Back on Blossom Street

“The only one to blame is me. I was gullible enough to believe him. The man is a consummate liar. He’ll lie even when it’s more convenient to tell the truth. It’s his nature.”



“But…he’s a detective.”



“Astonishing, isn’t it?”



“But…”



“You can’t say anything I haven’t asked myself a dozen times,” Jeanine told her. “Steve can be the most devoted, wonderful man in the world—when he feels like it. The girls adore him, even now, and yet he practically ignores their existence.”



“They’re his children.” Colette found herself getting angry on Jeanine’s behalf.



“Out of sight, out of mind,” Jeanine muttered.



“But you stuck it out for so many years. Why did you divorce him now?”



Jeanine’s sigh came in a long rush. “My parents asked me the same question and I wish I knew the answer. I think Steve was more shocked than anyone. I didn’t even ask him if he was seeing someone else. He probably was, but I didn’t really care anymore and that frightened me. My emotions had become paralyzed, and that made me realize what I was doing. Over the years, Steve had become blatant in his affairs. I’d turned a blind eye for so long I literally couldn’t see anymore.”



Colette heard the pain in her friend’s voice.



“One morning I woke up,” Jeanine continued, “and I knew that if I didn’t get out of this marriage I’d lose my sanity. Steve left for work and I phoned my parents and asked if I could move in with them until I found an apartment in Yakima. They agreed.”



“You went that day?”



“That same day,” Jeanine said. “I knew with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t change my mind. It wasn’t just my pride at stake, or my children’s future. I know this might sound melodramatic…but my very soul was at risk.”



“Did Steve ask you to reconsider?”



Jeanine snickered softly. “He was convinced I’d come back and God knows he tried to talk me into it. He can be persuasive when he wants. What he didn’t understand was that he’d killed whatever love I’d felt for him. To be fair, I’d threatened to leave him any number of times.”



“Did you ever do it?”



“No, more fool me,” she said. “It took him six months to figure out I wasn’t moving back to Seattle.”



“You never let on, all the times we saw you. I would never have believed Steve was that kind of man.”



“That’s the sad part. I couldn’t believe it even when I had the evidence right in front of me.”



“I’m not going to see him again.” Colette’s mind was made up about that. Christian’s note and her own instinctive reaction to Steve were all she needed to know that Jeanine had told her the truth. Deep down she’d felt something was wrong, but she couldn’t identify it. Because she hadn’t trusted her instincts, it was Christian’s note that had prompted her to contact Steve’s ex-wife. How Christian had learned this about Steve, she had no idea.



“You’re smart,” Jeanine said. “I don’t think many women ever talk to the ex-wife before getting involved with a guy.”



Colette didn’t enlighten her, but she wasn’t nearly as smart as Jeanine thought. Without Christian Dempsey, she probably would’ve let her relationship with Steve drift on, a relationship that could only have brought her heartbreak.



CHAPTER 21



“No matter how much skill, passion and creativity one brings to knitting, you can’t make something better than the quality of the yarn you use.”



Rebecca Deeprose, www.arizonaknittingandneedlepoint.com



Lydia Goetz



Margaret and I talked it over yet again, and decided not to tell our mother about the carjacking. Her physical and emotional health was fragile and growing more so all the time. It would’ve been too much for her.



The problem neither of us foresaw was her intuitive awareness of her children. Neither of us said a word, but somehow Mom sensed that something was wrong. She asked repeatedly if everything was all right. Again and again I assured her it was.



“Lydia,” she said the minute I stepped into her room. “Where’s Margaret?”



This wasn’t exactly the greeting I’d hoped to receive, and not only because it reminded me that Margaret had always been closer to her than I was. “She’s at the shop,” I explained, coming into Mom’s room. “Business was a bit slow this afternoon, so I thought I’d take some time and come for a visit.” I didn’t mention that Margaret had purposely stayed behind.



Mom sat in her favorite chair in front of the television, which had become her main source of entertainment. She used to rarely turn it on. These days the set was constantly tuned to one program or another. I sometimes wondered if Mom actually turned it off when she slept.



Mom pursed her lips. “I haven’t seen Margaret in days.”



“Wasn’t she here on Sunday?” I asked, although I already knew the answer. Margaret and Matt had come by early in the afternoon, the first time they’d left Julia alone since she was released from the hospital. Margaret had fretted the entire time and they’d gone home after only the briefest of visits.



Mom picked up the remote and lowered the volume on her television. She was watching one of those courtroom programs with ordinary people appearing before a judge. “When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asked anxiously.



I sighed. At that moment I wanted to tell her everything. I couldn’t, though. If she learned about the carjacking it should be from my sister, not me.



