Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber

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      Margaret always does that to me. I wish I understood my sister. Some days I think she hates me. A part of me recognizes what the problem is: I was the one who got all of Mom and Dad’s attention, but I needed them. I refuse to believe that my sister would seriously think I was so hungry for attention that I wished the cancer upon myself.

      Even more than Margaret resented me, I resented the cancer. I longed to be healthy and normal. I still live my life standing directly under a thundercloud, fearing lightning will strike again. Surely my one and only sibling can appreciate my circumstances and support my efforts to support myself!

      On Wednesday morning, I was knitting a pair of socks for display, my concentration focused on shaping the gusset, when the bell above the door chimed. Thrilled at the prospect of a customer—and potential class member—I stood with a welcoming smile.

      “Hello, there.” The UPS driver walked into the shop, wheeling his cart stacked five high with large cardboard boxes. “Since I’m going to be making regular deliveries to the neighborhood, I thought I should introduce myself.” He released the cart and thrust out his hand. “Brad Goetz.”

      “I’m Lydia Hoffman.” We shook hands.

      He passed me the computerized clipboard for my signature. “How’s it going?” Brad asked as I signed my name.

      “It’s only my second week.” I bypassed his question rather than confess how poor business actually was.

      “The construction will be finished soon, and customers will flock to your store.” He smiled as he said it and I felt instantly grateful and—shocking as this sounds—attracted, too. I was so starved for encouragement that it was only natural, I suppose, but I was drawn to him like a bird to the sky. I hadn’t felt that particular tug in a very long while. Shamelessly, I glanced at his ring finger and saw that he wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

      This is embarrassing to admit, but my sexual experience is limited to a few groping attempts at lovemaking in the back seat of my college boyfriend’s car. Then the cancer returned. Roger was with me for the second brain surgery, but his calls and visits stopped shortly after I started chemotherapy and lost all my hair. Bald women apparently weren’t attractive, although he claimed otherwise. I think it had more to do with the fact that he saw me as a losing proposition, a woman who could die at any time. A woman who couldn’t repay his emotional investment. Roger was a business student, after all.

      Brian had been my high school boyfriend and his reaction was the same as Roger’s. He hung around for a while, too, and then drifted away. I didn’t really blame either one.

      My breakups with Roger and Brian, if you could even call them that, were inevitable. A few short relationships followed after Roger, but no one worth mentioning. After my earlier experiences, I should’ve realized that most men aren’t romantically interested in a two-time cancer patient. Without sounding like a martyr, I understand how they feel. Why get emotionally involved with a woman who’s probably going to die? I don’t even know if I can have children or if I should. It’s a subject I prefer not to think about.

      “My grandmother used to knit,” Brad said. “I hear interest in it’s been revived in the last couple of years.”

      Longer, although I didn’t correct him. Damn, but he was good-looking, especially when he smiled, and he seemed to be doing a lot of that. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, eyes a woman could see a block away. He wasn’t overly tall, which was nice. I’m barely five foot three, and when I stand next to someone who’s six feet or taller, it’s intimidating. Brad was just right and that was the problem. I didn’t want to notice anything about him, about the boyish, charming way his dark hair fell over his forehead or how the dark-brown uniform stretched across his broad shoulders. But I did notice all those things … and more.

      “What are you knitting?” he asked, gesturing down at my current project. He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Looks like socks.”

      “They are.”

      “But you’re only using two needles. When Grandma knit socks, she had maybe half a dozen.”

      “These are circular needles. It’s a more modern method,” I explained, holding up the half-completed project for his inspection. He seemed interested and I continued chattering away, giving him far more information than he probably wanted. “Until only a few years ago, socks were knit using the five-needles method. But now it’s possible to knit them on two circular needles, or even one except that it’s forty inches long. Notice the yarn, too,” I blathered on. “I haven’t changed colors to make these stripes. The striped pattern is in the yarn itself.”

      He touched the strand of yarn and seemed genuinely impressed. “Have you been knitting long?”

      “For almost ten years.”

      “You don’t look old enough to be out of high school, let alone open a yarn store.”

      That was a comment I’ve heard far too often. I smiled in an offhand manner, but the truth is, I don’t consider it a compliment.

      “I guess I’d better get back to work,” Brad said when I let the conversation drop. I wouldn’t have minded exchanging pleasantries for another few minutes, but I was sure he was on a schedule. So was I, in a manner of speaking. Besides, I never was much good at flirting.

      “Before I go, can I help you put these boxes someplace? They’re heavier than they look.”

      “I’ll manage, but thank you.” Distracted as I was by Brad’s friendly visit, I’d hardly noticed he was delivering new yarn. One of the delights of opening my own shop was being able to buy yarn at wholesale prices. Unsure of what would interest my clientele, I’d ordered a number of different varieties. My first order was for good solid wool in two dozen colors. Wool is a must, especially with the popularity of felting. That’s where the pattern is knit in a bigger size and then shrunk in hot water, which also mats the yarn, creating a consistency like felt. Next came the cotton yarns; they’re some of my favorites. The fingering weight yarns have become increasingly popular, too, as well as the imported European sock yarns. The yarns most in demand, I thought, would be the blends of wool and acrylic, so I’d ordered all the basic colors, as well as the colors that were, according to my knitting magazines, this year’s trends. Most of my shipments had arrived before I opened my doors but the smaller orders were dribbling in day by day.

      “Do you live in the neighborhood?” Brad asked as he tucked the clipboard under his arm and reached for his empty cart.

      “I have the apartment above the shop.”

      “That’s good, because parking around here is a headache.”

      As if I didn’t already know that. I wondered where he’d left his truck and supposed it must be quite a distance away. Any customers I was bound to attract would need to find parking a block or two down the street, and I worried that many people wouldn’t be willing to go to that trouble. The alleyway behind the store was open, but it wasn’t the kind of place I wanted to be caught alone, day or night.

      “Thank you, Brad,” I said as he opened the door.

      He gave a cheery wave and was gone. It seemed for a moment as if all the sunshine had left the room. I recognized that feeling for what it was: regret verging on misery. This wasn’t the time or the place, I told myself sternly. If I’m going to wallow in self-pity I want СКАЧАТЬ