Back on Blossom Street (5 page)

Afterward, he drew the covers over both of them, and they fell asleep. He drifted off first. Colette was harassed by doubts and regrets but she chased them away, refusing to listen. At least, not then… They would return later, the next day and the next. Even now, months afterward, she could hear them echoing in her mind, asking how she could have dishonored Derek’s memory that way. How she could have acted so irresponsibly. How she could’ve let such a thing happen…

At some point during that night she awoke, disoriented. She raised her head from the pillow; the room was still dark. As soon as she realized where she was and who she was with, she opened her eyes wide and her entire body tensed. She tried to slip silently away but the second she moved, Christian rolled over to face her.

“You’re awake,” he whispered.

She blinked uncertainly but he didn’t give her a chance to respond.

Instead, he leaned closer and gently pressed his lips to hers. Colette wanted to tell him they’d made a terrible mistake. She tried, she sincerely tried, but it was useless. He distracted her with his hands, his mouth, and she forgot her protests. Their lovemaking was passionate and uninhibited. And it didn’t end there. Twice more they made love.

The next afternoon, when they finally left the hotel room, Colette barely had time to race home, shower, grab her suitcase and fly into Denver to meet her parents.

It was the worst Christmas of her life. On Christmas Eve she and her parents watched their church’s reenactment of the Nativity, complete with live animals and a newborn baby. The service had her sobbing uncontrollably. Her parents assumed her tears were related to Derek’s death and how dreadfully she missed him, and they were. But it was more than that. She wept for reasons she had yet to fully understand.

Another worry nagged at her. In their rush and foolishness, neither one had bothered with birth control. Colette had never done much praying until then. A quick glance at the calendar told her that a pregnancy could result from her night with Christian.

When she returned to work, it was embarrassing for both of them. Christian treated her as if nothing had happened and for a while she pretended, too. Then one
day while he was out of the office, she received an important call from one of the customs brokers and needed to get onto his computer to find a contract service code. His system was shut down, although he’d never turned it off before; she’d frequently needed to refer to files in the past and he always left his computer on for that reason. Knowing him as well as she did, it didn’t take her long to discover his password, which he’d listed on his Rolodex under
P.
She’d explain when he got back. She retrieved the necessary information and was ready to close when a file with an odd name caught her attention. It consisted of several Chinese words, none of them familiar. Christian was fluent in Mandarin, but he named his files in English. Not only that, these words didn’t seem to correspond with any of their suppliers in China. What made her open the file she’d never know. Their relationship was strained as it was and neither of them had ever spoken of that night. For whatever reason—idle curiosity or latent suspicion—she did open the file. A hundred times since—no, a thousand—she’d found herself wishing that she’d left well enough alone. In that moment, she learned more than she’d ever cared to know about the man who was her employer. She hadn’t immediately understood what she was reading, but then it became all too apparent. Christian Dempsey was involved in smuggling illegal aliens from China, using his import business as a cover. At first she refused to believe it. But as she considered his actions since Christmas, certain details started to add up. She’d assumed his uncharacteristic behavior was because of their night together. Now his activities seemed more sinister. He’d begun to close the door between their offices, too, with strict orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He was away for lengthy periods without explanation. And sometimes, always late
in the day, he had guests who weren’t announced by Reception. Guests he didn’t introduce.

Then, three weeks into the new year, Colette knew she could no longer ignore the obvious. A pregnancy test from the drugstore confirmed it. Under normal circumstances Colette would probably have discussed the situation with him. Not now. She wanted no further contact with Christian Dempsey. The biggest struggle was what to do with the information she had. For several sleepless nights, she debated the best course of action. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore the fact that he was trafficking in humans. At the same time, she wondered if she could put the father of her child behind bars. In the end, she wrote an anonymous letter to the Immigration and Naturalization Service. One thing was certain—she couldn’t work for Christian anymore. As far as she could see, leaving was the only solution. Early one morning, she typed up her letter of resignation and placed it on his desk.

Colette wasn’t sure how he’d react when he read it. She soon found out. He called her into his office and glared at her. Then with a look so scornful it cut straight through her heart, he suggested she take her two-week vacation now and leave immediately. She nodded, convinced that he was aware of exactly what she’d uncovered. Without a word, she turned and walked out. That was the last time she’d seen or heard from Christian Dempsey.

