Blossom Street Bundle. Debbie Macomber
opened a can of his favorite tuna and set it down. He’s terribly spoiled, but I can’t help it. While Whiskers chowed down on dinner, I sorted through the day’s mail and came upon an envelope with a familiar scrawl. Margaret.
I hesitated before I tore it open. Inside were two thank-you notes, one from each of my nieces, thanking me for the sweaters I’d recently knit. It was the first time they’d formally acknowledged my gifts. In the past I’d often suspected Margaret hadn’t given them the things I made them.
In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have reacted by phoning my sister. Except that our strained relationship showed recent signs of improvement, and I was feeling encouraged. Before I could change my mind, I punched out her telephone number.
At the first ring, I nearly did change my mind and hang up. But I knew she had Caller ID and would immediately contact me and ask why I’d phoned.
Hailey answered on the second ring.
“I got your thank-you note,” I told her.
“Mom said we should write you, but I would have anyway. It’s a cool sweater, Aunt Lydia. I love the colors.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I’d chosen a lime-green yarn and accented the cuffs and button bands with bright orange. It turned out to be really cute, even if I do say so myself.
“Mom’s here,” Hailey said and before I could tell her it wasn’t necessary to interrupt Margaret, my sister was on the line.
“Is everything all right?” she demanded in that gruff unfriendly tone she holds in reserve for me.
“Of course,” I assured her. “I got the note from the girls today and I—”
“You only ever phone if something’s wrong.”
That was categorically untrue but I didn’t want to argue with her. Normally I avoided calling Margaret because the experience was so often unsettling.
“I’m fine, really.” I tried to laugh but it sounded phony.
“Have you seen that handsome UPS driver lately?”
I could feel my face heat up at the mention of Brad. I hadn’t phoned her to talk about him. “He was by the other day.” Instantly I tried to think of something to distract her from the subject of Brad Goetz, and couldn’t.
The UPS driver was as friendly as ever but he no longer asked me out. He knew about my cancer now, and that explained it. I was grateful he didn’t force me to invent plausible-sounding excuses. But when he’d left after his most recent visit, I’d experienced a twinge of regret. That slight but unmistakable sense of loss stayed with me the rest of the afternoon.
“Did you suggest the two of you get together?” Margaret pressed.
“No. I …” That was all I got out before my sister cut me off.
“Why not?”
“I—”
“You keep telling me this shop of yours is an affirmation of life.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“Well, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is.”
It distressed me that my sister seemed to enjoy harassing me. “It’s my life, Margaret.”
“Life?” She said it scornfully. “What life? All you do is work and knit, which is your work. Oh sure, you visit Mom and have a couple of friends, but—”
It was my turn to cut her off. “I make my own decisions about the men I date.”
Margaret acted as if she hadn’t heard me. “Ask him out for a beer,” she insisted.
“No!”
“Why not?”
I wasn’t sure why I was so adamant. “Because …”
“You’re afraid.”
“All right, I’m afraid,” I almost shouted, “but that doesn’t change anything.”
“Get over it.”
“Oh, Margaret, you make everything seem so easy.”
“Ask him out and don’t call me again until you do.”
“Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe she’d say anything like that to me.
“Dead serious.” She disconnected the phone.
I stared at the receiver a full minute before I stepped away. Margaret could be so dictatorial. My own sister refused to speak to me until I contacted a man she’d only seen once, and briefly at that? Well, she could forget it; I wasn’t giving in. That decided, I went to find something decent for dinner.
Because I feel diet is so important in maintaining a healthy body, I avoid processed foods as much as possible. On occasion I microwave a frozen entrée, but only rarely. I did that evening, however, because my head was spinning. Margaret had said I should invite Brad out for a drink. Okay, so maybe she had my best interests at heart. Maybe, just maybe she was right, and it was time for me to throw caution to the winds. The women in my knitting class seemed to think so, too. But I had no idea how.
At nine, I phoned her back.
Knowing my sister, I half expected her to slam down the receiver but I didn’t give her the chance. “What do I say?” I asked. “I’ve already turned him down twice. Now that he knows I’ve had cancer, he probably isn’t interested. He might tell me no.”
“He might. And I wouldn’t blame him.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I muttered under my breath and to my surprise Margaret laughed. Generally not even a stand-up comic can get a response out of my sister. She’s one of those deadpan women born without a funny bone. I had no idea I was so amusing.
“I mean it,” I said.
“You’re actually asking me for help?”
“Yes. If you refuse to talk to me until I make a fool of myself over a man, then the least you can do is tell me how to go about it.”
That shut her up, but not for long.
“Tell him you’ve had a change of heart.”
“Okay.” My voice must have betrayed my lack of confidence.
“Then tell him you think it might be nice for the two of you to have a beer one night if he’s still interested. Offer to buy and then leave the ball in his court.”
That sounded reasonable.
“Are you going to do it?” Margaret asked.
I leaned against the wall, fiddling with my hair. “Yeah,” I said, “I think I will.”
I sounded brave on Friday night, but by Monday morning it was a different story. It would’ve been easier if Brad had come with a delivery later in the week, but he didn’t. As luck would have it, he showed up Monday afternoon when I wasn’t expecting him.
“Hi,” I said. “I don’t usually see you on Mondays.” Now that was a clever remark, I thought with disgust, especially since I’m officially closed on Mondays.
“Not usually,” he said, wheeling the stack of boxes over to the cash register. “How are you doing?”
“Great.” Instantly my mouth went completely dry.
Brad handed me the computerized clipboard, just the way he always did, so I could sign my name. I looked at it as if I’d never seen it before.
“I need a signature,” he said.
Thankfully I was able to manage that much. I glanced down long enough to finish the task and returned the clipboard. Brad smiled and headed out the door.
“Brad,”