Читать книгу Blossom Street - Debbie Macomber - Страница 36

“If you can count the number of projects you have going, you need to begin another, so you have a varied range of complexity, from the very simple ‘mindless’ ones to those that demand undivided attention.”

—Laura Early, lifetime knitter

LYDIA HOFFMAN

I’ve spent so much time in doctors’ offices that over the years I’ve come to dread even the most routine appointments. It’s almost always the same. I sit in an uncomfortable chair in a waiting room full of strangers and we all avoid looking at one another. Generally, I bring my knitting or I flip through magazines that are months if not years old.

The one advantage of being in Dr. Wilson’s office is that after all this time the staff have become practically as familiar as family, especially Peggy, Dr. Wilson’s nurse.

Peggy was working for Dr. Wilson when I came in for my first appointment, nearly fifteen years ago. I remember when she was pregnant, not once but twice. I vividly recall wondering if I’d be alive to see her second baby. The thing with cancer is that you learn to take nothing for granted. Not one day, not one season, not even a minute. At sixteen I wanted to make it to seventeen so I could attend the Junior-Senior Prom. I survived, but no one asked me to the prom.

“Lydia.” Peggy stood in the doorway holding my chart, which must weigh twenty pounds. My medical history was filled with details, of symptoms and procedures, as well as documentation of the different medications I’d taken.

When I got up, it seemed that every eye in the waiting room was on me. If I’d been the type of person to grandstand, I would’ve leaped to my feet and announced I was a two-time winner in the lottery of life. Having a more subdued nature, however, I calmly stuffed my knitting into my quilted bag and followed Peggy.

“How are you doing?” Peggy asked after she’d weighed me and made a notation on the chart.

“Great.” I stepped off the scale and sighed with relief to note that my weight was within a couple of pounds of my last visit. Peggy led me to the cubicle at the far end of the hallway, where she thrust a disposable thermometer under my tongue and reached for my wrist. She stared at her watch and quickly made a second notation on my chart. “Good strong heartbeat,” she said, sounding pleased.

I should hope so; my insurance company had paid plenty for the privilege of having that heartbeat. I would’ve told her as much but talking wasn’t an option at the moment.

Peggy was pumping the blood-pressure cuff, which she’d wrapped around my upper arm. It grew uncomfortably tight before she released it. When she’d finished listening, she nodded. “Very good.”

At last she removed the thermometer. “You’re feeling well?”

“I feel fabulous.”

Peggy smiled. “There’s a sparkle in your eyes. You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

“Oh, hardly.” I brushed aside her insight, but found I really did want to tell her about Brad. I didn’t, because there wasn’t that much to tell. Not yet, anyway. We’d met for drinks twice, talked on the phone two or three times a week, sometimes for an hour or more. He came by the shop at least once during the course of a week and occasionally—no, more than occasionally—we kissed.

Brad and I were only beginning to know each other. We weren’t serious, weren’t even close to being serious. Brad was deeply involved in his son’s life and I was deeply involved in my business. We were friends in the same way I was friends with Carol Girard. Okay, maybe not exactly the same way, but nevertheless friends. For now, that was comfortable for me and apparently for him, too.

“Have you met someone?” Peggy asked again.

I nodded hesitantly.

I thought she was ready to burst into applause. “I always knew you would,” she said with a smile of delight.

“Oh, honestly, Peggy, I’m thirty years old.”

“And your point is?”

It was embarrassing to be this transparent, especially at my age, but that’s another aspect of having had cancer as a teenager. My social maturity seemed stuck where it was the day I got my driver’s license. Social development is delayed for those of us who are detoured by the fight for life. I don’t want to sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself because I’m not; this is a simple fact that needs to be taken into account in relationships.

I knew the routine visits well enough to know that the next part was to stretch out my arm for Peggy to extract vial after vial of my blood. I once teased her that I should be paid for the amount she collected. Not one vial but four, two large and two small.

I barely blinked as the needle pricked my skin. In the beginning, though, I used to get dizzy with fear at the sight of a needle. Once I nearly fainted, but that was years ago. Compared to some of the procedures I’ve endured, having my blood drawn is kid’s play.

