Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ looked over my shoulder just in time to see my sister and brother-in-law come out the back door and onto the patio where I sat with my mother and the girls. From the frown Margaret wore, I could see she’d heard the question. “I’d love to teach you, but it’s up to your mother.”

      “We’ll talk about it later,” Margaret said sharply. Hailey placed her arm around my shoulders, unwilling to release me.

      “Hello, Matt,” I said.

      My brother-in-law grinned and winked at me. I remember when Matt and Margaret first started dating. Because she’s five years older than me, I viewed seventeen-year-old Matt as mature and sophisticated, a man of the world. They’d married young and my father disapproved, believing Margaret should wait until she’d graduated from college. She did finish her schooling but hasn’t used her education in the way Dad wanted. My sister has worked at a number of jobs through the years but she’s never found any position that’s really suited her. Margaret is currently employed part-time at a travel agency, but she’s never discussed her job with me. I do applaud her decision to be home as much as possible for the girls, but I’ve avoided sharing my thoughts, uncertain of their reception.

      After a brief exchange of chitchat and news, we drove out to the cemetery in two cars. Mom had brought a large bouquet of lilacs from her garden, and Julia and Hailey set them in the receptacle at my father’s gravesite. A large number of American flags flapped in the wind across the cemetery, reminding us of the men and women who sacrificed their lives for our country.

      I’ve always found cemeteries curious places. As a child, I had an almost ghoulish fascination with tombstones. I especially enjoyed reading the epitaphs on those from the 1800s and early 1900s. While Margaret and my parents paid their respects to my grandparents, I’d invariably wander off. I broke my leg when I was five when a statue of the Virgin Mary fell over on me. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad that I’d been climbing on her at the time, hoping to look at her face.

      I never really knew my grandparents. One set lived on the East Coast and visited only on rare occasions. My mother’s family had come to Seattle at the time of the Great Depression, but her parents had died shortly after I was born. Each Memorial Day we visited their graves and placed flowers by their headstones. I felt little emotion for my long-dead relatives, perhaps a twinge now and then, wishing I remembered them, but that was about it.

      Now as I stared down at my father’s marker, so fresh and new, a surge of harsh grief came over me. The marble tablet said so little. His name, JAMES HOWARD HOFFMAN, and the dates of his birth and death: May 20, 1940—December 29, 2003.

      Birth to death, and all that appeared between those two events was a dash. That silent dash said nothing about his two tours of duty in Vietnam, or his unwavering love for his wife and daughters. That dash couldn’t possibly reveal the countless hours he’d spent at my bedside, comforting me, reading to me, doing whatever he could to help me. There are no words to describe the depth of my father’s love.

      The familiar blinding pain struck me then. One consequence of the tumor that continues to linger is migraine headaches. With the new medicines now available, I can almost always catch them early. The telltale signs are unmistakable. This one, however, had caught me by surprise.

      I fumbled in my purse for the pills I carried with me constantly. My mother, aware of my situation, came toward me when she saw me stumble. “Lydia, what is it?”

      I breathed in slowly and deeply. “I need to get home,” I whispered, closing my eyes to the blinding sunlight.

      “Margaret, Matt,” Mom called urgently. She slid her arm around my waist. Within minutes she’d bundled me into the car but instead of having Matt drive me to my own small apartment above the yarn shop, my mother insisted on bringing me to her house.

      It wasn’t long before I was in bed in the room where I’d spent most of my childhood. The shades were drawn. Mom draped cool washcloths on my forehead and then tiptoed out of the room to allow me to sleep.

      I knew that once the medication had been given a chance to work, I’d sleep for a couple of hours. Afterward I’d be fine, but reaching that point—the beginning of relief—was difficult.

      Soon after my mother left and the horrible throbbing was at its peak, I heard the bedroom door creak open again. Although I was completely prone and my eyes were closed, I knew it was my sister who’d walked into the room.

      “You couldn’t do it, could you?” Her words were weighted with bitterness. “You can’t let a day pass without being the center of attention, can you?”

      I found it hard to fathom that my sister would seriously believe I’d intentionally bring on a migraine for the sake of a few minutes’ attention. If Margaret had ever suffered with one, she’d know differently. But I was in no shape to argue, so I kept silent.

      “Someday it’s only going to be the two of us, you know.”

      I did know and wanted so badly to have a good relationship with my sister. If I hadn’t been hounded by pain I would’ve tried to explain how much I wished things could be different between us.

      “If you think I’m going to step in and pick up where Mom and Dad left off, you’re sadly mistaken.”

      I almost smiled. I couldn’t imagine Margaret doing anything of the kind.

      “I refuse to pamper and spoil you. It’s time you grew up and became an adult, Lydia. In fact, it’s long past time you accepted responsibility for your own life. As far as I’m concerned, you can look for sympathy elsewhere.” Having made her great pronouncement, she stalked out of the room.

      The sound of the slammed door reverberated through my head. My lungs froze and my heart skipped a beat. With the cool washcloth over my face, it took me a moment to realize tears had dripped from my eyes.

      Now more than ever, I was convinced that a relationship with Margaret was impossible.

      14

      CHAPTER

       JACQUELINE DONOVAN

      Jacqueline checked her reflection in the hall mirror and sighed, praying for patience. Paul and Tammie Lee had invited her and Reese to their home for a barbecue. She couldn’t refuse; Paul would easily see through any excuse. Trapped, Jacqueline had no choice but to grit her teeth and make the best of it.

      “Are you ready?” Reese asked for the third time.

      Grumbling under her breath, Jacqueline joined him. He was jingling his car keys and pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen door that led to the garage.

      “Can’t we get out of this?” she asked, knowing it was impossible.

      Reese gave her one of his looks. He had several expressions that spoke as clearly as words, and over the years she’d come to identify them all. This one was the off-center humorless smile that conveyed his displeasure at something she’d said or done.

      “What’s wrong this time?” she asked, fuming. “Don’t tell me you’re actually looking forward to this barbecue?” Heaven only knew what Tammie Lee might prepare for their dinner. Grilled possum? Barbecued squirrel?

      “Don’t you see?” her husband said. “Paul wants us to get to know Tammie Lee and love her the way he does.”

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