Make time for friends. Make time for Debbie Macomber.

CEDAR COVE 16 Lighthouse Road 204 Rosewood Lane 311 Pelican Court 44 Cranberry Point 50 Harbor Street 6 Rainier Drive 74 Seaside Avenue 8 Sandpiper Way 92 Pacific Boulevard

BLOSSOM STREET The Shop on Blossom Street A Good Yarn Susannah’s Garden (previously published as Old Boyfriends) Back on Blossom Street (previously published as Wednesdays at Four) Twenty Wishes Summer on Blossom Street Hannah’s List

Thursdays at Eight

Christmas in Seattle

Falling for Christmas

A Mother’s Gift

Dear Friends,

When I wrote The Shop on Blossom Street, I didn’t intend it to be a series. However, reader response was so positive that I decided to write A Good Yarn. I’ve discovered through messages left on my website and from your letters that you love Blossom Street as much as I do. So here’s our third visit, Back on Blossom Street.

Knitting is still a large part of my life—and even more so since the publication of these books. My yarn room (yes, room) is full. But what I’ve enjoyed most is the wonderful knitting friends I’ve made along the way. This book is dedicated to one, Joan McKeon (and her equally wonderful husband, Bob), who knits sweaters for charity.

I’ve included patterns in the previous Blossom Street books (for whatever Lydia’s class is knitting in the story) and Back on Blossom Street is no exception. I’m thrilled to share two patterns for prayer shawls with you, compliments of Leisure Arts and Myrna Stahman. I’m grateful to both for their generosity.

I hope you enjoy Back on Blossom Street!

PS You can reach me by mail at PO Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366, USA.

www.debbiemacomber.com

Back on

Blossom Street

Debbie Macomber

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To

Bob and Joan McKeon

Treasured Friends

CHAPTER
1

“One of the best kept secrets in the knitting world is that knitting lace appears to be much more difficult than it is. If you can knit, purl, knit two together and put the yarn over your needle to form a new stitch, you CAN knit lace.”

—Myrna A.I. Stahman, Rocking Chair Press, designer, author and publisher of Stahman’s Shawls and Scarves—Lace Faroese-Shaped Shawls From The Neck Down and Seamen’s Scarves, and the soon to be published The Versatility of Lace Knitting—

Variations on a Theme

Lydia Goetz

I love A Good Yarn, and I’m grateful for every minute I spend in my shop on Blossom Street. I love looking at the skeins of yarn in all their colors and feeling the different textures. I love my knitting classes and the friends I’ve made here. I love studying the pattern books. I love gazing out my front window onto the energy and activity of downtown Seattle. In fact, I love everything about this life I’ve found, this world I’ve built.

Knitting was my salvation. That’s something I’ve said often, I know, but it’s simply the truth. Even now, after nearly ten years of living cancer-free, knitting dominates my life. Because of my yarn store, I’ve become part of a community of knitters and friends.

I’m also married now, to Brad Goetz. A Good Yarn was my first real chance at life and Brad was my first chance at love. Together, Brad and I are raising our nine-year-old son. I say Cody’s our son, and he is, in all the ways that matter. I consider him as much my child as Brad’s; I couldn’t love Cody more if I’d given birth to him. It’s true he has a mother, and I know Janice does care about him. But Brad’s ex-wife is … well, I hesitate to say it, but selfish is the word that inevitably comes to mind. Janice appears intermittently in Cody’s life, whenever the mood strikes her or she happens to find it convenient—despite the parenting plan she signed when she and Brad divorced. Sadly, she only sees her son once or twice a year. I can tell that the lack of communication bothers Cody. And Janice’s cavalier attitude toward motherhood angers me, but like my son, I don’t mention the hurt. Cody doesn’t need me to defend or malign Janice; he’s capable of forming his own opinions. For a kid, he’s remarkably resilient and insightful.

On a February morning, my store with all its warmth and color was a cozy place to be. The timer on the microwave went off; I removed the boiling water and poured it into my teapot after dropping in a couple of tea bags. The rain was falling from brooding, gray skies as it often does in winter. I decided it was time to start another knitting class. I maintain several ongoing classes and charity knitting groups, and I usually begin a new session four or five times a year.

As I considered my new class, I was also thinking about my mother, who’s adjusted to life in the assisted-living complex reasonably well. In some ways, I suspect that moving her was even more difficult for my sister, Margaret, and me than it was for Mom. Although Mom hated giving up her independence, she seemed relieved not to have the worry about the house and yard anymore. I wept the day the house was sold, and while she never allowed me to see her tears, I believe Margaret did, too. Selling the house meant letting go of our childhood and all the reminders of growing up there. It was the end of an era for us both, just as it was for our mother.

While I drank my tea, I flipped through the new patterns that had arrived the day before. The first one to catch my eye was a prayer shawl. Lately, I’d seen several patterns for these shawls, some more complex than others. I could easily envision knitting this one for Mom.

Prayer shawls have become popular in the last few years—and not only for prayer. They offer comfort and warmth, emotional, as well as physical. I’d received several inquiries about them and thought perhaps one of these shawls would make for an interesting class. I decided to discuss it with my sister, Margaret, who has a keen business sense and a good feel for which class I should offer next. I didn’t appreciate that about her until after she’d come to join me at the shop. Margaret worked for me part-time, which has now turned into full-time. She’s not as good with people as I am, but she knows yarn and, surprisingly, has become an excellent employee. She’s also my friend. Not so long ago, I couldn’t have said that; we might be sisters, but the tension between us was unbearable at times. Our relationship changed for the better, and I thank A Good Yarn for that.

Margaret wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes, since the shop officially opened at ten. Any number of tasks awaited my attention, things I should be doing, like paying bills and ordering new yarn. Instead, I sat at my desk, with my teacup between my hands. I felt so incredibly blessed.

Needless to say, I didn’t always feel this tranquil. When I was in my early twenties, a second bout of cancer struck with a viciousness that had me reeling. I survived, but my father didn’t. You see, he fought so hard for me, and when it seemed I’d make it after all, he died, suddenly and unexpectedly, of a heart attack. It was almost as though my recovery meant he could leave me now.

Before I lost Dad, I tended to approach my life tentatively, afraid of happiness, fearing the future. It was a void that loomed hopelessly before me and filled me with dread. Dad was the one who gave me strength. With him gone, I knew I was responsible for my own life. I had a decision to make and I boldly chose … independence. I chose to become part of the world I’d retreated from years before.

The ceiling above me creaked and I knew Colette was up. Colette Blake rented the small apartment over the shop. For the first two years, that tiny apartment was my home, my very first home away from family.

After I married Brad, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the apartment. It stood empty for a while. Then I met Colette, and I’d known instantly that she’d be the perfect tenant. The apartment would console her, give her a place to regain her emotional balance. A bonus—for me—is that she looks after Whiskers on my days off. My cat is a much-loved feature in my store, which he considers his home. I’ve had customers stop by just to visit him. He often sleeps in the front window, curling up in the afternoon sun. Whiskers generates lots of comments—and smiles. Pets have a way of connecting people to life’s uncomplicated joys.

Colette reminds me of myself three years ago, when I first opened the store. I met her shortly before Christmas, when Susannah Nelson, who owns the flower shop next door, brought her over to meet me. It wasn’t cancer that shook her world, though. It was death. Colette is a thirty-one-year-old widow. Her husband, Derek, a Seattle policeman, died a little over a year ago. When I mention that, people usually assume Derek was killed in the line of duty. Not so. Following a Seattle downpour, he climbed on the roof to repair a leak. No one knows exactly how it happened but apparently Derek slipped and fell. He died two days later of massive head injuries.

In the weeks since she’d moved here, Colette had only referred to the accident once, as if even talking about her husband was difficult. I’ve learned that she’s an easygoing person who laughs readily and yet at times her grief seemed palpable. Overwhelming. I understood how she felt. I remembered all too well that sense of anguish, that terror of what might happen tomorrow or the next day. Colette approached life fearfully, just the way I once did. I longed to reassure her, and I hoped my friendship provided some pleasure and solace. Friends like Jacqueline and Alix had done the same for me.

The apartment has an outside entrance, as well as the one leading into the store. Susannah Nelson had hired Colette soon after Susannah purchased what used to be known as Fanny’s Floral. Colette’s mother once owned a flower shop, and Colette had worked there as a high-school student. Her house sold practically the day it was listed, and Colette needed to move quickly. My tiny apartment was vacant, so we struck a deal. I assumed she wouldn’t be there long. Most of her belongings were in storage and she was taking the next few months to decide where she’d live and what she’d do.

The stairs creaked as she ventured down. Since Colette became my tenant, we sometimes shared a pot of tea in the mornings. She was always respectful of my time and I enjoyed our leisurely chats.

“Tea’s ready.” I reached for a clean cup. Without asking, I filled it and held it out.

“Thanks.” Colette smiled as she took the tea.

She was thin—too thin, really. Her clothes were a bit loose, but with her aptitude for style she cleverly disguised it. I noticed, though, as someone who’s done the same thing. Part of what I liked about her was the fact that she was lovely without seeming consciously aware of it. Despite her occasional silences, Colette was warm and personable, and I could see she’d be a success at whatever she chose. She hadn’t said much about the job she’d left, but I gathered it was a far more demanding position than helping customers in a flower shop.

This job change obviously had something to do with her husband’s death. She told me he’d died a year ago January fourteenth. She’d waited for the year to pass before making major changes in her life—selling her home, moving, quitting her job. These changes seem drastic in some ways and completely understandable in others.

Colette wore her long, dark hair parted in the middle. It fell straight to her shoulders, where it curved under. She seemed to achieve this effect naturally—unlike some women, who spend hours taming their hair with gel and spray.

In the short time she’d been here, Colette had made a positive impression on everyone she met. Everyone except my sister. Margaret, being Margaret, shied away from Colette, instinctively distrusting her. My sister’s like that; she tends to be a naysayer. She insisted that renting out the apartment had been a huge mistake. In Margaret’s eyes, a tenant, any tenant, wasn’t to be trusted. She appeared to think Colette would sneak into the shop in the middle of the night and steal every skein of yarn I owned, then hock them on the streets and use the money for drugs. I smiled whenever I thought about that, since not only did I trust Colette, I have a fairly expensive alarm system.

Margaret is, to put it mildly, protective of me. She’s older and tends to assume more responsibility than is warranted. It’s taken me a long time to understand my sister and even longer to appreciate her, but that’s a different story.

Colette held the teacup close to her mouth and paused. “Derek would’ve turned thirty-three today,” she said quietly. She stared into the distance, then looked back at me.

I nodded, encouraging her to talk. She’d only told me about Derek that one other time. I believed, based on my own experience, that the more she shared her pain, the less it would hurt. “Derek wanted children…. We’d been trying, but I didn’t get pregnant and now …”

“I’m sure you’ll have children one day,” I told her. I was confident that she wouldn’t be alone for the rest of her life, that she’d marry again and probably have children.

Her smiled was filled with sadness. “Derek and I talked about a baby that morning. The next thing I knew, I was choosing his casket. Ironic, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know how to comfort her, so I leaned over and gave her a hug.

She seemed a little embarrassed by my show of sympathy and focused her gaze on the floor. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to start your day on a sad note. Actually, it wasn’t until I glanced at the calendar on your desk that I realized the date.”

“It’s okay, Colette. I’m just so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said, shrugging lightly. “Life is like that sometimes, you know?”

“Yes …” And I did.

Colette set the empty cup in my sink.

The back door opened, then shut with a bang. Margaret, of course, muttering about the weather. After Colette moved in, Margaret had taken to parking in the alley, apparently to keep an eye on my tenant’s comings and goings. After dumping her huge felted purse on the table, she hesitated, stiffening at the sight of Colette.

“Good morning,” I said brightly, pleased to see her despite her bad mood. “It’s a fine morning, isn’t it?” I couldn’t resist a touch of sarcasm.

“It’s raining,” she replied, eyeing Colette almost as if she were an intruder.

“Rainy weather’s good for knitting,” I reminded her. For me, there was nothing more satisfying on a rainy afternoon than working on my current knitting project with a cup of tea by my side. People looked for something productive to do when it rained and—fortunately for me—that sometimes included knitting.

