Debbie Macomber - Back on Blossom Street

That’s because, until recently, my entire existence revolved around me. It was all I could do to deal with my disease. I was so focused on myself, I failed to notice other people as I should. That knowledge opened my eyes in any number of ways, and I’ve learned to listen to others, including and perhaps especially Margaret. She still has her irritating mannerisms but I overlook them now—for the most part—and I try to ignore her suspicious reactions to people like Colette. I understand she’s trying to protect me (patronizing though that is). I’ve become much more tolerant, too. And I find myself reaching out more, getting involved in my neighborhood and business community.

Anyway … Alix signed up for the class; Susannah Nelson did, too. With Susannah’s Garden she’s brought a new energy to the retail neighborhood. She has such interesting and inventive ideas. In the beginning, she gave away more flowers than she sold but the strategy paid off and her shop’s doing well. Since Susannah and I hadn’t had much opportunity to know each other, I welcomed her presence in the knitting class.

Colette Blake, my tenant, enrolled, too, with Susannah’s encouragement. She’d stopped coming by for tea in the mornings and I knew why. She’d obviously overheard Margaret’s comment. Ever since that morning, our conversations were brief and a bit stilted. She’d started using the outside entrance right afterward. I missed her.

Because Susannah and Colette were both taking the class, I’d purposely scheduled it later in the afternoon. At four-thirty, Susannah’s college-age daughter, Chrissie, would be available to work at the flower shop and Alix would have finished her shift at the café.

The bell above the door jingled and I was distracted from my lunch break. Thankfully, Margaret was out front. She’s increasingly more comfortable dealing with customers, although she can sometimes seem brusque and unfriendly. That’s a shame because she isn’t really like that.

A minute later, Margaret came into the office. “Do we have any yarn made from soy beans?” she asked, frowning. “I never heard of such a thing.”

I swallowed my soup. “I have some on order.”

Margaret’s frown darkened. “You’re joking! There’s actually a yarn made from soy? ”

I nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the fibers being used for yarn these days.” Margaret should’ve known all this, but she prefers wool, as do I. However, I can’t discount the incredible ribbon yarns and some of the newer acrylics. There’s even buffalo yarn—or should that be bison?—and I’ve heard about a yarn from New Zealand that’s a blend of wool and possum fur, of all things.

My sister shook her head in wonder and left me to my lunch and my thoughts once more. I’m so grateful the shop has brought Margaret and me together after all the difficulties we faced in our relationship. A few years ago I would never have believed that possible.

Margaret hadn’t supported my efforts in the beginning and in retrospect I can’t blame her. I’d never taken a single business class or even worked at a full-time job. Margaret was afraid I’d set myself up for failure; as it turned out, she was wrong. Later I could see how much I’d absorbed about business from my father. He’d taught Margaret and me a strong work ethic, too. Our dad had his own business for years, and almost by osmosis I learned a lot from him without even realizing it.

After I finished my lunch, I joined my sister. We did a steady business for the rest of the afternoon. I counted up more than forty sales by four o’clock, which is excellent for a two-person shop. Another bonus—the days pass quickly and pleasurably when we’re busy like this.

“Julia’s late.” Margaret glanced at her watch for the fifth time in the last minute.

“You let her take the car to school again?”

Margaret nodded curtly but wouldn’t look at me.

I didn’t remind her that she’d sworn the new car was hers and Julia wasn’t going to drive it ever . She hadn’t owned the car for more than a few weeks and already my niece was behind the wheel more often than my sister.

“She was supposed to come by for me right after school,” Margaret muttered.

“I’m sure there’s a good reason she’s late,” I told her. Julia was a high-school senior and so involved with myriad activities her schedule made my head swim.

“Not today. She’s got a dental appointment at four-thirty and I’m going with her.”

I glanced at my own watch and noticed it was four-ten. “She’ll be here any minute.”

Margaret nodded.

“Since she’s late, why don’t you get your coat and purse and wait outside?”

Margaret hesitated, but finally agreed. She disappeared into the office only long enough to collect what she needed.

“She’ll be here soon,” I reassured Margaret again. Julia was a responsible girl and I didn’t think for an instant that she’d forgotten her mother.

“It’s twenty minutes to the dentist’s office from here,” Margaret worried.

“Would you like me to phone ahead and let them know you might be late?”

Margaret considered that, then nodded. Her frown grew even fiercer, and I didn’t envy Julia once she did arrive. The wrath of Margaret was something to behold. My sister didn’t lose her temper often but when she did she could clear a room.

“Go ahead and step outside. I’ll contact the dentist’s office right now.”

Margaret pushed open the door, and the bell chimed as she left the shop.

Stepping up to the counter, I reached for the Rolodex and flipped to the D s, where Margaret had filed the dentist’s number.

The receptionist answered on the second ring. “Dr. Wentworth’s office. How may I help you?”

“Hello,” I said, “I’m calling on behalf of Julia Langley. It looks like she’s running late and I wanted you to know.”

“Can you tell me how late she’s going to be?”

“Ah … I’m not sure.”

“If it’s going to be more than ten minutes, the appointment will need to be rescheduled.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that long, but it depends on traffic,” I said, although I had no idea when Julia would show up. I could see Margaret pacing back and forth in front of the display window. Every step she took conveyed nervous agitation.

“Please call again to reschedule if it is later than ten minutes.”

“I will,” I told her and replaced the receiver.

I remembered then that Julia had a cell phone, one she paid for with money she earned from a part-time job at the movie theater. I’d driven five miles out of my way to take Cody to the theater where Julia worked. Cody had loved seeing his cousin behind the counter. Julia had given him extra butter on his popcorn and my son had been thrilled.

“Margaret,” I called, poking my head out the front door. “What about her cell?”

“It’s at the house,” Margaret snapped. “She let the battery go dead.” Her frown told me she saw this as another example of Julia’s lack of responsibility. My poor niece was about to get an earful.

The phone pealed sharply behind me. “A Good Yarn,” I answered.

“Margaret Langley, please.”

The crisp, professional male voice took me aback. It didn’t matter what the words said, what I heard was trouble. “Could you tell me what this is about?” I asked as politely as my trembling voice would allow.

“I need to speak directly to Ms. Langley,” the man told me.

“One minute, please.” I set down the receiver and rushed to the front door.

Margaret swung around to face me almost as if she knew.

“There’s a call for you.”

“Julia?”

“No … you’d better take it.”