A Tangled Yarn Read online

  It figured that they went to check out the message board. They seemed to be actually reading some of the notes. Maybe they were checking to see if they were really alphabetical.

  I straightened the sign announcing that registration would start at one p.m., shoved the empty bin under the table and looked toward the Cora and Madeleine Delacorte Café. I’d left them a small batch of the new breakfast muffins, and I was anxious to see how they were moving and if anyone had said anything about them.

  The café was a relatively new addition to Vista Del Mar, and it was very busy when I walked in. Just like the gift shop that it mirrored, its walls were almost all windows. The décor was rather plain. A wooden counter offered places to sit and also served as a barrier to the preparation area. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the rest of the area. The tables were all full, and from the snippets of conversation I picked up, the patrons were all writers.

  I was more interested in talking to the woman behind the counter, though. Her name was Bridget and she hadn’t been working there long. She was at the far end of the counter, talking to a customer. A customer I recognized.

  Before I could greet him, Sammy was off his stool and coming over, urging me to join him. “Case, you’ve got to see this. It’s going to wow everyone.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to her,” I said, turning toward Bridget. She had a cascade of dark blond wavy hair and a smile that seemed like she was trying too hard. I’d checked on my regular muffins with her before and she’d never been particularly friendly. I tried to glance inside the refrigerator case to see what had sold, but Sammy pulled me away.

  “You can do that after I show you. C’mon,” he said, leading me to the stool next to his. Bridget was staring at me, and there was just the slightest darkening to the expression in her eyes, which seemed strange.

  Sammy was Dr. Sammy Glickner, also known as the Amazing Dr. Sammy when he was doing his magic act. He was also my ex-boyfriend. He’d relocated to Cadbury recently, insisting it had nothing to do with me being there or any hopes he had of rekindling our romance, and everything to do with him following his dream to do magic. By day he was a urologist, but he did table magic in the dining hall here at Vista Del Mar two evenings a week and on the weekends.

  He had three walnut shells—or at least what looked like walnut shells—sitting on the counter. I figured they were probably some magician’s version of the shells.

  “So, watch this,” he said, holding up what looked like a pea, but I suspected it was plastic. He lifted one of the shells and placed the pea under it. “Keep your eye on the shell with the pea under it,” he said, pointing to it before starting to move the shells around.

  He kept his patter going while he rearranged the shells. I did my best to keep my eye on the shell despite his talking. Finally he stopped and asked me to pick the shell with the pea under it.

  I hated to do it, since it would embarrass him when I was right, but I pointed to the shell I had followed through all his manipulations. His face seemed to fall and I almost wanted to retract my choice and pick another shell, but it was too late.

  “Go on and pick it up,” he said to me.

  “I’m sorry, Sammy,” I said as I reached out for the shell. I lifted it and then gasped—it was empty. When I looked at Sammy he was grinning.

  “I told you it was great. Want to try again?”

  “Oh, Sammy, you really are amazing,” Bridget said. She was leaning on her elbows, gazing up at him. When she straightened, I noticed she began to twist a lock of her hair. I might be a flop at flirting, but I still recognized it when I saw someone else doing it. Her grand finale was tilting her head and batting her eyes. Now her behavior toward me made sense. I wasn’t sure he realized it, but Sammy had an admirer. And maybe a helper, too. She tried to hand him a deck of cards that had been lying on the counter.

  The helper part seemed to be more on her end, though—he pushed the cards away, instead repeating the trick with the shells for a man who had stopped next to him.

  I felt protective of Sammy since I felt responsible for his being in Cadbury, no matter what he said to the contrary. I began to evaluate Bridget in a new way. Sammy had no sense about women. Look at the way he wore his heart on his sleeve about me. Would she end up breaking his heart? Or what if there was a happy ending? Visions of a white dress and handfuls of thrown rice fluttered through my mind. Why did I feel such a twinge at the image?

  Sammy took a break from the shell game, and Bridget took a napkin and mopped his brow, then gave him a cup of hot water and lemon. “Drink it for your voice,” she urged. He seemed oblivious to her moves but took a sip of the hot drink.

  I waited until someone came in and ordered an elaborate coffee drink and she had to walk away from us to make it before I said anything. “I think she likes you,” I said. “And it’s not just the magic.”

  Sammy seemed dumbfounded. “You really think so?” I nodded in answer and he stared at her as she frothed the milk. We were never, ever going to get back together, so he ought to move on. I should feel happy for him.

  It wasn’t like we’d had a bitter breakup. If it were up to him, we’d still be together, probably married and living in Highland Park near Chicago. It was all me. If there was a checklist for a good mate, Sammy fit the bill, but there was that special something missing. On my end, there just wasn’t chemistry between us.

  That didn’t mean I didn’t care for him. I wanted him to be happy. What if Sammy acted on what I’d just said? He would probably stop calling me Case, his nickname for me, and saying that I was the only one who got him. She’d be the one who got him then.

