Blossom Street Bundle. Debbie Macomber
a couple of friends. Roller skating with church kids one month, doing drugs with criminals and losers the next. Quite a contrast.
Lori stared up at Alix, her face hard and her eyes cold. “This,” she said, sneering, “is no one.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Alix said as she came to her feet. “Sorry, we have to go now.” She grabbed Lori by the arm. The girl protested but let Alix pull her up.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
“Getting you outta here.”
“Like shit you are.”
“You don’t belong here any more than I do.”
“Baby?” Her boyfriend was so out of it he didn’t protest, which was good. T-Bone, however, wasn’t pleased. He blocked the door, his arms crossed over his massive chest as he focused narrowed eyes on Alix. Fear shivered down her spine. T-Bone could slit her throat if he perceived that she was hurting his business. He wouldn’t hesitate, either.
“She’s a church kid,” Alix said, meeting his gaze. “You keep her here and you’re gonna have a pack of little ol’ ladies marching outside your door, carrying signs and bringing the heat.”
T-Bone’s gaze shifted from Alix to Lori, who squirmed under his scrutiny.
“You want trouble, it’s up to you.” Alix raised both arms in a hands-off gesture.
“Get out,” he said to Alix, “and take her with you.”
Alix seized Lori’s upper arm and dragged her out of the house.
Once outside, Lori jerked her arm free. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she screamed.
“What am I doing?” Alix repeated, laughing. “What I’m doing, little girl, is saving your sorry ass.”
“I don’t need anyone to save me.”
Those words were almost identical to what she’d said when Jordan announced he was a youth minister. But they weren’t true for Lori—and maybe not for Alix, either. Lori had no idea what kind of danger she’d so blithely stepped into. She didn’t appreciate the risk Alix had taken by pulling her out, either. Alix’s knees shook when she realized what she’d done in standing up to T-Bone. It was time to make herself scarce.
“Go home,” Alix said.
Lori rolled her eyes and headed back into the house, only to be stopped at the door. Alix didn’t hear what was said but apparently Lori got the message and came scurrying out a moment later. She hurried down the street without a backward look.
With no place else to go, Alix returned to her apartment. Laurel was gone. In her unhappiness her roommate was eating everything in sight—and leaving the mess for Alix to clean up. She wondered if Laurel still fit into her jeans. She must’ve gained twenty pounds since her breakup with John. If Laurel wasn’t at work, scarfing potato chips on the sly, or at home, sitting in front of the television with her face in a bowl of ice cream, Alix didn’t know where she could be. But for once she was grateful to be alone.
Picking up her knitting, she heaved a sigh when she saw what she was doing and threw it down in disgust. Carol had given her the gray yarn and the pattern, as well as the work she’d already done. Alix had painstakingly continued the project, knitting a sweater for Jordan. Yeah, right, like he cared. Like anyone did.
Lying on the sofa, Alix stared at the ceiling for an hour before she was scheduled to work. The video store did good business on Sunday afternoons and she was kept busy, especially when Laurel didn’t bother to make an appearance, even though her name was on the schedule to work with Alix.
An hour into her shift, Jordan walked into the store. Alix’s heart reacted instantly and that infuriated her. As effectively as she could, she ignored him.
“Alix,” he said.
“You’re back.” She made sure he knew it wasn’t any big thing to her.
“Is something wrong?”
She shrugged and handed two videos to the customer at the register, offering him a wide smile. When she turned her attention to Jordan, the smile was gone. “Should there be?”
He frowned. “I was hoping we could get together tonight.”
She considered his invitation. Part of her was shrieking with excitement and another part, the part that insisted she get over him, was saying something else.
“Who’s Miss America?” she asked coldly.
“What?” Jordan said, blinking in confusion.
“You sang with her this morning.”
His eyes widened. “You were in church?”
“Long enough to see you and Miss America smiling at each other. You seem to be very good friends.”
“We are.”
“I’ll just bet.”
“Can I get some help here?” the next customer at the counter asked.
Alix reached for his videos and typed in the codes before taking his money. She gave him his change and smiled sweetly in his direction. Once again she returned her attention to Jordan, making sure there was no evidence of pleasure at seeing him.
Jordan frowned. “You’re jealous of Pastor Sutton’s seventeen-year-old daughter?”
The girl was only seventeen? From the back of the church it was hard to tell. Still …
“I don’t have time to put up with petty jealousy. If you want to be angry with me, then fine. But I’ve got better things to do.”
Alix was about to answer when he whirled around and left the store.
31
CHAPTER
“If you can count the number of projects you have going, you need to begin another, so you have a varied range of complexity, from the very simple ‘mindless’ ones to those that demand undivided attention.”
—Laura Early, lifetime knitter
LYDIA HOFFMAN
I’ve spent so much time in doctors’ offices that over the years I’ve come to dread even the most routine appointments. It’s almost always the same. I sit in an uncomfortable chair in a waiting room full of strangers and we all avoid looking at one another. Generally, I bring my knitting or I flip through magazines that are months if not years old.
The one advantage of being in Dr. Wilson’s office is that after all this time the staff have become practically as familiar as family, especially Peggy, Dr. Wilson’s nurse.
Peggy was working for Dr. Wilson when I came in for my first appointment, nearly fifteen years ago. I remember when she was pregnant, not once but twice. I vividly recall wondering if I’d be alive to see her second baby. The thing with cancer is that you learn to take nothing for granted. Not one day, not one season, not even a minute. At sixteen I wanted to make it to seventeen so I could attend the Junior-Senior Prom. I survived, but no one asked me to the prom.
“Lydia.” Peggy stood in the doorway holding my chart, which must weigh twenty pounds. My medical history was filled with details, of symptoms and procedures, as well as documentation of the different medications I’d taken.
When I got up, it seemed that every eye in the waiting room was on me. If I’d been the type of person to grandstand, I would’ve leaped to my feet and announced I was a two-time winner in the lottery of life. Having a more subdued nature, however, I calmly stuffed my knitting into my quilted bag and followed Peggy.
“How are you doing?” Peggy asked after she’d weighed me and made a notation on the chart.
“Great.” I stepped off the scale and sighed with relief to