Peggy paused to exchange a full tube for an empty one and glanced up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look happier.”

“I am happy,” I assured her. My new happiness had come about for several reasons. Opening my shop played a big role in how I felt and so, of course, did meeting Brad. A Good Yarn was my affirmation of life and allowing myself to get involved with Brad was an additional act of faith.

“I’m so pleased for you.” Peggy repeated the process with the tubes and then wrote my name on each one. “I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”

I nodded.

She walked out to the front with me and got someone else’s file.

My spirits were high as I strolled out of the doctor’s office. It was a glorious August afternoon and while the store was closed on Mondays, I could think of nowhere else I’d rather be. I truly loved my shop. It gave me pleasure just to be there with all the yarn around me. There’s something completely satisfying about standing in the middle of a store that only a few months earlier was little more than a dream.

I had on a sleeveless summer dress made of seersucker with a pretty white eyelet collar. The dress was a favorite of mine, and yes, I’ll admit it, I hoped that if I ventured into my shop I might accidentally-on-purpose run into Brad. He made deliveries in the neighborhood on Mondays and he always knocked on my door if he saw I was there.

Listening to the radio, I kept an eye on the windows in case he happened to drive past. Blossom Street was open to traffic now and this had dramatically increased business. Lots of people came to the neighborhood just to see the changes. The stores along both sides of the street had put out their welcome mats.

The construction directly across from me appeared to be nearly finished, although there seemed to be plenty of men in hard hats still parading around. I wasn’t sure when everything was officially scheduled to be completed, but I knew it wouldn’t be much longer.

Just as I’d hoped, Brad’s dark-brown delivery truck came into view. It was all I could do not to stand like a mannequin in the window. It was even harder to resist the urge to jump up and down and wave my arms. I did neither, but I was definitely tempted. I was in just that silly, quirky frame of mind.

I saw my man-in-brown leap out of his truck with a couple of packages for the floral shop next door. I didn’t know if he’d seen me or not until he came out with a single long-stemmed red rose. I waved despite my resolve not to and he winked at me.

Unlocking the front door, I let him into the shop. “For me?” I asked.

“It’ll cost ya,” Brad teased.

“Name your price?”

“A kiss,” he said, grinning boyishly. “Maybe two.”

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I blushed. He took me by the hand and led me behind a tall shelf filled with worsted yarn. At least there we had a bit of privacy.

“How’d the doctor’s visit go?”

“I didn’t even see him. It was for routine blood tests.”

“Are you nervous?”

I shook my head. Maybe I should’ve been, but the cancer had left me alone for a long time now and after a certain period you can’t help growing a little confident. More than that, I felt too good to be sick again and showed none of the symptoms I had in the past other than an occasional migraine. Besides, for the first time in years, I was truly hopeful for the future.

“I’m free on Saturday night.” Brad was looking down at me, his eyes so intense and provocative it was nearly impossible to breathe.

“That’s nice.”

“How about if I take you to dinner and a movie?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Anyplace you want to eat, as long as it isn’t McDonald’s.”

I smiled again. Cody was a big fan of their cheeseburgers, and Brad was thoroughly tired of fast food.

“You got it. Anyplace but McDonald’s.”

Then, with such ease I was barely aware of what he was doing, Brad brought me into his arms and kissed me. The earth didn’t move, the sky didn’t fall, but I swear I felt that kiss from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. If a man could make me feel all that with a simple kiss, I could only imagine what it would be like if—when—we made love. I closed my eyes, wanting to hold on to this wonderful feeling as long as I could.

“You smell so good,” he whispered, nuzzling my neck.

“It’s my perfume.” I let my head fall back and he spread small kisses along my throat. I was practically purring like Whiskers, my cat, when he lies on the windowsill, basking in the afternoon sun.

“I don’t care what it is, just promise to wear the same one on Saturday night, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered, and he kissed me again. Neither of us wanted to stop, but he was still on the clock and we knew it had to end. When he released me I felt his reluctance as keenly as my own. A girl could get mighty accustomed to Brad’s kind of kisses.

“I’ll pick you up at seven on Saturday evening, all right?”

“Perfect,” I told him.

In that moment, “perfect” was how I’d describe my life.