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  CHAPTER 4

  “When individual fibers are knitted together with a thread of emotion, they become an original, personal design. This creative process is my joyful obsession.”

  —Emily Myles, Fiber Artist. www.emyles.com

  Lydia Goetz

  One of the joys of owning my yarn store is the pleasure I derive from teaching people how to knit. I wish I could explain how much delight it gives me to share my love of knitting with others. I know machines can create sweaters and mittens and other things cheaper, faster and far more efficiently. That’s not the point. The projects I knit are an extension of me, an expression of my love for the person I’m knitting for. And—something else I love about knitting—when I’m working with my needles and yarn, I link myself with hundreds of thousands of women through the centuries.

  I was on my lunch break, sipping a mug of soup in my office as I reviewed the names on my latest class list.

  I think if I’d had a normal adolescence, I might have decided on teaching as a profession. Don’t get me wrong, owning A Good Yarn is a dream come true for me. It’s part of the woman I am now, the woman I’ve become not because of the cancer, but in spite of it. I’m proud of that.

  What I especially love about my classes is getting to know my customers, some of whom are among my dearest friends. For example, in the very first beginning knitters’ class I formed three years ago, I met Jacqueline Donovan, Carol Girard and Alix Townsend. We still see each other often, and they’re as close to me as my own family. Over the last three years, I’ve taught dozens of classes, but that first one will always hold a special place in my heart.

  Certain of the other classes are also special to me. Like the sock-knitting class two years ago. That’s where I met Bethanne Hamlin, Elise Beaumont and Courtney Pulanski. Bethanne is so busy with her party business these days I rarely see her, but Annie, her daughter, often stops by while she’s running errands for her mother. Her friend, Amanda Jennings, another cancer survivor, comes with her whenever she can. Bethanne and I don’t communicate regularly, but I consider her a good friend. Elise, too, although most of her time these days is spent nursing her husband, Maverick, whose cancer has taken a turn for the worse. Her tender patience brings tears to my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple more in love. Foolishly, I assumed that kind of love was reserved for the young, but Elise and Maverick have shown me otherwise. The way they love each other is what I pray for in my marriage with Brad.

  Courtney Pulanski is at college in Chicago and teaching everyone in her dorm the benefits of knitting. She keeps in touch; I also hear how she’s doing from Vera, her grandmother. After her mother’s death, Courtney’s dad took a job in South America, and Courtney went to live with her grandmother in Seattle for her senior year of high school. It wasn’t an easy transition. I’m proud of Courtney, who’s become a lovely and well-liked young woman with a strong sense of her own potential, although I have little claim to her success.

  It seems to me that each woman who signed up for one of my knitting classes taught me a valuable lesson. I suspect that’s another reason I feel so close to many of them.

  This new class, the one to knit a prayer shawl, has a good feel, although I wish more than three people had enrolled. The first person to sign up was Alix Townsend, which surprised me until she mentioned that she needs something to help with the prewedding stress. Because she’s an experienced knitter, I suggested she attempt a more complicated pattern, and she agreed. She chose a beautiful lace shawl.

  I certainly understand why Alix is feeling anxious. My own wedding was a low-key affair with just family and a few friends in attendance, yet I was an emotional wreck by the time Brad and I were officially married. Margaret didn’t make things any easier. She fluttered around me with questions and criticisms and unwanted advice until I thought I’d scream. But she was the one who broke into uncontrollable sobs halfway through the ceremony. My sister, for all her gruff exterior, has a soft heart and genuine compassion for others. I didn’t figure that out until I was over thirty.

  That’s because, until recently, my entire existence revolved around me. It was all I could do to deal with my disease. I was so focused on myself, I failed to notice other people as I should. That knowledge opened my eyes in any number of ways, and I’ve learned to listen to others, including and perhaps especially Margaret. She still has her irritating mannerisms but I overlook them now—for the most part—and I try to ignore her suspicious reactions to people like Colette. I understand she’s trying to protect me (patronizing though that is). I’ve become much more tolerant, too. And I find myself reaching out more, getting involved in my neighborhood and business community.

