The Shop on Blossom Street (3 page)

CAROL GIRARD

C
arol Girard had never imagined that getting pregnant could be this difficult. Her mother obviously hadn’t had any trouble; Carol and her brother, Rick, were born two years apart.

Before they were married, Doug and Carol had talked about having a family one day. Because of her high-powered job with a national brokerage firm, he wanted to be sure she was as interested in a family as he was. Doug had asked if she’d be willing to put aside her career for a few years in order to have children. The answer had been an unqualified
yes
. Babies were a given with her. She’d always pictured herself as a mother, always saw kids as an important part of her life. Doug would be a wonderful father and she was deeply, passionately, in love with her husband. She
wanted
to have his children.

Heating her lunch in the microwave, Carol glanced around the kitchen of her sixteenth-floor condo overlook
ing Puget Sound. She’d quit her job only a month ago and she already felt restless and impatient. She’d left the brokerage firm with the sole intention of allowing her body to relax, to unwind from the demands of her routine. Doug had convinced her that job-related stress was the reason she hadn’t conceived, and her obstetrician conceded that it was possible. A barrage of humiliating tests for both her and Doug had revealed that in addition to her age, thirty-seven, she had to contend with something called ASA or antisperm antibodies.

The phone rang and she leapt on it, grabbing the hand-set before it had a chance to ring twice.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully, eager to talk to anyone, even if it was a sales call.

“Hi, honey. I wondered if you were still at home.”

A momentary panic attacked her. “Am I supposed to be somewhere?”

Doug chuckled. “I thought you said you were going for a walk this afternoon.”

That was something recommended by one of the books they’d read. As a result, Carol had decided she should exercise more, and now that she was home during the day she had plenty of opportunity to spend time outside. This was all part of the program they’d discussed and agreed upon before she’d left her job.

“Right. I was just getting ready to head out.” She eyed the microwave and turned her back on her waiting lunch.

“Carol? Are you okay?”

Her husband recognized her mood, her depression and anxiety. Doug had been right to suggest she quit work. They were both frightened, since there was a very real possibility that she might never carry a pregnancy full-term. It didn’t help that they had one last shot with in vitro fertilization. The insurance company where Doug
worked had its headquarters in Illinois, where state law mandated that company health coverage could pay for three attempts; their first two had failed. IVF was the very end of the technological line, the ultimate procedure the fertility clinic had to offer in the quest for a biological child. July would be their last attempt, and after that they were on their own financially. At the start they’d agreed to limit in vitro to the three attempts. If she wasn’t pregnant by then, they’d begin the adoption process. In retrospect, it had been a wise decision. The emotional devastation of the two failures proved she couldn’t endure this process indefinitely. Twice a fertilized egg had been implanted and twice she’d miscarried. No couple should repeatedly face this kind of heartache.

Carol and Doug never mentioned that this third IVF attempt was the end of their hopes, but the fact loomed in their minds. It was vitally important that she get pregnant—and stay pregnant—this time.

Carol was willing to give it everything she had. Willing to forsake the job she loved, willing to be poked and prodded and humiliated. She was willing to withstand all the doubts, confront the emotional highs and lows of their attempts at conception, all for the sake of a baby. Doug’s baby.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I know.” Although she said it flippantly, Carol did know. Doug had been with her through this entire process, through the doctors’ visits, the testing, through the tears, the frustration, the anger and the grief. “One day you’ll hold our child in your arms and we’ll both know that everything was worth it.” They’d already chosen the names. Cameron for a boy and Colleen for a girl. She could clearly see their child, could feel the baby in her arms, and see the joy in her husband’s eyes.

Carol held on to that dream, and the image of a baby in her arms helped her endure the most difficult aspects of the IVF process.

“What time will you be home?” It had never concerned her before, but now she regulated her life by her husband’s comings and goings. His routine shaped her own, and his return from the office was the highlight of her day. Several times each afternoon she checked her watch, calculating how many hours and then minutes until Doug was home.

“Usual time,” he promised.

Her husband of seven years worked as an insurance underwriter. Carol was the one who earned the big bucks in the family. It was her income that had enabled them to make a substantial down payment on the condo. When they got married, her wise and frugal husband had insisted they adjust their lifestyle to live on his income alone. He feared that otherwise they’d come to rely on her salary and defer having a family. They’d waited three years after marrying, not expecting problems, building up their savings. It was a good thing because even with insurance, the cost of infertility treatments was staggering. And now that she wasn’t working…

“Have I mentioned how dreadful daytime television is?” she asked.

“Turn off the TV and go for your walk.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied in military fashion.

