Blossom Street Brides (20 page)

“Well, good afternoon to you, too.”

“What’s on your mind?” Might as well get to the point as quickly as possible and be done with it.

“How’s your day going?”

“Fine. Do you have a reason for interrupting it?”

“Well, yes,” he continued in the same easy tone she was convinced he used with his real-estate clients. “Andrew and Courtney phoned Sunday afternoon to thank me for the dinner. While we were talking, I decided to offer to buy the furnishings for the baby’s room.”

“That was generous of you.”

“I don’t want a repeat of what happened with my parents,” he said.

Bethanne heard the humor in his voice. Before Andrew was born, they couldn’t afford a new crib, and so they’d purchased a secondhand one, which Grant had refinished. When the varnish had dried, Grant hadn’t been able to reassemble it. Two of the screws were missing, and he’d nearly blown a gasket putting it back together.

The irony was, his parents were so excited about their first grandchild that they’d purchased a crib to keep at their house for when Grant and Bethanne came to visit. A new crib.

“I was hoping you’d be willing to do a bit of shopping with me,” Grant continued. “I don’t have any idea what kind of budget to give them. It’s been a lot of years since I’ve even thought about baby furniture. I don’t know what cribs and changing stations are going for these days.”

“Wouldn’t it be just as easy to look online?”

“Of course it would, but I’d feel better if I could see the piece, touch it, test its construction.”

“You should take Andrew with you. He knows far more about that sort of thing than I do.”

“You’re right, I should.” He hesitated.

“Annie phoned you, didn’t she?” If he wasn’t going to say it, she would.

“Yes,” he admitted, with some reluctance.

“This whole thing with the baby’s crib is a ploy to talk to me about moving to California.” It stunned her that Grant believed she was gullible enough to fall for this shopping scheme of his.

“I did want to buy the furniture for the baby,” he insisted.

“Like I said, that’s generous of you. I’m sure Andrew and Courtney will appreciate it.”

“Bethanne, we need to talk.” He sounded serious and deeply troubled.

“Frankly, I can’t think of a thing you and I have to discuss. I’m busy, Grant. I have a business to run, so unless you have something important to say, I need to go.”

Her words seemed to shake him. “Bethanne …”

“Goodbye, Grant.”

“You’re right,” he said. “You aren’t the same woman any longer.”

This shouldn’t be news. Without a qualm, Bethanne ended the call.

Just before she left the office, Max phoned. The sound of his voice was like a warm ocean breeze washing over her.

“Your day going okay?” he asked.

“It’s going fine,” she assured him. She could hear warehouse noises in the background.

“How are matters with Annie?”

“Tense.”

“She still upset?”

Bethanne didn’t want to drag him into the squabble with her daughter any more than necessary. “I probably didn’t help things any when I told her I’m considering moving to California.”

The line went silent for an instant. “My guess is that news didn’t go over well.”

Bethanne laughed. “You could say that, but Annie needs to know in plenty of time so she can make her own plans.”

“True.”

Because this matter with Annie deeply depressed her, she changed the subject. “I’m grateful you and Rooster are back and safe.”

“We are … I know you weren’t pleased that we decided to drive straight through, but all is well that ends well, right?”

The thought of Max on the road for hours on end shook her. Tired and weary on a motorcycle was a deadly combination. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me beforehand.”

He chuckled. “I remember not so long ago when I rode twenty hours straight just so I could spend time with you.”

“If I’d known what you were doing I would have worried then, too.”

“Don’t fret, all is well, we’re both safe and sound.”

Seeing that he was back and in the office, it wouldn’t do any good to argue. “Call me when we can talk longer, okay?”

“Sure, honey, but remember I’ve got that dinner with Kendall-Jackson tonight.”

“I know.”

“No more fretting over Annie, okay?”

“Okay.” Then, because she couldn’t help being curious, she asked, “How’s Rooster?”

Max chuckled. “I’m afraid he’s too lovesick to think straight.”

“Is that so?” This was an interesting development.

