Gone with the Wool Page 2

  The red tote bag banged against my leg as I walked, and I had to stop more than once to pick up a loom that tumbled out and force it back in as I went to my yellow Mini Cooper, which was parked in the driveway.

  My house was the edge of Cadbury. The look was wilder here, with more trees, no sidewalks and of course Vista Del Mar across the street. I glanced toward the hotel and conference center as I pulled onto the street. Something large and cumbersome was being pulled down the driveway. It was impossible to see what it was, as it was covered in blue tarps. This was the beginning of the biggest week of the year here in Cadbury, and I had a feeling it was connected.

  Cadbury by the Sea’s real claim to fame was not the moody scenery, but the tens of thousands of striking orange and black butterflies that arrived in October to overwinter in a stand of trees behind a pink motel. There was even a statue of a monarch butterfly near the lighthouse. Tomorrow was the kickoff of Butterfly Week in Cadbury. There were going to be events each day, ending with a parade and the coronation of the Butterfly Queen.

  I might live on the edge of Cadbury, but it was still a small town, and it only took five minutes or so to get downtown. There was an authentic feeling to the place. No “ye olde” anythings—if anything was old here, it was because it had been around for a long time. The buildings were a mixture of Victorians that were built when that was the current style and some more streamlined mid-century-style structures that looked plain in comparison.

  Grand Street was the main drag in town. The two directions of traffic were divided by a parklike strip of grass and trees, with some benches thrown in. I found an angled parking spot near my destination.

  There was more than the usual Saturday morning activity on the street. Several people on ladders were putting up banners on the light posts, and the shops along the street were decorating their windows. The theme to all of it was the monarch butterfly.

  I lugged the bag out of the car, somehow managing to keep everything inside it as I threaded past all the activity and turned onto a side street that sloped down toward the water. I was so used to being able to see the Pacific from just about everywhere that it almost didn’t register. I’d also gotten used to the constant hint of moisture in the air and the background sound of the rhythm of the waves. Of course, I chuckled to myself—today there was a parking spot right in front of my destination, Cadbury Yarn.

  The store was actually located in a small bungalow-style house. As I crossed the front porch, I noticed they had added a banner covered with butterflies that flapped in the ever-present breeze. Inside, the store seemed busier than usual. The table in what had once been a dining room was filled with a group of women chatting while they worked on their yarn projects.

  Gwen Selwyn, the shop’s owner, was ringing up a sale at the glass counter in the center of what had been the living room. She looked up as I came in and offered me a welcoming wave. It was strange to realize she had no idea that she was the love child of Edmund Delacorte. I went over what I knew about her. It was obvious from her appearance that she was more interested in serviceable than stylish. She was somewhere in her fifties, and I would have laid down money that the nubby brown sweater she was wearing was her own creation. Making something like that was still only a dream to me, but Gwen was one of those people who could knit without even looking at her work. I was sure that any color in her cheeks came from the cool damp air. She was not likely to wear makeup any more so than she was to do anything about the streaks of gray that had begun to show up in her short chestnut hair. Even though she was widowed, I’d also bet that she would never be caught hanging out in the local wine bar looking for a hookup. As far as I could tell, all her energy went into trying to keep the yarn store and her family afloat.

  Today I noticed there seemed to be an extra furrow to her brow, and for a moment I considered ignoring Frank’s advice and pulling her into the storage room and blurting out that she was the secret Delacorte heir. But the place was busy, and that’s not the kind of news to just dump on someone between ringing up skeins of hand-dyed yarn.

  “We’re over here,” Crystal Smith called to me, waving from a room off to the side. A table sat in front of a window that looked out into the strip of space between the house and its neighbor. Three captain-style chairs were around it. Crystal was Gwen’s daughter, though any resemblance was well hidden. Gwen leaned toward neutrals, while her daughter was all about splashes of color. Her dark hair fell into tight ringlets, and she had a thing for wearing pieces that didn’t match. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her in a matched set of earrings or a pair of socks that were the same. She managed to wear all kinds of eye makeup and have it work. The one time I’d tried to emulate it, I came out looking like a sad raccoon.

