The Knitting Circle: The uplifting and heartwarming novel you need to read this year. Ann Hood

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ thought of that day at Scarlet’s, of Scarlet’s story about Claude and Bébé.

      “Okay,” Mary said. “See you at six.”

      Dragging a comb through her tangled hair, Mary imagined sharing her own story with Scarlet. She would tell her about Dylan, and how they had found each other late in their lives; how Stella had been their one chance to make a family. Perhaps she could tell Scarlet what kind of father Dylan had been, how he liked taking Stella grocery shopping, just the two of them. He would bring a lemon to her nose and have her inhale its scent. He taught her how to tell when a melon was ripe, how to choose an avocado, how to order meat from the butcher. After Stella died, Mary took over the grocery shopping, wandering the aisles alone. The sight of a father there with his little girl safely strapped into the cart, nibbling on blueberries or crackers broke her heart. Somehow Mary believed that maybe Scarlet would understand what she and Dylan had lost.

      When she thought of her, of Scarlet, she saw her in the south of France, happy. That happiness had lasted only a moment, Mary knew. It seemed to her she’d had Stella for only a moment.

      Staring at the stranger in the mirror, Mary sighed. Her face was rounder, her hair duller, her eyes flat. It was another person who used to like what she saw when she looked in a mirror, who playfully added mascara to her lashes and sparkly blush to her cheeks. Mary dug around in her cosmetics bag until she found the hot pink tube of mascara inside. But it had caked from lack of use, and she couldn’t find her blush at all. Who was she kidding? she thought. She looked bad, she felt bad, and she was not ready to talk about any of this to anyone. She had paid a grief counselor a hundred dollars a week for almost two months and all Mary did was sit and cry, which was what she did at home for free.

      Mary scrawled a note to Dylan, Gone knittin’, and left it on the kitchen table. At ten after six, Scarlet pulled up in front of Mary’s house. A new friend, Mary thought as she carefully locked the front door. Just that day Jodie had finally called and said, “I don’t know what to say. Should I ask how you are? Should I mention Stella or not? God, Mary, I am so sorry to let you down.” And Mary had said, “No, no, I’m fine. Really.” The lie had burned in her throat for the rest of the afternoon.

      Eddie had called and Mary had lied to him too. “You know,” she’d said, “I’m doing so much better. Really I am. Maybe I’m ready to come back to work.” “Uh-huh,” Eddie had said, knowing better.

      As she approached Scarlet’s car, she saw that someone else was already in the front seat beside Scarlet.

      “You remember Lulu?” Scarlet said after Mary slid into the backseat.

      “Of course,” Mary said, trying to hide her disappointment.

      Lulu’s platinum blonde hair was newly razor cut in uneven chunks, shiny from some expensive hair care product like wax or mud that kept it looking slightly dirty. She had on black again: a leather motorcycle jacket, turtleneck, skinny pants, and boots.

      Mary settled back into the seat, wishing she hadn’t come.

      “Lulu’s loft is right beneath mine,” Scarlet said. “She’s a glass sculptor.”

      “Really?” Mary said.

      “You moved here from where?” Lulu said. Her voice sounded like she’d been smoking and drinking whiskey her entire life.

      “San Francisco,” Mary said.

      “Have you noticed,” Lulu said, turning slightly, “that everyone in this city is from somewhere else?”

      Despite herself, Mary relaxed. Lulu wasn’t so bad. It was Mary herself who couldn’t relate to anyone.

      “A glass sculptor,” Mary said. “That seems so … I don’t know, to work with such a fragile material seems impossible.”

      “The beauty of glass,” Lulu said almost dreamily, “is that it’s remained unchanged for hundreds of years.”

      “She trained in Venice,” Scarlet said.

      “Maybe you’ll show me your things sometime,” Mary said.

      “Maybe,” Lulu said unconvincingly, looking straight ahead.

      “Wait!” Beth said. “I brought pictures.”

      She pulled a set of glossy photographs from a large envelope. Four children—two boys standing behind two girls—smiled stiffly out from them, all wearing matching red and green sweaters. Did she get her kids’ picture taken every fucking week? Mary thought.

      “Have you ever seen such perfect children?” Harriet said softly.

      Yes, Mary thought. Yes, I have.

      Mary hated the way Harriet looked at Beth, as if she were the only person who’d ever had children. She watched Harriet watching Beth’s proud face. No, Mary decided, she looks at her as if she might disappear.

      Scarlet glanced at the picture politely, then passed it on to Lulu. “Nice,” Scarlet said without much conviction.

      “What a brood!” Lulu said.

      Beth laughed. “I always wanted a lot of children.”

      “She graduated magna cum laude, you know,” Harriet said.

      Beth shrugged off the boasting. “In early childhood education. It wasn’t too challenging. It was just what I loved.”

      “She loves kids,” Harriet said, her voice so tender that Beth flushed with embarrassment. “Of course, I worry about her,” Harriet added. “She does too much.”

      Mary rolled her eyes and lost track of what she was doing.

      “Did I just knit?” she said. “Or purl?”

      Scarlet leaned over to help and locked her eyes with Mary’s. She wants to take that picture and tear it to shreds too, Mary thought.

      “The knit stitches look like little Vs,” Scarlet said. “See? And the purls look like bumps.”

      “Like pearls,” Harriet said.

      “So I just purled?” Mary said.

      Scarlet grinned. “No, you just knit.”

      Mary settled back and concentrated. Purl two. Knit two. Beth’s voice swirled around her. Purl two. Knit two.

      “Chris is my comedian. And Nate is my athlete. He plays three sports …”

      Purl two. Knit two. Purl two.

      “… Caroline is the scholar. She always has her nose in a book. I don’t know where she got that …”

      Knit two. Purl two.

      “… And what can I say? Stella’s my baby. We named her after my grandmother, you know, and believe me, she’s the only Stella in her nursery school.”

      Mary СКАЧАТЬ