“What did you have for lunch?” I asked instead.



Mom’s eyes returned to the television. “I don’t think I went in for lunch this afternoon.”



One of the advantages provided by the assisted living complex was that they served three balanced meals a day. Margaret and I had carefully evaluated a number of places before selecting this one. For us, the meals had been a selling feature, and so were the many social events.



Mom had her own apartment and even a tiny kitchen with a microwave and refrigerator. Best of all, she was surrounded by her own things. Margaret and I had gone through the house before it was sold, choosing pieces we knew she particularly loved. Mom was pleased that we were able to get so much of her furniture into her new home; it was a comfort to have familiar things after so many unnerving changes.



I was immediately alarmed to learn she’d skipped lunch. “Mom, you’re diabetic. You need to eat!”



“Yes, honey, I know. I had some tuna on a cracker.” She sent me a weary look that pleaded for understanding. “I don’t seem to have much of an appetite.”



It was more than skipping a meal that concerned me. She also needed the social contact. I hated the thought of Mom sitting alone in her room for days on end. When she’d first moved into the complex, Margaret and I were ecstatic at how quickly she’d made friends with her tablemates. But Helen Hamilton had moved to Indiana a month ago to be closer to her children. And Joyce Corwin had died of a stroke. Both losses had been blows to my mother. She’d been far more reclusive ever since.



“Margaret’s fine, Mom,” I said, trying to reassure her. “Everyone is.” I wouldn’t have said that if I didn’t believe it to be true. Julia had given us all a scare, but the counselors had been wonderful, helping my niece deal with the tumble of emotions that sometimes overwhelmed crime victims. Julia met regularly with a group of other people who’d undergone similar ordeals. They’d helped her cope with her anger, and perhaps more profound, the sense of vulnerability.



Personally, I felt the sessions might help Margaret, too. I happen to like my head, however, and I knew my sister would’ve bitten it off had I suggested she meet with a support group herself.



Mom reached for my hand. “Tell me about the yarn store. You say business is down?”



“Not down. In fact, we’re doing better than ever. This afternoon was a bit slow, that’s all.”



“Oh.”



“Would you like me to tell you about my classes?” I asked. Mom used to enjoy hearing about them. I’ve run classes for beginning knitters; I also taught sock-knitting on circular needles and held a workshop on Thursday mornings for anyone who had a knitting problem. The charity knitting class on Friday afternoons continued, too.



Mom stared blankly at me. “Perhaps some other day,” she murmured. “I didn’t know you taught.” She smiled rather proudly at me.



I decided to try something else. “You remember Alix Townsend, don’t you?”



Mom frowned.



I couldn’t believe she could possibly have forgotten Alix. “She was in my original class.” Mom had met her dozens of times over the past three years.



“Oh, yes, yes, the one with the baby.”



I didn’t correct her. “Alix is taking my prayer shawl class. She hopes that knitting will get her through the wedding jitters.”



Mom’s face lit up. “Alix is getting married. That’s wonderful news.”



I swallowed hard and realized Mom didn’t remember Alix at all. I didn’t know when she’d slid so far downhill mentally, and it worried me. I should’ve noticed this long before now. I wondered if she’d become adept at disguising what she understood and what she didn’t.



“It’s going to be a lovely wedding,” I went on in a bright voice. “Brad and I are invited.”



Mom frowned again.



“You remember Brad, don’t you?”



Mom nodded, but I knew she didn’t. A sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. In my recent concerns over Margaret and my own busy life, I hadn’t been sufficiently aware of Mom’s decline.



“You know who I’m looking for?” Mom asked, twisting around as she spoke.



I turned, too, assuming she’d misplaced something and needed me to find it.



“Spunky,” Mom said. “I haven’t seen him all day.”



Spunky had been our family dog when I was a child, a self-assured little terrier who’d adored my mother. He’d been dead for years. The last thing I wanted to do was tell my mother that the dog she’d loved had died—even if it happened decades ago.



“I’m sure he’ll be back soon,” I said.



“I’m afraid he’s lost and can’t find his way home,” she worried.



We’d had a fenced yard and Spunky had never escaped or run away from it. But I needed to tell Mom something that would reassure her and give her peace. “Just wait. He never goes far,” I said.



“He’s a good dog.” Mom smiled. “Do you see his mouse anywhere?”



“Spunky had a mouse?” I didn’t remember any such toy.



“It’s a little stuffed animal,” she reminded me, staring down at the floor.



Then it came to me. I did remember the mouse, which wasn’t a mouse at all, but a small stuffed poodle that Spunky carried from room to room and had with him almost constantly. The fact that my mother remembered that and not my husband astonished me.