Читать книгу Blossom Street (Books 1-10) - Debbie Macomber - Страница 50

“Knitting is a haven, a safe place where one can touch history, dance with art and create a peaceful life.”

—Nancy Bush, author of Folk Socks

LYDIA HOFFMAN

At first I was angry when I didn’t hear from Brad. After all his affirmations about being there for the long haul, he’d walked out on me like every other man in my life, with the exception of my father. A thousand times over, I wished I’d read his letter. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer—I had to know.

I turned to my sister for advice; I’d come to rely on her more and more, especially in emotional matters. So on Monday, I called her.

“Where are you?” Margaret demanded immediately after I’d said hello.

“At the shop.”

“It’s Monday. I thought you took Mondays off.”

“I do, but there are always a million things to do here and well, it’s where I’m most comfortable.” I did all my best thinking with walls of yarn around me. I’d always looked upon skeins of yarn as unfulfilled promises—the way some people, writers or artists, look at a blank page. The potential is there, and it’s up to us to make something with that yarn or write something on that page. It’s the sense of possibility I find so exciting.

Actually, I gave a lot of thought to that analogy. My relationship with Brad held promise and because of my fears I’d let him go. I didn’t do anything with all those possibilities.

“You’re calling about Brad, aren’t you?”

Sometimes Margaret seems like a mind-reader. “If you must know … yes. Have you heard from him?”

“Me? What makes you think he’d contact me?”

“Wishful thinking, I suppose.” Even over the telephone line, I could tell my sister was amused by my question.

“Are you going to call him?”

The idea had been swirling around inside my head all week. “I might.”

“Then why are you calling me?” The gruffness I’d experienced so often with her was back in full force.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe because I was hoping you’d tell me I was doing the right thing and that I wouldn’t make a complete idiot of myself in the process.”

Margaret hesitated for only a moment. “If I were you, I’d go for it.”

“You would?” Hope sprang to life.

“Call me back once you do, okay?”

“Okay.” I had to pause to be sure the warmth in her voice was directed at me. “Margaret.” I swallowed, finding it difficult to continue.

“What?”

“I wanted to thank you for being so wonderful these last few months.”

My gratitude must have taken her aback, because she didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Time seemed to be suspended and then I thought I heard a soft sigh.

“It’s very nice to have a sister, you know,” she whispered.

I couldn’t have agreed with her more.

Once I’d determined that the only thing to do was call Brad, I was on a mission. I’d rehearsed several approaches before I dialed his home number later that evening.

His son answered on the second ring. “Hello, Cody,” I said.

“Hi.” He sounded unsure as if he didn’t recognize my voice.

“I’m Lydia. Remember? We met a little while ago.”

“I remember! You’re the lady who owns the yarn store. You said you were going to knit me a cool sweater with a green-and-yellow dinosaur on it.”

I smiled to myself. “I’ve already started it.” I’d put the project aside when I went into the hospital, but with concentrated effort, I could have it finished by the end of the week. “Is your dad home?”

“Just a minute. I’ll get him for you.”

My heart died a hundred deaths in the time it took Brad to pick up the receiver. It must’ve been less than a minute but it seemed closer to an hour before I heard his familiar voice.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” My mouth was so dry, my tongue refused to cooperate. “It’s Lydia.” His silence was nearly my undoing, but I forged ahead, simultaneously blessing and cursing Margaret for encouraging this.

“What can I do for you?” he finally asked.

“Could we meet and talk?” I asked.

“When?”

“Whenever it’s convenient for you.” I wanted to shout the sooner, the better, but it depended on his schedule and not mine.

“All right. I’ll let you know when I can arrange it.”

I waited for him to say something else and when he didn’t, I had no choice but to end the conversation. “I’ll wait to hear from you, then.”

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” The line went dead and I was left standing with the receiver in my hand and the dial tone in my ear.

This was much worse than I’d imagined. I’d secretly hoped that once Brad heard the sound of my voice, he’d be so pleased that whatever pain I’d caused him would evaporate. How foolish I’d been not to consider his feelings.

