Читать книгу Blossom Street - Debbie Macomber - Страница 61

BETHANNE HAMLIN

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Bethanne Hamlin lamented as she pulled into the driveway of her Capitol Hill home. The house, built in the 1930s before it was deemed unsafe and unfeasible to use brick on top of an earthquake fault, had been her dream home. She’d fallen in love with it the moment she saw it. The short steep driveway ended at the basement garage. Concrete steps led to a small porch, and the front door was rounded, like the door to a fairy-tale cottage, she’d always thought. A gable jutted out from the second-floor master bedroom. The window seat there overlooked the entire neighborhood. Bethanne had often sat in that window and read or daydreamed. It was in this beautiful home that she’d once lived her perfect life. Her fairy-tale life …

She turned off the engine and sat in her five-year-old Plymouth, searching for the resolve and the strength to enter her house with a smile on her face. Taking a deep breath, she slid out of the car, reaching into the backseat for her groceries.

“I’m home,” she called out as she opened the front door, doing her best to sound cheerful.

She felt relief when silence greeted her.

“Andrew? Annie?” She placed the grocery bag on the kitchen countertop, filled the teakettle and set it on the burner. Before the divorce she’d never been much of a tea drinker, but in the last year she’d become practically addicted, drinking two or three pots a day.

“I’m home,” she announced a second time. Again, no response.

After a few minutes, the kettle began to whistle, and she poured the steaming water over Earl Grey tea bags in the ceramic pot that had once belonged to her grandmother. Then she carried it to the breakfast table.

Sitting in the small alcove, she tried to make sense of her life. Tried to make sense of everything that had happened to her and her children over the past two years. Nothing felt right anymore. It was as if the seasons no longer followed each other in proper succession. Or as if the moon had suddenly replaced the sun … She still had trouble understanding what had happened—and why.

It’d all started sixteen months earlier on the morning of Valentine’s Day. The kids were awake and banging around inside their bedrooms, getting ready for school. A little earlier, when she could hear Andrew and Annie squabbling over the bathroom, she’d thrown on her housecoat and started down to the kitchen to make breakfast. Then, as she reached the door, she’d noticed her husband sitting up in bed, knees bent, face in his hands. Bethanne’s first thought was that Grant had the flu. Any other morning, he was already up and dressed for work. He loved his job as a broker for a successful real estate company. He earned enough so that Bethanne could stay home with the children; from the time Andrew was born, and Annie thirteen months later, she’d felt the children should be her career. Grant had supported her decision. He liked having her home, accessible to him and the children, and appreciated the elegant business dinners she frequently prepared for him and his colleagues.

“Grant?” she’d asked, completely unsuspecting of what was to follow.

He’d looked up and Bethanne had read such pain in his eyes that she sat down on the bed and placed her hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” she’d asked gently.

Grant couldn’t seem to speak. He opened his mouth as if to begin, but no words came.

“Mom!” Annie shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “I need you.”

Torn between her husband’s needs and those of her children, Bethanne vacillated, then squeezed Grant’s arm. “I’ll be right back.” Actually it took ten minutes, and both kids had left the house by the time she returned.

Grant’s position was unchanged when she walked into the bedroom, his expression just as bleak.

“Tell me,” she’d whispered urgently, her mind whirling as she wondered what could possibly be wrong. Grant had been to see the doctor for a physical the week before; everything seemed fine, but there’d been the routine tests. Perhaps Dr. Lyman had found something and Grant was only now able to tell her. She sat down next to him again, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Grant had announced in a voice so hoarse that he didn’t sound like himself.

She’d kissed his cheek and felt him stiffen. “Grant, please—tell me what’s wrong.”

He’d started to weep then, huge sobs that shook his whole body. In the twenty years of their marriage, she could only recall a handful of times that her husband had revealed such deep emotion. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he cried.

“Just tell me!”

He gripped her shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “You’re a good woman, Bethanne, but …” He faltered. “But I don’t love you anymore.”

At first she could only assume this was a hoax and she giggled. “What do you mean, you don’t love me anymore? Grant, we’ve been married for twenty years. Of course you love me.”

He closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. “No, I don’t. I’m sorry, so sorry, but I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. I can’t carry on with this … this charade any longer.”

Bethanne was dumbstruck, staring at Grant. This was the man she’d loved and slept with all these years and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, he’d become a stranger.

“What happened?” she asked uncertainly.

“Please,” he begged, “don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?” At that moment she was more perplexed than angry. Rather than take his words personally, Bethanne immediately went into her problem-solving mode. Whatever was wrong could be fixed, the same way you’d have a broken faucet or a faulty outlet repaired. You just called a plumber or an electrician. Whatever was wrong simply needed the appropriate attention and then everything would go back to working as it always had.

“There’s a reason I don’t love you anymore,” her husband said from between clenched teeth. He tossed aside the comforter and got out of bed. His obvious irritation took her aback.

“Grant, what’s gotten into you?”

He climbed into his pants, hiked them up and closed the zipper. “Are you really this dense, or do I need to spell it out?”

In a matter of seconds he’d gone from tears to tyrant. “Spell out what?” she asked, innocently turning up her hands to receive whatever he had to tell her. She was more shocked by his rudeness than by what he was saying.

He paused, one arm in the sleeve of his shirt. He spoke without looking at her and without emotion. “There’s someone else.”

It hit Bethanne then; she finally understood. “You’re having an … affair?” She went numb and her mouth was instantly dry. Her tongue seemed to swell to twice its normal size, making speech impossible. In no way could this be true. She refused to believe it—Grant would never betray her like this. She’d know if he was cheating. Men had affairs in movies and in books. It was the sort of thing that happened to other women, other marriages, not hers. She’d clung to a surreal sense of denial for those first few minutes as he continued to dress for work.

“When? How?” she managed to stutter.

“We met at the office,” Grant said. “She’s another agent, recently joined the company.” He sighed heavily. “I tried to make it work with you and me, but it’s no good. I didn’t mean for this to happen.” There was a pleading quality in his voice, quickly replaced by anger. “Damn it, Bethanne, don’t make things any more difficult than they already are.” As if he’d planned this for days, he opened the closet door and extracted a suitcase, which he set on the bed.

“You’re … leaving?”

He answered by opening his dresser drawers and lifting out his clothes. Bethanne winced as she watched him drop a stack of neatly folded undershirts on the bottom of the suitcase. Grant was extremely particular about his T-shirts, which had to be folded just so. He was meticulous about every aspect of his personal appearance and that perfectionism extended beyond his hair and clothes.

“Where … where will you go?” Her head was crowded with questions, and it seemed the most inessential ones rose to the surface first.

“I’m moving in with Tiffany,” he announced.

“Tiffany?” she repeated, and why she should find humor in the midst of the most horrible moment of her life, she would never know. All at once she was laughing. “You’re leaving me for a woman named Tiffany?”

He glared at her as if she were truly demented and just then perhaps she was. “Go,” she said, almost flippantly, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “I just want you to go.”

As if to prove her point, she’d marched all the way down to the basement and collected a second, even bigger suitcase, which she hauled to their bedroom. As she climbed down and then back up the stairs, she racked her mind, trying to remember if she’d ever met this Tiffany. To the best of her recollection she hadn’t. Grant’s office was filled with women, but she’d never suspected he was capable of such treachery. Although she was panting by the time she’d dragged the large suitcase up two flights of stairs, she didn’t pause for breath, her anger carrying her.

She flopped the empty suitcase carelessly on the bed, and a cloud of dust spread over the white comforter, which she ignored. Then she threw open the closet door, grabbed his suits around the middle and yanked them out, still on their hangers. Unceremoniously, she shoved them into the suitcase.

“Bethanne!” he shouted. “Stop it.”

“No,” she bellowed at the top of her lungs. Then, more quietly, she asked, “How long has this thing with you and Tiffany been going on?” When he didn’t reply, she demanded, “How old is she, anyway?” Once she’d started on this line of questioning, she couldn’t stop. “Is she married, too, or am I the only one being tossed aside?”

Grant refused to meet her gaze.

“A while?”

Again Grant refused to look at her as she packed his suitcases. She’d begun just throwing in his clothes but had quickly reverted to habit—folding, straightening, arranging.