  It was just the two of us for now, and Crystal offered me a chair. “I hope Wanda shows up soon. I have to leave for the football game so I can cheer on my son. Go Monarchs!” Crystal said, shaking her fist in a supportive gesture. “It was very nice of you to bring the corn muffins last night,” she said.

  “It was my attempt at showing town spirit,” I said. As soon as I’d heard about the tradition of a chili dinner the night before the team’s homecoming game, I’d decided to make a contribution. The event was held in the multipurpose room of the natural history museum. Long tables had been set up and the walls decorated with pennants for the Monarchs. I had just gone into the kitchen and dropped off the muffins.

  “Too bad you didn’t stay for the dinner,” Crystal said. “The boys were all excited being served by their parents and the coach. There was lots of cheering and ‘We’re going to win this year’ kind of stuff.”

  “The woman making the chili didn’t seem that happy with my donation or my presence,” I said. “Besides, I had things to do.”

  “That would be Rosalie Hardcastle, and I’m not surprised she wasn’t gracious,” Crystal said. “She’s very possessive of the dinner. She started the tradition and cooks the chili from her recipe. If it’s any consolation, the boys really scarfed down those muffins.”

  “Well, that’s history now anyway, so on to the present. We’ve got a problem,” I said, hoisting the bag onto the table. Wanda Krug came in just as the bag flopped over on its side and all the long looms fell out and hit the floor.

  Though Wanda was a golf pro at a local resort, which made her an athlete, somehow whenever I saw her all I could think of was “The Teapot Song.” She was short and stout as the lyrics proclaimed, and she had a habit of putting one hand on her hip and gesturing with the other. The funny thing was that with her bland style of dress—polo shirts and comfortable loose slacks—it seemed like she should be Gwen’s daughter.

  Crystal and Wanda had become my regular workshop leaders for the yarn retreats. They were both much better with yarn craft than I was and never agreed on anything. Somehow I’d thought that would balance things out.

  I retrieved the long looms, thinking how much they resembled something you’d put on the wall to hang coats on. I left the bag on its side and shoved them back in. “And that’s without any yarn. There’s no way I can give bags out with all this.” I mentioned that I’d planned to pick up the boxes of looms and stuff the bags later today.

  The loom idea had been Crystal’s, and she had given me a quick demonstration on how to use them, making a point of telling me that knowing how to knit wasn’t necessary. I had trusted her to come up with a plan for the workshops. Apparently, she hadn’t thought about the logistics of how to handle the looms.

  I regretted that I had waited so long for the three of us to meet about the upcoming retreat. Wanda tried to lift the bag. She had good upper body strength and had no problem holding it.

  “You’re right. You’ll get somebody complaining they got a muscle strain from carrying this around.” She set it back down. “I guess Crystal didn’t think about that.” There was a tiny bit of triumph in Wanda’s voice.

  Crystal ign
ored the comment as well as the bag problem. “We should really talk about the plan for the workshops.” She had a plastic bin and began to take out knitted items and lay them on the table. I looked at the array of hats, scarves and shawls.

  “These were all made with the looms?” I asked. In my basic lesson I had just made a swatch using part of a circular loom. I was going to be almost on the same level of my retreaters when it came to skill with the device.

  Crystal nodded and encouraged me to handle the pieces. I was surprised how thick and soft some of the scarves were.

  “But what’s the plan?” Wanda said. “I know how to use the looms, but if I’m going to be instructing and helping, I have to know with what.”

  Crystal shrugged. “I thought we’d just offer them patterns that went with the different kinds of looms and let them pick what they want.”

  Wanda assumed her teapot pose. “Obviously you aren’t a teacher. You have to have structure, a plan for how you’re going to direct the workshop. We should tell them what to make.” Crystal blanched at the criticism.