“I recognize the look because it’s the same one I wore after I met you. Any real conversation is beyond him at the
moment. I need to repeat nearly everything I say because his head is so high in the clouds it’s affected his brain.”

“And this was what happened to you?”

“The minute I laid eyes on you I knew I was in trouble. I might as well have given it up because you owned my heart from that moment forward.”

“Oh, Max, I do love you so.” His words were the balm she needed after this trying day. First it was the conversation with Annie, followed by Grant’s efforts to manipulate her.

“We’ll muddle through whatever the future holds. I’m sorry about Annie.”

Bethanne knew they would both make the right decision. A decision that would affect their lives and their businesses. Perhaps most compelling of all is the impact it would have on her children.

In my knitting world, the most exciting and rewarding part is the process of creating a new hand-knit design. When seated in my Devonshire studio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, I am at my happiest and inspired. My design research, reference books, and deliciously new Rowan yarns around me—a certain black-and-white cat contentedly sprawled across a pile of newly knitted design swatches …

—Martin Storey,

designer and author

Lydia had been busy at the shop all Thursday morning. Thankfully, Margaret was available to help. Social knitting would start soon, and she expected a full house. She’d also been waiting for Evelyn Boyle, Casey’s social worker, to return her call all day, but unfortunately she was with a customer when the phone rang, so
Lydia paused and waited while Margaret picked up the line.

Sure enough, Margaret placed her hand over the receiver and said, “It’s Evelyn.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Lydia said to the customer, who was an accomplished knitter, “I need to take this call.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “I can finish up here by myself without a problem.”

Lydia hurried into her small office and closed the door. Reaching for her desk phone, she sank into the chair.

“Evelyn?” Lydia asked.

“Lydia, I got your voice mail. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to phone sooner; it’s been a hectic week. What’s the problem?”

Now that she had Casey’s social worker on the phone, Lydia wasn’t sure where to start. “It’s just a question,” she said, not wanting to make more of this than necessary.

“Apparently, it’s an important one. I don’t know that I’ve ever heard you sound more distressed. Tell me what’s happening.”

“I’m worried about Casey,” Lydia whispered, which was probably more than obvious. “She’s been having horrible, horrible nightmares recently.”

“Tell me about them.”

Lydia swallowed tightly. “She wakes up screaming and is so distraught that I have to spend an hour or more with her before she calms down enough to go back to sleep. Evelyn, the poor girl trembles and clings to me with all her might.”

“What is the dream about?”

Lydia felt like a terrible failure as a mother. “I don’t know; she refuses to talk about it.”

“That’s not uncommon. Can you tell me when these nightmares started?”

“A while ago now,” Lydia answered, thinking back over the last several months. “She had nightmares from the first, but nothing like this. The ones where she wakes up screaming started about a year after we first adopted her.”

“About the time Casey hit puberty?”

“Yes.” Come to think of it, Lydia recalled that the first nightmare came shortly after Casey had started her period. She woke up the entire house with her screams in the middle of the night, frightening them all half to death.

“Dreams like this often happen with these children,” Evelyn explained. “Many of them, and I’m including Casey in this, have gone through more trauma by the time they’re five or six years old than you or I will face in a lifetime. Some have experienced unimaginable terror and abuse.”

“Casey?” Lydia’s voice trembled with the question. The thought of this child she’d come to love with all her heart going through any kind of abuse deeply distressed her.

“I only have sketchy details. All I can say is that her home life was bad enough for the state to permanently remove her from the family. Both Casey and her older brother.”

“She was three at the time.” Lydia knew only the most basic details of her daughter’s early childhood. For the majority of her life, Casey had been a ward of the state of Washington and in the foster-care program.

“In order for these children to emotionally deal with
what has happened to them,” Evelyn continued to explain, “their minds repress the memories. Then when they’re hit with all those surging hormones, it isn’t uncommon for memories to resurface. And when they do, it can be traumatic.”

“These memories return in dreams?”

“Not always, but that isn’t unusual.”

