Wish Upon a Star (57 page)

‘I’m just about done here,’ Claire told Imogen. ‘I’m going around the corner to say goodbye to Mrs. Venables, but I wanted to give you your wedding present now.’ She handed Imogen the gift she had carefully wrapped. ‘I don’t know if it’s a polite thing to do, or if I have to wait until you’re married, but…’ she paused, ‘anyway, I’d like you to have it.’

‘Oh, Claire, how very kind of you. Shall we sit down right now and open it? I should, by rights, wait for Malcolm but you know how men are.’ Claire wasn’t entirely sure she did but she agreed and joined Imogen on the sofa. It took only a minute for Imogen to pull off the careful wrapping. ‘But Claire!’ she said, when she saw the little Battersea box, ‘I…no, I really couldn’t. It’s so beautiful. And valuable. Do you really want to part with it?’

‘I want you to have it,’ Claire said. ‘It would make you happy. Living here has been very, very special to me. And I’d like you to always remember me.’

Imogen impulsively hugged Claire. ‘Well, it’s a lovely surprise. And I have one for you. Can you just nip back here after your visit to Mrs. Venables?’

Claire nodded. ‘I have to anyway,’ she said. ‘To pick up my things.’

‘Good,’ Imogen told her, and went back to her somewhat ineffectual wandering around the half-packed rooms.

As Claire walked down the street that would no longer be ‘hers’ she thought with regret about leaving the neighborhood. There was nothing wrong with Camden but everything here was so pretty. For two hundred years, and for some buildings considerably longer, people had been looking for and finding ways to improve and beautify these houses. The boxes full of flowers were in full May bloom. Each front yard was groomed to perfection with a variety of landscaping tricks. Every balcony was covered with ivy or sported matching pairs of topiary trees in immaculate urns. Each door seemed freshly painted, all the brass shone in the spring sunshine. Even the curtains and chandeliers visible from the street seemed perfectly in keeping with the rest of the buildings and the neighborhood. Claire thought of the screen doors and jalousie windows, the cinder block walls of Tottenville and winced. But she didn’t have to go back. Perhaps, if the house—the Homestead—was sold she could find something here.

What a relief to not have to return to Staten Island or Manhattan Island either. Though as different as chalk from cheese, both were wrong for her. Her decision not to marry Michael hadn’t been easy, but once it was made, she hadn’t had a moment of regret. She had slept well last night. She was sorry if she had hurt him but she had a feeling, after his rude leave-taking, that he would get over her soon enough. Perhaps someday a Katherine Rensselaer would be able to thank Claire for the home and family that Michael gave her.

Claire turned and saw the knitting shop from the corner. Oddly, there were people in it. Even from this distance she recognized Mrs. Willis, Mrs. Lyons-Hatchington, Charlotte and another woman who looked familiar from at least one class. Claire quickened her steps. She thought of the Monty Python line seemingly used by all fictional British policemen: ‘What’s all this, then?’ When she got to the doorway she could see Mrs. Venables behind the counter. She was shocked but delighted.

‘Hello, Claire,’ Mrs. Venables said as she lifted her head from the knitting she was examining for the Countess, who huddled beside her. ‘I’m having some trouble changing the wool color on this bobbin,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps you could help.’

‘Of course,’ Claire agreed. She wanted to ask whether Mrs. Venables should be there at all, and whether this was good for her but wouldn’t do so in the presence of others. She smiled at the Countess. ‘Here we go,’ she said and deftly moved the thread around the bobbin.

‘Ah, Claire, my daughter told me you would call today or tomorrow about another knitting party. But if the shop stays open, perhaps we needn’t fuss about it.’

‘Oh, but the shop isn’t…’

Claire was interrupted smoothly by Mrs. Venables. ‘…going anywhere,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Although I’m sure Claire would be delighted to run another party if you would like to entertain at home.’

Mrs. Cruikshank approached the three women. ‘My daughter-in-law has begun to crochet,’ she said.

Claire struggled to look interested. Like many knitters, she had deep contempt for crocheting. There was no challenge to it and it was limited to three basic stitches. ‘I’m not a crocheter,’ Claire said.

‘Nor I,’ Mrs. Cruikshank agreed. ‘Anyway, I’ve never liked it.’

But, ‘Now, now,’ said Mrs. Venables. ‘I’m sure she’s very good and careful. We mustn’t allow our passions to rule us.’ She looked up and smiled at Claire. ‘Well, not all of the time,’ she said and gave Claire a wicked little smile.

