After that, time seemed to drag. Careful not to wake up Patrick, she went into the living room, looking for something to read. The bookshelves offered several possibilities, but she was too restless to concentrate on a long novel. Among the copies of magazines and periodicals on the top shelf, Meredith found an old pamphlet on crocheting. She studied it with mounting interest while fanciful and artistic baby booties took shape in her mind.
With no other diversions available, she decided to give crocheting a try, and she drove into town. At Jackson's Dry Goods, she purchased a magazine dedicated to crocheting, a half-dozen skeins of thick yarn and a fat wooden crochet hook as big around as her finger, which the sales clerk assured her was best for a beginner to use. She was unlocking her car, which she'd parked in front of the Tru Value Hardware store, when it occurred to her that the responsibility for dinner tonight might fall to her. Tossing the bag with the yarn into the car, she recrossed the street and went into the grocery store. For several minutes she wandered the aisles, assailed by justifiable doubts about her cooking ability. At the meat counter, she scanned the packages, biting her lip. Julie's meat loaf had been wonderful last night; whatever Meredith made was going to have to be simple. Her gaze drifted past the steaks, pork chops, and calf's liver, then riveted on the packages of hot dogs as inspiration struck her. With luck, she might be able to turn dinner into an adventure in nostalgia tonight instead of a culinary catastrophe. Smiling, she bought the hot dogs, a package of buns, and a huge bag of fat marshmallows.
Back at the house, Meredith put away the groceries and sat down with her crochet hook and the magazine with the illustrated crocheting instructions. According to the introduction, the chain stitch was the basis for all crochet stitches and beginners were not to proceed to the next step until they were able to make at least a hundred perfectly uniform chain stitches. Meredith obediently began to make chain stitches, each one of which was about a half inch around due to the enormous crochet hook and thick yarn she was using.
As morning wore into afternoon, the worries she'd been hiding from came back to plague her, so she crocheted harder to keep them away. She would not think about pediatricians ... or what labor felt like ... whether Matt would want visiting rights for their baby ... nursery school ... whether Matt really meant what he'd said about their having a real marriage ...
Chain stitches cascaded from her crochet hook, fat and uniform, landing in a large pool of soft cream rope at her feet. She looked down, knowing perfectly well it was long past time to stop and to proceed to step two, but she didn't feel up to the challenge, and besides, there was a certain grim satisfaction, a sense of badly needed control, that came from the repetitive task. At two o'clock, the pregnancy that did not yet seem real made itself known with sudden demands for sleep, and Meredith put the crochet hook down. Curling up almost thankfully on the sofa, she glanced at the clock. She could grab a quick nap and still be up in time to put her yarn away and be ready when Matt came home. When Matt came home ... The thought of him returning to her after a hard day at work filled her with delight. As she laid her cheek against her hand, she remembered the way he had made love to her, and she had to make herself think of something else, because the memory was so powerful and stirring that she ached for him. She was in serious danger of falling in love with the father of her baby. Serious danger? she thought with a smile. What could possibly be lovelier—as long as Matt felt the same way. And she rather thought he did.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires drifted in through the open window, and her eyes snapped open, her gaze flying to the clock. It was 4:30. She lurched to a sitting position and combed her fingers through her hair, shoving it off her forehead. As she reached out to pick up the yarn and put it away, the front door swung open and her heart responded with a leap of joy to the sight of him. "Hi," she said, and she had a sudden vision of other evenings just like this one, when Matt would come home to her. She wondered if he'd thought about her at all, and then chided herself for being foolish. She was the one with too much time on her hands; he had been busy and undoubtedly preoccupied. "How was your day?"
Matt looked at her standing near the sofa, while visions of more days like this paraded across his mind, months and years of days when he'd come home to a golden-haired goddess with a smile that always made him feel as if he'd just single-handedly slain a dragon, cured the common cold, and found a means to world peace. "My day was fine," he said, smiling. "What did you do with yours?"
She'd spent part of it worrying and the rest thinking and dreaming of him. Since she couldn't very well tell him that, she said, "I decided to take up crocheting." She held up the skein of yarn to prove her claim.
"Very domestic," Matt teased, then his gaze slid down the rope of chain stitches that descended from the skein and ended beneath the coffee table. His eyes widened. "What are you making?"
Meredith stifled an embarrassed giggle because she didn't have the remotest idea. "Guess," she said, trying to save face, hoping he'd think of something.
Walking over, Matt bent down, picked up the end of the stitches, and began backing up until he'd stretched the chain out twelve feet to the end of the room. "A carpet?" he ventured gravely.
Somehow she managed to control her features and look wounded. "Of course it's not a carpet."
He sobered at once and started toward her, instantly contrite. "Give me a hint," he said gently.
"You shouldn't really need a hint. It's obvious what it's going to be." Fighting to keep her face straight, she
announced, "I'm planning to add a few more rows to what I've already crocheted—so it will be wider—then I'm going to starch the whole thing, and you can use it to fence your property!"
His shoulders shaking with laughter, Matt hauled her into his arms, oblivious to the crochet hook jabbing in his chest.
"I bought some things for dinner tonight," she told him, leaning back in his arms.
Matt had intended to take her out. He tipped his chin down, smiling with surprise. "I thought you said you don't know how to cook."
"You'll understand when you see what I bought," she said, and he put his arm around her shoulders and walked into the kitchen. She took out the hot dogs and his gaze shot to the marshmallows.
