How to Knit a Love Song (25 page)

“What’s up, Tom? Something I can help you with?”

“No, just saying hi. Seeing how you’re doing. I mean, yeah! Your foot! How’s your foot? That’s what I wanted to ask.”

Ah. Abigail got it. “My foot’s doing fine, almost all healed. But what you might be really interested to know is that my friend Janet should be here soon.”

“Really? Today?”

“You two hit it off that day?” Abigail loved the look on his face—a mix of eagerness and machismo.

“I think so, I guess so. But that was a couple of weeks ago. She say anything to you?”

“Only that you were a very handsome man.”

“She said that?”

“Several times, and she doesn’t say things like that lightly.”

“I bet she could get whoever she wanted.”

“And often does.”

Tom looked stricken. Abigail felt awful. “I don’t mean that she gets around—I mean, she knows people, and she knows men…. But she did seem really into you….” She was making it worse.

She started over. “I bet you she’d really like it if you came by later. She’s planning a little launch party. She has a few people coming over to help with the store today, and she’d love it if you lent a hand.”

“I just might do that,” Tom said.

Abigail screwed up her courage and asked, “Has Cade been around?”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Not even at the house?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. No, he’s been around. Should I tell him you’re looking for him?”

“No! No. That’s all right. I’ll track him down if I need him.”

As Tom drove away, hand waving out the window, she tried to think of all the ways she didn’t need Cade. She wouldn’t track him down.

But would it have killed him to have tracked her down? Just a little bit?

Ridiculous thoughts. She went back to watching Clara. She didn’t look up the driveway once, not even out of the corner of her eye.

Chapter Twenty-six

Be careful with your needles. They are magic things. If you’re careless, they won’t come back to you. Or they can end up hurting someone else
.

—
E.C.

S
ix hours later, everyone was exhausted.

They sat in the parlor of Cade’s house, perching on extra chairs stolen from the dining room and on edges of the sofa and various couches and ottomans. A woman named Gail sat on the embroidered piano stool. She kept hopping off it to exclaim over the workmanship.

Abigail did have to admit, it certainly was something to see: the lengths to which these women would go for another woman’s memory, to honor a woman they had never actually met.

And lengths they had gone. Abigail wasn’t really sure where Janet had obtained her guest list, but it included knitting writers from all over the country. One had flown in from New York, one from Boulder, two from Toronto. Abigail knew most of them and considered them friends, had met them at craft fairs and on book tours; she read their blogs, but she had never hung out with most of them in person. Also in attendance were ten or eleven women who lived on the West Coast. They seemed to be hooked into every yarn happening, every stitch ’n’ bitch west of the Mississippi.

A woman named Sarah had tears in her eyes when she lifted fiber out of her first box. “Eliza packed this. With her very own hands.”

Abigail looked at its label and saw that it had come straight from a distributor. “Well, she chose what was inside of it, that’s for sure.”

Sarah had glared at her and hissed, “I can feel it. She packed it.”

Abigail had exchanged a look with Janet. A
Star Trek
convention would be less nerdy, less star obsessed than this little gathering. She was glad to be at the center of it, truly honored.

She was also freaked out.

But now it was better. The women were arranged around the parlor, everyone knitting or spinning, some with small portable wheels, some with drop spindles. Janet had performed a small miracle while Abigail hadn’t been looking. The sides of the room were lined with small tables covered in lovely foods—small, delicate appetizers and desserts. A short, round woman with pink cheeks circulated with bottles of chilled champagne.

Abigail also felt herself getting more and more rosy with each passing sip that she took. If she were going to make a speech, it would have to be now.

She stood and waited. A quick silence dropped, a quietness that served to make her nothing but tongue-tied. Knitting needles stopped. Wheels whirred to a stop.

“Ladies, a toast.” She held up her glass.

“In one short afternoon’s worth of work, you have made all the difference. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. You unpacked and put away and scrubbed and cleaned until I couldn’t see which end of the house was up. Someone cleaned the bathroom so that it sparkled.”

A brunette holding a plate of cheesecake smiled and nodded at her.

