Summer on Blossom Street by Debbie Macomber
“Yes, you,” I said, laughing. “If you like, I’ll teach you to knit,” I offered yet again.
She gave me her usual shrug. “I guess so.”
“It’s not hard,” Cody piped up after he’d carried his plate to the sink. “Mom taught my whole class to knit last winter. Everyone made patches for Warm Up America, even the boys. Then Aunt Margaret crocheted them all together and we donated the blanket to a veterans’ home in West Seattle.”
For the first time since I’d mentioned knitting, Casey actually seemed interested.
“Knitting helps with math, too,” Cody told her as if he were an expert.
“Speaking of math,” Brad inserted, looking at Casey. “How’s your class?”
Casey replied in the same indifferent way she typically did. “All right, I guess. Math is stupid.”
“Unfortunately it’s a necessary part of everyday life.”
“I know,” she said a bit defensively.
“If you want, I’ll check over your homework,” Brad suggested. He’d made the offer before, but Casey had always turned him down flat.
“If you want,” she said after a moment.
Brad and I exchanged a private smile.
While Cody cleared the serving dishes, Brad and Casey sat in the living room as he reviewed her homework. I couldn’t hear everything he said but they certainly had a lively discussion.
Afterward, Casey moved to the kitchen table and exhaled loudly as she threw herself into a chair. “I have to do this assignment over,” she muttered.
I patted her shoulder encouragingly and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher.
Tuesday afternoon, shortly before one, Casey showed up at A Good Yarn, backpack slung over her shoulder. She’d taken the bus by herself. I was nervous about her coping with the different transit schedules, but Casey assured me it wasn’t a problem. Apparently she was more skilled at finding her way around than I’d assumed, for which I was grateful.
“Hi,” I said, waiting until Mrs. Sinclair, a repeat customer, had paid for her purchase. “I ordered lunch from across the street.”
“Oh, thanks.” Casey went to the back of the shop, to the table where I taught classes.
My sister had been unusually quiet about Casey. They’d met a couple of times, but just briefly. I’d only recently told her that Casey would be with us until she’d finished summer school. Margaret’s reaction was to roll her eyes.
“I ordered us a Reuben,” I said to Casey, sitting down with her. “As you can see, they’re huge. I figured we could split one.”
I’d left a knitting instruction book, a pair of size ten needles and a bright variegated skein of worsted weight yarn on the table for her, as well. It’s been my experience that it’s easier to pick up knitting basics when you’re using larger needles and a thicker yarn.
“What’s in a Reuben?” Casey asked, eyeing the sandwich suspiciously.
I set her half on a paper plate and slid it across the table.
“Corned beef and mustard, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut,” I answered.
Casey studied it; her nose wrinkled as if she wasn’t sure she was going to like this. “How do they get the corn in the beef?”
“There isn’t any corn as far as I know.” Funny, I’d never stopped to wonder where the name had come from.
“And who’s this Reuben guy?”
“That I don’t know, either,” I told her. “But whoever he is, he invented a wonderful sandwich.” I reached for my half and took the first bite. It was just as tasty as I remembered. I opened the bag of potato chips and emptied them out on a spare plate, then poured a large bottle of iced tea into two glasses.
“Go ahead and give it a try,” I urged Casey, who seemed to do nothing more than stare at it.
She picked up her sandwich and tentatively took one small bite. Her eyes brightened. “Hey, this is good.”
“Told you so.”
By this time I’d eaten nearly half of mine. Still, Casey was finished before me.
“That was really good.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
I collected our paper plates and stuffed them in the recycling bin. “Ready for your first knitting lesson?”
Casey nodded.
I pushed yarn and needles toward her and sat in the adjoining chair. “How’d school go today?” I asked, making conversation as I delved into the center of the skein, searching for the beginning strand.
“I got an A on my homework.”
I paused to say, “Casey, that’s fantastic!” I’d located the strand I wanted and tugged it free.
Predictably, she shrugged at my compliment, but I knew she was pleased. Once Brad heard the news, he would be, too. I was proud of them both. Proud of Brad because he’d offered his help, been repeatedly rejected and yet tried again. And proud of Casey, too, because she’d been willing to admit she needed help.
I had to show her how to cast on two or three times. She couldn’t seem to grasp the technique. In the end I simply did it for her.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go any more smoothly when it came to learning the basic knit stitch. To her credit, Casey did try. I could see she was becoming frustrated, so I told her about other people I’d taught to knit.
“Does everyone have as much trouble as I’m having?” she asked. She bit her lip as she clutched the two needles. At one stage she held one needle under her arm as she wove the yarn around the tip of the other.
“Some do,” I said.
Margaret wandered by and threw me a look I recognized from our childhood. It said I should have my sanity checked. Maybe so, but I wasn’t willing to abandon hope yet.
Soon my nerves were frayed to the breaking point.
Unfortunately, Casey’s were, too. When the needle slipped out of her grasp and clattered onto the floor, Casey bolted upright and threw down the entire project.
“I can’t do this!” she yelled.
“Casey.”
“I hate knitting. I don’t want to do it.”
