Blossom Street. Debbie Macomber
too quickly to be convincing.
“Then who’s the sweater for?”
“Like I said, a friend.”
“Sure,” Jacqueline murmured, grinning. She winked at Alix, whose cheeks immediately blossomed a fetching shade of pink.
“If you must know, it’s a guy I met at the video store,” Alix said irritably. Still, Carol had the feeling that Alix wanted to tell them….
“Does he like you?” Jacqueline asked.
Alix shrugged. “He did when we were in sixth grade—but, well, he’s a preacher and I don’t exactly see the two of us sailing off into the sunset, if you catch my drift.”
“Why not?” Lydia asked. “Preachers have lives, too, you know.”
Alix lowered her head and concentrated on her knitting. “He’s a good kisser,” she said in a soft voice.
Predictably, that piqued the group’s interest, and a lively discussion broke out.
“Reese was quite a kisser in his day,” Jacqueline volunteered. “I remember the first time he kissed me. Every cell in my body sprang to life.”
Carol smiled at the dreamy look on Jacqueline’s face. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven the first time Doug kissed me,” she recalled. She noticed that Lydia was doing busy work around the shop, straightening patterns that were already straight. “What about you, Lydia?” Carol asked.
Lydia jerked around, almost as if she resented being included in the conversation. Then she sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything more than a … kiss. It was always pleasant, but nothing earth-shattering happened afterward.”
“It will one day,” Jacqueline assured her.
“Don’t you think you’re placing a lot of importance on a simple kiss?” Lydia asked. “Good grief, we’ve all been kissed, and while it’s very nice most of the time, it’s not that big a deal.”
Jacqueline motioned toward Alix. “Was it a big deal for you when this preacher kissed you?”
Carol could tell Alix was uncomfortable with the question. The girl tossed her head in a nonchalant movement. “Yeah, I guess, but I don’t think about it, you know?” She looked around, and her expression said she’d thought of little else.
For a moment the room was silent as each woman concentrated on her individual task. Carol wasn’t sure what Jacqueline was working on these days. She’d started knitting scarves using an ultra-expensive yarn and then moved on to felting hats and purses. It was hard to keep up with Jacqueline’s current projects because she leaped from one to another and seemed to have several in progress at a time. Carol suspected she’d become one of Lydia’s best customers.
“Didn’t I see you come out of The Pour House last Friday?” Alix suddenly asked Lydia. “With that UPS driver.”
“Me?” Lydia’s cheeks flamed and she raised her hand to her chest. “Yes … I was meeting Brad Goetz for a drink.”
Alix let out a low whistle of approval. “He’s hot stuff.”
Lydia seemed to find something that needed attention in her display of knitting books. “We’re going to dinner later in the week.”
“Do I sense a romance developing?” Jacqueline asked in a friendly tone.
“That would be nice,” Carol said. She was amused at how shy Lydia was about men. Brad was the first one she’d mentioned. And this young preacher of Alix’s … Carol felt touched that the girl had confided in them.
“Would you like to come up to the condo to get the yarn one day next week?” Carol asked impulsively.
Alix nodded. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all. Or I can bring it to class, if you’d prefer.”
“I can stop by your place.”
Carol had the feeling the girl didn’t get many such invitations. “Why don’t you come for lunch on Monday? Does that work for you?”
“Yeah, sure.” Despite her indifferent-sounding response, Alix couldn’t hide her eagerness to accept.
Carol looked around at the others with an affectionate smile. There was Alix, of course, whose defensiveness had diminished so noticeably. And Jacqueline, who no longer tried to impress them with her social connections. Lydia had become less reserved, and her warmth and wit were more in evidence every week.
Odd how these things went, Carol mused as she continued to leaf through the pattern book. A group of mismatched personalities, four women with nothing in common, had come together and over the course of a few months, they’d become real friends.
29
CHAPTER
JACQUELINE DONOVAN
Monday morning following her hair appointment, Jacqueline returned to the house to find that a local florist had delivered a dozen red roses. Martha, the housekeeper, had placed them in the center of the formal living room on a round coffee table.
“Who sent the roses?” she asked, stunned to find them.
Martha shook her head. “I didn’t read the card.”
Jacqueline walked into the living room and examined the red buds, gently taking one in her hand. The roses were perfect, still dewy and just ready to open. Their scent was so lovely, Jacqueline thought they must be antique roses. If so, they would’ve cost a fortune. She couldn’t imagine who’d be sending her roses or why.
She reached for the card but didn’t open the small envelope, wanting to linger over the suspense. It wasn’t her birthday or her wedding anniversary. Her husband had never had much of a memory for such events, anyway. In fact, Reese hadn’t sent her flowers in years. Paul was too much like his father to think of doing such a thing, especially when there was no obvious reason for it.
Unable to guess, she finally tore open the envelope, withdrew the card and read it.
Reese.
Her husband! There was no explanation, no message. Confused, Jacqueline sat down on the sofa, still holding the card. She found Martha staring at her, making no attempt to disguise her curiosity.
“Well?” the housekeeper asked.
“They’re from Reese.”
Martha beamed her a broad smile. “I thought so.”
Despite herself, Jacqueline smiled, too. Maybe her housekeeper knew more about her life than she did.
“Would you like me to start dinner for you this evening?” Martha asked as she turned toward the kitchen.
Jacqueline shook her head. “No, I believe I’ll cook tonight, Martha.”
The housekeeper didn’t so much as blink, but Jacqueline could tell she was surprised. Jacqueline rarely ventured into the kitchen, and hadn’t made a complete meal in years. Early in their marriage she’d found a chicken curry dish that Reese had particularly enjoyed. She’d torn the recipe out of a magazine. Jacqueline thought she knew where it was, although it’d been quite a while since she’d gone to the effort of preparing it.
“Martha, do we have any curry spices in the house?”
“I think so. Let me look for you.”
“Is there chicken in the freezer?”
“Should be.”
Jacqueline was only half listening. She moved past the housekeeper and into the kitchen, opening a bottom drawer where she kept her cookbooks. “Do you remember a recipe I had years ago for chicken curry?”
Martha frowned. “Can’t