“Someone else scrubbed the kitchen until I can actually picture myself making food on that countertop, using that sink, to—I don’t know. Cook something.”

Light laughter.

“I’m a knitter. And you’re here because you are, too. You’re here because you loved Eliza, and you’re excited about this project of mine, or because you know me somehow, through my books, or because we’ve met before, or because you’re humoring my friend Janet. I totally understand why anyone would do that.”

Janet winked at her.

“But really, this is to say thank you. Both for the knowledge I’ve gained today, and for teaching me that there are people in this community who want to see this happen.” She smiled, suddenly nervous and overwhelmed. Who was she, to be standing here, thanking these people?

“This is all because of Eliza. I design and write because of Eliza, and you’re all here because of her, too.”

Abigail looked slowly around the room, catching and keeping the eye of everyone there. “To Eliza.”

“To Eliza,” said all the women in the room, in unison.

Abigail brushed away a tear that had fallen onto her cheek, a tear that she hadn’t even been aware of.

“To Eliza,” said a breathy voice from behind her.

“Oh!” Abigail hadn’t known anyone else had come in. Had she known, she wouldn’t have blocked the door while speaking.

“What a beautiful speech,” said the new woman. “Who’s Eliza? Is she here?”

The speaker was a bombshell. There was no other way to describe her. Her blond hair was swept up in a hairdo reminiscent of the forties, something with swirls and loops, probably done with intricate bobby-pinning.

Her makeup also reminded Abigail of the girl on the side of a World War II airplane, all dark eyebrows and heavy eyelids and deep red lipstick, fair skin, and pink cheeks. She wore a red cardigan—was it cashmere?—and a low-cut black blouse with a red pencil skirt. She carried a red purse that looked expensive. Her heels were chunky, black, and very high.

“Um, no,” said Abigail, as the conversation and chatter started up behind her again. “Eliza’s not here.”

“Too bad. She sounds like something.” Her voice was breathy but low, a gorgeous, sexy voice.

Of course,
thought Abigail. “Yeah, Eliza was something all right.” She stuck out her hand. “Abigail.”

“Oh,
you’re
Abigail! I was expecting someone older, I think. Because of the knitting. You know.”

Abigail could think of nothing to say to this.

“And look! You have all your friends here. Doesn’t everyone look constructive?” She gave a bright, polished smile. Abigail wanted to smack her. Who was this person?

Cade approached behind her.

“Betty, I see you’ve already met my…housemate.”

“You made her sound older, though. She’s pretty. And young!” Betty giggled and looked at Abigail to share the joke with her.

“Abigail.” Cade’s smile was polite, thin.

Fine. If this was the way he wanted it, she could play along.

“I’m so glad you were able to drop by the grand-opening party.” Abigail poured honey into her voice. “Doesn’t it look nice in here? Janet did all the work, I have no idea where she found the caterer, but the food is divine. You must have a stuffed mushroom. Or a glass of champagne? It’s a celebration!”

Betty nodded and moved toward the table.

“You’re having a party. Here. In my house. For your shop.”

“Yep.”

“That’s pretty ballsy. Even for you.” His eyes, the green completely gone, only showed dark brown. If they could shoot sparks, they would have.

But Abigail found a thrill in this. She was teetering on the edge of his anger. She found she didn’t mind as much as she thought she would have. He had been ignoring her for too long, avoiding her at every turn. This was what he got.

“I was going to invite you, if that’s what you mean, but I thought a note hung on the refrigerator would be a little cold. Pardon the pun.” She smiled lightly and took a sip of her champagne. “I was waiting until I saw you to deliver an invite in person. Funny, though. Except for after the fire, I haven’t seen you at all in two weeks, not since I hurt my ankle.”

Betty’s face crinkled in either concern or confusion. “Oh, yeah, he told me about that. You fell out of a tree you were climbing because you like to do kid things? Or childish things? I like to do kid things, too, like sometimes, when I’m with my niece, I really get a kick out of coloring books. You know? Oh. Um…” She trailed off and stared at the rows of champagne glasses.