I longed to reassure her, to remind her that knitting came more quickly to some than it did to others. I didn’t want her to give up so easily. Apparently I hadn’t relayed that message effectively enough.
“You don’t have to learn to knit if you don’t want,” I finally said.
“I don’t. It’s stupid.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but realized there was no point. Picking up the yarn and needles, I set them back on the table. I was disappointed, although I made an effort not to show it.
“Would you like to read?” I asked, thinking I’d send Casey down to Blossom Street Books and let her choose a novel. Otherwise, I didn’t know how I’d keep her entertained for the rest of the afternoon.
“No,” she said flatly.
“So what would you like to do?”
Casey looked bored. “Do you have a TV?”
“Sorry, no.”
The bell above the door chimed and Jacqueline Donovan, a good friend of mine, walked in. Jacqueline and Reese, her architect husband, had taken a cruise to Hawaii and they’d just returned. I was eager to see her, so I left Casey to her own devices for a few minutes.
“Jacqueline!” I said, hurrying toward her with my hands out. “You’re back. Did you have a fabulous trip?”
“It was incredible. You and Brad should take a cruise sometime.”
I’d love that; unfortunately I couldn’t see it happening in the near future, especially if we were adding a baby to our family.
As she headed toward the yarn displays, Jacqueline burbled with all kinds of stories. She’d read a knitting magazine on the plane and decided she had to knit this wonderfully intricate vest for Reese. She examined an expensive hand-dyed alpaca yarn, choosing a lovely deep brown shade. I rang up her purchase.
When we’d said goodbye, with promises to see each other soon, I walked back to the table. To my astonishment, Margaret was sitting with Casey.
The two of them were crocheting.
Casey glanced up at me and broke into a smile. “This is fun,” she said.
“Fun,” I repeated, struck nearly speechless.
“I can do this.”
“She’s crocheting a washcloth.” Righteousness rang in my sister’s tone. “Look at her work, Lydia. The girl’s a natural.”
I wanted to wipe that grin off Margaret’s face, which wasn’t very generous of me. The thing is, she’d succeeded where I’d failed. Casey was relaxed, confident and actually enjoying herself.
“At the rate she’s going,” Margaret said, “she’ll have it done before we close up shop.”
“I’m impressed,” I told them both. I meant it.
The bell above the door chimed again, and I left to greet my customer. As I turned away, an unexpected feeling of happiness came over me. Who would’ve guessed that my sister, not me, would be the one to reach Casey?
My first instinct had been a twinge of jealousy; however, that quickly passed. Margaret, so judgmental and disapproving of Casey, had been patient enough to teach the girl crocheting. I was grateful for her kindness.
Maybe there was hope for all of us—Casey, Margaret and me.
CHAPTER 19
“Hutch” Hutchinson
Hutch was already at the table with Alix, Margaret and Lydia when Phoebe arrived. He’d come ten minutes early, and it wasn’t the thrill of learning a new pattern that had enticed him to leave his office ahead of schedule.
It was the thrill of falling for Phoebe Rylander.
At quarter past six, Hutch discovered that he’d checked his watch no fewer than ten times when Phoebe burst through the door, breathless and flushed.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, hurrying to the back of the store.
The spot next to him was empty. Hutch had arranged it by placing his briefcase on the chair until she showed up. Then, and only then, did he conveniently remove it.
Phoebe pulled out the chair and sent him a fleeting grin as she sat down, breathing hard. He wondered if something had happened and hoped she’d tell him. They’d planned to go for coffee after class.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything,” Lydia assured her. “We’ve just started.”
“Oh, good.” Phoebe removed her knitting from the bag she carried, still a little out of breath.
Phoebe must’ve run the entire way from the clinic to Blossom Street, a distance of several blocks. He should know; after the past two classes, he’d walked her to the garage where she parked her car.
“So, how’s everyone doing?” Lydia asked.
Hutch held up his scarf. In his own opinion he’d made exceptional progress, especially considering where he’d started.
“Oh, sorry,” Lydia said, “I mean with the quitting aspect of the class. I can see how the knitting’s going, and you’re all doing an excellent job.”
“Well…I’m no longer knitting armor,” Hutch told them. His tension had loosened considerably. He’d become more comfortable with the needles, and he credited Lydia for that. But he credited Phoebe for several other changes in his life.
When no one else responded, Hutch felt obliged to fill the silence. “The knitting’s definitely helped me relax and it seems to have improved my blood pressure.”
“Very good.” Lydia smiled in his direction.
His mental attitude had improved, too. He’d stopped obsessing about the lawsuit, leaving it in the hands of his attorney. Nothing he did now would affect the outcome, anyway.
Knitting had changed his life, he thought with a grin. Through the class he’d met Phoebe and everything seemed different now. Because of her recent loss he didn’t want to rush her, so he made a point of calling her no more than once every other day, counting the hours between calls and dates.
With Phoebe he felt witty, clever and downright fascinating. The prospect of seeing her excited him.
They shared many of the same interests. Her appreciation of old books was only one example of that. Over the weekend she’d shown him her collection, including a first edition of Mark Twain’s The Innocents Abroad published in 1869 that, amazingly, she’d picked up at a garage sale for five dollars.