Her house sold right away and she’d obtained the job in the flower shop the next week. Fortunately, real estate in her part of Seattle moved quickly. When she heard about the apartment above the yarn store, it had seemed perfect. She was hiding from Christian, praying he wouldn’t ever look for her. What she earned at the flower shop covered her meager expenses. The insurance money she’d collected after Derek’s accident, plus the proceeds
from the house, had paid off her car and given her enough to make a few sizable investments. She was financially comfortable.

Too nauseous to eat, she swallowed the rest of her tea, washed her cup and dressed for the day. Colette had a new life now, a brand-new beginning. She was doing her best to prepare for her baby, trying to eat properly and taking prenatal vitamins. She’d bought a copy of
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
from the bookstore down the street, wishing she could have shared this whole experience with her husband. No one knew about the pregnancy yet, not even her parents. Until the authorities arrested Christian, she’d keep it to herself.

When she got to work, Susannah Nelson was already there, cataloging a shipment of fresh flowers. The scent of roses filled the shop.

“Good morning.” Susannah greeted her absently, intent on her task.

“Morning. Those smell gorgeous.”

“They do, don’t they?” Susannah looked up with a smile.

With Valentine’s Day the following week, they’d received a huge shipment of roses, in addition to the flowers that arrived every other day. Colette’s favorites were the antique roses with their intense fragrance, although they tended to be smaller and less colorful than the hybrids.

“I expect we’ll be extra busy today,” Susannah said. This was her first full year of owning Susannah’s Garden and she was learning as she went. “Oh, before I forget, there was a phone call yesterday afternoon, just after you left.”

A chill went up Colette’s spine. She’d told only a few people where she’d gone. “Who was it?”

Susannah frowned. “I don’t remember the name, but I wrote it down.” Leaving the counter where she’d been
working, she walked over to the phone and sorted through a stack of pink message slips until she found the one she wanted.

“The call was from a Christian Dempsey. He said it was personal.”

Colette’s hand felt numb as she accepted the slip. She glanced at the phone number, one she knew so well, and with her heart pounding, crumpled the note and tossed it in the garbage.

Lydia Goetz

O
ne of the joys of owning my yarn store is the pleasure I derive from teaching people how to knit. I wish I could explain how much delight it gives me to share my love of knitting with others. I know machines can create sweaters and mittens and other things cheaper, faster and far more efficiently. That’s not the point. The projects I knit are an extension of me, an expression of my love for the person I’m knitting for. And—something else I love about knitting—when I’m working with my needles and yarn, I link myself with hundreds of thousands of women through the centuries.

I was on my lunch break, sipping a mug of soup in my office as I reviewed the names on my latest class list.

I think if I’d had a normal adolescence, I might have decided on teaching as a profession. Don’t get me wrong,
owning A Good Yarn is a dream come true for me. It’s part of the woman I am now, the woman I’ve become not
because
of the cancer, but in spite of it. I’m proud of that.

What I especially love about my classes is getting to know my customers, some of whom are among my dearest friends. For example, in the very first beginning knitters’ class I formed three years ago, I met Jacqueline Donovan, Carol Girard and Alix Townsend. We still see each other often, and they’re as close to me as my own family. Over the last three years, I’ve taught dozens of classes, but that first one will always hold a special place in my heart.

Certain of the other classes are also special to me. Like the sock-knitting class two years ago. That’s where I met Bethanne Hamlin, Elise Beaumont and Courtney Pulanski. Bethanne is so busy with her party business these days I rarely see her, but Annie, her daughter, often stops by while she’s running errands for her mother. Her friend, Amanda Jennings, another cancer survivor, comes with her whenever she can. Bethanne and I don’t communicate regularly, but I consider her a good friend. Elise, too, although most of her time these days is spent nursing her husband, Maverick, whose cancer has taken a turn for the worse. Her tender patience brings tears to my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple more in love. Foolishly, I assumed that kind of love was reserved for the young, but Elise and Maverick have shown me otherwise. The way they love each other is what I pray for in my marriage with Brad.

Courtney Pulanski is at college in Chicago and teaching everyone in her dorm the benefits of knitting. She keeps in touch; I also hear how she’s doing from Vera, her grandmother. After her mother’s death, Courtney’s dad took a job in South America, and Courtney went to live with her
grandmother in Seattle for her senior year of high school. It wasn’t an easy transition. I’m proud of Courtney, who’s become a lovely and well-liked young woman with a strong sense of her own potential, although I have little claim to her success.

It seems to me that each woman who signed up for one of my knitting classes taught
me
a valuable lesson. I suspect that’s another reason I feel so close to many of them.