  Suddenly I realized how much I liked the adoring looks he threw my way. The way he was always there, and the way his feelings were so apparent.

  “I might have been wrong. I wouldn’t rush into anything,” I said as she delivered the drink to the customer and then rejoined us. I left without even asking her about the muffins. I was mulling over the whole situation, shocked at my own behavior. It almost seemed like I was jealous.

  When I exited the café, I practically bumped into Kevin St. John. “So, there you are,” he said. “I have someone who’d like to check in for your retreat.” He gestured to the woman with him. The words sounded benign enough, but his tone said volumes. He was implying that I was shirking my duty to my retreat people by not being at the table and not nearly as professional as he was with the writers. Underneath it all was his irritation that I had the special deal courtesy of the Delacorte sisters. I knew if he’d had his druthers, I’d be charged the going rate, which would accomplish his real goal of stopping me from putting on my retreats. Then, just like he’d done with the writers, he’d arrange for the yarn retreat himself.

  To counteract his implication, I put on my brightest smile and greeted the woman. “You can go now,” I said to Kevin in a dismissive tone.

  Of course, none of the subtext of our exchange registered with the woman, and I led the way across the large room. I couldn’t even be upset with her for wanting to check in early, because the first thing she did was apologize for being any trouble.

  “It’s no problem checking you in now. But our first workshop isn’t until this afternoon.”

  “Darlin’, I don’t care.” She had a tremulous voice and an ample build that made me think of an opera singer. Though her hair was gray, she wore it in a long, loose style. Normally, I’d think that the days when that was a flattering look for her seemed long gone, but she somehow pulled it off. Just as she pulled off her face full of makeup, including eye shadow. She wore the makeup; it didn’t wear her.

  “My table is that one,” I said, directing her away from the writers’ setup.

  “You just lead the way, hon, and I’ll follow.” She seemed a little breathless as she walked, which I thought might be due to her girth and the large canvas bag she carried, so I slowed my pace. “I don’t know what I’d do without these.” She pointed down at her light blue Crocs. “What they lose in style, they make up in comfort. I’m just so happy to be here,” she said. When we reached the table, I slipped behind it and asked her name.

  “Dolly Erickson,” she said. She leaned forward and her yellow chiffon scarf brushed the table. She seemed to be trying to read my list upside down. I was surprised when she pointed out her name. She took the Yarn2Go tote bag and pulled out the papers inside.

  “You’ll see on the schedule that the first workshop starts at four,” I said. She looked up with a blank expression until what I said registered. It was then that I saw she’d been looking at the map I’d enclosed. I began my spiel about lunch in the dining hall and the activities put on by Vista Del Mar. She had clearly been around long before cell phones and I figured the phone booths would be a fun trip down memory lane, but I went through it all anyway, pointing out the message board.

  “How lovely,” she said. “It’s nice to be invisible for a while.” Her comment confused me until she pulled out her cell phone and complained about how tired she was of walking past a store only to have an ad pop up on her phone.

  “I suppose you want to know about the program,” I said, and she let out a hearty laugh.

  “I’m sure it will be fine, whatever it is.” She popped the phone back in her bag, and I saw she had a tote bag inside of it filled with yarn.

  “What are you making?” I asked, indicating the yarn. She followed my gaze and pulled the bag toward her in a protective manner. “I just started on it. There’s nothing to show yet.” Then she seemed to realize she’d overreacted. “I might as well tell you. I’m not a very accomplished knitter, and I just started on a scarf. I hope you aren’t offended, but i
t was the idea of a retreat in this lovely spot that appealed to me. And since your brochure said that you didn’t need to know how to knit to attend, it sounded perfect for me.”

  I assured her that it was fine and told her, just as I had Lisa, that there would be plenty of help available during the workshops.

  “That’s wonderful news,” she said with a bright smile. “And now I think I’ll go to my room and get ready for lunch.” She looked at a cluster of people near the other registration table, and I was about to explain who they were when she beat me to the punch. “So there’s a writers’ conference here, too.”

  “Oh, then you must have overheard them talking,” I said, indicating the group nearby.

  “Yes, I suppose I did, but in my own way. I read lips.”

  She assured me that she’d already secured her room and could manage just fine on her own. As she walked away, I thought how nice it would be if all my retreaters were as easy as she was.

  I was about to leave my table when another woman approached and asked about signing in. It was obvious she’d seen that I’d checked Dolly in, so there was no way to put her off, or any real reason to, either.

  I tried not to stare at her appearance, but it was hard. She wore a big hat that threw a shadow over her face, not that I could have seen much of it anyway, with the oversize sunglasses she wore. Her figure was hidden behind a billowy white long-sleeved blouse and a long kelly green skirt.

  “Mona Riviera,” she said when I asked her name. I wasn’t sure if she had a naturally low voice or she was keeping it that way on purpose. I offered her a tote bag and started going through the spiel I’d given the others. Her face was so hidden I couldn’t really tell if she was listening or not, particularly since she kept swiveling her head as if she was nervously looking for something or someone.