When he’d gone to her place on Saturday afternoon, he’d flipped through her stack of DVDs, which confirmed that they loved the same movies from Bogey to film noir to Indiana Jones. Afterward they’d walked to the theater and shared a bucket of buttered popcorn, watching a brand-new animated feature in the company of at least a hundred kids.
Hutch didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed an afternoon as much. On his way home, he’d stopped at the office, out of pure habit. From the day he’d taken over as CEO, he’d spent every Saturday there. However, he stayed for less than an hour, his mind on everything but business.
“How’s your thumb?” Lydia asked, bringing him out of his musings.
“Not bad, thanks,” he said, bending his thumb to demonstrate his mobility.
Lydia nodded. “And Phoebe?” she asked next. “How are you doing?”
Phoebe glanced at Hutch. “Better. Much better.”
“I know this is a painful time for you….”
She lowered her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was barely audible. “I was late for class because I ran into…an old friend of my fiancé’s. I…I told him I’m seeing someone else now and he got terribly upset.”
Under the table, Hutch clasped her hand. “Who you’re seeing is none of his business,” he insisted.
“I know, but he didn’t want to hear that.”
“Situations like this are difficult, especially when other people are still grieving, wanting to hold on to the past,” Lydia said. “I hope you won’t let that confrontation ruin your evening.”
“I won’t,” Phoebe promised, squeezing Hutch’s fingers, silently thanking him for his support. She exhaled slowly. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss this right now. I’m still upset about it. But I’m trying to put it behind me.”
Alix looked at them both as if seeing them with new eyes. Her gaze held his for an instant—and then she winked at him.
Hutch assumed that was her way of condoning the relationship. He winked back.
“I want everyone to know,” Alix said. “I went twenty-four hours without a cigarette.”
Lydia clapped her hands, and the rest of the group joined in. “Good for you, Alix!”
“Hey, congratulations,” Hutch added.
Margaret nodded with dignified approval.
“It wasn’t easy,” Alix said. “I was so cranky that by dinnertime I wasn’t fit company for man or beast. So I went outside and worked in the yard. I managed to weed the whole garden. My body was screaming for a cigarette.”
“But you didn’t give in to the craving.” Lydia’s tone praised her.
Alix shrugged. “No, but I think by then, Jordan was ready to beg me to smoke again.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Margaret shook her head. “He wants you to quit as much as you want to quit. Maybe more.”
“Have you tried any of the nicotine-withdrawal products?” Lydia asked.
“I’ve tried the gum. It does take the edge off.”
“What about chocolate?” Hutch asked.
Alix groaned.
“I would, but with my addictive personality I’d weigh three hundred pounds in about three weeks.”
Hutch grinned and reached into his briefcase, taking out a dozen of his company’s new Mount Saint Helens candy bars. He figured Phoebe was right, and he should tell his fellow classmates about the family business.
“Hey, what’s this?” Margaret was the first to comment, automatically picking up one of the bars. “I’ve never seen these before.”
“They’re our new product,” he explained.
Phoebe smiled. “In case no one realized it, Hutch and his family own Mount Rainier Chocolates.”
“Get out of here!” Alix said, eyes widening.
“Really?” This came from Margaret.
“How sweet,” Lydia said next. “Pun intended.”
“The company’s been in the family for three generations. This is a new product we’re about to launch nationally. Please take one. I’d appreciate your comments.”
“You mean you’re giving us these?” Margaret grabbed a second bar.
“You are kidding, aren’t you?” Alix sounded shocked.
Hutch was amused by their reactions. He knew his chocolates were popular, but the members of his knitting class looked at him as if he were handing out hundred-dollar bills. “Take as many as you’d like. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“How come this is our fifth class, but only now do you reveal who you are?” Margaret asked.
“Is it important?” Hutch returned.
“Not in the least,” Lydia said, staring openly at her sister.
Margaret tore into one of the bars, and after the first bite, declared, “I hate to say it, but this is probably the best chocolate bar I’ve ever tasted.”
Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Why do you hate to say that?”
“Because I love chocolate, and I could eat one—no, two or three—of these every day for the rest of my life. I’m struggling with my weight as it is.” She slapped her legs. “I have the thighs that ate Seattle.”
Margaret wasn’t generally one to crack jokes, and Hutch laughed appreciatively at her unexpected remark.
Women were his target audience, although he didn’t announce the fact. Research showed that women consumed far more chocolate than men; not only that, they were the primary purchasers within the family.
Once everyone had eaten a chocolate bar and murmured or groaned happily, they all resumed their knitting and that day’s new stitch.
Class time sped by. All too soon it was eight o’clock, and they gathered up their things. Hutch and Phoebe crossed the street to the French Café.
Phoebe had said very little during class. Hutch waited until they were settled in their chairs and had taken their first sips of coffee.
“Do you feel like talking about what happened earlier this evening?” he asked. He didn’t want to pry or prod her to talk if she felt uncomfortable. But confiding in someone could help, and he was a good listener.
Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, Hutch, it was awful.”