Debbie Macomber - Blossom Street

“Fabulous. Reese and I loved every minute of it.” She opened the shopping bag and pulled out a skein of the Greek yarn, a wool-cashmere blend in a soft shade of mauve with flecks of white. “Look what I found.”

Lydia examined the yarn, weaving it between her fingers, then letting it run through her fingers. She handed it to Margaret. “Feel this,” she said. “It’s incredible.”

“I bought enough to knit a sweater. I didn’t have a clue how much I’d need, so I bought everything they had. You can have whatever I’ve got left over.”

After Margaret had exclaimed over the yarn, Lydia handled it again. “Where did you ever find this?”

“On an island. I can’t remember the name right now. Reese went with me from store to store in my search for yarn. His memory’s better than mine—I’ll ask him.”

“Reese helped you search for yarn?” Lydia shook her head laughingly. “Most husbands would consider that above and beyond the call of duty.”

“We do everything together these days,” Jacqueline confessed and although she would’ve objected had anyone pointed it out, she blushed. This trip with Reese was the second honeymoon every couple should have at least once in their marriage.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you—”

“Happier,” Jacqueline finished for her. She’d heard that over and over again from family and friends. She had no intention of denying it; she was happy.

“Actually, I was going to say you’re looking tanned,” Lydia said with a mischievous smile.

Jacqueline extended both her arms. “Oh, that. Reese had me out on every golf course in the Mediterranean.” She grinned. “I’ve got a wicked slice if I do say so myself, and I’m a formidable putter.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to scoot. I’m meeting Reese at the country club in an hour—we’re having drinks with some old friends. I need to run over to the house first.”

“It’s so good to have you back,” Lydia said, hugging her. “Will you be here on Friday?”

“Of course!” Jacqueline waved away her question as if the answer should be understood. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

With that she was off, eager to join her husband—the man she loved.

CAROL GIRARD

“Cameron Douglas Girard, what are you doing? ”

Cameron gazed up from the carpet where he sat sorting through his daddy’s sock drawer. The nine-month-old grinned up at her guilelessly as Carol stood with her hands on her hips, trying hard to look stern while struggling not to laugh. “Come here,” she said, lifting her baby boy into her arms. Raising him high, she pressed her mouth against his bare belly and made a loud smooching noise. Cameron let out a squeal of pleasure. When she lowered him, he buried his face in her shoulder, gripping her hair with both hands, gurgling and chattering.

In this past year, Carol had learned about a whole new facet of love—about how much one person could love another and how much a mother could love her child. Cameron might not have come from her womb, but he was her son in every way that counted.

“It’s time for our walk,” she told him.

Cameron knew what that meant and squirmed, wanting her to put him down. She did, quickly returning Doug’s socks to the bottom drawer of their chest of drawers. Then she carried Cam to his room, where she dressed him in tiny jeans and a hand-knit sweater. The pants were a gift from her brother, who’d sent them, plus a matching jacket, shortly after the adoption was completed. Released again, Cameron crawled rapidly toward the stroller. Once he reached it, he pulled himself into a standing position, then looked over his shoulder to be sure she’d noticed his feat and appreciated his skill. Cameron loved their walks.

“We’re visiting the yarn store this afternoon,” Carol told him as she buckled him in. “We’re going to see Miss Lydia.”

Draping her purse over her shoulder, Carol left the condo and pushed the stroller into the hallway and then into the waiting elevator. They took the same route almost every afternoon, stopping at a park two blocks from their building to chat with other young mothers.

Carol’s circle of friends had broadened dramatically since she’d left work and Cameron had come into their lives. The other mothers she’d met at the park had formed a casual group, meeting once a week for coffee. They shared advice and experiences, traded parenting books and magazines, passed on toys and clothing their own children no longer needed. Carol was the oldest member of the group, but that had never bothered her.

After their park visit, Carol steered Cameron into the yarn store. “Carol,” Lydia called out cheerfully. “Hello.” She squatted down so she was eye level with Cameron. “You, too, Cam.”

The baby grabbed for a skein of bright purple yarn but Carol was too quick for him and automatically rolled the stroller backward and away from the tempting yarn.

“I need another ball of that Paton worsted.”

“The olive-green, right?” Lydia had an uncanny ability to remember who’d bought what yarn for which project. Carol had so many projects going now, it was hard to keep track of them all. Lydia, however, had no such difficulty.

“Jacqueline was by earlier this afternoon,” Lydia said.

“She’s back?”

“With a gorgeous tan, too. She looks so happy,” Lydia said with a contented smile.

“That’s great.”

“She’ll be here Friday.”

“What about Alix?” The fourth member of their knitting group wasn’t always available on Fridays. It had been hit-and-miss with her because of culinary school commitments.

Lydia shook her head. “I don’t think she’ll be able to make it.”

Carol sighed. “I miss her when she can’t be here.”

“Me, too,” Lydia admitted. “Remember what we thought when she first signed up for the class?”

“I was convinced Jacqueline and Alix would go for each other’s throats within the first five minutes.” Carol laughed. “They were impossible, always sniping at each other.”

“It was like third grade all over again.”

“You’re telling me.” Carol marveled anew at how the relationship between those two had turned out.

“Jacqueline was ready to drop out more than once,” Lydia said, reminiscing.

Carol nodded. “I understood why she wanted to, but I’m so grateful she didn’t.”

“I am, too. And if Alix hadn’t stayed …”

They could never have guessed how one defiant, angry young woman would influence all their lives.

“Do you ever hear from Laurel?” Lydia asked.

“Not a word. Not since the day Cameron was born. She went into court on her own, signed the paperwork and walked out the door without a word to either Doug or me.”

“What about Alix? They used to be roommates.”

“If she’s heard from Laurel, she’s never mentioned it to us.”

“What about Jordan?”

Carol sighed. “I understand he hooked her up with a counselor and got her housing when the apartment building was sold.” The urge to take Cameron in her arms and hold him protectively against her was nearly overwhelming, but Carol resisted. “She was a sad, confused young woman with a lot of problems.”

“But she did one thing right in her life, and that was to give you and Doug her son.”

“I wish her well,” Carol murmured, and she meant it.

At some point, years from now, Cameron might be curious about his birth parents; he might even want to search for them. That decision would be his, but for now, during these formative years, this baby boy was hers and Doug’s. It was their love and their values that would shape him.