Casting About (5 page)

“A
ny ideas yet on new services you'll be offering?” Grace inquired the next day when she dropped by Spinning Forward.

“Dora suggested I offer knitting classes—the yarn would be purchased here and then I'd charge for the classes.”

Grace nodded. “That's a good idea. Lots of women would love to learn to knit or take a class to learn new skills.” She paused to take a sip of her coffee. “Hey, have you thought about offering a
knitting
service?”

I laughed. “You seem to forget, that's exactly what I do here. I sell yarn, patterns, and supplies.”

“No, no. That isn't what I mean. I mean actually
knitting
for other people. I read something on the Internet recently—that women today are often too busy to devote time to handmade gift items. Yet they find themselves wanting to give something more personal than running into a department store or Walmart and grabbing a quick gift. The article talked about one woman up in Vermont—she had started a small business catering to baby boomers who wanted homemade jams and jellies for Christmas gifts. The business ended up growing so much she had to hire a couple other women to assist her.”

“Hmm,” I said, recalling that I'd heard about various women doing something like this. “Yeah, I remember seeing a woman on
Oprah
or someplace that developed her own line of personalized bath products for gifts. Not only did she make everything herself, she'd create a fancy label with the name of the product being whatever the customer wanted. She said girlfriends loved giving and receiving these because to see your own name on the label of a shower gel or lotion made it very special.”

“Exactly.” Grace snapped her fingers in the air and leaned forward. “I've got it,” she said with enthusiasm. “Hand-knitted Christmas stockings. It would appeal to both moms and grandmothers. You could personalize them with the child's name, date of birth, that particular year—whatever they requested. Something like that turns into a family heirloom and a treasured memento.”

I recalled some of the things passed on to me by my mother—hand-knitted Christmas ornaments that I could never part with. “You might be on to something. But how would I begin?”

“The same way your mother did. Develop a Web site, come up with a name for your stockings—something unique and appealing. Do lots of Internet advertising—Facebook is great for that. Send out flyers with some photos of finished ones. And like anything else, it's word of mouth. Other moms and grandmothers will see them and want one for their kids.”

My mind was racing with thoughts, and I felt Grace's idea had a lot of potential.

“You're very talented with designing patterns, Monica. You could use the ones you designed last year on the scarves you made—just incorporate the pelicans and dolphins onto stockings. They even had red bows around their necks, remember? Design the child's name across the top and I think you have yourself a very popular and unique gift item.”

I visualized my brightly colored knitted stockings hanging on display around the shop catching the attention of tourists. Maybe this was exactly what I needed to replace the spinning of dog and cat fur. Something that was all mine—a creative marketing idea that would keep the business successful. Extra income to offset the slow periods.

All of a sudden the enormity of the project hit me. “What if it really took off and I was swamped with orders? I can only knit so fast.”

A look of disappointment crossed Grace's face. “I think you have a point. How many stockings could you realistically make in a week?”

I shrugged while pondering the question. “I suppose that depends on how large I make them. The longer they are, the more…” I turned around as the wind chimes tinkled and Dora walked into the shop.

“Hope I'm not interrupting. I finished the sweater for Marin and need to get more yarn for my next project.”

“You knit faster than anybody I know,” I told her, and as soon as I said it a thought occurred to me. “Grace and I have been sitting here brainstorming for an idea to replace my mother's spinning service. I'm definitely going to offer the classes like you suggested, but I need something else.”

I went on to explain about the possibility of personalized knitted stockings.

“Oh, I think that's a grand idea! Knitting has come full circle and made a tremendous comeback. There was a time you never saw a woman without her yarn and needles, but unfortunately over the years only us diehards kept knitting. But it's enjoying a resurgence, and even women who don't have the time to knit themselves love the new fibers and items that can be handmade. Why, look at all the patterns available for scarves and shawls, and those felted handbags are very popular. I think offering a service of knitting personalized Christmas stockings could be every bit as successful as your mother's spinning was.”

“Aunt Dora,” I said, jumping up to pull her into a bear hug, “I do believe you and I need to have a talk.”

I got Dora a cup of coffee and settled her on the sofa beside me before explaining my idea.

“How would you feel about entering a new business venture with me?”

“Me?” Surprise and pleasure crossed her face.