  Anyway… Alix signed up for the class; Susannah Nelson did, too. With Susannah’s Garden she’s brought a new energy to the retail neighborhood. She has such interesting and inventive ideas. In the beginning, she gave away more flowers than she sold but the strategy paid off and her shop’s doing well. Since Susannah and I hadn’t had much opportunity to know each other, I welcomed her presence in the knitting class.

  Colette Blake, my tenant, enrolled, too, with Susannah’s encouragement. She’d stopped coming by for tea in the mornings and I knew why. She’d obviously overheard Margaret’s comment. Ever since that morning, our conversations were brief and a bit stilted. She’d started using the outside entrance right afterward. I missed her.

  Because Susannah and Colette were both taking the class, I’d purposely scheduled it later in the afternoon. At four-thirty, Susannah’s college-age daughter, Chrissie, would be available to work at the flower shop and Alix would have finished her shift at the café.

  The bell above the door jingled and I was distracted from my lunch break. Thankfully, Margaret was out front. She’s increasingly more comfortable dealing with customers, although she can sometimes seem brusque and unfriendly. That’s a shame because she isn’t really like that.

  A minute later, Margaret came into the office. “Do we have any yarn made from soy beans?” she asked, frowning. “I never heard of such a thing.”

  I swallowed my soup. “I have some on order.”

  Margaret’s frown darkened. “You’re joking! There’s actually a yarn made from soy?”

  I nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the fibers being used for yarn these days.” Margaret should’ve known all this, but she prefers wool, as do I. However, I can’t discount the incredible ribbon yarns and some of the newer acrylics. There’s even buffalo yarn—or should that be bison?—and I’ve heard about a yarn from New Zealand that’s a blend of wool and possum fur, of all things.

  My sister shook her head in wonder and left me to my lunch and my thoughts once more. I’m so grateful the shop has brought Margaret and me together after all the difficulties we faced in our relationship. A few years ago I would never have believed that possible.

  Margaret hadn’t supported my efforts in the beginning and in retrospect I can’t blame her. I’d never taken a single business class or even worked at a full-time job. Margaret was afraid I’d set myself up for failure; as it turned out, she was wrong. Later I could see how much I’d absorbed about business from my father. He’d taught Margaret and me a strong work ethic, too. Our dad had his own business for years, and almost by osmosis I learned a lot from him without even realizing it.

  After I finished my lunch, I joined my sister. We did a steady business for the rest of the afternoon. I counted up more than forty sales by four o’clock, which is excellent for a two-person shop. Another bonus—the days pass quickly and pleasurably when we’re busy like this.

  “Julia’s late.” Margaret glanced at her watch for the fifth time in the last minute.

  “You let her take the car to school again?”

  Margaret nodded curtly but wouldn’t look at me.

  I didn’t remind her that she’d sworn the new car was hers and Julia wasn’t going to drive it ever. She hadn’t owned the car for more than a few weeks and already my niece was behind t
he wheel more often than my sister.

  “She was supposed to come by for me right after school,” Margaret muttered.

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason she’s late,” I told her. Julia was a high-school senior and so involved with myriad activities her schedule made my head swim.

  “Not today. She’s got a dental appointment at four-thirty and I’m going with her.”

  I glanced at my own watch and noticed it was four-ten. “She’ll be here any minute.”

  Margaret nodded.

  “Since she’s late, why don’t you get your coat and purse and wait outside?”

  Margaret hesitated, but finally agreed. She disappeared into the office only long enough to collect what she needed.

  “She’ll be here soon,” I reassured Margaret again. Julia was a responsible girl and I didn’t think for an instant that she’d forgotten her mother.

  “It’s twenty minutes to the dentist’s office from here,” Margaret worried.

  “Would you like me to phone ahead and let them know you might be late?”

  Margaret considered that, then nodded. Her frown grew even fiercer, and I didn’t envy Julia once she did arrive. The wrath of Margaret was something to behold. My sister didn’t lose her temper often but when she did she could clear a room.

  “Go ahead and step outside. I’ll contact the dentist’s office right now.”

  Margaret pushed open the door, and the bell chimed as she left the shop.