"Very clever," he said with a grin. "You figured out a way to make me do the cooking."
"Believe me," she said gravely, "it's safer this way."
With no other diversions available, she decided to give crocheting a try, and she drove into town. At Jackson's Dry Goods, she purchased a magazine dedicated to crocheting, a half-dozen skeins of thick yarn and a fat wooden crochet hook as big around as her finger, which the sales clerk assured her was best for a beginner to use. She was unlocking her car, which she'd parked in front of the Tru Value Hardware store, when it occurred to her that the responsibility for dinner tonight might fall to her. Tossing the bag with the yarn into the car, she recrossed the street and went into the grocery store. For several minutes she wandered the aisles, assailed by justifiable doubts about her cooking ability. At the meat counter, she scanned the packages, biting her lip. Julie's meat loaf had been wonderful last night; whatever Meredith made was going to have to be simple. Her gaze drifted past the steaks, pork chops, and calf's liver, then riveted on the packages of hot dogs as inspiration struck her. With luck, she might be able to turn dinner into an adventure in nostalgia tonight instead of a culinary catastrophe. Smiling, she bought the hot dogs, a package of buns, and a huge bag of fat marshmallows.
Back at the house, Meredith put away the groceries and sat down with her crochet hook and the magazine with the illustrated crocheting instructions. According to the introduction, the chain stitch was the basis for all crochet stitches and beginners were not to proceed to the next step until they were able to make at least a hundred perfectly uniform chain stitches. Meredith obediently began to make chain stitches, each one of which was about a half inch around due to the enormous crochet hook and thick yarn she was using.
As morning wore into afternoon, the worries she'd been hiding from came back to plague her, so she crocheted harder to keep them away. She would not think about pediatricians ... or what labor felt like ... whether Matt would want visiting rights for their baby ... nursery school ... whether Matt really meant what he'd said about their having a real marriage ...
Chain stitches cascaded from her crochet hook, fat and uniform, landing in a large pool of soft cream rope at her feet. She looked down, knowing perfectly well it was long past time to stop and to proceed to step two, but she didn't feel up to the challenge, and besides, there was a certain grim satisfaction, a sense of badly needed control, that came from the repetitive task. At two o'clock, the pregnancy that did not yet seem real made itself known with sudden demands for sleep, and Meredith put the crochet hook down. Curling up almost thankfully on the sofa, she glanced at the clock. She could grab a quick nap and still be up in time to put her yarn away and be ready when Matt came home. When Matt came home ... The thought of him returning to her after a hard day at work filled her with delight. As she laid her cheek against her hand, she remembered the way he had made love to her, and she had to make herself think of something else, because the memory was so powerful and stirring that she ached for him. She was in serious danger of falling in love with the father of her baby. Serious danger? she thought with a smile. What could possibly be lovelier—as long as Matt felt the same way. And she rather thought he did.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires drifted in through the open window, and her eyes snapped open, her gaze flying to the clock. It was 4:30. She lurched to a sitting position and combed her fingers through her hair, shoving it off her forehead. As she reached out to pick up the yarn and put it away, the front door swung open and her heart responded with a leap of joy to the sight of him. "Hi," she said, and she had a sudden vision of other evenings just like this one, when Matt would come home to her. She wondered if he'd thought about her at all, and then chided herself for being foolish. She was the one with too much time on her hands; he had been busy and undoubtedly preoccupied. "How was your day?"
Matt looked at her standing near the sofa, while visions of more days like this paraded across his mind, months and years of days when he'd come home to a golden-haired goddess with a smile that always made him feel as if he'd just single-handedly slain a dragon, cured the common cold, and found a means to world peace. "My day was fine," he said, smiling. "What did you do with yours?"
She'd spent part of it worrying and the rest thinking and dreaming of him. Since she couldn't very well tell him that, she said, "I decided to take up crocheting." She held up the skein of yarn to prove her claim.
"Very domestic," Matt teased, then his gaze slid down the rope of chain stitches that descended from the skein and ended beneath the coffee table. His eyes widened. "What are you making?"
Meredith stifled an embarrassed giggle because she didn't have the remotest idea. "Guess," she said, trying to save face, hoping he'd think of something.
Walking over, Matt bent down, picked up the end of the stitches, and began backing up until he'd stretched the chain out twelve feet to the end of the room. "A carpet?" he ventured gravely.
Somehow she managed to control her features and look wounded. "Of course it's not a carpet."
He sobered at once and started toward her, instantly contrite. "Give me a hint," he said gently.
"You shouldn't really need a hint. It's obvious what it's going to be." Fighting to keep her face straight, she
announced, "I'm planning to add a few more rows to what I've already crocheted—so it will be wider—then I'm going to starch the whole thing, and you can use it to fence your property!"
His shoulders shaking with laughter, Matt hauled her into his arms, oblivious to the crochet hook jabbing in his chest.
"I bought some things for dinner tonight," she told him, leaning back in his arms.
Matt had intended to take her out. He tipped his chin down, smiling with surprise. "I thought you said you don't know how to cook."
"You'll understand when you see what I bought," she said, and he put his arm around her shoulders and walked into the kitchen. She took out the hot dogs and his gaze shot to the marshmallows.
"Very clever," he said with a grin. "You figured out a way to make me do the cooking."
"Believe me," she said gravely, "it's safer this way."
