Blossom Street Brides (8 page)

“She gave us excellent service.”

“Thoughtful, too.”

“Really?” Rooster had no idea how she’d determined that. Before he could ask, she supplied the answer.

“You asked if you could sit with me to free up a table at The French Cafe.”

“Right. And I have my daddy to thank for insisting on walking you home.”

“A gentleman.”

“I’m batting a thousand.”

“Yes, you are,” she said, laughing. “I probably shouldn’t have told you about the list. If it makes you uncomfortable, I apologize.”

“It doesn’t.” They’d slowed their pace to a near crawl. They continued walking for another block while Rooster sorted through his thoughts, wondering if he had a shot with her. He decided nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Does this mean you’d be willing to see me again?”

Lauren looked over at him and dazzled him with one of her smiles. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

When you put beads in your knitting, you are really putting bits of light in your knitting. The gleam and color-play of beads add a whole other dimension that could be demure or outrageous, as you please. Your choice of beads and yarn uniquely expresses your personality.

—Sivia Harding,

designer and teacher

“Grandma, today was the worst day ever, even worse than Tuesday,” Casey said the instant Lydia opened the door to her mother’s small apartment in the assisted-living complex.

Mary Lou Hoffman looked away from the television screen. “Casey and Margaret. I’m so pleased you’ve stopped by.”

“Grandma,” Casey said, getting down on one knee beside the large overstuffed chair where her grandmother sat. “It’s Casey and Lydia.”

Lydia’s mother’s forehead winkled with a thick frown. “Of course it is. I knew that.”

“It’s all right, Mom,” Lydia assured her. “I know who I am, and I know who you are, too.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Exactly.”

“I had a really bad day,” Casey repeated. “A truly terrible bad day, and I’m not grousing, either.”

Lydia’s mother focused her attention on Casey. “Remember what I said about bad days. Surely you can think of one good thing that happened.”

“Mom tried to get me thinking about the good stuff, too.”

“And did you?”

“I did,” Casey admitted with some reluctance. “I came up with a couple of things, but it wasn’t enough to block out how horrible it was.”

“Can you think of just one more good thing to tell me?” Lydia’s mother asked. She brushed Casey’s hair away from her face and cupped her granddaughter’s cheeks with the palms of her hands.

“Something sort of funny happened,” Casey admitted after chewing on her lower lip.

“Good. Tell me about that.”

Lydia was curious herself, so she scooted out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down.

“I’ve been volunteering at the After Care Program at the grade school, remember?”

Her mother clearly didn’t. “That’s good.”

“I get extra credit for it in my humanities class if I help,” Casey explained.

“So what happened?” Lydia asked, wanting her daughter to get to the story. Brad and Cody were home waiting for them.

“A new boy was there this afternoon,” Casey explained. “He’s in the second grade, and he said his name is Brian. He’s small for his age. I was surprised he wasn’t in first grade or even preschool.”

“A good name,” Mary Lou said. “I once dated a boy named Brian.”

“This Brian wore thick glasses and was sort of nerdy-looking.”

“The Brian I dated was dreamy,” Lydia’s mother added.

“Brian told me he’d fallen on his head when he was little and the fall had killed brain cells.”

Lydia wondered when the humorous part of this story was coming.

“Oh, dear, the poor boy,” Mary Lou offered sympathetically.

“That’s what I said,” Casey continued. “Then he told me he needed medication.”

Lydia was beginning to get a picture of this small child with the thick glasses with a quirky smile who needed attention.

“I took his hand and told him I’d take him over to where the other second-graders were,” Casey continued. “But he stopped me. He said there was more, and he looked so serious I stopped and waited.”

“More?” Lydia asked.

“Oh, yes. Brian wanted me to know he hadn’t taken his medication that morning. He wasn’t sure what would happen without his medication.”

Lydia smiled, and so did her mother.

“Did you laugh?” Mary Lou said.

“No, but it was a struggle not to,” Casey said. “And even without his pills, Brian did fine. He made a friend with Alice, who wears glasses, too, only her glasses aren’t as thick as Brian’s.”

“I’m glad Brian has a friend,” Lydia’s mother added.