This new class, the one to knit a prayer shawl, has a good feel, although I wish more than three people had enrolled. The first person to sign up was Alix Townsend, which surprised me until she mentioned that she needs something to help with the prewedding stress. Because she’s an experienced knitter, I suggested she attempt a more complicated pattern, and she agreed. She chose a beautiful lace shawl.

I certainly understand why Alix is feeling anxious. My own wedding was a low-key affair with just family and a few friends in attendance, yet I was an emotional wreck by the time Brad and I were officially married. Margaret didn’t make things any easier. She fluttered around me with questions and criticisms and unwanted advice until I thought I’d scream. But
she
was the one who broke into uncontrollable sobs halfway through the ceremony. My sister, for all her gruff exterior, has a soft heart and genuine compassion for others. I didn’t figure that out until I was over thirty.

That’s because, until recently, my entire existence revolved around me. It was all I could do to deal with my disease. I was so focused on myself, I failed to notice other people as I should. That knowledge opened my eyes in any number of ways, and I’ve learned to listen to others, including and perhaps especially Margaret. She still has her irritating mannerisms but I overlook them
now—for the most part—and I try to ignore her suspicious reactions to people like Colette. I understand she’s trying to protect me (patronizing though that is). I’ve become much more tolerant, too. And I find myself reaching out more, getting involved in my neighborhood and business community.

Anyway… Alix signed up for the class; Susannah Nelson did, too. With Susannah’s Garden she’s brought a new energy to the retail neighborhood. She has such interesting and inventive ideas. In the beginning, she gave away more flowers than she sold but the strategy paid off and her shop’s doing well. Since Susannah and I hadn’t had much opportunity to know each other, I welcomed her presence in the knitting class.

Colette Blake, my tenant, enrolled, too, with Susannah’s encouragement. She’d stopped coming by for tea in the mornings and I knew why. She’d obviously overheard Margaret’s comment. Ever since that morning, our conversations were brief and a bit stilted. She’d started using the outside entrance right afterward. I missed her.

Because Susannah and Colette were both taking the class, I’d purposely scheduled it later in the afternoon. At four-thirty, Susannah’s college-age daughter, Chrissie, would be available to work at the flower shop and Alix would have finished her shift at the café.

The bell above the door jingled and I was distracted from my lunch break. Thankfully, Margaret was out front. She’s increasingly more comfortable dealing with customers, although she can sometimes seem brusque and unfriendly. That’s a shame because she isn’t really like that.

A minute later, Margaret came into the office. “Do we have any yarn made from soy beans?” she asked, frowning. “I never heard of such a thing.”

I swallowed my soup. “I have some on order.”

Margaret’s frown darkened. “You’re joking! There’s actually a yarn made from
soy?
”

I nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the fibers being used for yarn these days.” Margaret should’ve known all this, but she prefers wool, as do I. However, I can’t discount the incredible ribbon yarns and some of the newer acrylics. There’s even buffalo yarn—or should that be bison?—and I’ve heard about a yarn from New Zealand that’s a blend of wool and possum fur, of all things.

My sister shook her head in wonder and left me to my lunch and my thoughts once more. I’m so grateful the shop has brought Margaret and me together after all the difficulties we faced in our relationship. A few years ago I would never have believed that possible.

Margaret hadn’t supported my efforts in the beginning and in retrospect I can’t blame her. I’d never taken a single business class or even worked at a full-time job. Margaret was afraid I’d set myself up for failure; as it turned out, she was wrong. Later I could see how much I’d absorbed about business from my father. He’d taught Margaret and me a strong work ethic, too. Our dad had his own business for years, and almost by osmosis I learned a lot from him without even realizing it.

After I finished my lunch, I joined my sister. We did a steady business for the rest of the afternoon. I counted up more than forty sales by four o’clock, which is excellent for a two-person shop. Another bonus—the days pass quickly and pleasurably when we’re busy like this.

“Julia’s late.” Margaret glanced at her watch for the fifth time in the last minute.

“You let her take the car to school again?”

Margaret nodded curtly but wouldn’t look at me.

I didn’t remind her that she’d sworn the new car was hers and Julia wasn’t going to drive it
ever.
She hadn’t
owned the car for more than a few weeks and already my niece was behind the wheel more often than my sister.

“She was supposed to come by for me right after school,” Margaret muttered.

“I’m sure there’s a good reason she’s late,” I told her. Julia was a high-school senior and so involved with myriad activities her schedule made my head swim.

