Summer on Blossom Street

“It will if we both make the effort,” Anne Marie told her. “The thing is, I behaved badly last evening and I want to apologize.”



“Sure you do.”



Anne Marie ignored that. “For Tim and Ellen’s sake, I’d like to suggest we start over.”



The phone went silent and for a moment Anne Marie thought the other woman had hung up.



“Vanessa, are you there?”



“I’m here.”



Despite the inclination to give this up as useless, she tried again.



“Would you be willing to accept my apology?”



Vanessa hesitated. In a lower voice, she answered, “All right.”



“I mean it, Vanessa. I’m not a threat to your relationship with Tim. For him and for Ellen, it would help if you and I could come to some agreement.”



“You agree to keep your hands off Tim, and we’ll get along f ine.”



“No problem.”



“Good.”



Anne Marie smiled, relieved that she’d done what she needed to do. “Friends?” she asked.



After a short pause, Vanessa repeated the word, again with some hesitation. “Friends.”



“Thank you.”



“Stick to being Ellen’s mother, and everything will work out just f ine.”



“I will,” she promised. “It was a pleasure talking to you,” she said. “Goodbye.”



“Anne Marie,” Vanessa said quickly. “This couldn’t have been an easy call to make. I want you to know I appreciate it.”



“You’re welcome. I hope to see you soon.”



“And you.”



The truth was, Anne Marie would probably never be close friends with Vanessa but at least they understood each other now. Both were determined to make the best of an awkward situation. The rest of the day, Anne Marie and Teresa were busy with customers. There was a run on the newest installment of a popular series, and Anne Marie found herself constantly occupied—for which she was grateful. About four-thirty, just before Ellen was due to return, Tim walked back into the store.



He looked, if anything, even worse than he had that morning.



“Is Ellen here?” he asked.



“Not yet. I thought you were coming tonight.”



He shook his head. “I don’t think I can wait that long. Now that the decision’s been made, I want to get this over with.”



Anne Marie could understand. “I’d like to be in the room when you do,” she said. “Are you okay with that?”



He nodded, hands buried in his pants pockets. A few minutes later, Ellen ran into the store with her backpack bobbing on her shoulders. “Mom, Mom!” She stopped abruptly when she saw Tim, glancing from him back to Anne Marie.



“Hello again,” Tim said in a deceptively casual voice.



“Hi. Vanessa’s not with you?”



“Not this time.”



“Tim has something he wants to tell you,” Anne Marie said, reminding Tim that his visit had a purpose. She turned to Teresa, who’d been taking a phone order. “I’m going to the apartment for a few minutes. Would you cover for me?”



“Sure thing.”



The three of them walked up the stairs, Ellen f irst, then Anne Marie and Tim. Having heard Ellen’s voice, Baxter waited on the landing, eager to go out for his afternoon walk. He scurried into the bedroom and returned with the leash in his mouth. Ellen was proud of teaching him that trick.



“In a few minutes,” Anne Marie told her Yorkie, bending to pick him up.



“Let’s sit down,” Tim said, motioning to the sofa. Ellen did, and Anne Marie sat next to her with Baxter on her lap. She hooked her free arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Tim looked ashen as if he didn’t know where to start or how. Ellen sighed loudly enough for him to hear. He turned to her and opened his mouth but nothing came out.



“Are you my father?” she asked unexpectedly. Tim nodded and sank to the carpet on his knees in front of her. His eyes were moist. “Yes, Ellen. I’m your father.”



“I thought so.” Smiling up at Anne Marie, she said, “I wanted to meet my father, remember? It was one of my wishes. Then you told me that Tim knew Grandma Dolores and my other mom and I knew God had sent me my daddy.”



With that she hurled her arms around Tim’s neck and hugged him f iercely. “I’m so glad it’s you.”



Anne Marie felt tears in her own eyes.



They’d make this work, all of them. For Ellen.



Chapter 30



It is so important to allow yourself the time to be creative, because without creativity how can you imagine possibilities? For me, it’s always been knitting and crochet and they have opened the door to limitless possibilities.



—Candi Jensen, author and producer of the Emmynominated PBS TV show, Knit and Crochet TodayLydia Goetz



As I’ve mentioned, A Good Yarn is closed on Mondays; that’s when I schedule my doctor, dentist and other appointments. I also catch up on paperwork and accounting. I’d also started leaving part of every Monday open to visit my mother. Thankfully Mom was only in the hospital overnight. Ever since her fall she seemed so frail to me, and I noticed that her mind wandered more. Some days she seems lost in the past. A couple of weeks ago, I swear she didn’t know who I was. Margaret and I both feel we won’t have her much longer, so it’s important to spend as much time with her as possible. Moving her into an assisted living complex had been a diff icult decision, but more than ever, we realized it was the right one. Mom seemed to decline with every visit and she still missed her home, but we’d had no other choice, Margaret and I, since she couldn’t live by herself anymore.



