The Shop on Blossom Street

Page 5

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 stupid 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.
CHAPTER 5
“If you can knit, purl and follow instructions, you can make anything.”
—Linda Johnson, Linda’s Knit ‘N’ Stitch, Silverdale, Washington
LYDIA HOFFMAN
I was afraid Margaret could be right and A Good Yarn would fail before it even had a chance to get off the ground. So far, only three women had signed up for the knitting class and Alix, the latest one to enroll, looked like a felon. I couldn’t imagine how Jacqueline and Carol would react to a classmate who sported a dog collar and wore her hair in purple-tinged spikes. I’d encouraged Alix to join, and then the moment she left the store I wondered if I’d done the right thing. What was I thinking? What was I thinking?
The construction noise wasn’t quite as disruptive now, which was a relief, but that hadn’t brought any more customers into the shop. On a positive note, I hadn’t had this much uninterrupted knitting time in months. I should’ve been counting my blessings, I suppose, but I was too worried about the lack of walk-in traffic.
Every knowledgeable person I’ve talked to about opening the store suggested I have enough money in the bank to pay for a minimum of six months’ expenses. I do, but I hope and pray I’ll be able to keep at least part of my inheritance intact. Now that I’ve actually taken the risk, I feel bombarded with second thoughts and fears.
Margaret always does that to me. I wish I understood my sister. Some days I think she hates me. A part of me recognizes what the problem is: I was the one who got all of Mom and Dad’s attention, but I needed them. I refuse to believe that my sister would seriously think I was so hungry for attention that I wished the cancer upon myself.