Doug laughed. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

“No. It’s just that staying home isn’t anything like I thought.” Life at home wasn’t supposed to be endless hours of boredom, desperately searching for ways to amuse herself until Doug came home. She was used to frequent meetings, adrenaline-fuelled decisions, constant busyness. Being at home alone was a new experience and not one she enjoyed.

“Do you want me to check in with you later?”

“No, I’ll be fine. You’re right, I do need to get outside and it’s a lovely afternoon.” No place on earth was more beautiful than Seattle when the sun was shining. It was a perfect May day and she gazed out at the snow-topped Olympic Mountains in the distance, the blue-green waters of Puget Sound below her.

“See you around five-thirty,” Doug said.

“I’ll be here.” Before Carol had left the brokerage firm, it was Doug who’d arrived home first. Doug who started dinner. Doug who had the local news blaring from the television. Carol didn’t have any trouble adjusting to this role reversal of a role reversal. Right now, it was one of the few interesting things in her life.

She deposited her lunch in the refrigerator and grabbed an apple on her way out the door. They’d lived in the condo four years, and she still didn’t know her neighbors. They were upwardly mobile types just like her and Doug, with both husband and wife working long hours. Only a few had children and the little ones were rushed off to ultra-expensive day-care centers early in the morning.

Carol rode an empty elevator down to the condo foyer and headed out the double glass doors onto the downtown sidewalk. Munching on her apple as she walked swiftly toward the waterfront, she realized that one fear, at any rate, hadn’t come to pass.

All the women in the office had given her dire warnings when they learned she was leaving. The word was that stay-at-home wives and mothers battled constantly with their weight. Being in the kitchen and continually around food made it impossible to maintain a slim waistline, according to her former colleagues. That wasn’t a problem for Carol. Never in her life had she eaten more
healthfully. Diet was all part of her new regime and she’d maintained her size 8 figure without difficulty.

A cool breeze blew off the water as she strolled along her usual route. Then on a whim she headed east, climbing toward Pill Hill, where Virginia Mason Hospital and Swedish Hospital were situated. She was breathing hard as she made it up the steep incline and continued slowly for several blocks, looking around at the unfamiliar neighborhood, until she came to Blossom Street.

A number of buildings were being renovated. The street was blocked off, but the sidewalk was accessible. The work on one side of the street seemed to be completed, with freshly painted storefronts and a green-and-white awning over the florist’s shop. Tulips and lilies were arranged in buckets outside the front door.

Despite the clang and racket of construction, Carol ventured down the street. A video store and a depressing brick apartment building sat at the far end of the block and a restaurant called Annie’s Café was across the street. The contrast between the old and the new was striking. The unrenovated portion of the street resembled a quaint small town with friendly merchants straight out of a 1960s television series. Granted, some of the buildings were a bit shabby, but they seemed welcoming nonetheless. It was hard to tell that Blossom Street was less than a mile from the heart of downtown Seattle with its high-rises and congested streets.

Next to the florist was another surprise: a yarn store. The shop was new, judging by the computer-lettered “Grand Opening” sign. A woman, probably close to her own age, sat in a rocking chair inside, her hands busy with a pair of needles. A large ball of lime-green yarn rested on her lap.

Because she had nothing better to do, Carol walked
through the door, setting off a pleasant chime. “Hello,” she said, doing her best to sound cheerful and interested. She wasn’t sure what drew her into the shop, since she didn’t knit and had never been particularly keen on crafts.

The petite woman greeted her with a shy smile. “Hello and welcome to A Good Yarn.”

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

The proprietor nodded. “I opened yesterday, and you’re my first customer this afternoon.” She laughed softly. “First customer today,” she corrected.

“What are you knitting?” Carol asked, feeling slightly guilty because she wasn’t a customer at all.

“A sweater for my niece.” She reached for her project and held it up for Carol to examine.

The colors, lime-green, orange and turquoise, immediately brought a smile to Carol’s face. “That’s so cute.”

“Do you knit?”

The question was inevitable. “No, but I’d like to learn someday.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. I have a beginners’ class starting next Friday. If you register for the class you get a twenty-percent discount on your yarn purchases.”

“Sorry. I don’t think I’d be any good at knitting.” Carol felt genuinely regretful, but she wasn’t the sort of woman who was comfortable doing things with her hands. Calculating compound interest and figuring annuities, investments and mutual funds—that was where her skills lay.

“You won’t know if you don’t try. I’m Lydia, by the way.”

