A Good Yarn. Debbie Macomber
grandmother, who was an accomplished knitter and one of my regular customers. I wondered why she hadn’t decided to teach Courtney herself, because she was more than qualified to do so.
“What do you think?” the girl asked.
“Your grandmother’s right. The Knit Two-Purl Two method gives the sock more elasticity, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.”
“Oh, sorry.”
I talked for a few minutes about knitting a sock that would fit the foot properly. I also passed around a gauge to help the class figure out the proper number of stitches to cast on according to the weight of the yarn. The light, fingering style yarn required more stitches, the heavier yarns fewer.
“Is everyone still with me?” I asked.
All three nodded. I spent the remainder of the class teaching the Norwegian method of casting on and how to work with the two circular needles. Courtney picked up on everything right away. She finished first and looked up proudly while both Elise and Bethanne struggled with the needles and the yarn.
Most of my time was spent helping Bethanne. I’m sure she wasn’t lying when she said she’d knit years earlier, but she could barely hold on to the yarn and needles now. I’d never met a less confident woman and I have to admit Bethanne tried my patience.
My reaction to Elise’s difficulty wasn’t much better. She didn’t mutter an unnecessary word following her chastisement of Bethanne and I sensed she regretted the outburst. I also had the distinct feeling that she found me lacking as a teacher. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation.
After they’d finished, gathered up their supplies and left, I felt as if I’d put in a full day. I was exhausted.
“How’d the class go?” Margaret asked, joining me in the back office as I made myself some tea.
“Dreadful.”
“Really?”
I shook my head, not wanting to talk about it. It suddenly occurred to me that this might very well explain how my sister felt about discussing the troubles in her own life.
“I can see this isn’t going to be a good class,” I muttered.
Margaret was unaccustomed to a pessimistic outlook from me. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a feeling …”
“And that feeling is?”
I sighed. “Elise is cranky. Bethanne is panicky and convinced she can’t remember how to knit. And Courtney is resentful.”
I wondered if I was going to regret offering this class.
8
CHAPTER
BETHANNE HAMLIN
After her knitting class, Bethanne waited at the white wrought-iron table outside the French bakery. Grant had reluctantly agreed to meet her, but it didn’t escape her notice that he’d chosen a public place, as if he anticipated her making a scene. She had no intention of doing any such thing; all she wanted was some help and advice. She hoped they could discuss the situation in a civil manner. Surprisingly perhaps, she didn’t hate Grant, and for the sake of their children, they needed to work together. Surely he recognized that, too.
Sipping an espresso, Bethanne hoped the strong hot coffee would bolster her courage. This would be an unpleasant conversation, especially when she brought up the subject of money.
Grant rounded the corner on foot and Bethanne wondered where he’d parked. She saw him before he saw her. He was a striking man, and even though he’d betrayed her in the most fundamental way, she couldn’t stop loving him. It angered her that she still had feelings for him, but her love was mingled with anger and horror and disbelief. This man walking toward her now was a virtual stranger.
When Grant caught sight of her, he didn’t smile; instead, he acknowledged Bethanne with a quick nod. She’d worn a black tailored blazer over a light-green silk blouse and expensive black trousers, and her hair was neatly drawn back with a large silver clip. He didn’t react to her appearance at all, even though he used to admire how she looked in this outfit. He pulled out the wrought-iron chair and sat down without a smile or any indication of pleasure at seeing her.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, thinking this would be easier if they were both relaxed.
“No.” He checked his watch. “I only have a few minutes. Now what’s the problem?”
Bethanne fought back emotion at the curt way he spoke. “It’s about Annie.”
“That’s what you said on the phone, and frankly I don’t see what she’s done that’s so far outside of the norm. Okay, she’s angry. It’s to be expected and Tiff’s been a good sport about putting up with the magazine subscriptions and the calls from the blood bank. You’re the one who seems to think Annie’s got this pent-up rage that’s about to explode.”
“I don’t think it, Grant, I know it. I’m worried … even Andrew’s worried. He wouldn’t have come to me if he wasn’t.”
“Fine, so you and Andrew are worried. I don’t mean to sound callous here, but I don’t think Annie’s that overwrought. A certain amount of animosity is normal and she’ll get past that soon enough.”
“But you aren’t the one living with her,” Bethanne argued. “I am. Yes, on the surface she seems to be adjusting, but she isn’t.” Grant shook his head contemptuously and she found herself growing even angrier. “When did you become an expert on the effects of divorce on teenage girls? What did you do, read a book?” It would be too much to expect that he’d talked to a counsellor.
Grant sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I know she’s taken up running, and that’s a good way for her to vent her frustration,” he said, ignoring her question.
“I know … I agree, but—”
“You’re using the kids as a convenient way to get to me,” he said, challenge in his voice.
“Get to you?” She managed not to yell. Her anger threatened to erupt but for the sake of her children, and because they were in a public place, Bethanne forced it down. She’d hoped to reach him, to show him that their daughter had a serious problem. She wasn’t sure how to deal with Annie and she wanted, needed, his help.
“I’m supposed to feel guilty,” Grant muttered. “That’s what you’re trying to do here. You’re manipulating me, and Annie’s just as bad. God knows both kids are yanking my chain. According to the terms of the divorce, they’re supposed to spend every other weekend with me. They refuse, and you let them! Well, I’m sick of your games—and theirs too.”
It was true; Andrew and Annie strenuously resisted all her efforts to send them to Grant’s place for the mandated weekends. She couldn’t force them to go. Not at their age.
“But, I—”
He stood as if he’d said everything he intended to say.
Bethanne knew that unless she confessed what she’d done, Grant would simply walk away. “I … I read Annie’s journal.” She wasn’t proud of that, but instinct had told her something was wrong. The few entries she’d read had made her blood run cold. Annie had experimented with drugs and was sneaking out at night, meeting her new “friends.” The boys Annie wrote about weren’t the ones Bethanne had met and what went on during these secret meetings she was afraid to speculate.
Grant sat back down. “You did what?”
“I read her journal. Oh, Grant, you don’t have any idea how furious she is at both of us. She’s fooling around with … with things she shouldn’t, and—”
He shrugged as if to say Bethanne should have expected this. “She’ll get over it. This divorce was a shock, and we