Margaret removed her coat and hung it on the peg by the back door. “Julia dropped me off this morning,” she said in passing.

I caught the significance right away. “You let Julia drive the new car?” Only the day before, Margaret had said that her elder daughter, a high-school senior, had been asking to take the car out for a spin. If I recall, Margaret’s exact words were Not in this lifetime.

Margaret’s hot-from-the-showroom vehicle was a first for the family, since she and Matt had always purchased their cars secondhand. Margaret’s previous car was well past repairing, and she was excited about buying a brand-new vehicle. They’d looked for weeks before deciding on one that was in high demand and said to get incredibly good mileage. Once the decision was made, they’d waited two months for the vehicle to arrive. Which it finally had in all its metallic-blue glory.

“I know, I know,” Margaret grumbled. “I said I wasn’t going to let her take the car, but I couldn’t help myself. She has something going on after school and somehow managed to convince me that her entire scholastic future rested on driving my car.” Her mouth twitched as she admitted how easily Julia had finessed her way past her mother’s objections.

“I don’t even have a hundred miles on that car,” Margaret said. “That’s how fast she broke down my defenses. Sad, isn’t it?”

Colette laughed. “Kids can do that.”

Margaret responded to the comment with a dismissive nod, barely acknowledging Colette.

Colette’s eyes momentarily met mine. “I’ll catch up with you later, Lydia,” she said and headed back upstairs.

Margaret’s gaze followed Colette. “You like her, don’t you?”

“She’s great.” I wished my sister would give Colette a chance. Hoping the sympathy factor might work, I added, “Today’s her dead husband’s birthday. She’d started telling me about it when you arrived.”

Margaret had the grace to look ashamed. “That’s tough,” she said, her own eyes returning to the stairs. The door had been left open and Whiskers wandered down.

“I know the rental income’s a plus, but frankly I don’t trust her,” Margaret said.

I sighed; I’d heard this far too often and it still made no sense to me.

“Why not?” I asked defensively.

“Think about it,” Margaret said. “Colette’s obviously far more capable than she’s letting on. Why is she working in a flower shop? She could get a job anywhere.”

“She just lost her husband,” I muttered.

“A year ago. Okay, that’s tragic and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t mean she has to go into hiding, does it?”

“She isn’t hiding.” I didn’t know that for sure. But I argued with Margaret because I sincerely liked Colette; my sister was overreacting and it troubled me that she went through life seeing everyone as suspect.

“Then why’s she working next door for minimum wage?” Margaret pressed. “There’s more to her than meets the eye and until we find out what it is, I don’t think it’s wise to be so chummy.”

“Everyone handles grief differently,” I went on to explain, although I didn’t have the answers Margaret wanted. It was true that Colette had made a lot of major changes in a short time. Equally true that I didn’t know much about her circumstances.

“I doubt any of this has to do with her husband, anyway,” Margaret said, still looking in the direction of the stairs. “Mark my words, Colette’s hiding something.”

My sister sometimes shocked me with the things she said. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, that’s ridiculous!”

Margaret raised one shoulder. “Maybe, but I doubt it. Something about her doesn’t sit right with me. I know you like her and apparently Susannah does, too, but I’m reserving judgment until we learn more about her.”

I shook my head stubbornly. My instincts told me Colette was a good person.

Margaret frowned at my wordless response. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

Careful? She made Colette sound like a fugitive. “You’ve been reading too many detective novels,” I teased, knowing how much my sister enjoyed reading suspense fiction. She kept a paperback tucked inside her purse and enjoyed discussing the plots with me. I tend to listen to audio books; that way, I can “read” and knit at the same time. That’s my idea of multitasking.

“Has Colette ever mentioned where she used to work before Susannah’s Garden?” Margaret asked.

“No … but why should she?”

Margaret cast me one of the looks that suggested I was far too trusting.

Clearly Margaret had a more vivid imagination than I did. “I don’t think she’s in the witness protection program, if that’s what you’re implying.” I walked to the front of the shop, rolled up the shade on the door and turned the Closed sign to Open. I saw that the rain had intensified in the last while. Whiskers immediately leaped into the window and curled up, purring softly.

“I wanted to discuss another knitting class,” I said, remembering my thoughts of earlier that morning. I flipped the light switch and through the steamy windows of the French Café across the street, I saw my friend Alix Townsend, who worked there as a baker. The rain came down in a torrent, falling so hard it bounced against the pavement and ran in the gutters. It’d been nearly two weeks since Alix and I had talked and I’d missed her. I knew she had less free time these days, since she was in the middle of planning her wedding.

Many changes had taken place since I’d come to Blossom Street. The French Café, of course, and Susannah’s Garden. There was a new bookstore three doors down from me now, and directly across from that was the old bank building, which had been turned into ultra-expensive condos. They sold so fast, even the real estate people were shocked. A few of the residents had taken my knitting classes and I was beginning to know them.

“Maybe I’ll go and see Alix this morning,” I said casually. I rarely ate breakfast but I was in the mood for something sweet. If I timed it right, maybe Alix would be able to join me for a muffin and a cup of coffee.

“You’re changing the subject again,” Margaret said from behind me.

“I am?” I tried to recall what we’d been discussing. “I didn’t mean to. I was just thinking about everything that’s happened on Blossom Street.”

Margaret glanced at me. “It all started with you and A Good Yarn,” my sister said. “You set the tone for this neighborhood. People like it here.”

Praise from Margaret was rare indeed and I felt a surge of pleasure at her words.

Despite the rain and despite our disagreement about Colette, I knew we were going to have a good day.

CHAPTER
2

Alix Townsend

It was raining—again. Alix Townsend dashed across the street, already drenched by the rain that had been coming down steadily since the Thursday before. She needed a cigarette. Bad. After more than two years without one, she could hardly believe how intense the craving was. She felt blindsided by it. The damn wedding—that was the problem. A whole vocabulary of swearwords raced through her mind. In less than four months, on June second, she would become Reverend Jordan Turner’s wife, and frankly, that terrified her.

Alix Townsend a pastor’s wife! It was almost laughable. Although few people knew it, her mother was in prison for a variety of crimes, including forgery, passing bad checks and attempted murder. This wasn’t her first stint in jail, either. Tom, Alix’s only brother, was dead of a drug overdose and she hadn’t had any contact with her father since she was twelve. As far as she knew, he’d made no effort to get in touch with her. When it came to family, Alix definitely felt cheated.

She didn’t consider herself a fancy-church-wedding candidate, but somehow, almost without noticing it, she’d become immersed in this whole crazy mess. This … this sideshow of a wedding.

“Alix,” Jordan shouted, running after her, his feet pounding hard as he crossed the road and splashed his way through the puddles on Blossom Street.

Alix had visited Jordan’s office during lunch break. They hadn’t actually argued, although they’d come close. She hated what this wedding had turned into, hated having no control, hated that no one seemed willing to listen. Not even Jordan. When she realized he wasn’t hearing her, she’d rushed out of his office with a huge lump in her throat. The stinging tears surprised her as much as the craving for a cigarette.

She ignored Jordan’s shout. With the rain and wind, it was easy to pretend she hadn’t heard him.

“Alix!” he yelled again and a moment later caught up with her.

She slowed her pace and he fell into step beside her. “What just happened back there?” he asked. He was obviously confused by the way she’d hightailed it out of his office.

“What do you mean?” she asked, annoyed that he couldn’t figure it out.

“Why’d you leave like that? We were right in the middle of a conversation and all of a sudden, you’re gone.”

“You weren’t listening to me,” she said, looking up at him, not caring that the rain had drenched her short hair, dripping down her face and onto her chin.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he began. “I—”

“You don’t know?” she cried, struggling not to get emotional. “Shouldn’t I have some say in my own wedding?”

“You do.” He still seemed befuddled. “The last thing I remember was you telling me Jacqueline and Reese had decided to hold the reception at their country club.”

“And you think that’s a good idea?” she asked him.

“I think it’s very generous.”

“It is, but …” Jacqueline and Reese had been wonderful—about everything. Alix owed them far more than she could ever repay.

She’d met Jacqueline in a knitting class at A Good Yarn, and after a rough start the older woman had taken Alix under her wing. Alix had signed up for that class in order to work off community service hours on a trumped-up drug charge; she’d decided to knit a baby blanket and donate it to charity. Her caseworker had approved the project and that was the beginning of her friendship with the Donovans.

Through Reese Donovan’s business connections and the Rotary Club, Alix had been able to attend culinary school. The Donovans had provided part-time employment, as well. She’d filled in as their housekeeper when needed, and they’d let her move into their guesthouse, where she still lived. Jacqueline and Reese were about as close to family as Alix ever hoped to have. They’d given her the love, encouragement and support her own parents never had, and Alix loved them in return. She’d asked their daughter-in-law, Tammie Lee, to serve as her matron of honor. Jordan’s brother, Bret, was to be his best man.

“From what my mother told me, Jacqueline had to call in all kinds of favors to get the country club for a Saturday in June,” Jordan said.

“I know.” The guilt was even stronger than her craving for a cigarette. “But, Jordan—the country club?”

Her fiancé placed his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get out of the rain.” He led her under the awning outside the French Café. The rain beat against it and the water fell in a solid sheet over the edge.

“Mom was really pleased when I told her what Jacqueline had done,” Jordan continued.

Alix lowered her head. Jordan’s mother was a subject best avoided. Susan Turner would’ve preferred a more traditional bride for her son. Her future mother-in-law hadn’t said or done anything overt, but Alix wasn’t stupid. She knew. Jordan was close to his parents, though, and Alix would never mention any of this to him.

“Kiss me.”

Jordan’s eyes flared wide. “Here? Now?” He glanced over his shoulder through the large picture window at the café filled with customers.

Alix nodded, not caring who saw them or what anyone thought. “And not a peck on the cheek, either. I need a real kiss.”

“All right.” He clasped her shoulders with both hands and bent down to cover her mouth with his. His lips were warm and moist as they touched hers, his mouth slightly open. Relaxing, she savored his taste, his feel. She did her best to remember that while a big fancy wedding wasn’t what she wanted, it would make a lot of people happy—people like Jordan and his family and Jacqueline and Reese. She’d do it; she didn’t have to like it. With that in mind, she slid her arms around Jordan’s neck and leaned into him. She wanted him to know how much she loved him. She must love him if she was willing to go through with this craziness.

When he broke off the kiss, she sighed and instantly felt better.

“You have to talk to me, Alix,” he whispered, holding her tight, nuzzling her neck. “Tell me when you’re worried about something….”

“I did. You weren’t listening.”

“I was trying,” he said in a low voice. “Do you want to call off the wedding? Is that it?”

“No!” Her response came fast and vehemently. “I love you. I want us to be married.”

He brushed the wet hair from her forehead, his eyes intense. “And I love you.”

She looked away because the love shining from his eyes confused her and made it difficult to speak. “As soon as you gave me the engagement ring, I should’ve known everything would change.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“Before … before, it was just you and me—and your teens, of course.” As a youth pastor, Jordan planned church-related activities with the teenagers in his congregation. Alix often tagged along to help. It was understood that once they were married, her role would continue in a larger capacity. That was fine; she enjoyed working with that age-group. She related to a lot of the temptations they faced in the world and found it gratifying that she was able to steer some of them away from making negative choices, choices she’d made as a teenager and come to regret.

Then the minute he’d slipped the engagement ring on her finger, life as she knew it changed.

As soon as she heard the news, Jacqueline had instantly started talking about the wedding. In fact, for Christmas, Jacqueline had presented Alix with a huge hardcover book titled Planning the Perfect Wedding. At the time, Alix hadn’t given the actual ceremony much thought. She figured she’d marry Jordan with his family and a few friends in attendance, open gifts, eat cake, and that would be it.

Boy, was she wrong. The wedding was turning into a production, like a Broadway musical or something, with a dinner that cost more per plate than she’d earned in a week back when she’d been employed at the video store.

That wasn’t all. The dress—correction, gown—had become a major issue. Each one she’d seen came covered with expensive lace or hundreds of tiny pearls. Or both. Jacqueline had taken her to a boutique, and Alix had made the mistake of glancing at the price tag. She’d nearly fainted. People bought cars for less money than those dresses!