Claire wasn’t sure what the message in the smile was. She forced herself to refrain from speaking. There was too much to ask about. The shop? It would stay open? And Mrs. Venables could work? Mrs. Cruikshank, perhaps out of respect for Mrs. Venables’s recent illness or perhaps because of the difficulty she was having with her pattern and daughter-in-law simply shrugged.

‘As you get older, you have to choose your battles. You can’t fight them all.’

Mrs. Venables nodded her agreement. ‘You’re absolutely right. It’s like the shop,’ she said. ‘Keeping it open is necessary, but I had a pitched battle with my son.’

‘Sons,’ Mrs. Cruikshank sighed. ‘They always make a fatal decision in the women they marry.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the Countess said. ‘Daughters make fatal decisions by not marrying at all.’ Claire thought of Ann Fenwick, busy, busy, busy.

Mrs. Venables nodded again. ‘Oh, sons do the same,’ she said. ‘Nigel’s going to be thirty-six and he still isn’t married. Perhaps it’s a way to keep me from ever meeting my own grandchild.’

‘Believe me,’ Mrs. Cruikshank said, ‘just because you have them doesn’t mean you chance to see them. My daughter-in-law, the crocheter, makes sure that a visit once a month is sufficient, at least for her.’ Then she asked for Claire’s help to tie off another color. Claire, mad with impatience to know what had gone on between Mrs. Venables and Nigel, managed to do it without destroying the cardigan. But when she was done and Mrs. Cruikshank had gone to sit beside the Countess, Claire could no longer hold back.

‘If you’re leaving the shop open, how did you get Nigel to go along with it?’ she burst out.

Mrs. Venables shrugged and smiled airily. ‘I had my way. I just declared business as usual.’

‘You mean you’re keeping the shop open?’ Claire asked. All the women around the table nodded, smiling. ‘But, but…how?’

‘First I spoke to Mr. Roberts, my physician and got his approval. But you know Nigel. It wasn’t easy.’

‘They’re never easy,’ Mrs. Cruikshank said bitterly. ‘But at least he’s interested in your welfare.’

‘So he agreed?’ Claire asked, her heart beginning to beat very quickly.

‘Well, not right away. I told him that I may be old, but I’m in complete control of my faculties. He took exception to that, but I was firm.’ The women shook their heads in agreement.

‘How did you convince him?’ Claire asked.

‘I asked for his objection. Was the question whether I have the strength to run the shop?’ She looked at the group around her. Then she looked directly at Claire. ‘I told him I didn’t know, but I was sure Claire was very willing to become my partner.’ She gave Claire a full-faced smile and patted her hand. The other women murmured approvingly. ‘He said working wasn’t the best thing for me. And I told him that sitting upstairs with nothing to do but watch the dust gather and the silver tarnish wasn’t therapeutic either.’

‘Good for you,’ the Countess agreed.

‘Didn’t he try to cause a fuss then? I know my son would,’ Mrs. Cruikshank put in.

‘Well, naturally.’ Mrs. Venables straightened up her head and put her hands on her hips. ‘“But Mother…”’ she said in a fairly good Nigel imitation. The older women laughed, but Claire’s head was too filled with excitement to join them. ‘I was afraid that he needed to sell the building to organize his business affairs.’ She lowered her voice and spoke only to Claire. ‘I didn’t want to have to remind him that the building was mine actually, not his.’

Mrs. Cruikshank nodded her head. ‘If I buy so much as a pair of needles they act as if I’m squandering their inheritance.’

‘Well, luckily Nigel told me he didn’t need any help with his business affairs. I apologized and, to tell you the truth, I was quite relieved.’

‘So the shop will stay open,’ the Countess said, her face wreathed in a smile.

‘Well, that will depend on Claire. If she’ll take me on as a partner and take over the management. I promised Nigel I’d only work three afternoons a week.’

‘That seems reasonable,’ Mrs. Cruikshank said. ‘And Claire is a good girl.’ She patted Claire’s arm. ‘If only my son had married someone like you,’ she said.

Claire could hardly believe it. To inherit money, a house, and be offered a partnership all in one day? To find out that the shop would stay open, that she would have a job doing what she loved and that people were actually grateful to her for doing it was too much. Then, ‘Of course, there are some difficulties,’ Mrs. Venables said, and Claire’s heart dropped. She should have known. ‘For one thing,’ Mrs. Venables continued, ‘she’ll have to agree to take a good deal more money. And for another she’ll probably have to accept a flat upstairs in lieu of some compensation.’ She looked at Claire apologetically. ‘Until the cash flow, or something like that, improves. And Nigel said he’d feel so much better if he knew you were within shouting distance.’ She looked at the women. ‘But of course, Claire might not want to be saddled with me.’

