The Shop on Blossom Street
Page 2

Over the years I’ve taught a number of people how to knit. My first students were other cancer patients going through chemotherapy. We met at the Seattle Oncology Center, and before long, I had everyone, men included, knitting cotton washcloths. I think every doctor and nurse in that clinic has enough knit washcloths to last a lifetime! After washcloths, I had my band of beginning knitters move on to a small afghan. Certainly I’ve had some failures but far more successes. My patience was rewarded when others found the same serenity I did in knitting.
Now I have my own shop and I think the best way to get customers in the door is to offer knitting classes. I’d never sell enough yarn to stay in business if I ran classes in washcloths, so I’ve chosen a simple baby blanket to start with. The pattern’s by one of my favorite designers, Ann Norling, and uses the basic knit and purl stitches.
I don’t know what to expect of my new venture, but I’m hopeful. Hope to a person with cancer—or to a person who’s had cancer—is more potent than any drug. We live on it, live for it. It’s addictive to those of us who’ve learned to take one day at a time.
I was making a sign advertising my beginners’ class when the bell above the door chimed. My first customer had just walked in and I looked up with a smile on my face. The pounding excitement in my heart quickly died when I realized it was Margaret.
“Hi,” I said, doing my best to sound happy to see her. I didn’t want my sister showing up on my very first morning and attacking my confidence.
“Mom told me you’d decided to go ahead with this idea of yours.”
I didn’t respond.
Frowning, Margaret continued. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see the shop.”
I gestured with one arm and hated myself for asking. “What do you think?” I didn’t bother to mention that Blossom Street was decidedly out of her way.
“Why’d you name it A Good Yarn?”
I’d gone over dozens of shop names, some too cute by half, some plain and ordinary. I love the idea that “spinning a yarn” means telling a story, and sharing stories with people, listening to their experiences, is important to me. Another legacy of the clinic, I suppose. A Good Yarn seems like a warm and welcoming name. But I didn’t explain all that to Margaret. “I wanted my customers to know I sell quality yarn.”
Margaret shrugged as if she’d seen a dozen knitting shops with more impressive names than mine.
“Well,” I said, despite my determination not to ask again. “What do you think?”
Margaret glanced around a second time, although nothing had changed after her first inspection. “It’s better than I expected.”
I considered this high praise. “I don’t have a large inventory yet, but I’m hoping to build it up over the next year or so. Of course, not all the yarn I’ve ordered has arrived. And there’s more I’m planning to get, some wonderful imports from Ireland and Australia. Everything takes time and money.” In my enthusiasm I’d said more than I intended.
“Are you expecting Mom to help you?” The question was blunt.
I shook my head. “You don’t need to worry. I’m doing this entirely on my own.” So that was the reason for her unannounced visit. Margaret thought I was going to take advantage of our mother. I wouldn’t and the question offended me, but I bit back an angry retort.
Margaret glared at me as if she wasn’t sure I was telling the truth.
“I cashed in my Microsoft stock,” I confessed.
Margaret’s deep brown eyes, so much like my own, nearly doubled in horror at what I’d done. “You didn’t.”
What did my sister think? I had the necessary cash lying around in my bottom drawer? “I had to.” Given my medical history, no bank would grant me a loan. Although I’ve been cancer-free for four years now, I’m viewed as a risk in just about every area.
“It’s your money, I guess.” The way Margaret said it implied I’d made a terrible decision. “But I don’t think Dad would have approved.”
“He would’ve been the first one to encourage me.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“You’re probably right,” Margaret said with the caustic edge that never failed to appear in our conversations. “Dad couldn’t deny you anything.”
“The money was my inheritance,” I pointed out. I suppose her share is still accruing profit.
My sister walked around the shop, eyeing it critically. Considering Margaret’s apparent dislike of me, I don’t know why my relationship with her is so important, but it is. Mom’s health is fragile and she hasn’t adjusted to life without Dad. Soon, I’m afraid, it’ll be only Margaret and me. The thought of not having any family at all terrifies me.
I’m so grateful not to know what the future holds. I once asked my father why God wouldn’t just let us know what tomorrow would bring. He said that not knowing the future is actually a gift because if we knew, we wouldn’t take responsibility for our own lives, our own happiness. As with so much else in life, my dad was right.
“What’s your business plan?” Margaret asked.
“I—I’m starting small.”
“What about customers?”
“I’ve paid for an ad in the Yellow Pages.” I didn’t mention that the new phone directory didn’t come out for another two months. No need to hand Margaret any ammunition. I’d distributed flyers in the neighborhood, too, but I didn’t know how effective that would be. I was counting on word of mouth to generate customer interest and, ultimately, sales. Which was something else I didn’t mention.
