollar yarn sale. A promising start to the day.

  As soon as the door closed, Margaret set aside her project, an afghan for our mother who resides at a nearby assisted-living complex. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

  “Happen with what?” I asked.

  “This adoption thing.”

  I froze. I should’ve known Margaret wouldn’t leave the subject alone. At least not until she’d cast a net of dire predictions. I understood that this impulse was one she couldn’t resist, just as I understood that it was motivated by her protectiveness toward me. But I didn’t need to hear it right now.

  “What’s that?” I asked, hoping my irritation didn’t show.

  “Have you talked to a social worker yet?”

  “Well, of course.” I’d spoken to Anne Marie, and she’d recommended Evelyn Boyle, the social worker who’d been assigned to Ellen and had handled her adoption. Anne Marie and Ellen fit so perfectly together that their story had inspired me to look beyond my fears. So Brad and I had approached Evelyn.

  Margaret shook her head, which annoyed me even more.

  “Anne Marie gave me the phone number of the woman who helped her adopt Ellen,” I said.

  Margaret’s brows came together in consternation and she tightened her lips.

  “What now?” I asked, trying to remain calm.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

  “Why not? It’s too late anyway.”

  “This social worker deals with foster kids, right?”

  “I guess so.” I knew so, but didn’t see how that was relevant. “Why should it matter?”

  My sister rolled her eyes, as though it should be obvious. “Because she’s got children in her case files,” Margaret said with exaggerated patience. “She probably has lots of kids and nowhere to place them. Mark my words, she’ll find a reason to leave some
needy child with you. And not a baby, either.”

  “Margaret,” I said pointedly, “Brad and I are going to adopt an infant. This social worker, Evelyn, is helping us through the process, nothing more.”

  Margaret didn’t respond for several minutes. Just when it seemed she was prepared to drop the subject, she added, “Finding an infant might not be that easy.”

  “Perhaps not,” I agreed, unwilling to argue. “We’ll have to wait and see what the adoption agency has to say.”

  “It might be expensive, what with lawyers and everything.”

  “Brad and I will cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Margaret looked away, frowning slightly, as if she needed to consider every negative aspect of this process. “There are private adoption agencies, too, you know.”

  I did know about them, but it made better financial sense to approach the state agency first.

  “What about adopting from outside the country?”

  Margaret was apparently trying to be helpful, but I wasn’t convinced I should let down my guard.

  “We’re holding that in reserve,” I said.

  “I hear it’s even more expensive than private adoptions.”

  “Yes, well, it’s another option to investigate….”

  Margaret’s shoulders rose in a deep sigh. “Are you going to tell Mom?”

  With our mother’s fragile health and declining mental condition it wasn’t something I’d considered doing. “Probably not…”

  Margaret nodded, her mouth a tight line.

  “Mom has a hard enough time remembering that Cody’s my stepson,” I reminded her. On our last visit she’d asked copious questions about the “young man” I’d brought with me.

  My sister swallowed visibly. “Mom didn’t recognize Julia when we went to see her a few days ago.”

  I felt a jolt of pain—for Margaret, for her daughter, Julia, for Mom. This was the first time Margaret had mentioned it. Our mother’s mental state had declined rapidly over the past two years and I suspected that in a little while she wouldn’t recognize me anymore, either. Margaret and I shared responsibility for checking in on her and making sure she was well and contented. These days my sister and I had taken over the parental role, looking after our mother.

  I could pinpoint exactly when that role reversal had taken place. It’d been the day Mom’s neighbor found her unconscious in the garden. She’d collapsed while watering her flowers. Everything had changed from that moment on.

  Our mother had ceased to be the woman we’d always known. Living in a care facility now, she was increasingly confused and uncertain. It broke my heart to see Mom struggling so hard to hide her bewilderment at what was happening to her.

  “Mom will be happy for you,” Margaret mumbled. “At some point her mind will clear and she’ll realize you have an infant.”

  I smiled and hoped this was true, although I had my doubts…and I knew Margaret did, too.

  The bell above the door chimed before we could discuss it further, and I glanced up at an attractive young woman who’d entered the shop. I hadn’t seen her before.

  “Hello,” I said, welcoming her with an encouraging smile. “Can I help you?”

  The woman nodded and toyed nervously with the cell phone in her hand. “Yes…I saw the notice in the window for the Knit to Quit class.”

  “Do you know how to knit?”

  She shook her head. “No…well, some. I learned years ago but I’ve forgotten. Would this class be too advanced for someone like me?”

  “Not at all. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time. I’ll be happy to help you refresh your skills.” I went on to explain that there’d be seven sessions and told her the price of the class.

  She nodded again. “You can sign up for the class no matter what you want to quit?” She stared down at the floor as she spoke.

  “Of course,” I assured her.

  “Good.” She set her bag and cell phone on the counter. “I’d like to pay now.” She handed me a credit card and I read her name—Phoebe Rylander.

  “You’re our very first class member,” I told her.

  “So the class starts next week?”

  “Yes.”

  “The sign said Wednesdays from six to eight?”

  “Yes. I’m keeping the store open late. It’ll be my first night class.”