  I wasn’t an expert with the looms or really any yarn craft, but I had spent time as a substitute teacher, and I knew what Wanda was saying was true, but I didn’t want to alienate Crystal.

  “Isn’t the point of the workshops to teach the group how to use the looms and then guide them through their projects?” I said. The two of them agreed. “I know one of the reasons the looms seemed like a good idea is that it’s quick to make projects, which means the group ought to be able to make a number of them during the retreat. What about this for a plan: after you teach them the basics of how to use the looms, have everybody make one of these using the circular looms.” I picked up a plain navy blue beanie. “Then have them make something like this.” I draped a thick scarf over my arm. “And after that they can make whatever they choose.”

  I think because I suggested it rather than Wanda, Crystal saw the point of telling the group what to make and having them all doing the same thing at the same time. “Okay,” she said, “but we have to give them some freedom of choice. Who wants to see them all making their hats in the same color? It’ll look like a factory instead of an expression of their creativity. I’ll go along with having the whole group make the same first two projects, but we have to let them be able to pick their own yarn.”

  I looked to Wanda to see if she would agree. “It’s your retreat, so if that’s what you want,” Wanda said with a shrug.

  “It seems like a compromise,” I said. “I’m not very good at imposing my will, and I’d rather we all agree. I do better when I get everyone on my side. That’s what I did when I was a teacher.”

  “All right,” Wanda said finally. “And as for the tote bags—I would suggest stuffing them with the folders like you have in the past. They can get a schedule, basic instructions for the looms and probably something about Butterfly Week this time. Maybe put in some yarn. Then we’ll hand out the looms at the first workshop. They can just carry around the one they’re working on and leave the rest in the meeting room. At the end of the retreat, they can take their whole set with them. By then it will be their problem, not yours.”

  I looked to Crystal, who rocked her head back and forth in a semblance of agreement.

  “We’ll deal with the people who fuss about using the looms when we get to it,” Wanda added.

  “What?” I said. I had expected the group to love the whole idea of using the looms.

  “Knitting purists might not be so happy,” Wanda said. “It doesn’t have the same grace as knitting with needles. And the novices still have to learn how to do something.”

  Crystal didn’t seem happy with the comment. “Wanda, you’ll see. It will be fine.”

  With that settled, we started to talk about Butterfly Week. This time I had planned a longer retreat and had arranged for my retreaters to take part in all the town’s activities.

  “Did I tell you that Marcy is in the running for Butterfly Queen?” Crystal asked. Marcy was her daughter, and I still had a hard time realizing that the free spirit had teenage kids. She went on for a few minutes about how she’d been in the Princess Court one year. “It was pointless,” Crystal said. “I knew there was a committee, but that woman ran the show, and I’m sure she really picked who she wanted to be queen. What is she doing here now?”

  Both Wanda and I followed Crystal’s gaze into the main room to see who she was talking about. I recognized the woman from the chili dinner as she went by.

  “Rosalie Hardcastle,” Wanda said. “She likes to think she’s a big mover and shaker in town. My sister is in the Princess Court, too. I better go and say hello to Rosalie. Then it’s off to the football game with the rest of the town. Go Monarchs.” Crystal and I watched as Wanda went up to the woman and really laid it on thick.

  “If she thinks that’s going to help her sister, she’s crazy,” Crystal said, clearly perturbed—maybe because she hadn’t come up with the idea first. Rosalie gave Wanda a haughty smile in response to her greeting, then Wanda sailed out the door.

  I noticed that Gwen’s brow seemed even more furrowed as Rosalie pulled her aside, taking her away from the customer she was helping.

  “What does she want with my mother?” Crystal said. I was surprised at her tone. Crystal always seemed like a free spirit type who kind of rolled with the punches. But then, I supposed she was protective of her mother. I knew that Crystal had come back to town with her two kids when her rock musician husband had taken off with a younger woman and left her stranded. Gwen had taken them in with no question, even though her house was small and money was tight.