My older sister snickered. I’ve always hated that scoffing sound and had to grit my teeth in order to hide my reaction.
“I’m just getting ready to post a sign for my first knitting class.”
“Do you seriously think a handmade sign taped in the window is going to draw people into your store?” Margaret demanded. “Parking is a nightmare out there and even when the street’s open again, you can’t expect much traffic through this construction mess.”
“No, but—”
“I wish you well, but—”
“Do you?” I asked, cutting her off. My hands shook as I walked over to the display window and secured my notice for knitting classes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I turned to face my sister who, at five foot six, stood a good three inches taller than me. She outweighed me by about twenty pounds, too. Looking at us now, I wonder if anyone would guess we were related and yet when we were small we resembled each other quite a bit.
“I think you want me to fail,” I said honestly.
“That isn’t true! I came this morning because…because I’m interested in what you’re doing.” Her chin went up a notch as if she was daring me to challenge her again. “How old are you? Twenty-nine, thirty?”
“Thirty.”
“Isn’t it time you cut the apron strings?”
That was blatantly unfair. “I’m trying to do exactly that. I left Mom’s house and I moved into the apartment upstairs. I’ve started my own business, too, and I’d appreciate your support.”
She turned her hands over to display her palms. “Do you want me to buy yarn from you? Is that what you want? You know I don’t knit and have no desire to learn. I much prefer to crochet. And—”
“Just this once,” I said, cutting her off a second time, “couldn’t you think of one nice thing to say?” I waited, silently pleading with her to search inside her heart for at least a token word of encouragement.
My request seemed to be an overwhelming task for Margaret. She faltered for several seconds. “You have a good eye for color,” she finally said. She gestured toward the display of yarn I’d arranged on the table by the door.
“Thank you,” I said, hoping to sound gracious. I didn’t mention that I’d used a color wheel to create the display. Hard as it was for Margaret to offer me praise, I certainly wasn’t going to give her an opportunity to withdraw it.
Had we been closer, I would’ve told her the real reason I’d decided to open a yarn store. This shop was my affirmation of life. I was willing to invest everything I had to make it a success. Like the Viking conqueror who came ashore and burned his ships behind him, I had set my course. Succeed or go under.
As my father might say, I was taking responsibility for a future I couldn’t predict.
The bell above the door chimed again. I had a customer! My first real customer.
CHAPTER 2
JACQUELINE DONOVAN
T he angry exchange of words with her married son had distressed Jacqueline Donovan. She’d honestly tried to keep her negative feelings regarding her daughter-in-law to herself. But when Paul phoned to tell her Tammie Lee was five and a half months pregnant, Jacqueline had lost her temper and said things she shouldn’t have. Paul had hung up in mid-rant.
To complicate everything, her husband had phoned soon afterward, asking her to drop off blueprints at the construction site on Blossom Street. The argument with Paul weighing on her mind, she’d confessed what she’d said and now Reese was upset with her, too. Truth be told, she didn’t much care what her husband thought, but Paul, her only child—now, that was a different story.
Feeling anxious and depressed, Jacqueline drove down to the job site and wasted twenty minutes finding a parking space. Needless to say, the one she found was quite a distance down the street, across from a seedy-looking video store. Clutching the blueprints, she picked her way through the construction mess, muttering under her breath. Just leave it to Reese to screw up her entire day!
“You brought the drawings?” Her husband of thirty-three years walked out of the trailer to meet her as she neared the site. Jacqueline stepped over steel tubes, trying not to dirty or damage her Ferragamo heels. Her husband’s architectural firm, Donovan and Gray, was responsible for this renovation project. Dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit and a hard hat, Reese was still a good-looking man at fifty-nine.
Jacqueline handed him the all-important set of rolled-up prints. It was unusual for Reese to ask anything of her, which suited her perfectly. He set the prints inside the trailer and turned back to face her, standing just outside the door.
“I’m worried about Paul,” she said, doing her best to maintain her composure. Reese gave a tired shrug. He worked long hours and Jacqueline pretended to believe that all the time he spent away from home was business-related. She knew otherwise. So if he was tired, she certainly wasn’t going to sympathize.
For the sake of Paul and their friends, Jacqueline and Reese managed to put up a good front, but the marriage hadn’t been happy for a number of years. Reese had his life and she had hers. They hadn’t slept together since Paul left for college twelve years ago. In fact, there was very little they shared except their love for their son.
“So Tammie Lee is pregnant,” her husband said, ignoring her concern.