“He said he would be back tomorrow, and he promised to take his medication this time.”

“So you had at least one smile for the day,” Lydia’s mother reminded Casey. “And one smile cancels out three reasons to frown, right?”

“Right.”

Lydia stood and checked her purse for her car keys. “I better get home. Dad will pick you up around eight,” she reminded her daughter.

Casey nodded.

“I’ll save dinner for you.”

“If Dad’s cooking, it’s probably spaghetti.”

“Probably.” Unfortunately, Brad’s doctored bottled sauce wasn’t Casey’s favorite. She liked spaghetti, especially from her favorite restaurant, but she was picky when it came to sauce, and for Casey the bottled variety didn’t measure up to her standards.

“I’ll have peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches later. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“See ya, Mom.”

Lydia’s mother glanced up. “Margaret, you’re leaving so soon?”

“It’s Lydia,” Casey gently reminded her grandmother, placing her hand over the older woman’s.

“Oh, yes, sorry. You already told me that once, didn’t you?”

“It’s fine, Mom.” Lydia bent down and kissed her mother’s forehead. Casey looked up and smiled, content and at peace after her truly terrible day. It did Lydia’s heart good to see the consternation leave her daughter’s face as she sat at her grandmother’s side.

“Bring me my knitting,” Mary Lou said, as Lydia quietly left the apartment. Her mother rarely knit any longer, and following even the simplest instructions seemed beyond her. While grateful that her mother was alive, Lydia worried about Mary Lou’s quality of life. It distressed her to watch her mother’s physical and mental health decline. Arthritis made movement difficult, and she spent a good portion of her day in her chair in front of the television. The assisted-living complex scheduled a variety of events to keep the residents’ bodies and minds active. When her mother had first moved into the complex she’d participated in a few of the social gatherings, but no longer.

Lydia walked to the elevator and pushed the button. An aide joined her. “You’re Mrs. Hoffman’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Lydia responded with an automatic smile. The aide’s badge said her name was Marie.

“The one who owns the yarn store.”

“Yes,” Lydia confirmed.

“I wanted you to know I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.” Lydia had a number of charity projects going at A Good Yarn. Early on she’d discovered that knitters were, by nature, generous. With little encouragement on Lydia’s part, many of her regular customers volunteered knitted items for a variety of charities. Several knit hats or sweaters for World Vision’s Knit for Kids program, and then there were others who contributed knitted squares to Warm Up America! from yarn left over from their projects. And of course there were the tiny caps the shop collected for the area’s hospital preemies.

“I found the knitting basket at the bowling alley where my husband is in a league,” Marie added.

“The bowling alley?”

“That is you, isn’t it?” Marie asked. “The yarn had a sticker that said it was from A Good Yarn shop.”

The confusion must have shown on Lydia’s face because Marie added, “I had my book group on Tuesday night and my husband is in a league with the guys from work. He drives a Pepsi delivery truck. After the meeting with my book club, I stopped off to see how Les’s bowling team was doing, and I found the basket with the yarn and needles.”

“Were there instructions?”

“Not really. It was more of an invitation to sit down and
knit. I think the note said when the scarf was finished it should be delivered to a homeless shelter or dropped off at your yarn store. You aren’t the one doing this?” Marie questioned.

“No.”

“I just assumed from the yarn label and instructions that you must be responsible.”

“I heard about this just recently. It’s a great idea; I wish I could say I’d thought of it, but I didn’t.”

“No harm done,” Marie said, as they stepped into the waiting elevator.

Lydia mulled over the conversation as she drove home. When she walked into the house, the scent of simmering tomatoes with Italian spices confirmed her suspicions. Brad had cooked spaghetti.

“Is that you, sweetheart?” her husband called out. He peeked his head around the opening to the kitchen and grinned when he saw it was Lydia. “Dinner’s just about ready. Cody’s got the bread and the salad on the table. How’s your mother?”

“She thought I was Margaret,” Lydia said, as she removed her sweater and tucked away her purse. “The oddest thing has been happening,” she said, coming into the kitchen. The pot on the stove boiled furiously. She reached over and turned off the burner while Brad removed the strainer from the lower cupboard and set it in the sink.

