Summer on Blossom Street

How typical of Margaret to feel she knew what was best for everyone. Currently, though, I was more amused than annoyed by her take-charge attitude.



My f irst customer of the morning—a woman I’d never met before—stepped into the shop and f ifteen minutes later, I rang up a hundred-dollar yarn sale. A promising start to the day.



As soon as the door closed, Margaret set aside her project, an afghan for our mother who resides at a nearby assisted-living complex. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”



“Happen with what?” I asked.



“This adoption thing.”



I froze. I should’ve known Margaret wouldn’t leave the subject alone. At least not until she’d cast a net of dire predictions. I understood that this impulse was one she couldn’t resist, just as I understood that it was motivated by her protectiveness toward me. But I didn’t need to hear it right now.



“What’s that?” I asked, hoping my irritation didn’t show.



“Have you talked to a social worker yet?”



“Well, of course.” I’d spoken to Anne Marie, and she’d recommended Evelyn Boyle, the social worker who’d been assigned to Ellen and had handled her adoption. Anne Marie and Ellen f it so perfectly together that their story had inspired me to look beyond my fears. So Brad and I had approached Evelyn. Margaret shook her head, which annoyed me even more.



“Anne Marie gave me the phone number of the woman who helped her adopt Ellen,” I said.



Margaret’s brows came together in consternation and she tightened her lips.



“What now?” I asked, trying to remain calm.



“I wouldn’t recommend that.”



“Why not? It’s too late anyway.”



“This social worker deals with foster kids, right?”



“I guess so.” I knew so, but didn’t see how that was relevant.



“Why should it matter?”



My sister rolled her eyes, as though it should be obvious.



“Because she’s got children in her case f iles,” Margaret said with exaggerated patience. “She probably has lots of kids and nowhere to place them. Mark my words, she’ll f ind a reason to leave some needy child with you. And not a baby, either.”



“Margaret,” I said pointedly, “Brad and I are going to adopt an infant. This social worker, Evelyn, is helping us through the process, nothing more.”



Margaret didn’t respond for several minutes. Just when it seemed she was prepared to drop the subject, she added, “Finding an infant might not be that easy.”



“Perhaps not,” I agreed, unwilling to argue. “We’ll have to wait and see what the adoption agency has to say.”



“It might be expensive, what with lawyers and everything.”



“Brad and I will cross that bridge when we come to it.”



Margaret looked away, frowning slightly, as if she needed to consider every negative aspect of this process. “There are private adoption agencies, too, you know.”



I did know about them, but it made better f inancial sense to approach the state agency first.



“What about adopting from outside the country?”



Margaret was apparently trying to be helpful, but I wasn’t convinced I should let down my guard.



“We’re holding that in reserve,” I said.



“I hear it’s even more expensive than private adoptions.”



“Yes, well, it’s another option to investigate….”



Margaret’s shoulders rose in a deep sigh. “Are you going to tell Mom?”



With our mother’s fragile health and declining mental condition it wasn’t something I’d considered doing. “Probably not…”



Margaret nodded, her mouth a tight line.



“Mom has a hard enough time remembering that Cody’s my stepson,” I reminded her. On our last visit she’d asked copious questions about the “young man” I’d brought with me.



My sister swallowed visibly. “Mom didn’t recognize Julia when we went to see her a few days ago.”



I felt a jolt of pain—for Margaret, for her daughter, Julia, for Mom. This was the f irst time Margaret had mentioned it. Our mother’s mental state had declined rapidly over the past two years and I suspected that in a little while she wouldn’t recognize me anymore, either. Margaret and I shared responsibility for checking in on her and making sure she was well and contented. These days my sister and I had taken over the parental role, looking after our mother.



I could pinpoint exactly when that role reversal had taken place. It’d been the day Mom’s neighbor found her unconscious in the garden. She’d collapsed while watering her f lowers. Everything had changed from that moment on. Our mother had ceased to be the woman we’d always known. Living in a care facility now, she was increasingly confused and uncertain. It broke my heart to see Mom struggling so hard to hide her bewilderment at what was happening to her.



“Mom will be happy for you,” Margaret mumbled. “At some point her mind will clear and she’ll realize you have an infant.”



I smiled and hoped this was true, although I had my doubts…



and I knew Margaret did, too.



The bell above the door chimed before we could discuss it further, and I glanced up at an attractive young woman who’d entered the shop. I hadn’t seen her before.



“Hello,” I said, welcoming her with an encouraging smile.



“Can I help you?”



The woman nodded and toyed nervously with the cell phone in her hand. “Yes…I saw the notice in the window for the Knit to Quit class.”