  “If you’re wondering,” she said, gesturing toward her clothes, “I have a sun allergy.”

  What were you supposed to say after that? The best I could do was stutter out an “oh.” I paused to make a transition and finally said, “Well, lunch is in the dining hall, and then you have free time until the workshop at four.” I was easing myself away from the table, but she stopped me.

  “I wonder if you could help me with my room,” she said in a deep, breathy voice. I glanced toward the registration desk and saw that Kevin St. John was talking to the clerk. I might have still been in the dark about the program for the retreat, but I had made sure all the rooms were ready for my people and that all they had to do was give their names and they’d be given their keys. I considered telling her that, but I was getting the vibe that she was high maintenance and decided to simply do it for her.

  “Of course,” I said. She hung back and I went to the desk and gave her name to the clerk, glad that Kevin St. John was busy overseeing the rooms for the writers. The less contact I had with him, the better. I returned with her key and started to give her directions to the building her room was in, but then simply offered to escort her.

  Was this a portent of things to come?

  3

  The lunch bell had started to ring and a line was forming outside the dining hall when I finally got back to my place. I gladly forfeited the chance for a hot lunch for some time alone. Even though a hot lunch would have been nice. For all my baking, when it came to regular food, I was a dud and lived on frozen meals. Though there was an occasional plate of pasta from my neighbor down the street.

  The sky was a brighter shade of white now that the sun above all those clouds was directly overhead. Normally I would have looked at this as the calm before the storm, but it seemed like the storm had already started. At least my kitchen was peaceful. Julius wasn’t even hanging around—I figured he was off somewhere sleeping.

  My concern about the new muffins was quickly fading into the background as I focused on the retreat. I had never had so many people insisting on checking in early. It didn’t really matter except that it made me feel out of control of my own business. I hoped as the day progressed and registration officially started, things would fall into place.

  I made a last-minute decision to bring along a tin of cookies. Somehow that made me feel in control again. While the oven preheated, I lined two cookie sheets with parchment paper and took out several logs of butter cookie dough. I always kept some in the refrigerator so I could get a batch together at just a little more than a moment’s notice. In an effort to add a little something extra, I shook on some chocolate sprinkles before I popped the sheets in the oven.

  Within minutes the air was filled with the fragrance of buttery sweetness. While the cookies baked, I wolfed down a peanut butter sandwich. I had a tin ready and lined with a checkered napkin by the time the cookies came out of the oven. I’d let them cool on a rack for a few minutes, and then they’d be ready to be packed up.

  In the meantime, I did a little freshening of my appearance. I tried to have a professional, put-together look at least for the beginning of the retreats. My clothing didn’t vary much—it was more the kind of jeans I wore. Black ones were dressy as far as I was concerned. The constant cool weather made turtlenecks a perfect choice for a top. I let my hair loose from its scrunchie and gave it a good brushing. Makeup was some foundation, eyeliner and lipstick that wasn’t too far from my natural lip color. I’d let my boss from the restaurant talk me into a bright red shade once, but when I’d seen my image in the mirror, I’d looked like a vampire.

  The final touch was always some embellishment left by my aunt. She’d been an accomplished knitter and crocheter, and there was a basket in the room I used as an office filled with things she’d made for me to choose from. For today, I picked a cowl in shades of turquoise. I was ready to go back and face my crowd.

  I had the cookie tin and was heading to the door when the phone rang. I knew who it was before the second ring, as a mechanical sounding voice announced that it was Dr. Feldstein. It could have been either of my parents, but I was sure it was my mother. I’d avoided her earlier call, but if I didn’t pick up now, she’d freak and start calling around looking for me.

  “Hello, Mother,” I said when I grabbed the receiver. To think, not so many years ago, you had to answer the phone with no idea who was calling.

  “Casey, I was worried. I called before and you didn’t answer. It was too early for you to be busy with your retreat.” She left the statement open-ended and clearly wanted me to tell her where I was without her asking.

  “I didn’t realize you paid such close attention to my schedule,” I said. Usually, she conveniently forgot about the time difference between Cadbury and Chicago and called way too early in the morning.

  “Of course I do. I was calling to wish you luck on the upcoming weekend. Is everything okay?”

  I muttered a yes, not wanting to let on that I had been preoccupied with the new muffins. I hadn’t shared that I was trying anything different. She’d launch into her offer for cooking school in Paris and how much more prepared I’d be to create something new if I had a certificate. Not that the offer to go to Paris wasn’t tempting. But I had a history of not sticking with professions. Though after putting on a number of retreats and overcoming all the obstacles that came with them, I was beginning to believe that I might have broken the spell.

  Maybe because my mother had certificates on her wall proclaiming her an MD—and a cardiologist at that—she believed I needed some kind of certificate to prove my expertise. The jury might be out on the new muffins, but my desserts were such a big hit at the Blue Door that people ordered them set aside before even choosing their main course because they ran out so quickly.

  “So then, everything is okay?” she asked.