“A month? Two months? How good is she in bed?”

“Bethanne, don’t.”

“How long?” She wouldn’t stop until he told her the truth.

Grant released a laborious sigh as if her relentlessness had broken him down. “Two years.”

“Two years!” she cried, consumed with rage. “Get out of this house.”

He nodded.

“Get out, and don’t come back.” In that moment she meant it. But not long afterward, she’d desperately wanted him home again. It embarrassed her now to remember how frantic she’d been to win back her husband’s affection. She’d been willing to do anything—see a counselor, beg, bribe, reason with him. At one point, just before the settlement hearing, she would’ve given up ten years of her life for Grant to return to his family.

But when Grant moved out of the house and in with Tiffany, he had no intention of returning. She’d nearly been destroyed by that. Eventually she’d had to accept it: Grant was never coming home. He didn’t love her anymore and nothing she said or did would change his mind.

Her marriage was dead, and burying it had virtually obliterated her self-esteem. If not for her children, Bethanne didn’t know what she would’ve done. Andrew and Annie needed her more than ever, and only for them did she continue.

When she’d finally made an appointment with an attorney, the man had been straightforward and helpful; what seemed like a fair financial arrangement had been settled upon. Grant refinanced the house for the third time and paid off their cars and their credit card bills with whatever equity he could extract, so they were both essentially debt-free. He was instructed to pay alimony for two years, plus child support until the children were out of high school. They would share college expenses. He hadn’t been late with a check yet, but then the state made sure of that. Bethanne would have to find a job soon, but for a dozen different reasons, she delayed.

It was now six months after the divorce had been finalized, and the fog was only starting to clear. She told herself she had to live one day at a time as she learned to deal with what her family and friends called her “new reality.” The problem was, she preferred her old reality….

Bethanne sipped her tea, which had begun to cool. She was startled from her thoughts when the door off the kitchen banged open and sixteen-year-old Annie came in, red-faced and sweating. Tendrils of wet hair pressed against the sides of her face. She wore a halter top and spandex shorts, and had apparently been out for a lengthy run. Because Annie had always felt close to her father, she’d taken the divorce particularly hard. Soon after Grant moved out, Annie had started running and would often go five and even ten miles a day. Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the only change in her daughter’s behavior. The new friends she’d acquired were a bigger concern.

Bethanne worried endlessly about Annie and the company she kept. The girl’s anger was focused on Tiffany, and Bethanne suspected that Annie’s new friends encouraged her more outrageous acts. While Bethanne was no fan of the other woman, whom she’d discovered to be fifteen years younger than her ex, she was afraid Annie might do something stupid in her zeal to retaliate against Tiffany, something that would involve the police.

Andrew had talked to Bethanne several times about various things he’d learned Annie had done. These included signing Tiffany up for magazine subscriptions, leaving her name and number with sales staff and scheduling appointments, all in Tiffany’s name. However, Annie remained scornfully silent whenever Bethanne tried to bring up the subject.

“You didn’t leave me a note,” Bethanne chastised mildly as Annie walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a cold bottle of water.

“Sorry,” the girl mumbled unapologetically. She twisted off the lid, leaned back her head and gulped down half the contents. “I figured you’d know. I run every day.”

Bethanne did know, but that was beside the point.

“How’d it go at the employment agency?” her daughter asked.

Bethanne sighed, wishing Annie hadn’t mentioned it. “Not good.” She’d known this job search would be difficult, but she’d had no idea how truly painful the process would be. “When I told the interviewer about my baking skills, he didn’t seem overly impressed.”

“You should work in a bakery.”

Bethanne had already considered that, but being around food for eight hours a day didn’t appeal to her.

“Andrew and I were the envy of all our friends.” Annie sounded almost nostalgic. “We had the best birthday parties and birthday cakes of anyone.”

“I used to organize great scavenger hunts too, but there’s little call for that these days.”

“Oh, Mom.” She rolled her eyes as she spoke.

“I’ll look seriously once the summer is over.”

“You keep putting it off,” Annie chided.