“Do you recommend counseling for Casey?” With their budget already tight and with the yarn store struggling, Lydia didn’t know where she and Brad would come up with the money to cover this additional expense. However, if Evelyn recommended counseling for Casey, then they’d find a way to help their daughter.

“How frequent are the dreams?”

Lydia didn’t have a definitive answer for the social worker. “At first they were just every now and then, but recently …”

“They’re coming more and more often.”

“Yes,” Lydia admitted. “Twice this week already. You know what a gutsy girl Casey is, and these dreams simply terrify her. She clings to me and trembles and refuses to let me go.” Tears welled up inside of Lydia as she recalled the last dream. Casey had clung so tightly to her that Lydia was left with bruises on her arms.

Evelyn paused. “Would you like me to speak to her?”

It went without saying that her daughter wouldn’t be keen on that. “I don’t know how Casey will react to that. She completely shuts down whenever we talk about these dreams. It’s almost as if she’s ashamed that she has them …
as if she had any control over them.” It’d been a while since Evelyn had last stopped by, and Casey had grown somber and silent during the last home visit, as if she expected to be whisked away at any moment.

“Does Casey still come by the shop after school?”

“Not as often now that she’s in high school.”

“Will she be there this afternoon?”

With social knitting, Casey generally made a point of stopping by the yarn store, following her classes. “I believe so, unless …” This brought up another subject that deeply concerned Lydia. “She’s close to my mother … and Evelyn, I’m worried what’s going to happen to Casey once my mother …”

“Dies?” Evelyn finished for her.

“Yes,” she whispered, and her voice cracked. “Sometimes I think Casey is the one who’s keeping Mom alive. I wish you could see the two of them together. They are such a funny pair. My mother’s mind drifts and she gets confused, and while I struggle to be patient with her, Casey is as gentle and loving as can be. The two of them spend hours together.”

“That’s wonderful, and understandable. Your mother gives Casey roots, a sense of family, of belonging. She needs all that and more, especially now.”

“But what will happen once my mother … you know … is gone? By that I don’t necessarily mean when she dies. Every week I see her losing more and more of her capacity to function normally.”

“Lydia, don’t borrow trouble. Let’s tackle one issue at a time.” Evelyn was the voice of reason, so calm and unruffled.
“I’ll make a point of stopping by the shop this afternoon. Is social knitting still on Thursday afternoons?”

“Yes, and I’m fairly certain Casey will be here.”

“Good, and if not, then you and I can chat.”

Seeing that the adoption had been completed three years earlier, Lydia was grateful that Evelyn was willing to listen to her concerns and advise her and Brad.

Sure enough, Casey showed up at the yarn store directly after school, and was her normal cheerful self.

“Hi, Mom,” she said as she breezed through the doorway, leaving the bell to jingle in her wake. Whiskers didn’t stir but cuddled up among the yarn displayed in the window, mellow as could be.

Lydia watched as Casey tossed her backpack into the same office where she’d so recently spoken to the social worker. “How was school?” she asked.

“Okay. I’ve got to read
Moby-Dick
for freshman English. Who wants to read an entire book about a whale? Don’t teachers know how many pages it has? I bet it’s got a million words. Did you have to read it when you were in school?”

“I did,” Lydia admitted, and frankly she’d found it a challenge to get through the massive tome, although she wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to tell her daughter.

“And did you actually read it from beginning to end?” Casey asked, narrowing her gaze with suspicion.

Lydia hesitated.

“Every single word?” Casey pressured.

Feeling cornered, Lydia decided honesty was the best
policy. “Not every single word. I needed to write a paper on it, and so I read as much of it as I could bear and got the essence of the story down.”

“What grade did you get?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Mom. You do, too. I bet Grandma kept your paper. She kept everything having to do with you and Margaret.”

Her mother might have saved all her and Margaret’s schoolwork, but she didn’t have it any longer. It seemed best to let her mother assume that she did rather than to upset her with the fact that a good part of the useless memorabilia that she’d collected through the years had been tossed into the trash.

“I believe I aced it,” Lydia finally admitted.