Over the years Margaret’s complaint about me had been that I was self-absorbed. I know she resented the fact that Mom and Dad focused their attention on helping me through my ordeals. I’d always believed that her accusations were unfair, based on her own jealousies and insecurities, but now I began to see things differently.

How cheated she must have felt. Cheated and abandoned. For the first time, I wondered if she could be right about me. I couldn’t have done anything about my cancer, but I could’ve changed my reaction to it. I had the victim mentality down to an art form.

I remained standing in my kitchen, toying with the idea of calling Margaret again, when the phone rang, startling me. I grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”

“I can meet you in half an hour at The Pour House.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” he said as if that should be obvious.

“All right.” The phone clicked as he hung up.

Within five minutes I’d brushed my hair and dabbed my wrists with a lovely French perfume my dad had given me years ago—the one I saved for my most special occasions. On my way out the door, I grabbed a light sweater.

I’d found a corner booth and paid for a pitcher of beer by the time Brad walked into the pub. He glanced around, saw me and then headed toward the booth. He slid in across from me.

Hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop watching him. All of a sudden, my eyes started to fill with tears. I would die of mortification if he noticed. I did everything but dive headfirst into my mug of beer in an effort to hide this ridiculous crying jag.

Of course he noticed.

“Lydia, are you crying?”

I nodded and dug frantically in my purse for a tissue. “I am so sorry,” I sobbed, hiccuping in an effort to hold back the tears.

“For crying?”

I nodded, letting my head bob a time or two more than necessary. “For everything. I treated you terribly.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I was so afraid and—”

“You didn’t read my letter.”

“I know.” I paused long enough to blow my nose. “I couldn’t, because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to keep you out of my life. I had to let you go, for your protection and for mine.”

Brad lifted the pitcher and refilled my mug. “I prefer to make my own decisions.”

“I know, but …” All my excuses sounded hollow and insincere now. “Margaret thinks I’m self-absorbed and she’s right. I’m so sorry, Brad, for … everything.”

“That’s what you wanted to tell me? Why you called and asked me to meet you?”

I nodded again. It was what I’d wanted to say, but there were other things, too. My throat seemed to close up, and the silence that fell between us felt utterly unmanageable.

“There’s more.”

Brad looked up from his beer expectantly. He wasn’t making this easy, but then I didn’t deserve that.

“Ever since I met you, since we started seeing each other, I’ve been … happy.”

He shrugged. “You could’ve fooled me.”

“I know … You see, I’ve realized I have a hard time handling life when everything’s going smoothly. I’m not used to being happy and I don’t know how to deal with it. So I do something stupid to mess it up.”

“You figured this out on your own?”

I shook my head. “Margaret helped.” None too gently, either, but he didn’t need to know that. My relationship with my sister was still complicated, but now I knew she cared about me.

“Ah yes, Margaret. Little Ms. Matchmaker.”

“She’s all right.” It surprised me how defensive I felt toward her.

“Yes, she is—and so are you.”

I smiled through my tears. “Thank you.”

He took a deep swallow of beer. “Okay, now that the apology’s out of the way, where does that leave us?”

I didn’t know what to tell him. “Where would you like our relationship to go?” My heart was hammering so loudly, it was nearly impossible to hear my own thoughts.

“In the same direction it was headed until your most recent tests.” His look grew intense as he reached across the table for my hand. “What about you, Lydia? What do you want?”

“I want the entire month wiped from my memory and I want us to go back to the way things were before and … and I want us to be close again.” Then, because he should know, I added, “But it’s important that you understand there are no guarantees.”

“Your sister told me everything.”

“Everything?” Then he knew. “And you still want …”

“I want you more than ever, Lydia, but I don’t want you shoving me out of your life because you think I can’t deal with your illness. Let me make that decision for myself.”

It was hard to give him that control, but I knew he was right. He was asking more of me than he realized.

“I can’t make you any promises,” he continued, “but I can tell you that I care for you a great deal.”

“I care for you, too.”

“That’s a starting point, and where it leads neither of us can know.” He smiled at me with those devilish blue eyes and I understood that Brad Goetz wasn’t going to turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble. He was a man I could trust. A man I could lean on. A man who was my father’s equal in every way.