Her daughter was right, but after all these years outside the job market, Bethanne didn’t think she possessed any saleable skills. She was terrified that she’d end up at a grocery store asking people if they wanted paper or plastic for the rest of her life.

“I was thinking of selling cosmetics,” she said tentatively, glancing at Annie for a reaction. “I could set my own hours and—”

“Mom!” Her daughter glared at her. “That’s pathetic.”

“Lots of women make a very nice income from it, and—”

“Selling cosmetics is fine for someone else, but not you. You’re great at lots of things, but you’d make a terrible salesperson and we both know it. There’s got to be something you can do. Where’s your pride?”

For the last sixteen months it’d been swirling in the bottom of a toilet bowl. “I’d hate an office job,” Bethanne said. She wasn’t convinced she could ever adjust to a nine-to-five routine.

“You should do something just for you,” Annie insisted. “I’m not even talking about a job.”

Everyone Bethanne knew, including the counsellor she’d briefly seen, had told her the same thing. “When did you get so smart?” she teased.

“Isn’t there anything you’d like to do just for fun?”

Bethanne shrugged. “You’ll laugh and tell me it’s pathetic.”

“What?”

She sighed, reluctant to say anything. “I saw a yarn store the other day and was thinking how much I’d like to knit again. It’s been years. I made you a baby blanket, remember?”

“Mom,” Annie cried, flinching as though Bethanne had embarrassed her. “Of course I remember it. I slept with that yellow blankie until I was ten.”

“I used to enjoy knitting, but that was years ago.”

The front door opened, then slammed shut. Andrew, coming home from his part-time job at the local Safeway. He entered the kitchen, shucking off his backpack, and without a word to either of them, opened the fridge and stared inside. Apparently nothing interested him more than a soda, which he removed. He closed the door, leaning against it, and frowned at them.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from Bethanne to his younger sister.

“Mom’s talking about wanting to knit again,” Annie said.

“It’s only something I’m thinking about,” Bethanne rushed to add.

“You can do it,” Annie told her firmly.

“Yeah,” Andrew agreed and popped the top of his soda.

But Bethanne wasn’t sure she could. It all seemed to require too much energy—finding a job, organizing her life, even knitting. “Maybe I will,” she murmured tentatively.

“You’re not putting this off the way you have everything else.” Annie opened the pantry door and pulled out the Yellow Pages. “Where was that yarn shop?”

Bethanne bit her lower lip. “Blossom Street.”

“Do you remember the name of it?” Andrew asked.

Annie flipped to the back of the massive directory.

“No, but listen—”

With her finger on the page, Annie looked up, eyes flashing with determination. “Found it.” She smiled triumphantly at her brother, scooped up the phone and punched out the number before Bethanne could protest. When she’d finished, Annie handed the receiver to her mother.

A woman answered. “A Good Yarn,” she said in a friendly voice. “How may I help you?”

“Ah, hello … my name is Bethanne Hamlin. I guess my name doesn’t matter, but, well, I was wondering if you still offer knitting classes.” She paused to take a breath. “I used to knit years ago,” she went on, “but it’s been a very long time. Perhaps it’d be better if I visited the store.” Bethanne’s gaze rose to meet her daughter’s.

“Give me the phone,” Annie demanded and without waiting for a response, grabbed it from her.

“Yes, that sounds great. Sign her up,” Annie ordered. She reached for a pad and paper and wrote down the details. “She’ll be there.” Half a minute later, Annie replaced the portable phone.

“You signed her up for a class?” Andrew asked.

“Yup.”

“I, ah …” Bethanne suddenly felt panicked about spending the money. “Listen, this might not be such a good idea, after all, because—”

Her daughter cut her off. “You’ll be learning to knit socks.”

“Socks?” Bethanne cried, vigorously shaking her head. “That’s far too complicated for me.”

“Mom,” Andrew said, “you used to knit all the time, remember?”

“Socks aren’t difficult, according to the shop owner,” Annie continued. “Her name’s Lydia Hoffman and she said they’re actually quite simple.”

“Yeah, right,” Bethanne muttered.

“You’re going, Mom, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

“You’re going,” Andrew echoed.

Apparently their roles had reversed, although this was news to Bethanne. It must’ve happened while she wasn’t paying attention.