The Knit to Quit class ended a few minutes before eight. Alix had been especially quiet most of the evening. Hutch liked her and her husband, too, who came to pick her up again. Apparently Jordan worked late the evenings Alix was at A Good Yarn, which meant they could drive home together.
Phoebe stood and gathered her things. Hutch did, too.
“Good night, you two,” Lydia said as they walked toward the front door.
“Night,” Hutch echoed.
“See you next week,” Phoebe said, looking over her shoulder.
Lydia waved them off. As they closed the door, Hutch happened to hear Margaret speculating on a romance between him and Phoebe. For an instant he was tempted to stop and listen, wondering how they viewed his chances.
Once outside, Hutch threw his briefcase into his car. He’d been lucky enough to find a parking place almost directly in front of A Good Yarn—maybe that was a sign. Phoebe waited and then they hurried across the street.
The French Café was brightly lit and there were a number of couples scattered around the restaurant, eating a late dinner or sipping coffee.
“What would you like?” Hutch asked as they approached the counter.
“Just black coffee,” she replied.
“Why don’t you choose a table and I’ll go get our coffees.”
She nodded and he watched as she selected a quiet place in the back of the restaurant. After ordering and paying for their drinks, he carried both mugs to the table.
Now that he was alone with Phoebe, he found himself at a loss. He tried to recall his college days, but everything had been so easy back then. So natural and effortless. He used to see himself as witty and social—something he could hardly believe now.
“So,” he began. “Tell me about yourself.”
Phoebe brushed the hair from her face, which he’d noticed was a habit of hers. More than once he’d been tempted to reach out and do it for her, which would’ve been inappropriate to put it mildly. He clasped his hands in his lap.
“Well…I think I already mentioned I’m a physical therapist.”
He nodded. “You told us that during our first class.”
“What about you?” she asked.
Obviously what he’d said about himself wasn’t memorable. “I work for a family-owned business,” he told her.
“Oh, yes. I remember that now.”
He’d made a point of not referring to Mount Rainier Chocolates by name. The company was well-known in the area, and the moment people learned about his connection, they bombarded him with questions—always the same ones. He was tired of answering them, tired of all the silly jokes and sly remarks. Besides, there was more to him than his job.
“You took the class to relax, isn’t that what you said? And because of your thumb.”
“Yeah.” He raised his hand and waggled his thumb, feeling a twinge of pain.
“Have you had physical therapy?” she asked.
He shook his head. Physical therapy took time he couldn’t spare; not only that, his injury wasn’t serious, despite its slowness in healing.
“There are various exercises you can do to regain dexterity,” she said.
“You mean other than knitting armor?” he joked.
Phoebe smiled again and it seemed the entire room grew a little brighter.
The conversation went well from that point forward. Phoebe was easy to talk to, her own comments interesting and animated. If the conversation lagged she picked it up. Still, Hutch felt he needed to say something about her fiancé. He might as well do it now. Get it over with, if that wasn’t too crass a description.
“I know how difficult this time is for you,” he said solemnly when a discussion of recent movies had run its course.
Her gaze shot to his. “You do?”
“Losing your fiancé…”
“Yes, well…these things happen.” He could tell that talking about the man she’d loved flustered and upset her. Hutch felt bad about bringing up such a painful subject, but he wanted to be sure Phoebe knew he sympathized.
He decided to take his cue from her and move on. He said the first thing that came to mind. “I’ve enjoyed being in the class with you.”
Her eyes softened as she cast her eyes down. “I feel the same way.”
“I’d…like to see you again, outside class.” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “But only if you’re ready. If it’s too soon, I understand. All I ask is that you let me know when you feel ready to date again.”
“I…I…” She hesitated.
His heart sank.
“I believe I’m ready now,” she said, meeting his eyes.
A sense of exhilaration filled him. “That’s wonderful.” Then, because he felt he had to clarify what he’d said, he added quickly, “Wonderful that you’re willing to see me again. Not wonderful that your fiancé died.” The instant the words left his tongue, Hutch wanted to yank them back. He couldn’t have said anything stupider or more insensitive. “That didn’t come out right.”
“Don’t worry. I knew what you meant.”
He exhaled a sigh of relief. “The Fourth of July is this weekend,” he said.
“So I noticed.”
“Would you like to go on a picnic?” he asked. It was a traditional Fourth of July activity, he figured. “I have a couple of bicycles,” he said on the spur of the moment.
“That sounds like fun. Anyplace special you’d like to ride?”
Hutch hadn’t taken out his bicycle in years. “I biked through the Skagit Valley once and really enjoyed that.” The landscape was flat. He didn’t want to huff and puff his way up a hill; he’d prefer to play it safe.
Phoebe’s eyes brightened. “I love the Skagit Valley.”
He felt like standing up and cheering. “Then it’s a date.”
“I look forward to it.”
They parted outside the café and Hutch experienced an unfamiliar feeling of satisfaction—with the conversation, with her and even with himself.
