A Good Yarn (Blossom Street #2)(16)

“I think I know what Margaret’s problem might be,” Brad said, jolting me out of my reflection.

“You do?” I was a little reluctant to talk about Margaret at the moment; I preferred to revel in my own contentment.

“Yeah. I ran into Matt at the hardware store yesterday afternoon,” Brad told me.

My brother-in-law is a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. I consider him a good balance for my sister, who usually has a pessimistic slant on things. Matt doesn’t take life as seriously as she does. I find that he doesn’t overreact the way she tends to and—even more appealing—he never holds grudges.

“What did Matt have to say?” The four of us had gone out on occasion, and Brad and Matt had hit if off. Margaret invited us over for dinner a few months ago, and we’d played cards until the wee hours of the morning. I’d hoped to see more of them socially, but so far we hadn’t.

“He’s not working.”

“What do you mean, not working?” Matt had been with Boeing for as long as I could remember, probably twenty years.

“Not working as in he got laid off.”

“What? When?”

“Three months ago.”

“No.” That couldn’t be right. Three months? Margaret hadn’t said a word about this for three months? I was in shock.

“That’s what he told me. He’s been pounding the pavement, looking for work, but nothing’s happening for him.”

My heart sank. “But I thought…” I didn’t know what I thought. This was crazy. I’m Margaret’s only sibling, and if she couldn’t talk to me, then who could she confide in?

“Matt seemed to think I knew, so I played along.”

The tingling feeling that usually precedes tears came over me. Sure enough, I felt my eyes prickling and my throat closing up.

“Are you going to cry?”

I sniffled and nodded. “You’d think she could’ve told me,” I said hoarsely.

“At least you know why she’s been so tense lately.”

That didn’t help. “I’d hoped my own sister would trust me, but I was obviously wrong.” I swiped the tears from my eyes before they could roll down my cheeks. Now I understood, and so much of Margaret’s behaviour at the shop lately started to make sense. Not only had she been moody, but she hadn’t purchased new yarn in weeks, or bought anything from the French bakery across the street. In fact, now that I thought about it, I realized she hadn’t spent any money at all unless it was absolutely necessary.

“I should’ve known,” I whispered, suddenly feeling guilty. “I should’ve figured it out.”

“How could you?”

My sister isn’t the easiest person in the world to read, but in my heart I felt I should’ve recognized the signs. And maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the news; layoffs at Boeing always merited an article or two. I hadn’t even noticed….

“Are you going to say anything?” Brad asked.

I considered my answer carefully. “I don’t think so.” For her own reasons, Margaret hadn’t seen fit to share this information with me. I wouldn’t force her to do so now, but I hoped that in time, she’d feel she could. Until then, all I could do was love her, be patient with her short-tempered comments and wait for her to trust me.

“You will, you know,” Brad insisted softly. “I know you too well, Lydia. You won’t be able to keep this buried for long. It just isn’t in your nature.”

I scoffed at him, but I realized he was probably right.

CHAPTER 6

ELISE BEAUMONT

Elise discovered that she was looking forward to starting the sock class. Without letting her daughter know, she’d purchased yarn to knit David, her son-in-law, the first pair. It was a small way of showing her appreciation for his kindness in allowing Elise to live with them during this legal mess. According to a recent update from the attorney, there hadn’t been much progress yet; patience was advised. She still felt mortified that, after all her careful planning, she’d ended up living with her daughter and son-in-law, no matter how temporary that arrangement was.

The afternoon before the Tuesday class, Elise sat on the patio reading, an activity that never failed to satisfy her. Her love of books went back to when she was a child. She was an early reader, and could remember sitting in her crib with a book in her hands, utterly content. That love of books had served her well through the years.

Today she was rereading Jane Austen’s Emma, something she did every decade or so. There were books like that, the true classics she returned to time and time again. Austen, the Brontës, Flaubert and her favorite, George Eliot. These writers described women’s lives and emotions in ways that still resonated a century or more later. She’d just reached the scene where Mr. Knightley chastises Emma when Aurora opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the patio to join her. “Can we talk for a few minutes, Mom?” she asked tentatively. Aurora sat on the chair next to the chaise longue where Elise reclined with her legs stretched out. Her daughter held a tall glass of tea, ice cubes clinking. She was obviously nervous.

“Of course.” Elise carefully inserted her bookmark and closed Emma. Judging by the way Aurora leaned forward, this was important.

“I want to talk about Daddy,” her daughter informed her, diving headfirst into the most unpleasant of subjects.