“What’s that?” he asked, steam rising from the cooked pasta as he carried the boiling pot to the sink and drained off the liquid.

“Someone is leaving baskets with knitting needles and yarn around town with a note asking people to knit for the homeless.”

“Really?”

“The yarn is apparently from my shop.”

Her husband was preoccupied with mixing the sauce and the noodles together and setting it on the table.

Lydia brought out the silverware. “Will you keep an eye out for one of these knitting baskets?”

Brad looked up at her, paused, and blinked, and Lydia guessed that the entire conversation had gone directly over his head.

“What was that, sweetie?”

“Never mind,” she said, grinning. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Cody!” Brad shouted. “Dinner.”

This was her life, Lydia mused, and it was good.

Max was exhausted, butt-sore, and ecstatic.

He’d followed Bethanne home from the yarn store on his bike and parked it in the empty slot in her garage. Other than a few items of clothing, he’d packed light. From the trips he’d made to Seattle since their marriage, he kept enough of a wardrobe at Bethanne’s not to worry about bringing much with him.

Bethanne waited for him by the garage door that led into her kitchen. Her eyes were all over him as though even now she couldn’t believe he was with her. Max’s feelings matched hers, although he felt they needed to discuss a number of issues. With this trip, he wanted to settle the matter with her ex-husband once and for all.

While this house was the one Bethanne had once shared with Grant, Max wasn’t comfortable with her ex-husband stopping by anytime he pleased. He might be exaggerating, but it seemed Grant found an excuse to connect with Bethanne nearly every day. It had gotten
out of hand, and if she didn’t recognize it, he did.

“I still can’t believe you rode all those hours to be here,” Bethanne said, as she stepped into the kitchen and turned off the security alarm.

“I can’t, either.” He waited until they were inside the house before he brought his wife into his arms and kissed her with both hunger and need. She came warm and willing into his embrace, and his doubts fled. Bethanne loved
him
. She’d chosen to marry
him
.

When the kiss ended, they simply looked at each other.

With her arms looped around his neck, she leaned her head back. “Have you had dinner?”

“No.” In his eagerness to reach his wife, Max had barely stopped for anything more than fuel and water. At some point midway through Oregon, Rooster convinced him to pause long enough to eat a sandwich, which he’d done, but that had been hours earlier.

“Me, neither.”

“Do you want to go out?” Max felt obliged to ask.

“No. Let me check what I’ve got here.”

Max wasn’t eager to head out to a restaurant, either, and was grateful Bethanne felt the same way. As it was, he was half dead on his feet. He followed his wife into the main part of the kitchen. He sat down at the counter while she rummaged through the refrigerator.

“It’s either a chicken taco salad—”

“Anything.” He wasn’t picky. Cocking his head, he enjoyed the view of Bethanne bending over while she sorted
through the refrigerator drawers. She had a mighty fine-looking derriere.

“I could make us veggie burgers.”

“No, thanks.” He was a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. “I prefer real meat.”

“Really.” She turned around and braced her hands on her hips. “You ate a veggie burger the last time you were here.”

“That was a veggie burger?” Max remembered it distinctly. He’d complimented Bethanne on it. She’d cut up thick slices of tomato and thin slices of onion, added pickled jalapeños along with melted cheese and fried bacon. They’d planned to eat out on the deck, but it’d started to drizzle so they’d stayed in the kitchen. Afterward they’d watched a movie and she’d sat in his lap. All too soon he lost interest in the movie as they got involved in each other. Taking him by the hand, Bethanne had led him up the stairs to the bedroom.

“As I recall, you didn’t complain about the veggie burger then.”

“You distracted me.”

“It seems to me I could easily distract you again,” she teased.

“Without hardly trying,” Max assured her, chuckling softly.

“Veggie burger or chicken taco salad?”

“Veggie burger,” he decided. “Do you want me to slice the tomatoes and onions?”

“Please.” Bethanne brought what she needed out of the
refrigerator and set it on the countertop while Max got out the cutting board and knife.

He didn’t want to start off their time together on a negative note, but this thing with Grant burned in his chest like a hot coal fresh from the fire.