The next morning Hutch arrived at the office in an exceptionally good mood.
“You’re whistling,” Gail said.
“I was? When?”
“Just now.” She seemed to approve, however, because she sent him a contented smile.
“I didn’t realize it,” he said, feeling vaguely puzzled. “Listen, I need you to do a couple of things for me.”
“Sure.”
“Order me two fully assembled mountain bikes. One blue and one red, complete with helmets. Have them delivered to my house.”
“Right away.”
That morning he’d checked out the bikes in his garage and they were old and not in the best condition. Rather than spend the time getting them updated and repaired, it would be simpler to purchase new ones.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” He felt a bit self-conscious about this. “Go online and order me a book, if you would.”
“Of course. Do you have the title or the author’s name?”
“I don’t know the author, but the title should be along the lines of Dating for Dummies or Relationships for Idiots.”
Gail couldn’t disguise her amusement, which Hutch chose to overlook. He couldn’t blame her. However, he was willing to start his romantic education from scratch, as long as he could spend time with Phoebe Rylander.
CHAPTER 14
Anne Marie Roche
“Blossom Street Books.” Anne Marie answered the phone in her usual pleasant tone, assuming the caller would be asking about her hours or whether a particular title had come in.
“Anne Marie, this is Tim Carlsen.”
Anne Marie froze and drew in a deep breath. She’d known it was too much to hope that she’d never hear from him again. Fortunately she was alone in the bookstore. “What can I do for you, Mr. Carlsen?” she asked stiffly.
He ignored the lack of welcome in her voice. “Have you given any more thought to our conversation last week?” he asked.
It’d been
ten days since she’d heard from Tim Carlsen. Ten days since the Monday afternoon he’d told her he might be Ellen’s biological father. From that moment until now, Anne Marie had been waiting, wondering if he planned to follow through with his threat to take legal action.
“I assumed the next move was yours,” she said, hoping her bluntness would tell him she had no intention of allowing him into her daughter’s life. It was too late—and besides, the law was on her side.
“Listen,” Tim said, “I’m not going to get an attorney. You’re right. Ellen’s your family now. Whether I’m her biological father or not isn’t relevant.”
Anne Marie was prepared to battle him all the way to the Supreme Court. That he’d capitulated so readily took her by surprise. “Thank you,” she whispered, hardly knowing what else to say.
“If you ever decide you’d be willing to have Ellen tested…”
“I won’t.”
Undaunted, he continued. “Or if one day Ellen asks about her father, I hope you’ll contact me.”
Anne Marie wasn’t sure if this was a ploy. “I doubt that’ll be necessary.”
“At some point there might be a medical issue,” he countered.
“What do you mean?” she asked anxiously. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No, not at all. I just want you to realize you can call me if anything like that ever surfaces.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t contact you again. I’d like to leave my phone numbers with you, though. If at any time, for any reason, you have a change of heart, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.”
He slowly recited three numbers: his home, office and cell, which she dutifully copied down and repeated, although she didn’t plan to use any of them except in the direst of circumstances.
A silence followed before he said, “I guess there’s nothing more to say.” There was no denying the misery in his voice.
“No, there isn’t,” Anne Marie agreed. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.
“If Ellen—” He didn’t finish what he’d started to say.
“What about Ellen?”
“If she ever needs anything or if you’d ever consider letting me into her life…”
“We’ve already discussed this, Mr. Carlsen. You have my answer.”
“Yes,” he said. He sounded utterly defeated. “Thank you, Ms. Roche.”
Anne Marie replaced the telephone, although her hand lingered on the receiver. She was grateful Tim Carlsen wasn’t going to fight her on this, and the tension in her chest slowly dissipated. She hoped, for Ellen’s sake, that she’d made the right decision.
That very evening, Anne Marie had reason to doubt she had.
Ellen returned from day camp full of enthusiasm, chattering about the games she’d played and the song she’d learned. She collected Baxter and took him for a walk along Blossom Street, skipping down the sidewalk with boundless energy, greeting her friends along the way.
Standing in the doorway of the bookstore, Anne Marie watched her daughter. Ellen was a happy child now. She remembered how reticent and quiet Ellen had been when they first met. Where was Tim Carlsen then? Where was Ellen’s father when she’d needed him most?
Anne Marie recognized immediately how unfair she was being to Tim. He’d had no idea Candy Falk had given birth to a child. Even with the little she knew about Candy’s history, Anne Marie was well aware that any one of a number of men could have fathered Ellen.
That night, when Anne Marie went to check on her daughter, she found Ellen sitting cross-legged on her bed holding a pencil and pad. Baxter lay curled on the bed beside her. Ellen appeared to be deep in thought.
“What have you got there?” Anne Marie asked, sitting beside her.
“My list of twenty wishes.”
“Are you adding to it?”
Ellen chewed on the end of her pencil. “No. I’m looking at all the wishes I already wrote down.”