“Can’t we elope?” she pleaded, her face buried in Jordan’s chest. She knew the answer; still, she had to ask.

“Sweetheart, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” She looked up, hoping he’d give her the confidence she needed to see this through. The acceptance—the resignation—she’d felt earlier had faded. She was no longer sure she could be Alix Townsend, Perfect Bride. The wedding was four months away and already she could feel the panic rising inside her.

More than anything she wanted to be Jordan’s wife. She’d fallen in love with him when they were in the sixth grade; he embodied everything she’d ever longed for in life. Then she’d met him again three years ago, shortly after she’d joined the knitting class. She remembered every single fact about Jordan from grade school. She remembered what she’d learned about his family, too. His mom and dad loved each other and cared for their children. They weren’t drunks and losers like her parents. They had regular meals, during which the entire family sat down at the table and talked about their day. In Alix’s home, no one did anything together. If her mother was inclined to cook, dinner was left on the stove and everyone dished up their own meals. Most nights Alix ate alone in front of the television while her parents argued in the background. More often than she cared to count, the fights turned physical and she hid in the closet, where she’d invented a fantasy world—a whole family of parents and siblings like the ones on TV. Or the ones at Jordan’s house …

The contrast between her life and his didn’t stop there. Alix’s mother had once fired a gun at her father and landed in jail. By the time she left school, Alix had gone through a whole series of foster homes. During those years she’d been in plenty of trouble, too. But when Tom died of a drug overdose, it had hit her hard. Alix knew she was headed for the same fate if she didn’t change her life. From that moment, she swore off drugs. They were death with a capital D. She’d been tempted more than once, but had always found the courage to walk away.

“The wedding’s just one day out of our lives,” Jordan pointed out.

Alix sighed. Twenty-four hours—actually, less than that—she could handle. The wedding was scheduled for five o’clock in the afternoon, followed by a dinner and reception at the country club. Jordan already had reservations at a hotel in Victoria, British Columbia, for their honeymoon. If enduring a formal wedding meant she’d be Jordan’s wife at the end of that day, then she’d do it without another word of complaint.

“I know this isn’t your kind of thing,” Jordan said, kissing the top of her wet head. “The truth is, all I care about is being married to you.”

“Really?”

He smiled. “Really.”

“Then why don’t we just get married by ourselves and tell everyone after the fact?” Even as she said it, Alix knew that would never happen.

“We can’t, sweetheart, I’m sorry. My mother would feel we’d cheated her and … there’d be talk.”

“Talk,” she repeated, her voice numb.

“I work in a church,” he reminded her unnecessarily. “Eloping isn’t a good example to pass along to the kids in the congregation. You might not realize it, but they watch everything we say and do.”

This wasn’t news to Alix, since she was well aware of how the teens looked up to Jordan and consequently, to her. She remembered the first time she’d seen Jordan with a group of church kids at a local skating rink. He’d made her think of the Pied Piper leading children through the town. Those kids thought the world of him; they idolized him and had sent frequent glances her way, apparently shocked that he was associated with her. They weren’t the only ones.

It’d taken Alix a long time to believe that Jordan loved her. Even now, she wasn’t sure what had attracted him to her. Whatever it was, she felt deeply grateful.

“It’ll be a small wedding,” Jordan promised.

She nodded. Her guest list was limited to a few friends, most of whom she’d met through the knitting class. Maybe twenty people.

“Mom’s putting together her list this week.”

At the mention of his mother, Alix tensed. She liked Jordan’s mother but couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a disappointment to Susan Turner. In truth, Alix didn’t blame her and was determined to do whatever she could to make this relationship a successful one.

She derived some comfort from knowing that Jacqueline hadn’t liked her daughter-in-law in the beginning, either. Jacqueline couldn’t understand why Paul, their only son, would marry someone like Tammie Lee, whose southern background was so dissimilar to his own.

If Alix recalled correctly, Jacqueline had had another woman in mind for Paul. Tammie Lee had persevered, though, and eventually her kindness and charm had won Jacqueline over. By the time her first grandchild was born, Jacqueline had wholeheartedly accepted Tammie Lee. Now they were as close as … well, family. And Alix considered Tammie Lee one of her best friends.

Susan Turner might well have another woman in mind for her youngest son, too. If so, Jordan had never mentioned anyone. One Sunday, three years ago, Alix had slipped into the back of the church without Jordan’s knowledge. As part of the service he’d sung a duet with a beautiful blonde—who’d turned out to be his cousin. But seeing him with someone else, even in church, had infuriated Alix. Jordan had been equally upset with her for jumping to conclusions. He was right. Not once in all the time they’d dated had Jordan given her reason to suspect he was interested in anyone else.

That didn’t mean his mother shared his certainty about Alix, though. Still, Susan had always been polite, if a bit cool. Jordan got along exceptionally well with his parents, and the last thing Alix wanted to do was mess that up for him.

“You need something to take your mind off all this wedding business,” Jordan said.

“Like what?” She was eager to do anything that would help her get through the next few months.

“What about another knitting class?”

Alix bit her lip as she considered the idea. She nodded slowly. “Lydia was in the other day and we chatted for a few minutes. She’s always got classes going and she’s starting a new one for a prayer shawl.”

“What a great idea.”

“Who would I give it to, though?” Alix asked.

“What about my grandmother Turner?”

Alix knew immediately that this was the perfect suggestion. She’d met his grandmother for the first time over the Christmas holidays, shortly after Jordan had given her the engagement ring, and had felt an instant connection with the old woman. They’d talked for hours, finding that their views were surprisingly alike and laughing at the same corny jokes. Although well into her eighties, Grandma lived on her own and still managed to keep a large flower garden. Alix had called Grandma Turner several times since and been out to see her last month with Jordan.

“I’ll sign up for the class after work,” Alix told him.

“Good.” He sighed, as though relieved the matter was settled.

Alix leaned into Jordan and kissed him again. She wanted him to know how much she appreciated the fact that he’d come after her. She’d left before he’d begun to really listen to her. Before he’d taken her doubts and fears about this wedding seriously. But he was listening now.

She must have put a bit more emotion into the kiss than she’d realized because Jordan was breathing hard when they broke apart. He cleared his throat. “That was nice.”

“Yeah,” she agreed in a soft voice. “It was.”

Jordan pulled her back into his arms. “June can’t get here too soon as far as I’m concerned.”

“I second that,” Alix said with a laugh.

CHAPTER
3

Colette Blake

Colette suspected that Margaret from the yarn store had never meant for her to hear that comment. The truth was, she was running away; she was hiding … from Christian Dempsey, from her past and—mostly—from herself. Colette had been halfway up the stairs when Margaret’s words hit her square in the back and now, a week later, those words continued to sting. She felt an overwhelming urge to explain, but she resisted. How could she tell these two women she’d been a widow for a year but was two months pregnant? Life was full of ironies, to say the least. Bitter ironies …

For three years she and Derek had tried to have a baby with no success. Then … one slip. A one-night stand, and here she was, carrying the child of a man she’d hoped never to see again. The very thought of Christian Dempsey filled her with dread. How could she have worked as his personal assistant for five years and been so naively unaware of the kind of man he was? Losing Derek, her shocking discovery about Christian and now this unexpected pregnancy—it was enough to drive anyone to the brink of emotional collapse.

Memories of her dead husband always brought her a pang of loss. It shouldn’t hurt this much after a full year and yet it did. His death made no sense to her. Her guilt over the fight they’d had just before his accident, another fight about their fertility problems, didn’t help. Nevertheless, her husband was dead, and she had to deal with that reality. She hated it. She hated every minute of life without Derek.

It was so stupid that he’d died. So incredibly stupid. For the first few weeks, her anger at the unfairness of it had consumed her. Derek should never have gotten up on that roof in the first place. All it would’ve taken was a simple phone call, and a professional repairman could’ve come out to take care of the leak. Derek had no business even attempting it. However, he’d said that any delay would cause more damage and claimed the job was a “no-brainer.” Before she could stop him, he had the ladder up against the side of the house and a tool belt slung around his waist. This was his opportunity to use the tools he’d gotten for Christmas; she wondered if that was his real motivation, or part of it, anyway. So pointless. So foolish.

If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was the fact that Colette hadn’t witnessed his fall. A neighbor friend had been there, talking to Derek, when he lost his balance and slid off the roof onto the concrete driveway. The neighbor called 911 from his cell phone before Colette even knew anything was wrong. Derek had been rushed to the hospital and never regained consciousness.

Initially Colette had been in shock, and then, as soon as the fog cleared and her numbness dissipated, she became angry. Deeply, furiously angry. The anger was followed by a feeling of sadness and overpowering loss. But none of this was a good reason for what she’d done a couple of months ago.

Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as she sat at the round oak table in her tiny kitchen. Covering her face with both hands, she relived the night of the company Christmas party.

Colette had been Christian Dempsey’s personal assistant for five years. That had come about in a completely unexpected way.

After working at Dempsey Imports in customs clearance, she’d been transferred to another floor near the corporate offices. Recently married, she was excited about her promotion to broker and the raise that went with it. She and Derek were just setting up house and with the added expenses of the honeymoon and the wedding, which they’d paid for themselves, the increase in pay had been a blessing.

Although she’d been with the company for two years, Colette had only seen Mr. Dempsey briefly and in passing. He was a man who exuded authority and power. He was frequently away from the office on foreign buying trips, and whenever he made an appearance, he seemed remote and preoccupied. This had probably contributed to the mystique that surrounded him. It didn’t hurt that he was six-three, solidly built and exceptionally good-looking. Heads turned anytime he walked into a room; he commanded that kind of respect and attention. Her first day on the second floor, Mr. Dempsey had arrived at work soon after she did and Colette, standing in the corridor between his office and her own department, had greeted him.

“Good morning, Mr. Dempsey.”

Those four words would forever change the course of her career—and her life.

He walked past her, with only the slightest acknowledgement of her greeting. It was then that she noticed everyone in the room watching her.

She waited until Christian Dempsey was inside his office, then gazed around her. People simply stared. Jenny, her boss, had a coffee mug half raised to her lips, her expression one of disbelief. Mark Taylor stood in front of a filing cabinet, shaking his head.

“Why’s everyone looking at me like that?” Colette asked.

Jenny set the coffee down on her desk and answered in a hushed whisper, “No one talks to Mr. Dempsey.”

“No one,” Mark reiterated.

Colette couldn’t imagine why not. He was flesh and blood like everyone else. Wishing him a good day was just the polite thing to do. But when she asked about it, she didn’t get a satisfactory response. Jenny sputtered, “Because he’s … because.” And Mark said, “Well, he’s very busy, you know.” None of which, in Colette’s view, justified the staff’s awed—or was it fearful?—reaction.

An hour later, she was summoned to Mr. Dempsey’s office by his assistant, who came to ask if she was the person who’d greeted him that morning. Her fellow workers cast her sympathetic looks as Colette rose from her desk and followed Dempsey’s assistant into the inner sanctum. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that Jenny was biting her lip. Mark waved as if to bid her farewell. Karen Christie and the others shrugged mournfully. Colette hadn’t known what to expect … except the worst.

Christian was working on his computer when she was ushered into his office. His assistant announced her name and left her standing there. Mr. Dempsey didn’t look up. Consequently, Colette felt like some minion called in, awaiting his notice. Her mouth had gone dry and she resisted blurting out that she loved her job and didn’t want to lose it. In nervous agitation she clenched her fists at her sides. When he finally deigned to glance in her direction, his eyes held hers.

“Are you the one who spoke to me?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” She probably should’ve apologized but she couldn’t make herself do it. The thought of losing her job because she’d been polite to her employer was ridiculous. And yet … She and Derek had made an offer on a house and needed her income to qualify for the loan. Everything would fall apart if she was fired.

“Why?”

“Why did I wish you a good morning?” she repeated, wanting to be sure she understood the question.

He gave her a half nod.

“Well,” she murmured, “I was just being courteous.”

“Are you new to the company?”

“I’ve worked here for two years.” Her throat felt scratchy but she refused to let him see how nervous she was by clearing it. Dempsey’s was currently the largest Seattle import company and one of the biggest on the West Coast.