“Do you know how to knit?”



She shook her head. “No…well, some. I learned years ago but I’ve forgotten. Would this class be too advanced for someone like me?”



“Not at all. I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time. I’ll be happy to help you refresh your skills.” I went on to explain that there’d be seven sessions and told her the price of the class. She nodded again. “You can sign up for the class no matter what you want to quit?” She stared down at the f loor as she spoke.



“Of course,” I assured her.



“Good.” She set her bag and cell phone on the counter. “I’d like to pay now.” She handed me a credit card and I read her name—Phoebe Rylander.



“You’re our very f irst class member,” I told her.



“So the class starts next week?”



“Yes.”



“The sign said Wednesdays from six to eight?”



“Yes. I’m keeping the store open late. It’ll be my f irst night class.”



I processed her payment and wrote her name on the sign-up sheet. “What are you trying to quit?” I asked in a friendly voice.



“Not what, who,” she whispered.



“Oh…” Her answer took me by surprise.



“There’s a man I need to get over,” she said with tears in her eyes. “A man I…once loved.”



Chapter 2



Phoebe Rylander



Clark made their breakup far more difficult than it needed to be. Phoebe had just stepped out of A Good Yarn when her cell phone chirped again. She didn’t have to check Caller ID



to know it was Clark Snowden, her f iancé. No…ex-f iancé. The man she still loved, despite everything. She’d had no choice except to end their engagement, no matter how much her heart ached. When she thought about what he’d done, she knew she couldn’t allow him to dissuade her again. Not this time. It was f inal. She told herself that nothing he could say or do would change her mind. But soon she’d be walking into an empty condo and it would feel so lonely and isolated that she was afraid her resolve would weaken. This afternoon she’d felt stronger and more in control of her emotions. The knitting class would help, too.



Knowing what she had to do didn’t make it easy. Clark’s efforts to win her back turned the whole ordeal into an even bigger mess. He’d gone so far as to involve their families. But she couldn’t, she simply couldn’t, let herself give in. Her cell phone continued to make its little chirping noises, announcing his call. If Phoebe didn’t answer, Clark would just leave a message and then try again. She f lipped open her phone. “Don’t call me anymore,” she said emphatically, surprised at the conviction in her voice. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”



“Phoebe, please…don’t. Let me—”



“This conversation is over.” She started to hang up.



“Phoebe, please, the least you can do is hear me out.”



“I already have.” She hesitated. “There’s nothing more to say.”



“I’m begging you.”



“Clark, I returned your engagement ring. It’s over. We’re through.”



“You’re angry and you have every right to be. But if you’d give me five minutes, just five minutes, I could explain everything.”



Oh, he was good—as plenty of juries had discovered. “No, Clark, I fell for that the f irst time. This is it. I’m done. As of a week ago we are off icially unengaged.”



“You don’t mean that! You can’t. You love me and I’m crazy about you…. You know that, Phoebe. You have to know that. I’d never, ever do anything to hurt you. I’d rather die.”



“If that was the case, I’d be picking out a coff in for you because you have hurt me, Clark.” Her voice faltered and she hated the fact that she’d shown even this small weakness. Rather than continue the conversation, she closed her cell. Walking at a clipped pace, she hurried down Blossom Street, her vision blurred by tears. At the intersection, she swiped one hand across her cheek, sniff ling despite herself. She’d gone for a walk on her lunch hour and ventured much farther than she normally did. In fact, she’d never set foot on Blossom Street before today. But by now she was late; she had to get back to work. Her boss at Madison Avenue Physical Therapy was understanding, but he wouldn’t appreciate it if she kept a patient waiting.



When she got to the clinic, Phoebe was breathless. She hadn’t eaten lunch and her stomach was already in knots. Well, there was nothing she could do about that.



Mrs. Dover was in the clinic’s waiting room as Phoebe rushed in the front door. Her patient lowered the magazine and smiled at Phoebe, who did her best to smile back. Caroline Dover had undergone a complete knee replacement and she had a regularly scheduled appointment at one o’clock every Wednesday. She’d been seeing Phoebe for the past six weeks; they were making progress, although it was slow.



“Come on back,” Phoebe told the older woman. She hurried ahead of her and drew in a deep breath. It would take a lot of resolve to get through the afternoon.



By concentrating strictly on her patients, she made it to the end of the day. At f ive-ten, she pulled on her jacket and grabbed her purse, eager to escape. Because she couldn’t resist, she checked her cell phone. Clark had left three messages. Refusing to be swayed, she erased each one without listening.