I nodded. “Now, you have to promise to be honest with me. If you don't want to do this for whatever reason, I'll certainly understand. But I'm thinking these stockings are something we could do together. If I get this up and running and it actually takes off, I'm going to need help knitting the orders that come in.” I paused to allow her a few moments to consider what I'd told her.

“I wouldn't be able to pay you a lot at first,” I explained. “But depending on what we charged for the stockings, I'd give you a percentage of the price as your profit for the labor. And hopefully the orders would increase and I'd be able to increase your commission.”

Dora shook her head and smiled, making me realize that my offer to her was pretty skimpy.

She reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “Monica, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told your mother when she offered me the position as assistant here. I don't need the money. I work here because I truly enjoy
being
here, surrounded by the yarn and the customers. I love to knit and my secret dream was always to own a yarn shop. Your mother provided the best of both worlds—I get to be here a few days a week and now I share the hours with you. But I'm not wearing myself out with a full-time business. Being in my early seventies—this is perfect. So yes, of course I'd love to help you launch this new venture! You're right, I do knit rapidly, so I'm always looking for new projects as soon as I finish the previous one. And as far as paying me for my labor, for somebody that loves knitting, it would be a labor of love. I know you won't allow me to do this for nothing, but after we determine the price you'll be charging, then we'll discuss that. Agreed?”

I felt moisture burning my eyes. They say you can choose your friends but not your relatives. However, my mother and I did have the opportunity to choose and not only accept, but be accepted by her biological family, and I was very grateful for that.

Leaning over, I pulled Dora into an embrace. “Agreed,” I said. “You're one in a million.”

Grace had been sitting quietly across from us and now jumped up to also hug Dora. “Monica's right. You sure do remind me of my aunt Maude, and that's a compliment.”

“I've got it,” I exclaimed with excitement as another thought hit me. “Ewedora Stockings! That's what we'll call them. The pronunciation of your name will be the same but we'll use e-w-e, which will indicate the yarn fiber.”

“Oh, my God! You're brilliant!” Grace said, pulling me and Dora from the sofa for a tight embrace.

“No,
we're
brilliant,” I told them and laughed as my hand connected with hers and Dora's for a high five.

I
was slicing potatoes for the potato salad when laughter from outside drew my attention. I'd been busy all morning with food preparations for our barbecue and had welcomed Clarissa's request to sit on the deck. The child had been moping around, yet she'd declined Adam's offer to take a ride to the Jiffy store to purchase gas for the grill.

Wiping my hands on a towel, I walked to the window to see Clarissa in the next yard talking to Miss Tilly. Cripe, I wished she'd stop bothering that poor woman.

“Clarissa,” I called from the deck. “Miss Tilly is probably busy. Come on back over here.”

Tilly Carpenter cupped a hand to her forehead and squinted up at me. “I'm not busy, and besides, we're having a nice chat about art.”

Art? Clarissa was interested in art? “Oh…well, don't wander off,” I told her. “And, Miss Tilly, you send her on back when she gets to be too much.”

Walking back into the kitchen, I peeked out the window. Miss Tilly had thrown her head back laughing in response to something Clarissa had said. What on earth could the child have said that brought about that reaction? She sure didn't strike me as a child possessing one ounce of humor. I stood and watched for a little while longer.

Miss Tilly was wearing what I referred to as her gardening uniform: loose-cut tan slacks, a matching blouse, and her signature floppy hat with the wide brim. Her snow white hair was pulled away from her face into a bun at the nape of her neck. Purple gardening gloves completed her outfit.

But it wasn't her style of dress that forced me to keep staring out the window—it was the genuine smile on the woman's face and her obvious interest in Clarissa Jo.

I was pulled away from the window by the sound of Grace's voice at the back door.

“Hey,” she said, depositing some covered Pyrex bowls on the counter. “Here's my contribution for dinner tonight.”

I walked over to see a container of macaroni and cheese and a sweet potato casserole.

“Thanks, Gracie,” I said and resumed slicing potatoes. “Want some sweet tea? It's in the fridge. Help yourself.”

“I see Clarissa met your neighbor.”

I watched her pour herself a glass of the tea I'd made the day before and nodded.

“Any more word from this new beau of yours?” I asked.

“Yeah, he called again and we're having dinner together Tuesday evening.”

“Does this George Clooney look-alike have a name?”

Gracie laughed. “Tony. Tony Rizotti.”