He frowned as if he didn’t believe her. “I haven’t seen you before.”

Colette squared her shoulders. “I received a promotion from customs clearance on the fifth floor to working as a customs broker.”

He studied her in silence, and when he spoke, she found his question surprising. “Is that a wedding band on your finger?”

“I was married a few months ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t know how to respond. Anything she said might be considered crossing the line between professional respect and what could be perceived as excessive familiarity.

“Peter is leaving my employment and I’m looking for a personal assistant. You’ll do.”

“Me?” Colette slapped her hand over her heart in astonishment. “What about HR? Shouldn’t they be sending you people to interview?”

“Do you want the job or not?”

“I … sure. Only …”

“I prefer to hire my own assistants. Now, are you interested?”

At that point, she should have asked any number of questions; instead, she nodded.

“Good. Peter will train you. I don’t know what you’re earning per hour, but from this point forward you’ll be salaried.” He named a figure that was three times more than her current rate. Colette nearly fainted.

“Thank you,” she managed to mumble. Before leaving, she almost curtsied, such was Christian’s effect on her.

That had been the beginning. For the next five years, she made Christian Dempsey’s travel arrangements, screened his calls, wrote his letters, did research of various kinds, checked contracts and hired translators. She also booked his tee times at the local country club, made reservations for his dinner dates and set up all his appointments. When it came to the business, she was aware of every detail. Or so she’d assumed. She even purchased corporate Christmas gifts on his behalf. The one thing she knew next to nothing about was his family. His mother was dead, although how she’d learned that she couldn’t remember. Probably gossip she’d heard from Jenny or Mark. But in all that time Christian had never said a word about his father or any siblings.

For the past five years, Colette had spent nearly every work day looking after the details of his business life—and his private life. She dealt with the women, too, and there was no lack in that department. This was hardly surprising, since Christian was rich, powerful and dynamic, not to mention attractive. Equally unsurprising, these relationships never lasted long.

She and Derek were grateful for the money she earned, which they spent on things for the house and traveling. They’d taken trips to Australia and New Zealand, Europe and China, purchased new cars and dined out often. Colette enjoyed the benefits of her job. Then they’d decided to start their family and that was when her marital troubles began. She couldn’t get pregnant. There seemed to be no obvious reason, but Derek refused to seek medical help. In his opinion, if a pregnancy happened, it happened and if not, that was fine by him, too. It wasn’t fine with Colette; she wanted children, and her inability to conceive had devastated her.

After her husband’s death, Christian had been exceptionally kind. The biggest and most elaborate floral arrangement at the funeral had been from Dempsey Imports. He gave her a month off with pay, of which she’d taken two weeks. After that, it was either go back to work or go crazy. As much as possible, her work life returned to normal—until the company Christmas party.

Colette had handled all the arrangements for the party, which was held at a posh downtown hotel and took place on the third Friday of December. Dinner was followed by entertainment and dancing. It was her first Christmas without Derek, so her parents had wanted her to join them in Colorado. Colette’s flight was leaving late Saturday afternoon.

To blame alcohol for what happened would’ve been too easy. Yes, she’d had too much to drink. She’d always been fond of champagne and there’d been plenty of it available. Christian had been drinking, too. Perhaps more than a few glasses; she hadn’t kept count. They were both a long way from being clearheaded and sober, that was for sure.

At the end of the party, in the wee hours of the morning, she and Christian were the only people left. He’d thanked her for her part in making the evening a success. She’d already received her Christmas bonus but he surprised her by presenting her with a gift—a cameo on a delicate gold chain. Colette hadn’t known what to say. She couldn’t imagine Christian actually taking the time to shop for her. She was the one who always purchased gifts on his behalf. The gesture had touched her deeply. With this gift, Christian was telling her how sorry he was that she’d lost her husband. He was letting her know he appreciated everything she’d done for him and for the company.

Her eyes had clouded with tears. He tried to dismiss her gratitude but she wouldn’t allow him to do that. Impetuously she stood on the tips of her toes and kissed his cheek. Christian clasped her shoulders and stared down at her, his brow furrowed. Then slowly, as though he was waiting for her to stop him, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was explosive, not at all the gentle expression of thanks she might have expected. Colette was knocked off balance, physically and emotionally.

When the kiss ended, they were both breathing hard. He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. He murmured something she couldn’t quite hear; a moment later, she realized he’d told her he was getting a room. No one needed to spell out his intentions, or her own. She wanted him to make love to her. Her head was spinning and even as he led her to the elevator and then to the suite, she knew this was a mistake. Yet she couldn’t make herself walk away. She’d been lonely for so long.

When Christian unlocked the door and they entered the room, she made one feeble effort to introduce a note of reason.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” she’d asked, barely recognizing her own voice.

Christian had responded with a soft laugh. Then they were kissing again, his mouth warm as his tongue found hers. The passion in him left her trembling. They broke apart only long enough to breathe. In a brief moment of sanity, she tried to talk but all that escaped were incoherent sounds that seemed to encourage him.

He led her to the bed, stripping off her clothes as they made their way across the suite. They literally fell onto the bed. The ache in her was so powerful, so strong, that she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. A sob rose in her throat but his deep, openmouthed kisses swallowed any sound. Then he was making love to her….

He was an accomplished lover, she’d grant him that. Her body hummed with pleasure, her senses completely alive. Christian knew how to satisfy a woman. Despite knowing what she did about his history with women, she was a willing participant in their lovemaking.

He turned her face toward his so she couldn’t avoid his gaze. His eyes burned into hers and he brought his mouth to Colette’s, kissing her again and again. She didn’t want to respond and yet she found it impossible not to.

Afterward, he drew the covers over both of them, and they fell asleep. He drifted off first. Colette was harassed by doubts and regrets but she chased them away, refusing to listen. At least, not then … They would return later, the next day and the next. Even now, months afterward, she could hear them echoing in her mind, asking how she could have dishonored Derek’s memory that way. How she could have acted so irresponsibly. How she could’ve let such a thing happen …

At some point during that night she awoke, disoriented. She raised her head from the pillow; the room was still dark. As soon as she realized where she was and who she was with, she opened her eyes wide and her entire body tensed. She tried to slip silently away but the second she moved, Christian rolled over to face her.

“You’re awake,” he whispered.

She blinked uncertainly but he didn’t give her a chance to respond.

Instead, he leaned closer and gently pressed his lips to hers. Colette wanted to tell him they’d made a terrible mistake. She tried, she sincerely tried, but it was useless. He distracted her with his hands, his mouth, and she forgot her protests. Their lovemaking was passionate and uninhibited. And it didn’t end there. Twice more they made love.

The next afternoon, when they finally left the hotel room, Colette barely had time to race home, shower, grab her suitcase and fly into Denver to meet her parents.

It was the worst Christmas of her life. On Christmas Eve she and her parents watched their church’s reenactment of the Nativity, complete with live animals and a newborn baby. The service had her sobbing uncontrollably. Her parents assumed her tears were related to Derek’s death and how dreadfully she missed him, and they were. But it was more than that. She wept for reasons she had yet to fully understand.

Another worry nagged at her. In their rush and foolishness, neither one had bothered with birth control. Colette had never done much praying until then. A quick glance at the calendar told her that a pregnancy could result from her night with Christian.

When she returned to work, it was embarrassing for both of them. Christian treated her as if nothing had happened and for a while she pretended, too. Then one day while he was out of the office, she received an important call from one of the customs brokers and needed to get onto his computer to find a contract service code. His system was shut down, although he’d never turned it off before; she’d frequently needed to refer to files in the past and he always left his computer on for that reason. Knowing him as well as she did, it didn’t take her long to discover his password, which he’d listed on his Rolodex under P. She’d explain when he got back. She retrieved the necessary information and was ready to close when a file with an odd name caught her attention. It consisted of several Chinese words, none of them familiar. Christian was fluent in Mandarin, but he named his files in English. Not only that, these words didn’t seem to correspond with any of their suppliers in China. What made her open the file she’d never know. Their relationship was strained as it was and neither of them had ever spoken of that night. For whatever reason—idle curiosity or latent suspicion—she did open the file. A hundred times since—no, a thousand—she’d found herself wishing that she’d left well enough alone. In that moment, she learned more than she’d ever cared to know about the man who was her employer. She hadn’t immediately understood what she was reading, but then it became all too apparent. Christian Dempsey was involved in smuggling illegal aliens from China, using his import business as a cover. At first she refused to believe it. But as she considered his actions since Christmas, certain details started to add up. She’d assumed his uncharacteristic behavior was because of their night together. Now his activities seemed more sinister. He’d begun to close the door between their offices, too, with strict orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He was away for lengthy periods without explanation. And sometimes, always late in the day, he had guests who weren’t announced by Reception. Guests he didn’t introduce.

Then, three weeks into the new year, Colette knew she could no longer ignore the obvious. A pregnancy test from the drugstore confirmed it. Under normal circumstances Colette would probably have discussed the situation with him. Not now. She wanted no further contact with Christian Dempsey. The biggest struggle was what to do with the information she had. For several sleepless nights, she debated the best course of action. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore the fact that he was trafficking in humans. At the same time, she wondered if she could put the father of her child behind bars. In the end, she wrote an anonymous letter to the Immigration and Naturalization Service. One thing was certain—she couldn’t work for Christian anymore. As far as she could see, leaving was the only solution. Early one morning, she typed up her letter of resignation and placed it on his desk.

Colette wasn’t sure how he’d react when he read it. She soon found out. He called her into his office and glared at her. Then with a look so scornful it cut straight through her heart, he suggested she take her two-week vacation now and leave immediately. She nodded, convinced that he was aware of exactly what she’d uncovered. Without a word, she turned and walked out. That was the last time she’d seen or heard from Christian Dempsey.

Her house sold right away and she’d obtained the job in the flower shop the next week. Fortunately, real estate in her part of Seattle moved quickly. When she heard about the apartment above the yarn store, it had seemed perfect. She was hiding from Christian, praying he wouldn’t ever look for her. What she earned at the flower shop covered her meager expenses. The insurance money she’d collected after Derek’s accident, plus the proceeds from the house, had paid off her car and given her enough to make a few sizable investments. She was financially comfortable.

Too nauseous to eat, she swallowed the rest of her tea, washed her cup and dressed for the day. Colette had a new life now, a brand-new beginning. She was doing her best to prepare for her baby, trying to eat properly and taking prenatal vitamins. She’d bought a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting from the bookstore down the street, wishing she could have shared this whole experience with her husband. No one knew about the pregnancy yet, not even her parents. Until the authorities arrested Christian, she’d keep it to herself.

When she got to work, Susannah Nelson was already there, cataloging a shipment of fresh flowers. The scent of roses filled the shop.

“Good morning.” Susannah greeted her absently, intent on her task.

“Morning. Those smell gorgeous.”

“They do, don’t they?” Susannah looked up with a smile.

With Valentine’s Day the following week, they’d received a huge shipment of roses, in addition to the flowers that arrived every other day. Colette’s favorites were the antique roses with their intense fragrance, although they tended to be smaller and less colorful than the hybrids.

“I expect we’ll be extra busy today,” Susannah said. This was her first full year of owning Susannah’s Garden and she was learning as she went. “Oh, before I forget, there was a phone call yesterday afternoon, just after you left.”

A chill went up Colette’s spine. She’d told only a few people where she’d gone. “Who was it?”

Susannah frowned. “I don’t remember the name, but I wrote it down.” Leaving the counter where she’d been working, she walked over to the phone and sorted through a stack of pink message slips until she found the one she wanted.

“The call was from a Christian Dempsey. He said it was personal.”

Colette’s hand felt numb as she accepted the slip. She glanced at the phone number, one she knew so well, and with her heart pounding, crumpled the note and tossed it in the garbage.

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 the 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 couldn’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.

Susannah spoke, and Colette gratefully turned her thoughts away from Christian Dempsey.

“I’m not sure what I expected of Mr. Olson,” Susannah said as she slipped the big apron around her neck and deftly tied it at her waist. “But then I don’t normally hang around funeral parlors,” she added. “He was so friendly. But not somber, you know? Just genuine and low-key. Later I saw him talking to a family who’d lost a loved one and he had such a gentle, reassuring manner.” She gave a light shrug. “I was impressed with him—and I hope he felt the same way about me.”