“Carol.” She offered her hand, and Lydia put down her knitting to clasp it warmly. Lydia was petite and small-boned, her dark hair worn short. Her brown eyes shone with intelligence, and Carol liked her right away.

“I’m starting the class with a simple project,” Lydia continued.

“It would have to be really simple if I were to take up knitting.”

“I thought I’d have everyone work on a baby blanket.”

Carol froze and tears sprang instantly to her eyes. She turned away before Lydia noticed. Under normal circumstances she wasn’t a volatile person, but with the hormone shots, her emotions seemed out of control. This was too weird, though, too much of a coincidence.

“Perhaps I will sign up for the class, after all,” she said, fingering a ball of bright yellow yarn.

“That would be wonderful.” Lydia walked over to the counter and brought out a clipboard.

These days, Carol looked everywhere for signs and portents, and she had frequent conversations with God. Without a doubt she knew she’d been sent to this shop. It was His way of letting her know He was about to answer her prayers. When she went in for the fertilization process this third and final time, she would be successful. In the not-too-distant future she was going to need a baby blanket for her child.

ALIX TOWNSEND

A
lix Townsend smashed her cigarette butt into the cracked concrete sidewalk with the toe of her knee-high black combat boots. The manager of Blossom Street Video frowned on employees smoking in the break room and rather than put up with his snide comments, she chose to smoke outside. The man was a prick, anyway, constantly complaining about the staff, the economy and life in general.

Lloyd Fund was right about one thing, though—all this construction was killing business. Alix figured it was only a matter of time before she got her RIF notice, followed by word that her apartment building had been sold. It was inevitable with all the changes taking place in the neighborhood. Either that or she was in for a big rent hike. Thanks a lot, Mr. Mayor.

She burrowed her hands in her black leather jacket and glared down the street at the dust and debris. She wore
the leather coat rain or shine, summer or winter. This jacket had cost her big time, and she wasn’t taking it off so someone could conveniently walk away with it. Someone like her roommate, the overweight Laurel, although it was doubtful anything Alix owned would fit her. Leaning against the building, knee bent, one foot braced against the wall, she concentrated on the other side of the street.

All the storefronts were newly painted. The new florist shop had already opened, as well as a beauty parlor. Those were a real boon to the neighborhood—as if
she
had use for either one. The shop situated between them remained something of a mystery. A Good Yarn. Either it was a bookstore or a knitting shop. In this neighborhood neither would last long, she suspected. On closer inspection she decided it was a yarn store. The people who lived in her building weren’t exactly the type who got off on a ball of yarn.

A knitting shop did bring up an interesting prospect, though. With another five minutes left of her break, Alix crossed the street. She peered through the window and saw a handmade sign offering knitting classes. If she started knitting, it would get the court off her back. Maybe she could do something about those community-service hours Judge Roper had thrown at her.

“Hi,” Alix said, letting her voice boom when she walked in the front door. She liked making an entrance.

“Hello.”

The proprietor was a dainty woman, fragile-looking with large brown eyes and a ready smile.

“You own this shop?” Alix asked, giving the other woman a cool glance. She couldn’t be much older than Alix.

“This is my shop.” She rose from her rocking chair. “How can I help you?”

“I want to know about that knitting class.” Her case worker had once suggested knitting as a means of anger management. Maybe it would work. And if it allowed her to meet her community-service obligations at the same time…

“What can I tell you?”

Slowly Alix walked around the shop, her hands shoved inside her pockets. She’d bet this knitting lady didn’t get many customers like her. Recently a notice in the courthouse had caught Alix’s attention—all about homemade quilts and blankets for kids who’d suffered domestic violence. “You ever heard of the Linus Project?” she asked, thinking this yarn lady probably hadn’t stepped inside a courtroom in her lifetime.

“Of course.” The woman joined her hands and followed Alix as if she was afraid Alix might try to lift some yarn. “It’s a police-instigated project that involves knitting blankets for children who are the victims of violence.”

Alix shrugged it off as if it were merely a passing thought. “That’s what I heard.”

“I’m Lydia, by the way.”

“Alix, spelled A-L-I-X.” She hadn’t expected to get on a first-name basis with the woman, but that was all right.

“Hello, Alix, and welcome to A Good Yarn. Are you interested in knitting for the Linus Project?”

“Well…” Her thoughts on the subject had been pretty vague. “I might be if I knew how to knit,” she finally muttered.

“That’s what the classes are for.”

Alix gave a short, humorless laugh. “I’m sure I wouldn’t be any good at knitting.”

“Would you like to learn? It isn’t difficult.”