A flat! And in this neighborhood, in this very building! Mrs. Venables’s place on the parlor floor was very beautiful. Claire couldn’t even imagine what another flat in the building would look like but…the possibilities of investing in the shop or renting bigger space to enlarge Knitting Kitting’s inventory, having weekday evening classes or bigger weekend classes. Then there was redecorating the flat. Choosing new paint colors for the walls, new rugs to go on the beautiful wood floors, putting up new curtains and draperies, the list was endless.

‘So, would you consider it, Claire?’

Then Claire remembered Mrs. Patel and the baby. She had promised to help take care of the grocery and help out with the kids. But couldn’t she manage to do that and the shop? Especially if she got more of Maudie’s help? ‘It may take me a little while to organize it,’ Claire said. ‘But I would be so very happy, so grateful…’

‘Well, we’ll sort that all out later, shall we?’ Mrs. Venables asked.

Just then the door opened and Lady Ann came in.

Lady Ann kissed her mother, gave the other women a brief hello and then focused on Claire. ‘Imogen told me you would still be here,’ she said. ‘I need you to come back to your flat.’

Surprised and curious on this day of surprises, Claire allowed Lady Ann to take her by the arm and lead her back to Imogen’s. There Imogen had three glasses of wine and a large salad set out. ‘Some lunch?’ she asked Claire brightly as if she always prepared little meals.

Claire knew something very strange was happening. Of course, Imogen would be eager to impress Lady Ann, but when did they make this date? And why was she invited? Claire sat down on the sofa and Ann took the other seat. ‘The thing is, Claire,’ Imogen began, ‘the thing is Lady Ann and I have discussed a book about knitting. We’ve been all around the houses on this and we think you would be the perfect person to write it.’

‘Write a book?’ Claire said. ‘I can’t write a book!’

‘Well, that didn’t stop Naomi Campbell or Ivana Trump, did it?’ Ann asked and laughed.

‘I’ve been a twit not to see it myself,’ Im said. ‘Ann laid it all out for me. It’s brilliant!’

‘Claire, you’re young and attractive and you know about knitting and I could get you a lot of media coverage,’ Ann said. ‘We always like stories about Americans who prefer the UK to the States. It helps with our inferiority complex.’

‘But…’ Claire began to protest.

‘Okay,’ Imogen said. ‘Here’s how it would happen: I get you an editor to work with you, and you put together a book of simple patterns. We quote some celebrities and talk about the soothing contemplative aspect of knitting. You know, knitting as a kind of Zen meditation. Then you do the telly and tour.’

‘Tour where?’ Claire said.

‘Oh, Manchester, Bristol, Edinburgh.’ She and Ann laughed. ‘I think I can get you a good advance,’ Im continued. ‘Not spectacular, but five-figures. And if it works we could do a series of books.’

‘Oh, it’ll work,’ Ann said. ‘I listen all day to people chuntering on and on. Do you have any idea of how many editors at the women’s magazines owe me favors? Anyway, the truth is I already put out a punchy press release and the rags seem quite excited.’

Again, both women laughed. But Claire simply couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘I write a book and you pay me?’

‘Yes. And then we go around the country—well you do—and you sign a lot of copies and you show people how to knit. What do you say?’

Claire said yes.

Nigel showed Claire the apartment the next day. ‘I’d be very grateful if you’d be prepared to stay here,’ Nigel said. ‘So would Mother.’

Claire looked around. It was a little smaller than Mrs. Venables’s flat, but it had a large living room with a fireplace on one side and doors out to a little balcony on the other. There was a small kitchen, a bedroom, and—to Claire’s amazement and delight—a small box room. ‘I’m afraid the closet space probably isn’t what you’re used to,’ Nigel said as if he were some apologetic estate agent. ‘But I can have one built in along that wall. And of course I’ll replace the curtains. You can pick whatever kind you like.’

Claire turned to him, the glory of all that she was seeing reflected in her eyes. But, she realized, Nigel must be humiliated by this. ‘Nigel, I’m very sorry if you…’

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should apologize. I was very foolish. And prejudiced. I hope you just ignored me. I don’t know what I or my mother would have done without your help.’

Claire flushed. ‘Oh, it would have been…’