Colette knew that if Susannah received the funeral-home contract it would be a huge boost for the shop. Her only experience with funerals had been Derek’s, which was a blur in her mind. His parents had flown in from Chicago and handled almost everything, making all the decisions about their son’s interment. In her benumbed state, she’d been glad to let them do it. While sitting in the waiting room, Colette remembered glancing through a brochure about prepaid plans. She would never have guessed it might one day be part of her own job.

“I assured Mr. Olson that while I’m new to this business, I have every intention of being around for a long time. Joe helped me prepare what to say. He’s been so wonderful.”

Colette admired Susannah’s husband, Joe, and the way he supported and encouraged his wife and her new venture. She envied them their loving partnership. She wondered if her own marriage would have deepened into that mature love. She liked to think it would have. But her husband was dead—and Colette was pregnant with another man’s child.

The phone rang just then and Colette answered it. As she started entering the details of an order, the front door opened and someone came into the shop. Susannah stepped out front to deal with the customer.

Colette finished writing up the order—a bouquet to congratulate new parents on their baby. The flowers would be delivered to a local hospital that afternoon. Because the business was small, Susannah had hired a delivery service. The driver stopped by once a day to pick up the orders. Flower arrangements like this one, for joyous occasions, brought Susannah and Colette the most pleasure. Funeral wreaths and arrangements were a staple of the business, but Colette knew from her own experience that no quantity of flowers, regardless of how exotic or expensive, would ease the ache of having lost a family member. The point was to honor the person who’d died and to express condolences to the living.

Susannah returned to the back room. “There’s a man out front who wants to speak to you.”

“A man?” It could only be one person.

Susannah stared at the business card in her hand. “Christian Dempsey. Isn’t he the man who left a phone message last week?”

Colette nodded jerkily. She hadn’t called Christian back, which was probably stupid on her part. It was absurd to think he wouldn’t be able to find her. Knowing him as well as she did, she should have realized her lack of response would only heighten his desire to confront her.

Squaring her shoulders, Colette moved slowly into the front of the shop and stood behind the counter. She would listen to whatever he had to say and pray that would be the end of it. However, nothing could have prepared her for the impact of seeing him again.

It wasn’t that his appearance had changed. Christian looked just the same as he had last month. As soon as she entered the room, his eyes flew to hers.

“Mr. Dempsey,” she said formally, which seemed a little ridiculous when she’d lain naked in his arms. But politeness offered her an emotional buffer she badly needed.

He frowned. “In light of … uh, recent events, calling me by my first name might be more appropriate.”

She studied him, not sure if he was making fun of her. What would be appropriate, Colette felt like saying, was to avoid any mention of their encounter at the hotel. “All right. Christian.”

“Did you get my message?”

“Yes. I did.” She didn’t offer any explanation as to why she hadn’t returned his call.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Anyone else might not have noticed. Colette did. After five years of working with him, she was all too aware of the nuances that relayed his mood and his thoughts. He wasn’t pleased with her, and everything about him, his look, his stance, the set of his shoulders, told her so. She could only surmise that he’d discovered she was the one who’d written the letter. Coward that she was, Colette had no intention of bringing it up.

His gaze continued to hold hers. “I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes. Privately.”

He knew. “That’s … not possible. I’m working.”

“Then I’ll wait.”

Nothing would intimidate walk-in customers faster than an irritated Christian Dempsey.

Colette hesitated and then reluctantly gave in. It wouldn’t do any good to put this off, she decided; he’d only come back. “I’ll see if my employer can spare me.”

Christian responded with a curt nod and she hurried to ask Susannah if she could leave early.

“Who is that guy?” Susannah whispered the minute Colette reappeared.

“My former boss. Would it be okay if I left now?”

“With him?” Susannah frowned, clearly concerned.

“It isn’t like we have a lot to say to each other.” In Colette’s opinion, this conversation should take about five seconds. Her biggest worry was how she’d feel afterward. The attraction was still there, despite everything she knew about him.

“Take all the time you need,” Susannah told her. “Just promise me that speaking to this man is something you want to do.”

It was, and it definitely wasn’t. “I need to,” she said, letting that explanation suffice.

Christian was waiting for her out front. Ever the gentleman, he held the door for her as they left the flower shop. She half expected some comment on the type of employment she’d taken after leaving Dempsey Imports. He said nothing.

“There’s a café across the street,” he said, gesturing toward the French Café with its striped awning. One of the windows displayed a multitude of baked delicacies and through the other they could see small tables and chairs.

“Why don’t we go for a short walk instead?” She didn’t want anyone from the café to listen in on their conversation.

Christian was agreeable. They spoke briefly, exchanging pleasantries as they strolled down Blossom Street. Christian walked with his hands behind his back, careful to keep pace with her shorter strides. What struck Colette was the way they both struggled to maintain a facade of unfamiliarity. They acted like strangers when they so obviously weren’t.

“How are you?” Christian asked. He turned to look at her as if he possessed the uncanny ability to see straight through her, which in fact he did.

“I’m very well, thank you.” She hoped her voice didn’t reveal how on edge she really felt.

“I mean, how are you … physically?” he asked again.

“Physically?” she repeated.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” His words were impatient. “If I remember correctly, neither of us took the time to employ any measures to prevent pregnancy.”

“Oh.” Embarrassment lit up her cheeks brighter than the red signal light at the intersection. “I’m fine. There’s … nothing to worry about.”

He didn’t seem to believe her.

“If that’s all,” she said, ready to part company, “I should be getting back.” Her mind was crowded with questions and accusations. She’d never taken Christian for a fool and yet she had proof that he was trafficking in Chinese aliens. Seeing him confused her. She didn’t want to think about him or give him reasons to suspect she carried his child. The sooner they said their good-byes, the better.

“No, there’s more,” he countered sharply. He hesitated, as though he wasn’t sure how to formulate the next question. After a brief pause, he blurted out, “I’d like you to return to Dempsey Imports.”

His request shocked her, and Colette automatically shook her head. “I can’t.”

When the light changed, they crossed the street and continued walking, no real destination in mind.

Christian waited until they were on the other side. “Is it because of what happened?”

“Christian,” she murmured and instantly knew he hadn’t found out about the letter. “It wouldn’t work. It’s unfortunate and I feel bad, but that night will always stand between us.”

“And day.”

He seemed to be trying to add to her embarrassment.

“Fine, and that day,” she admitted. “It doesn’t matter. Working together is no longer an option.”

“All right,” he said regretfully. “I realize I made a mistake after the holidays. The relationship changed and I had no idea how to deal with it.”

That wasn’t the only thing that had changed, she thought sarcastically.

“I pretended nothing was different between us,” he went on. “But it was … is. You’ve made your point. We need to discuss this like two mature adults and reach an understanding.”

“I don’t want to discuss it. And there’s nothing to understand. We made a regrettable mistake. Blame it on too much champagne, too much Christmas spirit.”

He raised his brows.

Colette stared down at the sidewalk. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Everything’s changed, Christian. I can’t go back to being your assistant.”

“Why can’t we both consider what happened at the Christmas party a slip in judgment and let it go at that? You’re a valuable employee. The company needs you.”

“The company?” she asked.

He exhaled slowly. “I need you,” he murmured. “I want you to come back.”

Colette supposed she should be flattered, since Christian Dempsey rarely admitted to needing anyone or anything. “It isn’t possible,” she said and she meant it. “We can’t undo what’s already been done. Don’t you see that?” He couldn’t honestly expect her to resume managing his schedule, his travel arrangements and his dates. As soon as he learned she’d contacted the authorities, he’d fire her anyway.

He didn’t answer.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

“Why? Were you hiding?”

“No …”

“It wasn’t that difficult. I had Accounting contact your bank and get the new address—to mail your severance documents.”

She shrugged, feeling a bit foolish. But she couldn’t resist another question. “Did you hire a new assistant yet?” She could have asked any of the friends she’d made through the years. But the company must be rife with gossip and rumors as to why she’d quit so abruptly, and for that reason, Colette hadn’t called anyone at Dempsey Imports. Getting in touch with them to ask for information like that was a last resort.

“Lloyd York,” Christian said.

“Lloyd,” she repeated. She tried unsuccessfully to remember a face to go with the name. “I don’t know him.” As much as possible, Christian made it a practice to promote and hire within the company.

“He’s a temp.”

Colette felt her eyes widen. Christian disliked using personnel from a temporary agency and until now he’d avoided it. The fact that he’d looked outside the company only underlined his guilt. What she didn’t understand was his reason for wanting her back. Surely he knew she’d uncover his activities sooner or later.

“I hoped you’d come to your senses and return voluntarily. When I didn’t hear from you, I had no choice but to contact you myself.”

“Christian, I’m sorry, sorrier than you know. But I’m not going to change my mind.”

“You’re sure you won’t reconsider?”

“No.” She closed her eyes. Despite everything, she missed him, missed the demands and challenges of her position. Not a day passed that she didn’t think of him. She wanted to tell him about the baby but knew she couldn’t until everything had played out. Needless to say, she couldn’t predict how or when that would take place.

“You want to come back, Colette. I can feel it. Tell me what’s stopping you and I’ll make it right. You want a raise, fine. I’ll double whatever your salary was before. We know each other well and—”

Angry now, she whirled on him. “I beg to differ. After five years of working side by side, you know next to nothing about me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” she flared.

“On the contrary, I know you very well, Colette Blake.” The innuendo was so sharp, it felt like a carefully aimed needle pricking her vulnerable skin—and her pride.

“See what I mean?” she said as calmly as her hammering pulse would allow. “You just made my case. What happened … happened, and there’s no going back. I suggest you hire a permanent replacement, Mr. Dempsey, because I can assure you I have no intention of working for you again … ever.”

Conscious of the need to retain her dignity, Colette marched off, leaving him standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

CHAPTER
6

“The simple meditative act of knitting may not bring about world peace, but it certainly has made my world more peaceful.”

—Ann Budd, Book Editor, Interweave Press.

Author of numerous knitting books, including Lace Style, coauthored with Pam Allen (Spring 2007) and Getting Started Knitting Socks, Fall 2007, Interweave Press

Lydia Goetz

If today wasn’t the first knitting class for the prayer shawl, I would’ve closed the shop in order to be with Margaret and Julia. My niece was in bad shape. The hospital had kept her for two days after setting the pin in her arm, which was badly broken. Her face was swollen and bruised. I could barely look at her and not cry. It was beyond my imagination that anyone would do something like this to my beautiful Julia. More damaging than the physical injuries was what this carjacking had done to her emotionally.

To her and to my sister! I’d never seen Margaret angrier. At the hospital she paced the waiting room snarling like a wounded beast, snapping at the staff, demanding answers and generally making a nuisance of herself. I couldn’t even talk to her. I don’t know what would’ve happened if not for Matt. My brother-in-law handled the situation so tactfully. Again and again, he reminded Margaret that Julia was alive. The loss of the car was of no consequence as long as their daughter had survived the attack. Insurance would replace the vehicle but nothing could ever replace their child.

The door opened on this bleak Wednesday afternoon, and Alix walked into the shop. I was pleased that she’d decided to sign up for another class, although she didn’t really need one, since she’s turned into an accomplished knitter. Because Colette and Susannah were beginners, I’d offered to teach two patterns, one a simple prayer shawl, and the other, for Alix, a more elaborate, complicated lace pattern. She required a challenge, otherwise she’d quickly grow bored. She also needed distraction, and I figured this lace pattern would do the trick.

I was so grateful to see her I almost broke into tears. I’d been so distraught by the assault on Julia that my emotions were completely off-kilter.

“Did you hear?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice from shaking.

Alix nodded. “How’s Julia doing?”

“She came home after a couple of days in the hospital but she refuses to see anyone other than family.” With her face swollen and discolored, Julia was afraid of what her friends would say. She’d immediately gone into her bedroom and hadn’t come out. I understood better than anyone might have guessed. After my first brain surgery, my head swathed in bandages, I’d been terribly self-conscious. Little did I realize this was just the beginning of my ordeal. I wouldn’t allow my friends to see me, either, and later, when I was lonely and depressed, there were only a few who’d hung on. In retrospect, I knew I was responsible for sending them away; I hoped Julia didn’t repeat my mistake.