  Stepping up to the counter, I reached for the Rolodex and flipped to the Ds, where Margaret had filed the dentist’s number.

  The receptionist answered on the second ring. “Dr. Wentworth’s office. How may I help you?”

  “Hello,” I said, “I’m calling on behalf of Julia Langley. It looks like she’s running late and I wanted you to know.”

  “Can you tell me how late she’s going to be?”

  “Ah… I’m not sure.”

  “If it’s going to be more than ten minutes, the appointment will need to be rescheduled.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be that long, but it depends on traffic,” I said, although I had no idea when Julia would show up. I could see Margaret pacing back and forth in front of the display window. Every step she took conveyed nervous agitation.

  “Please call again to reschedule if it is later than ten minutes.”

  “I will,” I told her and replaced the receiver.

  I remembered then that Julia had a cell phone, one she paid for with money she earned from a part-time job at the movie theater. I’d driven five miles out of my way to take Cody to the theater where Julia worked. Cody had loved seeing his cousin behind the counter. Julia had given him extra butter on his popcorn and my son had been thrilled.

  “Margaret,” I called, poking my head out the front door. “What about her cell?”

  “It’s at the house,” Margaret snapped. “She let the battery go dead.” Her frown told me she saw this as another example of Julia’s lack of responsibility. My poor niece was about to get an earful.

  The phone pealed sharply behind me. “A Good Yarn,” I answered.

  “Margaret Langley, please.”

  The crisp, professional male voice took me aback. It didn’t matter what the words said, what I heard was trouble. “Could you tell me what this is about?” I asked as politely as my trembling voice would allow.

  “I need to speak directly to Ms. Langley,” the man told me.

  “One minute, please.” I set down the receiver and rushed to the front door.

  Margaret swung around to face me almost as if she knew.

  “There’s a call for you.”

  “Julia?”

  “No…you’d better take it.”

  “But Julia will be here any second.”

  “Take the call,” I insisted.

  I so rarely insist on anything with my sister that Margaret’s brows rose abruptly. “Is everything all right?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  She hurried into the shop and grabbed the receiver. “This is Margaret Langley.”

  She listened for a moment and then her eyes shot to mine. She gasped. Her knees literally went out from under her and she sank into the chair I kept behind the counter.

  “Is she hurt?” Margaret asked shakily.

  I bit my lip, awaiting the answer.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be here.” She replaced the receiver, looked at me and burst into tears.

  “W-what is it?” I asked, starting to cry, too. “Has Julia been in an accident?”

  “No…The police are coming to take me to the hospital.”

  “Julia’s in the hospital?”

  “Yes, yes, she’s been hurt but they won’t tell me how badly. The hospital needs me to sign the papers before they can take her into surgery.”

  “Surgery.” I swallowed painfully. “What happened?” I cried, gripping my sister’s arm. “Tell me what happened.”

  “She… Julia was on her way to pick me up, just like you said.”

  “Yes, yes.” I knew Julia wouldn’t have forgotten.

  “She stopped at a red light and someone, a man, ran up to the driver’s side and yanked open the door and—”

  The picture that formed in my mind sent my nerves shrieking in protest. “Julia was carjacked?”

  Margaret nodded. “He dragged her into the street and when she tried to fight him off, he…he hit her again. Then he threw her into moving traffic so she had to scramble for her life.”

  I covered my mouth with both hands to stifle a scream. My beautiful niece had been attacked. I didn’t know the extent of her injuries but apparently they were bad enough to require surgery.

  The shock of this, the horror I felt, was more than I could take in.

  CHAPTER 5

  Colette Blake

  Learning to knit might fill up some of the lonely hours, Colette reasoned. Susannah had convinced her to give it a try. To her surprise, Colette discovered she was actually looking forward to the first class next Wednesday. Perhaps that was because knitting suggested an image of peace and contentment. She could picture a heavily pregnant version of herself sitting in the comfortable chair Lydia had left behind, knitting something for her baby.