  “It doesn’t seem like good news,” I said as I got a better look at Gwen’s expression. Rosalie was a pretty woman, probably somewhere in her late forties. But by now her personality was catching up with her looks, and I noticed a harshness about her expression. “But maybe that’s just the way she always looks,” I said. “That’s pretty much the expression she had when she said thank you for the muffins.”

  “She appeared a little softer when she came out of the kitchen last night so the team could thank her,” Crystal said. “Kory is such a good kid. He’s the one who said they should give her a ‘Hip hip hooray’ for the chili.”

  I thought of the dark-haired gangly boy. “I just can’t get used to the idea that you have a sixteen-year-old son who is taller than you.”

  Crystal smiled. “I got an early start. I would say it was a big mistake running off with a musician, but I wouldn’t trade my kids for anything. Rixx doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Every time I heard her ex’s name all I could think was how pretentious it was.

  “You probably don’t know this, but Rosalie has an inflated view of herself,” Crystal continued. “She’s really a piece of work. She was Butterfly Queen three times and even tried to get the town council to make it a permanent position for her.” Crystal rolled her eyes. “She made the chili dinner a tradition when her kids were in high school and her son was on the team. Someone suggested changing it to maybe a spaghetti dinner or having someone else make the chili, but no, it has to be her secret recipe, and she always has to make it the morning of, in the community room, with no one around.” Crystal laughed. “It’s no wonder she didn’t appreciate your corn muffins. She acted like they were some kind of invaders. I’m sure she would have conveniently managed to drop them into the trash and not served them, except I showed them off to the other parents before she had a chance. We put them out on the tables.”

  Rosalie finally left, and Crystal looked at the wall clock. “The game is about to start. I have to go.”

  “Go Monarchs,” I called after her.

  By the time I went outside, the street was much quieter. It seemed the whole town was going to the game, except me. I could only make my town spirit go so far, and I had bags to put together.

  A police cruiser pulled up behind my car, and
an officer got out as things began to topple out of the tote bag again. “Need some help?”

  Before I could say yes, Dane Mangano stuck his foot in a round loom that had started to roll down the street. He hopped on one foot as he reached forward to pick it up. Dane was my neighbor and a Cadbury PD officer. Really he was more, though I kept trying to fight the feeling. There was definitely a spark between us, which he seemed anxious to pursue, but I had put the brakes on. I didn’t have a good track record of sticking with places or people, and even though I seemed to be settling into Cadbury and my aunt’s business, I couldn’t predict the future. So why start something? And if I were to stay, it could turn out even worse. What if we dated and broke up? I was still an outsider, and he was a town hero.

  “Why aren’t you going to the game?” I said as he took the bag from me and managed to fit the loom pieces all back in. He set it down on the floor of the front seat and waited until it settled.

  “Somebody has to protect the streets of Cadbury,” he said with less than his usual enthusiasm. I knew the truth was that Dane had gotten in trouble with his superiors because he’d helped me in the past, and as a result was now working every holiday and the worst shifts the rest of the time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Dane shrugged and gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “It was worth it. But you’ve got to give me another chance.”

  He was referring to our attempts at a date. There had been two, and neither had turned out well. The first time, we’d gotten the business from the locals sitting around us. I blushed thinking of all their comments about what a cute couple we were and how when we got married would I make my own wedding cake. The next time we tried going to a tourist trap out of town, where we were sure not to meet anyone who knew us. That part of it had worked out, but someone had choked on a hunk of chicken. Dane had jumped into action and gotten the chicken piece out. I won’t go into gory details, but it was a lot more messy than the typical Heimlich maneuver. The guy’s wife fainted, a bunch of EMTs showed up and the restaurant was closing, so we ended up getting our dinner to go and eating in his truck. So much for a romantic evening.