All I could do was pray for my niece and give her my love and support. Her arm would mend and the bruises fade, but I doubted she’d ever be the same lighthearted girl she’d been a week ago.

The car thief had stolen more than their vehicle that day. He’d also taken Julia’s innocent trust that the world was decent and safe. He’d blindsided my sister and Matt, too. Whoever he was, this man had a great deal to answer for.

“Did the boys in blue find the guy who did it?” Alix asked as she sauntered up to the table in the back room of the shop. That was where I held my classes. She set down her backpack and took out the yarn and needles she’d purchased earlier in the week.

“No word yet.” Frankly, I didn’t have much hope. The officer who’d talked to Margaret explained that the car was probably on a container ship in the Port of Seattle within a day of the attack. Apparently the new car my sister had chosen was one of the most desirable vehicles on the black market. The whole family had been so proud of their first brand-new car, and this only added to the burden of Margaret’s guilt.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Alix muttered.

I knew Alix distrusted the police. I should’ve said something positive to counter her cynicism, but I didn’t feel like arguing. Besides, it wasn’t getting the car back that was important to my sister. It was justice she wanted. Justice she demanded. Margaret wasn’t one to easily forgive and forget, and she was fiercely protective of her family, especially her daughters Julia and eleven-year-old Hailey.

The bell chimed a second time and in strolled Susannah and Colette. All three women had already bought the necessary needles and yarn and I’d supplied the pattern as part of the class fee. Because Colette and Susannah were new knitters, most of my time would be spent helping them.

“Susannah, Colette, this is my friend Alix,” I said. “She works at the French Café, so you’ve probably seen her around the neighborhood.”

Alix shrugged her shoulder in an unfriendly manner. Her attitude reminded me of the way she’d acted during my first knitting class, when she’d sat across from Jacqueline Donovan. I hadn’t seen this side of Alix in a long while and knew something must be troubling her. Once more I bit my tongue.

“Colette, why don’t you introduce yourself,” I said, hoping to begin the class on a more optimistic note.

“Well, I obviously know Susannah and Lydia, and I’ve seen Alix at the café. I’m Colette Blake.”

When she didn’t offer any other information, I prompted her. “Tell us about yourself,” I urged.

Colette looked at Alix. “What would you like to know?” she asked.

Again Alix answered with that halfhearted shrug. “Nothing, unless it’s some little fact you’re dying to tell me.”

I could no longer remain silent. “Alix!” I snapped, telling her I found her behavior downright rude.

She had the good grace to apologize. “I’m sorry, Colette, I’ve had a rotten day. Please, tell me about yourself.”

Colette shook her head. “Actually, I don’t have anything to say. I’d prefer it if we just started the class.”

“Hey, everyone,” Susannah inserted. “This is supposed to be a fun class. We’re knitting a prayer shawl, for heaven’s sake! Not a bulletproof vest.”

That made me smile. “Okay, Susannah, why don’t you take a turn?” I said. She, at least, seemed willing to chat.

“Well,” she began, “as everyone here knows, I bought Susannah’s Garden last September. It’s a real change from my teaching position, which I had for over twenty-four years.”

“What made you quit teaching?” Alix asked, sitting a bit straighter.

“I was in a rut,” Susannah explained. “Burned out. Without realizing it, I’d lost my enthusiasm. When I started teaching, I loved every minute of it. Back then, I almost hated to see the school year end. The last year I taught, I couldn’t wait for summer and I realized I was cheating my students—and myself.”

Alix’s question made me wonder if she wanted to have her own bakery one day, the way Susannah had opened a florist’s business. I found that an exciting idea, but wasn’t sure how Jordan would feel about it.

“Why a flower shop?” Colette asked, leaning forward.

Susannah gestured expansively. “I’ve always had a beautiful garden and my mother did, too. I guess I inherited my love for flowers from her. Actually, I would never have thought of owning a flower shop if not for my husband. Joe knows me best.” She paused and smiled. “I’ll amend that. On a good day, he can be astonishingly intuitive about me and what I need. He’s the one who checked out the For Sale sign at Fanny’s Floral and talked to the previous owner. When he suggested I buy the shop, I knew right away that it was exactly what I should do.”

“You like being your own boss?” Alix asked.

“I absolutely love it,” Susannah said fervently. “Although I have to tell you I’ve never worked harder in my life.”

Alix looked out the window at the French Café. I knew she’d once dreamed of working in such a place and her dream had become a reality, the same way mine had.

“Say, Alix, didn’t someone tell me you’re getting married in June?” Susannah asked.

Alix nodded, but not with much vigor. I feared her bad day was directly related to the wedding. I wish I knew what had set her off. But Alix isn’t one to freely share her troubles; I suppose that kind of reserve comes from having only herself to rely on all those years. She’d been living on her own from the time she was sixteen.

“Have you ordered the wedding flowers yet?” Susannah asked.

Alix squirmed again. “I’m leaving that up to Jordan’s mother.”

“Don’t you want a say in the matter?” Colette asked, glancing at Susannah and then at me.

“Not really.” Alix reached for the knitting needles and yarn as if the subject bored her.

“But flowers are an important part of the wedding,” Susannah said. “Shouldn’t they—”

“I haven’t made a single decision yet,” Alix broke in. “Why would I start now?” She turned to me. “Are we going to talk all afternoon or are we going to knit?”

“Knit.” Apparently the wedding was a subject best avoided. I picked up the needles and a skein of yarn. “There are various ways to cast on stitches,” I explained as I inserted my index finger into each end of the rolled yarn. I’ve developed my own method of finding the end and pulling it through the skein. To be honest, I’m not always successful. Fortunately, this time I looked like a genius. I pulled out the end, then had Susannah and Colette do the same.

Finding the end of the yarn was a good ice-breaker and I was sorry I hadn’t started with that. Alix clearly wasn’t in a talkative mood, and Colette didn’t seem interested in sharing a single piece of information about herself. I assumed she’d be willing to tell Alix that she was a recent widow. Or maybe she thought Alix had already heard. Then again, Colette might prefer to keep her grief about Derek’s death private.

I continued by showing Colette and Susannah how to cast on stitches by knitting them onto the needle. It’s not my favorite way of casting on; however, I find it one of the less complicated methods. It’s also an effective prelude to learning the basic knitting stitch.

Alix had completed the first inch of the pattern before Colette had finished casting on and counting her stitches.

Colette frowned as she looked across the table. “You know how to knit,” she complained. “Why are you taking the class?”

Alix glanced up and made brief eye contact with me. “Jordan—my fiancé—suggested it might help calm my nerves.”

“I’m not getting this,” Susannah groaned and set the needles and yarn aside. “I thought this was supposed to be relaxing.”

“Not necessarily at the beginning,” I said.

“No kidding,” Susannah muttered.

Alix burst out laughing. “You should’ve seen me when I was learning. Jacqueline turned three shades of purple when I dropped my first stitch.”

“As I recall,” I said, grinning at the memory, “it wasn’t because you dropped a stitch but because of how you reacted—with a whole vocabulary of swearwords.”

Alix’s lips quivered with amusement. “I’ve toned down my language, so don’t worry, ladies.”

“You aren’t going to say anything I haven’t heard from my kids,” Susannah told her.

“Don’t be too sure.”

Smiling, I raised my hand. “Are you two going to get into a swearing match?” I asked.

“Not me,” Susannah said as she finished her first real stitch. The tension was so tight, it amazed me that she could actually transfer the yarn from one needle to the other. She heaved a sigh and turned to me for approval, as though she’d achieved something heroic.

“Good,” I said as I leaned over to examine her work.

“I need some help,” Colette moaned, the yarn a tangled mess on the table.

I couldn’t tell exactly what she’d managed to do, but there was nothing I hadn’t seen in the last three years. I soon corrected her mistake and again showed her the basic stitch, standing behind her to make sure she understood. If I did the knitting for her, that would accomplish nothing. She had to do this on her own.

“I agree with Susannah,” she said after a few minutes. “This has got to be the most nerve-racking activity I’ve ever tried. When does the relaxing part begin?”

“It just happens,” Alix told them both. “All at once you’ll be knitting and you won’t even need to count the stitches. The first thing I made was a baby blanket, and after every single row I had to stop and make sure I hadn’t accidentally increased or dropped a stitch. By comparison, the prayer shawl you’re doing is easy.”

I had to admit Alix was right. The baby blanket had been an ambitious project. I’d chosen it because it required about ten classes. If I’d started with anything smaller, like a cotton washcloth, I would’ve needed only one, possibly two, sessions. The blanket justified the number of classes I’d scheduled.

“Who are you knitting your prayer shawl for?” I asked Susannah.

“My mother,” she answered without hesitation. “She’s doing really well, better than I expected after we … after I moved her into an assisted-living complex in Colville.”

“My own mother’s in assisted living, as well,” I said. “But it must be a worry living so far from her.” Margaret and I shared the responsibility of checking up on Mom and spending time with her.

We hadn’t told Mom what had happened to Julia. It would only have distressed her. I was afraid she might’ve guessed something was wrong because Margaret hadn’t been by in several days. Mom, however, hadn’t seemed to notice.

“It’s not so bad,” Susannah said, responding to my comment. “We talk every day, Mom and I.” She paused, biting down on her tongue as she carefully wrapped the yarn around the needle. “I have a good friend who stops by periodically and lets me know how Mom’s doing.”

“What would we do without friends,” I said, and saw how Alix instantly looked up. She seemed calmer now.

“What about you, Alix? Have you decided who you’ll give the prayer shawl to?”

She nodded. “At first I thought I’d keep it for myself. I’m going to need plenty of prayers to get through this wedding, that’s for sure.” She grinned, shaking her head, and continued knitting. “But I’m going to give it to Jordan’s grandmother. I think she’ll really like the fact that I knit it for her.”

“I’m sure she will,” I said. “What about you, Colette?”

She didn’t raise her head. “I might just keep it. Does that sound selfish?”

“Not at all,” I assured her. I realized that the act of knitting had already worked its magic on all of us. Alix had come in stressed and ill-tempered, on edge about the wedding. Colette, too, had been nervous and unhappy, for reasons I didn’t know. I was certainly upset, because of what had happened to my niece and to Margaret. Susannah had her own struggles, launching a new business. We were relaxed now, talking together, laughing, knitting.

Knitting had linked us all.

CHAPTER
7

Alix Townsend

Finished for the day, Alix poured herself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the staff table in the bakery’s back room and put her feet up on the chair across from her. The French Café did a thriving business and she liked to think she’d played a role in that success. Her muffins, coffee cakes, cookies, sweet rolls and cakes, baked fresh every morning, had attracted a following of regular customers.

Molly, one of the baristas, stuck her head into the kitchen. “Jordan’s here,” she announced in a tone that said Alix was lucky to have met a man like him. But Alix already knew that.

“Jordan? Here? Now?” she asked. They weren’t supposed to meet for another hour.

“He looks like Jordan, talks like Jordan, walks like Jordan. My guess is, it is Jordan.”

“Cute,” Alix said, saluting Molly’s wit with her coffee mug.

“Want me to send him back here?”

Alix nodded, even though she was a mess. If he’d waited an hour as they’d originally planned, she’d have showered and changed clothes. Seeing that he hadn’t, he’d have to take her as she was, which at the moment was tired.

Jordan appeared, and she lowered her feet and motioned toward the vacant chair. He pulled it up to the table with one hand, holding a disposable container of coffee in the other. Leaning back in the chair, he smiled.

“Did I get the time wrong?” she asked, although she was sure she hadn’t.

“No. I’m early.”

“Any particular reason?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “Have you had a chance to look through the books yet?” he mumbled.

“Which books?” But she knew exactly what he meant. His mother had hand-delivered huge binders filled with sample wedding invitations; she was supposed to study them and make her selection. She’d tried to choose but every invitation she liked had been vetoed by Jacqueline or Susan. It had frustrated her so much she hadn’t bothered to look again.