“Yeah,” said Abigail, unsure of what she ought to say. Cade still hadn’t mentioned where he’d been, and even though she knew it wasn’t any of her business, her heart twisted at the thought that perhaps the reason he hadn’t been around was standing in front of her, talking about coloring books.

“I have a great idea,” said Cade, and Abigail scarcely recognized his patently false tone. “Betty, why don’t you stay down here at the party while I go up and change? Socialize a bit. I’m sure you’d like that, and Abigail won’t mind.”

Before Abigail could answer, Cade headed back out to the staircase.

Abigail blinked several times and then smiled at Betty. “Of course. Champagne?”

Betty didn’t appear to realize she was a pawn, or if she did, she did a good job hiding it. “I’d love some champagne. It always makes me so giggly.”

Of course it did. Abigail rolled her eyes as she turned her back to pour the glass for Betty.

Moving farther into the parlor, where everyone was sitting, Abigail said loudly to no one in particular, “Everyone? This is Betty. Betty,” she flapped her hand, “this is everyone.”

A chorus of curious hellos sounded through the room, and then it was Janet to the rescue, as usual.

“Darling, what a sweet cardigan that is—you look just like a pinup girl from the forties.”

Abigail ground her teeth as Betty smiled and appeared gracious. Of course she was gracious. Shallow, gorgeous people were always gracious. It was bred into them, wasn’t it? Like height in horses.

Janet rose and introduced herself, and then said, “Do you spin? Knit?”

“Oh, neither. I’m no good with fiddly things. I’m not very patient.”

“Nonsense. That’s what I always said before Eliza taught me, and now I’m too fiddly
not
to knit.”

“Who is Eliza again? Cade’s mentioned her. Is she going to be here?”

Abigail snapped, “If she appeared right now, we’d all run screaming from the house.”

Janet shot Abigail a look and said, “She died, not too long ago. We’re all very sad. But I see you’re here with Cade. That explains why you’re here with no fiber in your hands. But we can fix that up in a jiffy. Come, sit over here.”

Janet sat her on the couch next to her, and placed a drop spindle in her hands.

Abigail was pleased. This she wanted to see. Abigail hadn’t been able to work out drop spindling until she’d learned to spin on a wheel first. Only then had the hand motions made sense to her.

She watched as Betty mirrored Janet’s hands, mimicking their movement, fiddling with the drafting triangle until it looked good, spinning the spindle, letting the twist travel up the fiber, and yes, this was the moment. It would hit the ground, living up to its name of drop spindle, Betty would cry or something, and all would be right again.

Really, when had Abigail gotten so mean?

Since Cade had brought this girl into the house.

She waited for the drop. Soon it would happen. Soon that yarn that Betty was spinning would break, and she’d get frustrated and stop. Of course it would happen.

Soon.

Only it didn’t happen. The women in the room stopped whatever they were doing to watch the impromptu lesson. “Look at her!”

“It’s her first time.”

“No!”

“She’s doing so well.”

“And she’s spinning it pretty finely, too.”

“She’s a natural.”

Betty grinned across the room at Abigail and it was such a happy, genuine smile that Abigail was whacked upside the head with guilt.

“Look what I’m doing! I’m making yarn!”

Abigail smiled back and moved closer. It wasn’t this poor girl’s fault that she was hooked up with Cade—he was gorgeous and successful and single. Who wouldn’t want to date him? To live with him?

To fall in love with him?

Abigail reached for the nearest high-backed chair and leaned on it, suddenly dizzy.

“Honey, are you all right? You’ve been standing too long on that foot. Come, sit over here with us.” Janet made another space next to her, so that Abigail would be sandwiched between Janet and Betty.

It was her fault, she supposed. It was where she was meant to sit. Penance.

She wasn’t in love. That would be too ridiculous. She tried to push the errant thought out of her head.

It must be the champagne.

Well, talking to Cade’s girlfriend would certainly help.

“So, how long have you and Cade been dating?”

“Only a few days now,” said Betty, as she expertly twirled the spindle, drafting the fiber into a perfect single. “But it’s been going great, and it’s been moving so fast.”