“Hmm, an Italian lover.”

“He's not my lover. Just a dinner date. But he's taken an apartment on the island, just down the street from your shop.”

After I rinsed the potatoes, I turned them on to boil. “Oh, the vacant one above Noah's gallery?”

“Yeah, and I guess I'll find out how Italian he is—because he's cooking me dinner.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“What sounds like fun?” I heard Adam ask as he walked into the kitchen with a propane tank.

“Grace's new friend is cooking her dinner next week,” I told him, leaning in for his kiss.

“Ah, I detect some romance floating in the air,” he kidded her as he walked out to the deck.

Grace glanced at her watch. “Well, I'm outta here. Have to get over to the coffee shop. I'll see you about five.”

“I saw Clarissa next door talking to Miss Tilly,” Adam said, coming back inside. “They're sitting on the porch having a cold drink.”

“Really?”

He laughed. “You sound surprised.”

“Well, I am, a bit. Tilly doesn't normally bother with anybody, much less a child. And Clarissa…well, she's barely said ten words to us since she arrived.”

I felt Adam's arms go around me, pulling me into an embrace.

“Maybe this little friendship will be good for both of them.”

He buried his face in my neck and began nibbling on my ear.

“Hmm, wonder how long she'll be over there?” he whispered.

Feeling the stirrings of desire, I was now sorry I'd turned him away the other night.

Kissing his mouth, I pulled back. “Not long enough for what you're thinking. Oh, that reminds me…we just don't seem to have any private time to talk anymore, and I keep forgetting to tell you. For three nights since Clarissa arrived, I've woken during the night to hear her crying in her room.”

“I don't think that's unusual. Have you mentioned it to her?”

“God, no. That would be like intruding.”

“You're her stepmom now, Monica. You have a right to intrude in stuff like that. But maybe we won't mention it and see what happens. I knew it would take her a while to adjust, and I'm sure that's part of it.”

“She hasn't mentioned Carrie Sue at all. Do you think that's normal?”

Adam shrugged. “Under the circumstances, probably. I think we just need to give her some time. Let her tell us what she's feeling, rather than drag it out of her.”

My own feeling was that even if we tried, dragging anything out of Clarissa wasn't going to be an easy feat.

 

When Clarissa returned from Miss Tilly's, she didn't seem quite as subdued. Tilly had let her borrow a book about a little girl and her dog, and it occupied Clarissa for the entire afternoon.

I had just finished the final touches on the fruit salad when she wandered into the kitchen.

“That's a pretty bowl,” she said.

I smiled. “Thank you. It belonged to my grandmother. I bet you're excited about seeing your grandmother again. It's been about two months, hasn't it?”

“Yeah. She came to get me during February vacation and took me to lunch and out shopping.”

“And now you'll have a chance to do that much more often with her. I know Opal's happy you're here and she'll be spending more time with you.”

“Why?”

I turned from the counter. “Why? Well…because you're her granddaughter and I'm sure she loves you. Just like your dad does.”

I hoped she didn't pick up on the fact that I didn't put myself into that equation.

She remained silent and as if on cue, I heard Opal's voice coming up the stairs of the deck.

“I'm here,” she hollered. “And where's that granddaughter of mine?”

Adam came into the kitchen to greet his mother. He put a hand on Clarissa's head. “Right here,” he said.

Opal looked her usual stylish self, sporting a pair of black palazzo pants and a white silk blouse.

“Oh, my. I swear you've grown two inches since I last saw you,” she exclaimed. Without hesitation, she pulled Clarissa into her arms.

I almost felt bad for the child, standing there like somebody in a straitjacket, enduring all the fuss that Opal was making. I didn't miss the fact that Clarissa showed no return of affection. When Opal held her back to get a better look, I could see Clarissa appeared uncomfortable under her grandmother's scrutiny.

“You're such a beautiful child,” Opal gushed. Fingering the long hair, she said, “Gorgeous. You have just gorgeous hair.”

Clarissa had pulled her hair high on top of her head and secured it with a purple scrunchie.

“Oh, Adam,” Opal went on. “Doncha think she looks just like you? And I might say, I think I see a tad of myself in her.”

Leave it to Opal to make this about her.

The entire time Clarissa simply stood staring, not uttering a word.