“Mom said we need to decide on the invitations right away so they can be ordered.”

Alix did her best not to groan aloud. “Did you look at them?”

“No, I’m busy at the church and—”

“You think I’m any less busy?” she demanded, her anger firing to life.

Jordan met her eyes. “Alix, listen, I didn’t come here to argue. We’re both busy, that’s a given, but we need to get serious about this wedding.”

“I am serious.” If she wasn’t so tired, she would’ve had more control of her temper.

“I am, too,” Jordan said. “Everyone’s on my case about choosing the invitations.”

“By everyone, you mean your mother.”

“And Jacqueline,” he added.

“Then let them choose,” she cried, clenching her fists in frustration. Still, Jordan was right about Jacqueline. She was so consumed with wedding details that Alix had taken to avoiding her. Every conversation with her friend and mentor revolved around some aspect of the wedding or the reception. Jacqueline had actually hired a ten-piece orchestra! Then this morning, she’d said she was talking to someone about releasing doves at some meaningful point in the ceremony. Doves? As far as Alix was concerned, the idea of white birds flapping their wings, leaving droppings in their wake, was simply ridiculous. There’d even been talk of a horse-drawn buggy to transport “the bridal couple” from the church to the country club. The last she’d heard, it was still under consideration. A buggy! She could hardly bear to think about the flowers and the cake.

Alix didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings but this was her wedding and it seemed she should have at least a little say about the kind of event it was. Against her better judgment, she’d given in on this country club reception, because she knew a big reception would please Jordan’s mother. Alix hoped to have a good relationship with her in-laws, especially Susan Turner, so she’d been willing to compromise. Except that it felt as if she was the only one doing any compromising.

“We can go through the sample books this evening.” Alix finally said. It was pointless to argue.

“You don’t seem too happy about it.”

“I’m not.” She might be conceding but she wasn’t willing to pretend. “You know what I thought?” she asked, growing a bit sad that their wedding had slipped away from her.

“You were looking forward to some time for the two of us tonight. We’ll have that, Alix, I promise, as soon as we pick out the invitations.” Jordan sipped his coffee.

“It isn’t just that,” she said wistfully. “When you gave me the engagement ring and we started talking about the ceremony …” She paused. “I thought it would be a small service and I’d make the invitations myself.”

“Really?” Jordan seemed impressed. “Maybe we could do it together.”

She doubted it. “How many people on your mother’s list?” she asked. Needless to say, her own would be considerably shorter.

“Three hundred at last count.”

Alix’s heart rate went into overdrive. “Three hundred people?”

“Invitations,” he corrected, apparently unaware of what this news had done to her. “That means maybe five hundred people.”

“You’ve got to be joking!”

“Alix, my father is a pastor. You wouldn’t believe how many friends and associates my parents have. Mom’s whittled the list down to three hundred invitations. If I told you how many she started out with, you’d have a panic attack.”

“I’m having one now.”

Jordan grinned, clearly thinking she’d made a joke; she hadn’t. The idea of walking down the aisle in a church filled with hundreds of wedding guests—all of them strangers—was enough to make Alix sick to her stomach.

“I hope you realize how much I love you,” she muttered.

Jordan grinned again as he reached for his coffee. “I sure do.”

“Can we talk about something other than the wedding?” she asked. The inside of her elbow was beginning to itch and she suspected she was breaking out in hives. She hadn’t experienced hives since she was a kid and assumed she’d outgrown the tendency, which she’d learned to associate with stress. Obviously not.

“Sure,” he agreed readily. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Uh …” A few minutes ago she’d had a dozen different things she’d looked forward to discussing with Jordan. All of a sudden her mind was completely blank. “I went to the first knitting class for the prayer shawl.”

“How’d it go?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Tell me about the other people in the class,” he said.

“There’s only two other women. Susannah and Colette.” Alix enjoyed having a smaller class. She’d helped Lydia teach Susannah, who’d had some of the same problems Alix did when she’d started knitting.

“Susannah, from Susannah’s Garden?”

Alix stiffened. “I suppose your mother’s upset because I haven’t decided on the flowers yet?”

Jordan blew out an exasperated sigh. “Alix, we weren’t going to talk about the wedding, remember?”

“Right.” Actually that was a relief. It seemed there was always something she needed to be doing or should have done with regard to the wedding.

“Okay, so you’re knitting a prayer shawl.”

She nodded. “Lydia gave us a bit of the background on prayer shawls. Some church groups apparently take them to nursing homes and use them as part of their ministry. Lydia said the whole idea came about as a way of nurturing and caring for family or friends who’ve got health problems. I don’t think the recipient necessarily has to be ill, though. The shawls are … small displays of love,” she said on a burst of inspiration.

Jordan smiled in approval.

“I’m going to take your suggestion and knit mine for your grandma Turner.” Right away she could see that Jordan was pleased.

“Alix, she’ll adore you for that.” His brown eyes were soft with appreciation. “You made quite an impression on her, you know.”

Alix had begun to think of Sarah Turner as her honorary grandma. She couldn’t remember having grandparents of her own, although she must have. At any rate, neither her maternal nor paternal grandparents had played a role in her life. If they had, she might not have ended up in foster care.

She’d never spent time around elderly people, so meeting Jordan’s grandmother had been an experience. Grandma liked to talk and Alix had found her fascinating. Everyone in the family had heard Grandma’s stories, but not Alix and she hung on every word. Grandma talked about the Depression and World War II, when she’d worked as a school secretary for twenty-five cents an hour. Later, when her husband was in the army overseas, Grandma Turner had gone to work at the shipyard in Portland, Oregon, as a welder and saved five thousand dollars. At the time, that amount of money was a fortune. With her savings they were able to purchase the property on Star Lake, near Seattle, where she lived to this very day. The Turners had raised their two sons there; she’d been a widow nearly twenty years.

Jordan reached for Alix’s hand and entwined their fingers. “How about if we splurge and go to a movie?”

“Popcorn?”

“Why not?” He smiled and Alix leaned close to give him a lingering kiss.

They left soon afterward, stopping at Alix’s place just long enough for her to change clothes. She’d been tired and cranky when Jordan arrived, but no more.

Date night with her fiancé was exactly what Alix needed to lift her spirits and take her mind off the fuss everyone was making over their wedding.

Her irritation was a symptom of nerves, she realized. By the time of the wedding, she’d be past all of that and eager to settle into married life. It would be a piece of cake. Wedding cake! And she was baking her own. On that, Alix wouldn’t budge.

A few weeks ago, she’d tried to convince Jordan to elope. Now she understood how foolish that idea had been. Susan Turner would never forgive her if they got married in secrecy.

When they were back from the movie—a romantic comedy Alix had chosen—Jordan reminded her that they couldn’t put the invitations off any longer. They sat side by side at her kitchen table in the Donovans’ guesthouse and flipped through the huge three-ring binders, hoping to make a selection. Some of the invitations were elaborate and eye-catching, but those didn’t suit Alix’s taste in the least. She thought others were far too frilly and Jordan agreed. And some were just … silly. She couldn’t imagine who’d want Donald and Daisy Duck on a wedding invitation. The simpler examples seemed too plain. In the end, after going through each binder twice, Alix couldn’t find a single one she liked that would pass muster with Jacqueline and Susan Turner.

“What do you think?” Jordan asked.

“I wish I had time to make them myself.” Alix had looked forward to that. Something elegant, individual …

“I wish you did, too,” Jordan murmured, his head close to hers.

“You decide,” she told him tiredly. “Just pick one.”

“Me?”

“I can’t.”

“I can’t, either.” She didn’t want Jordan to think she wasn’t interested, because she was. But her choices weren’t acceptable to Susan and Jacqueline—Wedding Planners run amok, she thought with a sudden grin.

“What am I going to tell my mother?” Jordan asked. He sounded a bit desperate.

Unable to stop herself, Alix grinned again. Apparently she wasn’t the only one afraid to stand up to Susan Turner. Well, that wasn’t entirely fair. Susan was his mother and wanted the best for them. The Turner family had put their very heart—and their bank account—into this wedding, and the Donovans had, as well.

“I know what we’ll do,” Alix said, feeling inspired. “I have a solution!”

“What?” Jordan asked eagerly.

Alix laughed and threw her arms around him. “Choose one,” she insisted. “Any one will do. Close your eyes if you want.”

Giving her a puzzled glance, he opened the first binder and turned a few pages. He pointed to one of the more elaborate designs.

Alix wrinkled her nose.

“That one, then,” he said, pointing to one on the opposite page.

“That’s no better.”

“Okay, you choose,” he said.

She picked out an invitation with Disney characters.

Jordan grimaced. “That one?”

“How about this?” She purposely picked out one she knew Jordan would object to.

“No way.”

“Good.” She beamed him a smile. “We can’t decide and we can’t compromise, right?”

“Well … maybe we could?”

“Right?” she reiterated pointedly.

“Right,” he echoed. “That means …”

“It means we’ll have to let your mother and Jacqueline decide for us.” The wedding was really for Susan and Jacqueline anyway, Alix reasoned. This way they’d be able to choose the invitations they wanted … and they could do it with Alix and Jordan’s blessing.

CHAPTER
8

Colette Blake

Colette woke from a warm and comfortable sleep, dreaming of Christian Dempsey. Alarmed, she opened her eyes, trying to banish his image from her mind. She’d worked hard to avoid any thought of him. And yet she’d forever be reminded of him through their child. Again, she felt torn, wanting to tell him about the baby, and realizing she couldn’t….

Countless times, she’d gone over their last meeting, when he’d shocked her by coming to Susannah’s Garden. The day she walked away from Dempsey Imports, she was convinced she’d never see Christian again. She’d never wanted to see him again. She’d been appalled and angry at what he’d done. But the weeks since then had blunted her outrage; unaccountably she found herself making excuses for him, trying to invent reasons for such immoral, illegal activities. Maybe he had a misguided sense of compassion, she told herself hopefully; maybe his intentions were actually good. Maybe he was helping people find a better way of life….

She shook her head, dispelling that idea, and got ready for work, dressing in loose jeans and a red cable-knit sweater. With her morning tea, she knit another row of the prayer shawl. The knitting was going well, and Colette was beginning to look at yarn in a different way. After only one lesson, she was already thinking about patterns she might one day attempt. Her next project, she decided, would be a sweater for the baby.

The day before, Lydia had shown her a new shipment of alpaca wool as expensive as it was lovely. Recalling it now, Colette immediately pictured that yarn in a cardigan, a man’s sweater, and Christian Dempsey flashed into her mind. Irritated, she abruptly set aside her knitting. She had to stop thinking about him! He wasn’t the man she’d believed he was, and the sooner she accepted that, the better. Again and again, she mentally reviewed the computer file she’d read. There could be no other explanation.

Susannah was at the flower shop when Colette got in and they worked together until noon. March had arrived the day before, and typical of late winter in the Pacific Northwest, one rainstorm had followed another all week long. Then—a thrilling surprise—the clouds parted and the sun peeked out, bathing Puget Sound in golden, glorious light. All at once, Colette felt an urgent need to get outside and breathe fresh air.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” she said when Susannah returned from her lunch break. After nothing but drizzle for two weeks, Colette craved the sun on her face.

Taking her jacket in case the weather turned nasty again, she headed down the hill to the Seattle waterfront and the Pike Place Market. She loved the market and often used to shop there with Derek, although he’d never found the same pleasure in being downtown as she did.

With the sun out, the city had surged to life. There was a new sense of energy, of well-being, and Colette felt invigorated. People seemed to move more quickly, laugh more loudly. She giggled at the antics of a troop of uniformed schoolkids, whose teachers merely smiled in resignation. Purchasing a decaf latte she sipped it while she wandered toward the market.

“Colette!”

At the sound of her name, she turned but didn’t see anyone familiar. After a moment, she gave up and continued into the market. Fishmongers tossed whole salmon back and forth, to the delight of tourists. She stopped to watch; it was a scene she’d witnessed any number of times but always enjoyed.

“Colette?”

Again she turned, and this time she caught sight of a man wearing a black overcoat. At first she didn’t recognize him. When she did, she came to a halt, an astonished smile on her face. “Steve?” she said as he hurried toward her. “Steve Grisham!”

