as tall as her father at six feet, was a blessing beyond compare. In more ways than Elise cared to admit, they’d grown up together. Thankfully they’d stayed close.
Maverick had faithfully paid his child support each month, and when the spirit moved him, he’d phoned Aurora from wherever he was currently living, which seemed to be in a different part of the country each time. Soon after their wedding, he’d given up any pretense of an ordinary job—although he’d been quite successful at insurance sales—and devoted his energy to gambling. Roots were a detriment to a professional gambler. And if settling down wasn’t conducive to a gambler’s life, a family was even less so. While Elise was in labor, her loving husband had started up a poker game in the waiting room and completely missed the birth of his only child.
Catching the #47 bus, Elise rode it down Pill Hill toward Blossom Street, getting off three stops before the Seattle Public Library, which had recently undergone a huge renovation. Through her work at the school library, Elise had met some of Washington’s most influential librarians. They included Nancy Pearl, who’d organized the “If All Seattle Reads the Same Book” program. Cities, large and small, across the United States had followed Seattle’s lead. Elise was delighted that this idea had become so popular. It demonstrated that the library remained an important part of the community.
Stepping off the bus, she clutched her purse close to her side. The area had once been known for its pickpockets and muggers. That didn’t seem to be the case now, but one could never be too careful.
She walked past Fanny’s Floral and stopped to admire a display of purple carnations. She’d never seen carnations in quite that color before and was tempted to bring home a bouquet for Aurora. She probably shouldn’t waste money on flowers, but still … Well, she’d think about it.
A snoozing tabby cat was curled up in the display window of the yarn store. Elise opened the door and a small bell rang. Apparently accustomed to the sound, the cat didn’t stir.
“Good morning,” a pleasant-faced woman greeted her. Another, older woman stood by the counter and nodded in Elise’s direction.
“Yes, it is,” she said, instantly warmed by the younger woman’s friendliness. This was an attractive shop, well-designed and not overcrowded with yarn. Elise liked that she could see over the top of each display case. “I’ve come to inquire about classes,” she said, distracted by the colors and textures all around her. There were projects displayed on top of the cases, cleverly arranged on wire frames. Her eye was drawn to a sweater with a dinosaur knit into the front. Both Luke and John would love that. Perhaps one day she’d make it for her grandsons.
“We’re enrolling for a sock class this week.”
“Socks,” Elise repeated, unsure this was a project that interested her. “I’ve knit with five needles before, but it’s been a long time.”
“These are knitted up on two circular needles,” the woman told her. “Here, let me show you what I mean.” She led Elise toward the middle aisle, where a row of plastic feet displayed knitted socks. The patterns were intricate—far more complicated than Elise cared to tackle. It’d been years since she’d picked up knitting needles and she wasn’t eager to sabotage her efforts with a project beyond her capabilities.
She was about to say as much when the woman explained that the designs were part of the yarn itself.
“You mean I don’t have to do anything but knit?”
“That’s correct. The yarn is self-patterning.” She went on to list the price of the class, the day and the cost, which included all the supplies she would need. “By the way, I’m Lydia Hoffman and that’s my sister, Margaret. She works with me.”
“Elise Beaumont,” she said and smiled at both women. On closer inspection it became more obvious that they were related. The older one, Margaret, was large-boned but the other, Lydia, was petite with delicate features. Yet their faces were similar in shape, with pronounced cheekbones and large dark eyes. When she realized she was staring, she added, “I recently retired and thought I’d take up knitting again.”
“That’s a wonderful idea.”
Elise smiled at Lydia’s enthusiasm. Margaret’s attention had returned to whatever she was doing at the counter, which apparently involved catalogues and order forms.
“A class seems like a good place to start,” Elise said.
Lydia nodded. “I’m so glad you decided to stop by.” She continued toward the back of the shop, where a table and chairs were set up. “If you’re free on Friday afternoons, I’d like to invite you to our charity knitting sessions, too.”
“Another class?” Elise could only afford one.
“Not exactly. There’s no cost. A number of my regulars come here to knit for different charitable projects and organizations. You’d be most welcome, Elise.” She talked about Warm Up America, the Linus Project and ChemoCaps for people undergoing chemotherapy.
“Do you supply the yarn?” Elise asked, conscious once again of her limited budget.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Lydia said. “Or at least some of it. Patrons have donated leftover yarn for the Warm Up America blankets, and anyone who purchases yarn for one of the other projects can buy it at a discount.”
“Perhaps I’ll do that.” Elise’s schedule was nearly empty and she was looking for ways to fill it. So far, she’d joined a readers’ group that met once a month at a branch of the Seattle Public Library, and had volunteered to fold church newsletters. A strong supporter of the local blood bank, she’d also volunteered to handle the desk every Monday morning until noon.
“Would you like to sign up for the sock class?” Lydia pressed. “I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”
Again Elise’s spirits lifted at the other woman’s friendliness. “Yes, I think I would.” She opened her purse and removed her checkbook. “How many will be in the class?” she asked as she signed the check.
“I’d like to limit it to six.”
“Has there been a lot of interest?”
“Not yet, but I only put the ad in the window Tuesday morning. You’re the first person to join.”
“The first,” Elise repeated, and for reasons she could only guess at, being first gave her a sense of pleasure.
She decided to buy those flowers for Aurora, after all.
3
CHAPTER
BETHANNE HAMLIN
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Bethanne Hamlin lamented as she pulled into the driveway of her Capitol Hill home. The house, built in the 1930s before it was deemed unsafe and unfeasible to use brick on top of an earthquake fault, had been her dream home. She’d fallen in love with it the moment she saw it. The short steep driveway ended at the basement garage. Concrete steps led to a small porch, and the front door was rounded, like the door to a fairy-tale cottage, she’d always thought. A gable jutted out from the second-floor master bedroom. The window seat there overlooked the entire neighborhood. Bethanne had often sat in that window and read or daydreamed. It was in this beautiful home that she’d once lived her perfect life. Her fairy-tale