“Not today. She’s got a dental appointment at four-thirty and I’m going with her.”

I glanced at my own watch and noticed it was four-ten. “She’ll be here any minute.”

Margaret nodded.

“Since she’s late, why don’t you get your coat and purse and wait outside?”

Margaret hesitated, but finally agreed. She disappeared into the office only long enough to collect what she needed.

“She’ll be here soon,” I reassured Margaret again. Julia was a responsible girl and I didn’t think for an instant that she’d forgotten her mother.

“It’s twenty minutes to the dentist’s office from here,” Margaret worried.

“Would you like me to phone ahead and let them know you might be late?”

Margaret considered that, then nodded. Her frown grew even fiercer, and I didn’t envy Julia once she did arrive. The wrath of Margaret was something to behold. My sister didn’t lose her temper often but when she did she could clear a room.

“Go ahead and step outside. I’ll contact the dentist’s office right now.”

Margaret pushed open the door, and the bell chimed as she left the shop.

Stepping up to the counter, I reached for the Rolodex
and flipped to the
D
s, where Margaret had filed the dentist’s number.

The receptionist answered on the second ring. “Dr. Wentworth’s office. How may I help you?”

“Hello,” I said, “I’m calling on behalf of Julia Langley. It looks like she’s running late and I wanted you to know.”

“Can you tell me how late she’s going to be?”

“Ah… I’m not sure.”

“If it’s going to be more than ten minutes, the appointment will need to be rescheduled.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that long, but it depends on traffic,” I said, although I had no idea when Julia would show up. I could see Margaret pacing back and forth in front of the display window. Every step she took conveyed nervous agitation.

“Please call again to reschedule if it is later than ten minutes.”

“I will,” I told her and replaced the receiver.

I remembered then that Julia had a cell phone, one she paid for with money she earned from a part-time job at the movie theater. I’d driven five miles out of my way to take Cody to the theater where Julia worked. Cody had loved seeing his cousin behind the counter. Julia had given him extra butter on his popcorn and my son had been thrilled.

“Margaret,” I called, poking my head out the front door. “What about her cell?”

“It’s at the house,” Margaret snapped. “She let the battery go dead.” Her frown told me she saw this as another example of Julia’s lack of responsibility. My poor niece was about to get an earful.

The phone pealed sharply behind me. “A Good Yarn,” I answered.

“Margaret Langley, please.”

The crisp, professional male voice took me aback. It didn’t matter what the words said, what I heard was trouble. “Could you tell me what this is about?” I asked as politely as my trembling voice would allow.

“I need to speak directly to Ms. Langley,” the man told me.

“One minute, please.” I set down the receiver and rushed to the front door.

Margaret swung around to face me almost as if she knew.

“There’s a call for you.”

“Julia?”

“No…you’d better take it.”

“But Julia will be here any second.”

“Take the call,” I insisted.

I so rarely insist on anything with my sister that Margaret’s brows rose abruptly. “Is everything all right?”

“I…I don’t know.”

She hurried into the shop and grabbed the receiver. “This is Margaret Langley.”

She listened for a moment and then her eyes shot to mine. She gasped. Her knees literally went out from under her and she sank into the chair I kept behind the counter.

“Is she hurt?” Margaret asked shakily.

I bit my lip, awaiting the answer.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be here.” She replaced the receiver, looked at me and burst into tears.

“W-what is it?” I asked, starting to cry, too. “Has Julia been in an accident?”

“No…The police are coming to take me to the hospital.”

“Julia’s in the
hospital?
”

“Yes, yes, she’s been hurt but they won’t tell me how badly. The hospital needs me to sign the papers before they can take her into surgery.”

“Surgery.” I swallowed painfully. “What happened?”
I cried, gripping my sister’s arm. “Tell me what happened.”

“She… Julia was on her way to pick me up, just like you said.”

“Yes, yes.” I knew Julia wouldn’t have forgotten.

“She stopped at a red light and someone, a man, ran up to the driver’s side and yanked open the door and—”

The picture that formed in my mind sent my nerves shrieking in protest. “Julia was carjacked?”

Margaret nodded. “He dragged her into the street and when she tried to fight him off, he…he hit her again. Then he threw her into moving traffic so she had to scramble for her life.”

I covered my mouth with both hands to stifle a scream. My beautiful niece had been attacked. I didn’t know the extent of her injuries but apparently they were bad enough to require surgery.

The shock of this, the horror I felt, was more than I could take in.