  She hadn’t told anyone yet. Within a few months, though, keeping her pregnancy a secret would be impossible. At this point, Colette didn’t know what she’d do once the baby was born, where she’d live, or even whether she should tell Christian about his child. With no firm plan in mind, she decided to wait until she saw how the authorities responded to her anonymous letter. She assumed she’d find out from the news—or she could always call Jenny at the office. Jenny would be happy to hear from her, despite their lack of recent contact.

  The flower shop had been frantic with activity this morning—not unexpected, this close to Valentine’s Day. Susannah’s daughter, Chrissie, who’d transferred from the University of Oregon to the University of Washington, had agreed to step in one afternoon a week in order to free up Susannah and Colette for the class. There were advantages for Chrissie, too. She wanted to learn the business and prove she was a responsible adult; not only that, she’d be making some extra money.

  The class project was a prayer shawl, which Colette hoped to use as a blanket for her baby. Lydia had said the idea of knitting a prayer shawl was to make it for someone in need of prayer or healing. Colette certainly needed both.

  At the shop the previous week, Colette had met Chrissie, who seemed like a typical undergraduate—alternately self-confident and insecure. She was ebullient with a natural charm she put to good use in the shop. Chrissie was close to her mother and Colette envied her that closeness. Her own relationship with her parents was fine, although there’d never been the kind of easy banter Chrissie enjoyed with Susannah. Still, she wished they weren’t so far away, especially now. On the other hand, it could be awkward if they lived nearby. Colette hadn’t told them about the baby; if she did, she knew they’d insist she tell Christian and she cou
ldn’t do that—at least, not yet. She felt suspended between her past and her future, unable to move ahead with the new life she’d begun.

  She explained to her parents that she’d stayed because Seattle was familiar and comfortable and her home. That was true, but she also wanted to remain in town until she found out what would happen to Christian.

  It wasn’t dark as early in the afternoons now, but by four, the shadows started to lengthen. Colette liked watching the activity on Blossom Street as the streetlights came on, illuminating the sidewalk. She’d been assembling a funeral wreath, adding white carnations and filling the space between the flowers with salal, an evergreen that grew wild in the area, when Susannah returned from an appointment.

  “How’d it go?” Colette asked, knowing her employer had been nervous about meeting with the director of one of the largest privately owned funeral homes in downtown Seattle. Susannah had recently tendered a proposal to provide floral arrangements for prearranged funerals, which included an allotment for flowers, and had been asked to stop by to discuss her bid with the director.

  Susannah removed her jacket and hung it on the peg in the back room. “The meeting went really well,” she said, looking hopeful. “I should know by the end of the week.”

  “That’s great.” Colette wanted Susannah to succeed. For the moment, of course, she hoped to keep her job, and the better her employer did financially, the better for her. That wasn’t the entire reason, however. Colette liked Susannah, who’d hired her after a brief interview in which she’d asked a minimum of questions. Fortunately, she hadn’t requested references. Afterward Susannah admitted Colette was the first person she’d ever interviewed and she was simply following her instincts.

  Working side by side as they did every day, it was only natural that they’d develop a friendship, although Colette hadn’t shared anything very personal. Their conversations tended to be about Susannah’s family, about books they’d loved and people on Blossom Street. Colette had, early on, described the external facts of her life—schooling, marriage, widowhood, and some vague details about her job. She held her memories of Derek close to her heart. They’d had a good marriage. The only real problem they’d encountered had been her inability to conceive. She’d loved her husband deeply and still grieved for him. At the same time, her feelings for Christian Dempsey confused her. During the past year she hadn’t been honest enough to admit her growing attraction to him, which had culminated in their one night together. She wanted to believe their lovemaking had been more than physical hunger between two lonely people. That hope was dashed when she went back to work after Christmas. Without his ever saying a word, she knew he regretted that night, regretted everything about it. He seemed preoccupied and worried; foolishly, Colette had assumed this uncharacteristic behavior had to do with her. She didn’t understand exactly what he’d gotten himself into or why he’d risk the business he’d worked so hard to build. All she could figure was that he’d found himself in financial trouble. Either that or he was being blackmailed. Whatever the reason, she wanted no part of it, or any association with him.