At least the situation with Casey had improved in the past week. The real change had come after the day she’d sought out Alix. Despite my tentative inquiries, neither one of them had divulged the topic of their conversation.



Whatever Alix said had helped Casey. I just wish she’d told me where she was going. I’ve hardly ever seen Brad so worried, fearful that she’d decided to run away again. My husband had come to care as deeply about Casey as I did.



“What are you doing today?” Casey asked as I f inished packing lunches for her and Cody. She attended day camp with him unless she came to the shop with me.



“I’m getting groceries, and then I’m going to visit my mother,”



I said, adding a small bag of corn chips to Cody’s lunch. Those were his favorites, and he’d eat them every day if I let him.



“Can I come with you?” She’d dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, her usual attire, with f lip-f lops.



The request surprised me—and it pleased me, too. “I’d like that.”



“Cool.”



Casey tried to sneak a cookie and I slapped her hand. “Not before breakfast.”



She grabbed the cereal box instead. Before long Cody had joined her, and they sat side by side spooning up Rice Krispies and making exaggerated slurping sounds, which I chose to ignore.



I dropped Cody off, then Casey and I went to the grocery store.



She didn’t have a lot to say while I steered the cart through the aisles and carefully followed my list. I noticed, however, that several items showed up at the check-out stand that I didn’t remember putting in the cart. I allowed the cake mix and the cantaloupe to pass without comment, but removed the teen gossip magazine before it reached the cash register. Holding it up, I looked at Casey, who shrugged as if she had no idea how that could possibly have landed in the cart. I replaced it in the magazine slot, poking her in the ribs. She laughed and so did I.



We brought the groceries home and made short work of putting everything away. Then we drove to the assisted living complex. Casey had met my mother before but only brief ly and only with the whole family present. Because this was her f irst real visit, I felt I needed to prepare her.



“Mom’s mind is fading,” I explained. “She’s having some memory lapses.”



“What’s that mean?” she asked.



“She might forget your name.”



“That’s okay.”



“And she’s often confused.” I didn’t want to say too much—



didn’t want to frighten Casey or negatively inf luence her opinion.



“I get confused sometimes,” she said.



I grinned. “Me, too,” I admitted. It was probably best for Casey to form her own judgment.



I parked the car and exchanged hellos with the friendly staff as Casey and I passed through the wide foyer to the elevator, which would take us up to my mother’s small apartment. Tapping at her door, I let myself in. “Hi, Mom,” I said cheerfully. Margaret and I had positioned her sofa in the living room, with the afghan Margaret had crocheted in lovely fall colors spread over the back. Across from the sofa were her favorite chair and the coffee and end tables that had been in the family home. There was no room for anything else.



The kitchen had a miniature refrigerator and a microwave, a sink and a few dishes, but that was about all. I cleaned out her fridge every week, tossing the open cans of tuna f ish and the moldy cheese. Naturally I had to do that when Mom wasn’t looking. She hated to discard anything.



Her bedroom was compact, too. There was just enough room for her bed, a nightstand and her beloved sewing machine. Mom didn’t sew these days, but that machine had been a major part of her life for so many years, she’d never feel at home without it. Despite the restrictive quarters, Margaret and I had found a spot for it.



Mom glanced up from the television. When she saw it was me, she brightened. “Lydia. You brought Hailey with you.”



Hailey was my sister’s daughter. “No, Mom, this is Casey.” I slipped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “She’s spending the summer with Brad and me.” I wasn’t a hundred percent sure Mom would remember Brad. Some weeks she did; other weeks she looked blankly at me when I mentioned his name. My mother tilted her head quizzically. “Have I met you before?” she asked Casey. “I’m so forgetful lately.”



Casey slid her f ingertips into the pockets of her jean shorts.



“Not really.”



I’d brought Mom to the house for dinner one Sunday afternoon shortly after Casey’s arrival. Casey had spent most of the day in her room as if she felt she was intruding on family time. I’d tried to coax her out to no avail. There’d been a couple of similar occasions, including one at Margaret’s, but as far as I knew, Casey hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with my mother.



“You do look familiar, though,” Mom said with a frown. Casey sat on the sofa next to her chair and studied the TV



screen. “What are you watching?”



I could’ve answered for her. My mother was enthralled by the cooking channel. Paula Deen was her favorite, and she watched her show faithfully, as well as four or f ive others. She used to write down the recipes, which she passed to Margaret and me, and she asked for cookbooks every Christmas. Mom didn’t cook anymore, but that didn’t alter her desire to create wonderful meals for her family. She’d given up writing out the recipes, and that concerned me. I was afraid she’d lost—what? Her sense of purpose? Her belief in a future? I suspected her ability to follow the instructions was already gone.

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