He stood directly in front of her and for a minute or two, all they did was stare at each other.

“What are you—”

“You moved and—”

They started speaking at once, then paused and laughed.

Steve motioned to Colette. “You first.”

“Oh, my goodness, I can’t believe it’s you,” she said, hardly knowing where to begin. Steve had been a good friend of Derek’s, his first partner when Derek had joined the Seattle Police Department. The more experienced officer had been paired with her husband during Derek’s initial two years on the force. Then Steve had been assigned elsewhere and eventually he’d made detective. Derek and Colette had attended a party his wife, Jeanine, had organized to celebrate his promotion.

“How are you?” Steve asked, his eyes serious as he studied her. His hands rested lightly on her upper arms, as if he wanted to hug her but wasn’t sure how she’d respond.

“I’m fine,” she told him, and at that moment it was true.

“What are you doing here in the market … now?” he asked.

When they realized they were holding up foot traffic in the narrow passageway between the stalls, they started walking together, leaving the market entirely and wandering down Post Alley.

“I’m on my lunch break,” she explained, dumping her empty latte container in a trash can. “What about you?”

“Same thing. I came down to grab a quick bite. Join me,” he said. “I’d like the company.”

“I’d love to.” He led her to a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant where the ambiance left much to be desired but the food was known to be exceptional. It was a police favorite, a place Colette had occasionally met Derek for lunch. Once or twice, Jeanine had come, too. Colette felt the predictable twinge of nostalgia but resolutely ignored it.

The last time she’d seen Steve was at Derek’s funeral. With so many people in attendance, she hadn’t been able to acknowledge and speak to everyone. She’d seen Steve and Jeanine but hadn’t done anything more than thank them for their love and support.

“I tried to call you,” Steve said after the waiter had taken their order. “You changed your phone number?”

“I moved and … well, there didn’t seem to be any reason to get a phone. All I really need is my cell.”

“You sold the house?” Steve asked in surprise.

“The very first day it was on the market. It went so fast I didn’t have time for second thoughts.” She suspected Steve had tried to contact her on the one-year anniversary of Derek’s death.

He nodded as if he understood her need to move on.

“I tried to reach you at work, too,” he said next.

“You did?” She was astonished he’d gone to such lengths to search for her.

But before she could question him further, their food arrived. Colette had ordered soup and Steve a hamburger and fries.

“I wanted to see how things were going,” he said, squeezing a liberal amount of ketchup on the side of his plate. “It’s been a year now, right?”

She didn’t answer the question. “I’m doing okay,” she assured him a second time.

He raised his head. “You look great,” he said with an appreciative grin.

His scrutiny unsettled her and in an effort to hide her uneasiness, she picked up her spoon. The beef soup was homemade and full of vegetables and pieces of seasoned meat. It was so hot, steam rose from the bowl.

His expression sobered. “I didn’t know if you’d heard about me and Jeanine,” he said, grabbing the burger with both hands.

Colette hoped he wasn’t about to tell her they’d split up. Colette had always liked Steve’s wife and saw them as a good match, with Steve’s practical nature balanced by Jeanine’s whimsy and sense of humor.

“Jeanine filed for divorce,” he said abruptly. “She moved to Yakima before Christmas.”

Saddened at the news, Colette set her spoon aside. “Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry.” The couple had two little girls who were going to grow up without their dad.

His eyes revealed a depth of sadness as he finished chewing. “We both tried, but it didn’t work out.”

“How are the girls holding up?”

“They seem to be doing well—very well, considering,” he said. After a brief hesitation he shrugged. “They’re so young and with the crazy hours I work, I was hardly ever around anyway.”

When he’d been with Derek, they’d worked swing shift, but she supposed a detective had to be available around the clock. Still, family should always come first. In her view, anyway. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, thinking she might be able to help but with no idea how.

That sad look returned and he lowered his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

“Too late?”

“The divorce is final this week. And like I said, Jeanine moved to Yakima—to be closer to her parents.”

“But the girls?”

“I hated to see them leave Seattle but in the end it’s probably for the best. Our parenting plan spells out my visitation rights and I have them for two weeks every summer, spring break and a week at Christmas. Jeanine’s family really loves the girls, and all in all, it’s a workable solution. Although I miss my family….”

Reaching across the booth, Colette touched his forearm. “I’m so sorry,” she said again.

Steve nodded. “So am I. Being a cop’s wife isn’t easy. You know that. I always admired the open, honest relationship you had with Derek. That’s one reason I was hoping to talk to you.”

Not sure what to say, Colette glanced down. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“You were a good wife.”

Her throat thickened with grief—and guilt, because it was Christian who dominated her thoughts these days, not Derek.

“Colette?”

“Sorry,” she said, plucking a napkin from the canister on the table.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” She lifted her head in surprise.

“I know this must come out of the blue, but would it be all right if I phoned you sometime?” Steve said quickly.

“I …” Colette felt flustered and uncertain. “Sure, I … guess.” This wasn’t what she’d expected him to ask. It’d been years since she’d dated. That was obviously true for Steve, as well; he looked as uncomfortable as she did. If they were to start seeing each other, she’d have to tell him about the pregnancy. And yet, it seemed wrong for Steve to know and not Christian.

Suddenly he smiled and she saw him as the attractive man he was—not just Derek’s friend and one of a social foursome. His features were classic with a square jaw that suggested he could be stubborn, as well as determined. His dark brown eyes were perhaps a bit small and slightly close together, but that didn’t bother her. His hair was thick and well-groomed. He’d always looked good in a uniform and even more so in a suit. He exuded an authority that people instinctively respected. She remembered Derek’s saying that Steve had spent time in the marines.

“Are you doing anything this evening?” he asked, then laughed gruffly. “I don’t mean to rush you. It’s just that I’ve been lonely, and I like the idea of having someone to talk to.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a book club meeting this evening.” She considered skipping it but Anne Marie, the bookstore manager, had asked her to attend. This was the first session, so Colette felt obliged to keep her word.

Steve seemed disappointed. “Okay, I understand.”

“You could join us if you’d like,” she added, not wanting to discourage him. “I doubt everyone’s read the book, anyway.”

“You think it’d be all right?”

“I’m sure it’d be fine,” she said, warming to the idea. This wouldn’t be a real date. They’d be around other people, and conversation would focus on the story, not on them.

“I don’t remember you as a reader,” he commented, going back to his burger. “Jeanine always had a book in her hand.”

“I used to read quite a bit. After Derek died I couldn’t for the longest time. No matter how gripping the story, my attention wandered. It was all I could do to scan the newspaper and do the crossword puzzle.” In an entire year, she hadn’t finished a single puzzle. “But now, thanks to this book, I’m reading again.”

“What’s different about it?”

“I guess the story strikes close to home for me. It’s about a widow adjusting to life without her husband. The title is Good Grief, and it’s by a writer named Lolly Winston. It’s very moving and surprisingly funny, and I really enjoyed it.”

Colette had met the bookstore manager, who’d recommended the book, by accident. Anne Marie had been walking Baxter, her Yorkshire terrier, and the tiny dog had gotten his leash wrapped around Colette’s ankles. When Anne Marie learned that Colette lived above the yarn store, she’d invited her over for tea. Her own apartment was above Blossom Street Books; in other words, they were neighbors. Colette liked Anne Marie and had agreed to join the discussion group, especially after she’d read the book.

“Good Grief,” Steve repeated.

“I identified with how the widow felt. At one point she goes to work in her pajamas and housecoat. I laughed out loud and at the same time I was weeping because … well, there were days like that for me, too, especially at first.”

Steve nodded and was about to speak when his cell phone rang. He automatically reached for it and snapped it open. “Grisham,” he said in a terse voice, instantly the professional.

Colette ate a little more of her soup but after the latte her appetite was gone. She really should be getting back to the shop; she was already five minutes late and still had a brisk walk ahead of her.

Steve closed the cell and clipped it back to his waistband. “I have to go.”

“Me, too.” She picked up her purse.

“Listen, I’d better take a rain check on tonight,” he said and slid out of the booth. “Work intrudes.” He scooped up the tab and headed over to the cashier.

Colette found a pen at the counter and wrote out her cell number on a napkin, then handed it to him.

He smiled and thanked her. Colette went back to Susannah’s Garden in a good mood. The clouds had lifted in more ways than one and she felt as if her life was finally taking shape.

That euphoric sensation didn’t last long, however. When she walked into the shop, the first person she saw was Christian Dempsey, drumming his fingers on the counter.

Colette felt her heart plummet. She could hear Susannah on the phone in the back room—which meant there was no one to rescue her. “What are you doing here?” she muttered.

“I’ve come to order flowers.”

“A special occasion?”

“Not really. They’re for a woman.”

Colette should’ve guessed. “You couldn’t do it by phone?”

“I prefer to order them in person.”

She understood his intent. He wanted her to know he was seeing someone else now. Fine. Message received. In her opinion, he was acting both vindictive and immature.

“And while I was here, I thought I’d see how you were doing.”

“I’m busy,” she returned stiffly. “Actually, I have a date myself.” She found herself stretching the truth, but Steve had asked her out, and even if it wasn’t possible that evening, she would eventually be seeing him.

Her blatant attempt to discourage Christian didn’t seem to be working. “With whom?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he’s an old friend of my husband’s.” She turned her back to him and removed her jacket.

His smile had vanished when she turned around. “Does this so-called friend have a name?”

“Of course he has a name. What’s the matter, don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you,” he said, and looked away as Susannah stepped up to the counter and gave him back his credit card.

“Thank you for your order, Mr. Dempsey. I’ll make sure the flowers are lovely.”

She spoke with a little more enthusiasm than Colette deemed strictly necessary.

“Thank you,” he said, and shot Colette an enigmatic smile that she puzzled over for days.

CHAPTER
9

“When making sweaters and you’re off gauge, don’t worry! Fudge and smudge until it fits!”

—Joyce Renee Wyatt, designer and instructor

Lydia Goetz

Brad and I invited Matt and Margaret over for dinner on the first Sunday in March. It was my husband’s suggestion and I’m grateful he thought of it. After Julia’s attack, Margaret still wasn’t the same. Julia herself was back in school but refused to talk about what had happened, even to her mother. It was as if a giant boulder had crashed through the roof; everyone had to walk around it and pretend it wasn’t there. At any hint or mention of the carjacking, Julia disappeared into her room, plugged her iPod into her ears and zoned out for hours on end.

I knew this couldn’t be healthy and I was afraid Margaret’s response wasn’t, either. My sister wanted revenge and she wanted it badly enough to hound the authorities day and night.

I’d hoped that an evening out with Brad and me would help my sister put aside her anger, at least for a few hours. Every day she arrived at work tense and angry, snapping at me without provocation. Just that week, I’d asked her a simple question about an order I’d had her place for circular knitting needles and she’d yelled at me, saying she was a responsible adult and I’d made her feel like a child. I hardly knew how to respond to the unreasonableness of her attack. Thankfully, no customers were in the shop at the time.

Brad and I spent the afternoon shopping and then cooking. We make a good team on the domestic front—and in every other way. My husband’s a master at the barbecue, and we decided to grill chicken. I made a batch of potato salad, following a recipe Tammie Lee Donovan had given me. It has jalapeño in the mayonnaise, which provides a little kick. In addition to the potato salad, I doctored up baked beans with brown sugar and mustard and baked a carrot cake for dessert. It’s Cody’s favorite.

Unfortunately, it was still too early in the year to bring out the picnic table, so we planned to eat indoors. Our goal was a carefree, festive evening in the hope that Margaret and Matt would relax and enjoy themselves.

Brad had everything under control by the time my sister and her husband arrived. Although I see Margaret almost every day, I was shocked by her appearance when she stepped into the house that afternoon. Outside the familiar environment of A Good Yarn, I suddenly realized how haggard Margaret looked. She’s physically bigger than I am, a good four to five inches taller than my five-foot-two height and sturdily built. Compared to this nightmare with Julia, so little has truly frightened her over the years. Even when Matt was unemployed for months she kept it hidden from me. For all I knew at the time, everything was perfectly fine at home. Only when they were about to lose their house did she reveal that anything was wrong.

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