She snorted, making an intentionally derisive sound. The truth was, Alix didn’t really know why she was here.
Perhaps it was because of something from her childhood, some remembered moment or feeling. Her early years were blocked from her mind. Those court-appointed doctors had said she suffered from childhood amnesia. Whatever. Every now and then a fleeting memory flashed through her mind. Most of the time she didn’t know what had really happened and what hadn’t. What she did remember was that her parents had fought a great deal. An argument would break out and Alix would hide in her bedroom closet. With the door shut and her eyes closed, she managed to convince herself there was no yelling and no violence. In that closet she had another family, one from an imaginary world where mothers and fathers loved each other and didn’t scream or beat each other up. Her imaginary world had a real home where half the refrigerator wasn’t filled with beer and there were cookies and milk waiting for her when she got home from school. Through the years, fantasy had played as great a role in Alix’s memory as reality did. One thing she recalled in vivid detail was that this fantasy mother who loved her used to knit.

Alix escaped into that closet quite often as a kid….

“I have a beginners’ class starting next Friday afternoon if you’d like to join.”

The words shook her from her reverie. Alix grinned. “You honestly think you could teach someone like me to knit?”

“Of course I do,” Lydia returned without a pause. “I’ve taught
lots
of people and there are only two women signed up for the class, so I could give you plenty of attention.”

“I’m left-handed.”

“That’s not a problem.”

The lady must be desperate for a sale. Excuses were
easy enough to supply and eventually Lydia would give up on her. As for learning to knit, she didn’t have money to blow on yarn.

“What about knitting a blanket for the Linus Project, like you mentioned?” Lydia asked.

Alix had walked right into that one.

Lydia kept on talking. “I’ve knit several blankets for the Linus Project myself,” she said.

“You have?” So this woman had a heart.

Lydia nodded. “There are only so many people to knit for, and it’s a worthy cause.”

People to knit for…
The mother in the closet knit. She sang songs to Alix and smelled of lavender and flowers. Alix had wanted to be like that mother one day. However, the path she’d followed had led her in a different direction. Perhaps this knitting class was something she could—
should
—do.

“I guess I could try,” she said, jerking one shoulder. If Laurel found out about this, Alix would be the subject of a lot of jokes, but so what? She’d been ridiculed most of her life for one reason or another.

Lydia smiled warmly. “That’s wonderful.”

“If the blanket for the Linus Project doesn’t turn out, then it really doesn’t matter. It isn’t like anyone’ll know I was the one who knit it.”

Lydia’s smile slowly faded. “
You’ll
know, Alix, and that’s the important thing.”

“Yes, but…well, I’m thinking your class could serve a dual purpose.” That sounded good, Alix thought, pleased with herself. “I could learn to knit, and the time it takes me to finish the blanket will use up some of the hours I owe.”

“You owe someone hours?”

“Judge Roper gave me a hundred hours of community service for a bogus drug bust. I didn’t do it! I’m not stu
pid and he knows it.” Her hands involuntarily clenched. She still felt upset about that charge, because the marijuana had belonged to Laurel. “Doing drugs is stupid.” She paused, then blurted out, “My brother’s dead because of drugs. I’m not interested in giving up on life just yet.”

Lydia straightened. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You’d like to sign up for the knitting class and give the blanket to the Linus Project?”

“Yeah.”

“And the time it takes you to knit this blanket—” she hesitated briefly “—you want to use against your court-ordered community-service hours?”

Alix detected a bit of attitude on Lydia’s part, but when it came to attitude, she had plenty of her own to spare. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Lydia hesitated. “Not really, as long as you’re respectful to me and the other class members.”

“Sure. Fine.” Alix glanced down at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. If you need me for anything, I’m almost always at the video store.”

“Okay.” All of a sudden Lydia didn’t sound as confident as she had before.

The video store was busy when Alix returned, and she hurried behind the counter.

“What took you so long?” Laurel demanded. “Fund asked where you were and I told him you’d stepped into the ladies’ room.”

“Sorry, I went outside for a cigarette.” According to the labor laws, she was entitled to a fifteen-minute break.

“Did you meet any of the construction guys?”

Alix shook her head as she moved over to the cash register. “Not a one. Four o’clock, and those guys are out of here faster than Seabiscuit.”

“We got to get ourselves a union,” Laurel whispered.

“Benefits.” Alix knew she was back in that dream world again. One day she’d find a job that paid more than minimum wage. It would be nice to have an apartment all to herself and not share it with Laurel. Laurel lived on the edge and was in danger of slipping off entirely. Alix’s biggest fear was that when Laurel went, she’d take Alix with her.