The Shop on Blossom Street (Blossom Street #1)(3)

Over the years I’ve taught a number of people how to knit. My first students were other cancer patients going through chemotherapy. We met at the Seattle Oncology Center, and before long, I had everyone, men included, knitting cotton washcloths. I think every doctor and nurse in that clinic has enough knit washcloths to last a lifetime! After washcloths, I had my band of beginning knitters move on to a small afghan. Certainly I’ve had some failures but far more successes. My patience was rewarded when others found the same serenity I did in knitting.

Now I have my own shop and I think the best way to get customers in the door is to offer knitting classes. I’d never sell enough yarn to stay in business if I ran classes in washcloths, so I’ve chosen a simple baby blanket to start with. The pattern’s by one of my favorite designers, Ann Norling, and uses the basic knit and purl stitches.

I don’t know what to expect of my new venture, but I’m hopeful. Hope to a person with cancer—or to a person who’s had cancer—is more potent than any drug. We live on it, live for it. It’s addictive to those of us who’ve learned to take one day at a time.

I was making a sign advertising my beginners’ class when the bell above the door chimed. My first customer had just walked in and I looked up with a smile on my face. The pounding excitement in my heart quickly died when I realized it was Margaret.

“Hi,” I said, doing my best to sound happy to see her. I didn’t want my sister showing up on my very first morning and attacking my confidence.

“Mom told me you’d decided to go ahead with this idea of yours.”

I didn’t respond.

Frowning, Margaret continued. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and see the shop.”

I gestured with one arm and hated myself for asking. “What do you think?” I didn’t bother to mention that Blossom Street was decidedly out of her way.

“Why’d you name it A Good Yarn?”

I’d gone over dozens of shop names, some too cute by half, some plain and ordinary. I love the idea that “spinning a yarn” means telling a story, and sharing stories with people, listening to their experiences, is important to me. Another legacy of the clinic, I suppose. A Good Yarn seems like a warm and welcoming name. But I didn’t explain all that to Margaret. “I wanted my customers to know I sell quality yarn.”

Margaret shrugged as if she’d seen a dozen knitting shops with more impressive names than mine.

“Well,” I said, despite my determination not to ask again. “What do you think?”

Margaret glanced around a second time, although nothing had changed after her first inspection. “It’s better than I expected.”

I considered this high praise. “I don’t have a large inventory yet, but I’m hoping to build it up over the next year or so. Of course, not all the yarn I’ve ordered has arrived. And there’s more I’m planning to get, some wonderful imports from Ireland and Australia. Everything takes time and money.” In my enthusiasm I’d said more than I intended.

“Are you expecting Mom to help you?” The question was blunt.

I shook my head. “You don’t need to worry. I’m doing this entirely on my own.” So that was the reason for her unannounced visit. Margaret thought I was going to take advantage of our mother. I wouldn’t and the question offended me, but I bit back an angry retort.

Margaret glared at me as if she wasn’t sure I was telling the truth.

“I cashed in my Microsoft stock,” I confessed.

Margaret’s deep brown eyes, so much like my own, nearly doubled in horror at what I’d done. “You didn’t.”

What did my sister think? I had the necessary cash lying around in my bottom drawer? “I had to.” Given my medical history, no bank would grant me a loan. Although I’ve been cancer-free for four years now, I’m viewed as a risk in just about every area.

“It’s your money, I guess.” The way Margaret said it implied I’d made a terrible decision. “But I don’t think Dad would have approved.”

“He would’ve been the first one to encourage me.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“You’re probably right,” Margaret said with the caustic edge that never failed to appear in our conversations. “Dad couldn’t deny you anything.”

“The money was my inheritance,” I pointed out. I suppose her share is still accruing profit.

My sister walked around the shop, eyeing it critically. Considering Margaret’s apparent dislike of me, I don’t know why my relationship with her is so important, but it is. Mom’s health is fragile and she hasn’t adjusted to life without Dad. Soon, I’m afraid, it’ll be only Margaret and me. The thought of not having any family at all terrifies me.

I’m so grateful not to know what the future holds. I once asked my father why God wouldn’t just let us know what tomorrow would bring. He said that not knowing the future is actually a gift because if we knew, we wouldn’t take responsibility for our own lives, our own happiness. As with so much else in life, my dad was right.

“What’s your business plan?” Margaret asked.

“I—I’m starting small.”

“What about customers?”

“I’ve paid for an ad in the Yellow Pages.” I didn’t mention that the new phone directory didn’t come out for another two months. No need to hand Margaret any ammunition. I’d distributed flyers in the neighborhood, too, but I didn’t know how effective that would be. I was counting on word of mouth to generate customer interest and, ultimately, sales. Which was something else I didn’t mention.