  I processed her payment and wrote her name on the sign-up sheet. “What are you trying to quit?” I asked in a friendly voice.

  “Not what, who,” she whispered.

  “Oh…” Her answer took me by surprise.

  “There’s a man I need to get over,” she said with tears in her eyes. “A man I…once loved.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Phoebe Rylander

  Clark made their breakup far more difficult than it needed to be. Phoebe had just stepped out of A Good Yarn when her cell phone chirped again. She didn’t have to check Caller ID to know it was Clark Snowden, her fiancé. No…ex-fiancé.

  The man she still loved, despite everything.

  She’d had no choice except to end their engagement, no matter how much her heart ached. When she thought about what he’d done, she knew she couldn’t allow him to dissuade her again. Not this time. It was final. She told herself that nothing he could say or do would change her mind. But soon she’d be walking into an empty condo and it would feel so lonely and isolated that she was afraid her resolve would weaken. This afternoon she’d felt stronger and more in control of her emotions. The knitting class would help, too.

  Knowing what she had to do didn’t make it easy. Clark’s efforts to win her back turned the whole ordeal into an even bigger mess. He’d gone so far as to involve their families. But she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t, let herself give in.

  Her cell phone continued to make its little chirping noises, announcing his call.

  If Phoebe didn’t answer, Clark would just leave a message and then try again. She flipped open her phone. “Don’t call me anymore,” she said emphatically, surprised at the conviction in her voice. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

  “Phoebe, please…don’t. Let me—”

  “This conversation is over.” She started to hang up.

  “Phoebe, please, the least you can do is hear me out.”

  “I already have.” She hesitated. “There’s nothing more to say.”

  “I’m begging you.”

  “Clark, I returned your engagement ring. It’s over. We’re through.”

  “You’re angry and you have every right to be. But if you’d give me five minutes, just five minutes, I could explain everything.”

  Oh, he was good—as plenty of juries had discovered. “No, Clark, I fell for that the first time. This is it. I’m done. As of a week ago we are officially unengaged.”

  “You don’t mean that! You can’t. You love me and I’m crazy about you…. You know that, Phoebe. You have to know that. I’d never, ever do anything to hurt you. I’d rather die.”

  “If that was the case, I’d be picking out a coffin for you because you have hurt me, Clark.” Her voice faltered and she hated the fact that she’d shown even this small weakness. Rather than continue the conversation, she closed her cell.

  Walking at a clipped pace, she hurried down Blossom Street, her vision blurred by tears. At the intersection, she swiped one hand across her cheek, sniffling despite herself. She’d gone for a walk on her lunch hour and ventured much farther than she normally did. In fact, she’d never set foot on Blossom Street before today. But by now she was late; she had to get back to work. Her boss at Madison Avenue Physical Therapy was understanding, but he wouldn’t appreciate it if she kept a patient waiting.

  When she got to the clinic, Phoebe was breathless. She hadn’t eaten lunch and her stomach was already in knots. Well, there was nothing she could do about that.

  Mrs. Dover was in the clinic’s waiting room as Phoebe rushed in the front door. Her patient lowered the magazine and smiled at Phoeb
e, who did her best to smile back. Caroline Dover had undergone a complete knee replacement and she had a regularly scheduled appointment at one o’clock every Wednesday. She’d been seeing Phoebe for the past six weeks; they were making progress, although it was slow.

  “Come on back,” Phoebe told the older woman. She hurried ahead of her and drew in a deep breath. It would take a lot of resolve to get through the afternoon.

  By concentrating strictly on her patients, she made it to the end of the day. At five-ten, she pulled on her jacket and grabbed her purse, eager to escape. Because she couldn’t resist, she checked her cell phone. Clark had left three messages. Refusing to be swayed, she erased each one without listening.

  She dared not let herself hear his voice; she was too susceptible. The problem was, she wanted to believe him…. She so badly wanted all of this to go away. That was why she’d impulsively signed up for the knitting class. Knit to Quit. The sign in the yarn shop window had been like a flashing neon light. If she was going to convince Clark that she was serious—and she was—she’d need a distraction to help her through the next few weeks.

  Her hand tightened on her cell phone. Even as her fingers pushed the buttons to erase Clark’s messages, she yearned to talk to him. She wanted to be reassured of his love, wanted him to offer some plausible reason that would explain his need to seek out other women. However, there were no reasons. No excuses. Nothing he could say would change what he’d done.

  “Did you and Clark have another spat?” Bill Boyington, her boss, asked as she started out the door.

  The question caught her unawares.

  “What makes you ask?” Phoebe had done her utmost to remain professional and therefore unemotional all week. She hadn’t revealed to anyone at work that she’d ended her engagement.

  “There were flowers delivered for you.” He motioned to the receptionist’s desk.

  Sure enough, a huge floral arrangement sat on the corner. She wondered how she’d missed seeing it. Orchids, lilies and roses were interspersed among white hydrangeas; obviously Clark had spared no expense. It occurred to her that they were more fitting for a funeral than a reconciliation. But in many ways this was a funeral and Phoebe felt like weeping all over again.