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

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СКАЧАТЬ my line of work, you fix things, make them better. You never press the delete button like that.”

      Alice unlocked the door and held it open for Mary. “It’s liberating. You’ll see.”

      “I worked on that all week,” Mary said.

      Alice dropped the yarn into her hands and smiled. “It’s not about finishing, it’s about the knitting. The texture. The needles clacking. The way the rows unfold.”

      Already the bell announcing the arrival of customers was ringing, and women began to fill the store. They all seemed to carry half-finished sweaters and socks and scarves. Mary watched them fondle yarn, feeling its weight, holding it up to the light to better appreciate the gradations of color.

      Alice took Mary’s arm and gently led her to the same seat where she’d spent most of last Tuesday morning.

      “That yarn’s a little too tricky, I think,” Alice said. She handed Mary a needle with twenty-two new stitches already cast on. “This yarn is fun. It self-stripes so you won’t get bored.”

      Mary hesitated.

      “Go ahead,” Alice said.

      Mary knit two perfect rows.

      “Keep doing it, just like that,” Alice said. Then she went to help another customer.

      Mary sat, knitting, the sounds of the other customers’ voices softly buzzing around her. The bell kept tinkling, marking the comings and goings of people. A purple stripe appeared, and then a violet one, and then a deep blue.

      She was surprised when she felt someone standing over her.

      “You’ve got it,” Alice said. “Now go home and knit.”

      Mary frowned. “But what if I mess it up that way again?”

      “You won’t,” Alice said.

      Mary stood, feeling both elated and terrified.

      “Alice?” a woman called from across the room. “How many do I cast on for the eyelash scarf?”

      “Fifteen,” Alice said. “Remember, fifteen stitches on number fifteen needles.”

      It’s like another language, Mary thought, remembering her idea to learn Italian. The yarn in her hand was soft and lovely. Better than complicated rules of grammar.

      “Thank you,” Mary said. “I’ll come next week, if that’s all right.”

      A customer handed Alice a scarf made of big loopy yarn.

      “I dropped a stitch somewhere,” the woman said, her fingers burrowing through the thick yarn.

      “I’ll fix that for you,” Alice said.

      Mary turned to go. But Alice’s hand on her arm stopped her.

      “Wednesday nights,” Alice said, “I have a knitting circle here. I think you’d like it.”

      “A knitting circle?” Mary laughed. “But I can’t knit yet.”

      Alice pointed at her morning’s work. “What do you call that?”

      “I know, but—”

      “These are women you should meet. All levels, they are. Each with something to offer. You’ll see.”

      “I’ll think about it,” Mary said.

      “Seven o’clock,” Alice said. “Right here.”

      “Thank you,” Mary said, certain she would never join a knitting circle.

      The next Tuesday night, when she finished her second skein of yarn and, Mary realized, an entire scarf, she thought about what she would make next. The scarf ’s stripes moved from that original purple all the way through blues and greens and browns and reds, ending in perfect pink. Excited, Mary wrapped it around her neck and went to show it off to Dylan.

      He sat in bed, watching CNN. He was addicted to CNN, Mary decided.

      “Ta-da!” she said, twirling for him.

      “Look at you,” he said, grinning.

      She came closer to show off the neat rows.

      “Do you wear the needle in it like that?” he asked.

      “Until I learn to cast off, I do.” She sat beside him, close.

      “How will you learn such a thing?” Dylan whispered, stroking her arm.

      Mary closed her eyes.

      “I joined a knitting circle,” she said. “It starts tomorrow night.”

      Dylan pulled her into his arms. It was dark out, the television their only source of light.

      The knitting shop looked different at night. The parking lot was very dark and the store seemed smaller against the sky and trees. Tiny white lights hung in each window, like bright stars. Mary could clearly see the women inside, sitting in a circle, needles in hand. She considered driving away, going home to Dylan, who would be in bed already watching the news, as if he might hear something that would change everything.

      Sighing, Mary opened the door, her scarf with the needle dangling wrapped proudly around her neck. If Alice was surprised to see her, she didn’t act it.

      “Find a spot and sit down,” Alice said. “Beth brought some real nice lemon cake.”

      Mary sat on the worn sofa beside a woman around her own age, with long red hair and dramatic high cheekbones.

      “You finished!” Alice said. “Hey, everybody, this is Mary’s first project.”

      The women—there were five, plus Alice and Mary—all stopped knitting to admire her handiwork. They commented on what a natural she was, how even her gauge, the depth of the color, and the length of the scarf. Mary realized that in this world, she could talk about these simple things and keep her grief to herself. She was anonymous here. She was safe.

      “What size needles did you use?” the woman across from her asked.

      “Elevens,” Mary said, pleased with her certainty after so many months of uncertainty.

      The woman nodded. “Elevens,” she said, and returned her attention to her own knitting.

      “That looks complicated,” Mary said as the woman maneuvered four small needles like a puppeteer.

      “Socks,” she said. “The heel is tricky. But otherwise it’s just knitting.”

      “What size are those needles?” Mary asked. “They’re so tiny.”

      “Ones,” the woman said, blushing slightly.

      “Ones!” СКАЧАТЬ