Adam cleared his throat. “Well, Clarissa, say hello to your grandmother.”

I saw him shoot a look to his mother that clearly said, “Tone it down a bit.”

“Hello,” Clarissa said, softly.

Opal pulled the child back into her arms. “I'm so glad you're with us, sweetie. It'll be so nice getting to spend all the time we want together. We're going to have such fun. You won't be missing that mama of yours at all.”

“Mom.”
Adam's raised voice filled the kitchen.

The woman actually looked confused, not having a clue as to what she might have said wrong.

Adam walked over to put an arm around Clarissa. “Hey, honey. Wanna do me a favor and take these plastic dishes out to the deck?”

Without a word, Clarissa picked up the brightly colored plates and left the kitchen.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Adam hissed at his mother. “I will not put up with you tearing Carrie Sue apart.”

Surprise covered the woman's face. “Well, I was…only letting her know that I'm happy she's with us now. I didn't mean to say the wrong thing.”

I was positive the glistening I saw in Opal's eyes was the beginning of tears.

Adam ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. “Listen, Mom, we have to get some things straight. I know you're excited about finally getting to spend more time with your granddaughter. But I don't want you talking against Carrie Sue to Clarissa. Understand?”

Opal sniffed and reached for a napkin on the counter to dab her eyes. “Oh, Adam, she was such a
poor
excuse for a mother. You know that as well as I do.”

“That may well be. But I don't want you discussing that with Clarissa.
Understand?
No matter what kind of mother she was—she
is
her mother.”

Regaining her composure, Opal nodded. “Yes, okay. I understand.”

Raising her fingers, she moved them quickly across her pursed lips.

“Opal, how about some sweet tea?” I asked, trying to break the tension.

“That would be lovely,” she murmured.

 

The rest of the evening passed in a calm manner. Everyone in the family welcomed Clarissa Jo. Aunt Dora talked to her about books and games her own grandchildren had liked when they were little, but it was Saren who seemed to make the biggest impression on her.

“Yup,” I heard him say. “I think you're gonna like livin' on this here island. Ever done any crabbin'?” he asked her.

Clarissa's gaze was glued to Saren's face. She shook her head with interest.

“Well, then, we'll just have to do that, won't we? I'll teach you how.”

I actually saw a smile cross the child's face. This was the most animation I'd seen from her since she'd arrived.

I got up to head to the kitchen and bring out the desserts.

“She's delightful,” Dora said, following me inside. “She reminds me a bit of my Marin when she was that age.”

“Oh,” was all I said. “Would you mind taking this out for me? I'm going to run to the bathroom.”

Just as I walked back into the kitchen I heard a crash on the deck.

Running to the door, I saw Clarissa Jo standing there, with Sybile's beautiful glass bowl smashed to pieces at her feet. My carefully prepared fruit salad lay splattered, creating a still life of watermelon, pears, oranges, apples, bananas, and grapes.

“What the hell!” I screamed. Rushing forward, I yanked Clarissa back, away from the broken glass and fruit.

“It was an accident,” Adam said, jumping up from his chair.

“An accident? What the hell was she doing carrying that out here anyway? That was my favorite bowl from Sybile.” I bent down to start picking up glass and felt Adam's hand grip my wrist.

“Don't,” he said. “You'll cut yourself.”

Somebody had produced a roll of paper towels, along with a broom and dustpan.

I stood up and blew out a stream of exasperated air while I let Adam do the cleanup. It was then that I noticed Clarissa Jo had run into the house and our guests sat staring at me.

“Well, for Christ sake,” I said, frustration lacing my words. “She shouldn't have been carrying that bowl out here.”

Grace was the first to speak.

“She didn't drop it on purpose, Monica.”

Oh, sure—stick up for the kid,
I thought.

“Whatever,” I snapped and returned inside to prepare coffee.

A few minutes later, I felt Adam's arms encircling me from behind.

“Grace was right,” he said softly. “She didn't mean to do that.”

A nasty thought crossed my mind.
Are you so sure of that?
I wondered. Clarissa knew that bowl meant a lot to me.

“Okay. Let's forget it,” was what I mumbled.

I managed to get through the rest of the evening. Adam had gone in to talk to Clarissa and a little while later she emerged from her bedroom.

“I'm sorry,” she said, without much conviction.

“It's okay,” I told her, with the same lack of emotion.