“A lot of them have come true, haven’t they?” Anne Marie asked. The girl had wanted to learn how to knit, which she’d done. She had her own bedroom furniture now and a friend from school had recently spent the night.
“Not every wish has come true,” Ellen said. “Not this one.”
“Which one is that?”
“The one about finding my father.”
What was going on? It was almost as if Ellen had heard her phone conversation with Tim Carlsen earlier that day.
“What do you think my father looks like?” Ellen asked.
To hide her discomfort, Anne Marie grimaced. “I bet he has warts.”
“Warts?”
“Yup, big ones. All over his face.”
Setting aside her pad and pen, Ellen giggled and got up on her knees.
“And really big feet. Size thirty-six shoes,” Anne Marie added. “As big as those shoes clowns wear.”
Ellen giggled again.
“I bet his arms are really long and drag on the ground.” Anne Marie stood up and walked around the bed, hunching her shoulders, apelike, and letting her arms dangle so they brushed against the carpeted floor.
Her antics got Baxter’s attention and he started barking frantically until Anne Marie stopped, sat down again and petted him. Mollified, Baxter returned to his nap.
Ellen petted him, too. “No, he doesn’t,” she said. “Not my father.”
“Well, what do you suppose he looks like?” Anne Marie asked.
Ellen’s eyes shone with excitement. “I bet he’s really handsome.”
Her daughter wasn’t far off the mark there, Anne Marie mused. Tim Carlsen was attractive. Of course, there was always the possibility that he wasn’t Ellen’s father, but that was likely wishful thinking on her part.
“I wonder if he has hair like mine.”
That, he did. Anne Marie realized how much Ellen resembled him. She had Tim’s coloring, his dark, straight hair and the same deep, brown eyes. This conversation was becoming more difficult by the minute.
“I bet he likes animals, too.”
Anne Marie couldn’t venture a guess about that.
“My first mom didn’t. She said she’d get me a dog but she never did.”
“You certainly love animals,” Anne Marie commented.
Ellen stroked the Yorkie’s side. “Especially Baxter.”
“Especially Baxter,” Anne Marie agreed. She looked at the clock. “It’s past your bedtime, young lady,” she said with mock severity.
Ellen didn’t protest. “Can I read before I go to sleep?” she pleaded.
Anne Marie nodded. As was her habit, she knelt next to the bed and listened to Ellen’s prayers. The girl yawned loudly halfway through the list of friends she prayed for every night and ended with a sweet, heart-felt request that God say hello to her Grandma Dolores.
“Are you sure you want to read tonight?” Anne Marie asked as she bent to kiss Ellen’s forehead.
Her daughter’s eyes were half closed. “Maybe…not,” she whispered.
Anne Marie smiled, then turned off the light and tiptoed from the room.
For a long time afterward, she sat in the living room, deliberating about Tim Carlsen. At first she was convinced she’d made the decision that was best for Ellen. After all, Carlsen had no legal rights.
She wasn’t fooled. There was a very good reason he’d decided not to pursue this through the courts. He’d discovered what Evelyn Boyle had already confirmed; because the birth certificate hadn’t acknowledged him as Ellen’s father, the courts had no means of contacting him before the adoption. Which meant Tim wasn’t part of this scenario and had no place in Ellen’s life. Even if he could prove he was Ellen’s biological father, it was too late.
The only way Tim would be able to know Ellen was if Anne Marie allowed it. She wasn’t about to do that. The man had been a drunk and a drug addict. It didn’t matter that he was clean and sober now—or claimed to be. There were consequences when you’d lived that kind of
life. Besides, what guarantee was there that he wouldn’t backslide? Anne Marie wasn’t willing to risk that. No, it was better that Ellen never find out about this.
Having justified her decision yet again, Anne Marie was determined to stand by it. She got ready for bed and, unlike her daughter, managed to sit up and read for at least thirty minutes. But despite her most strenuous efforts, her thoughts repeatedly returned to Tim and their telephone conversation.
After she’d read the same paragraph three times and still missed its meaning, she slammed the book shut and set it on her nightstand.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, switching off the lamp. She slid down in bed, arranged her pillows and nestled against them, then closed her eyes.
Instantly Tim Carlsen’s image rose before her. “Go away,” she groaned out loud. “Leave me alone.”
She turned onto her side and tried to force herself to sleep.
An hour later she was still awake.
After Robert’s death, Anne Marie had difficulty sleeping. For a while she’d taken coated aspirins that were supposed to aid sleep without upsetting her stomach. They almost always worked.
Retrieving a tablet from the bathroom, she swallowed it, then sat in the living room for another thirty minutes, knitting while she waited to feel sleepy. But even knitting didn’t quiet her thoughts. Anne Marie sighed, feeling confusion, guilt, frustration. If Ellen hadn’t mentioned her father, she would’ve dropped the whole matter and the two of them would’ve gone peacefully about their lives.
What was it with kids? Ellen seemed to have built-in radar, zeroing in on the very topic Anne Marie wanted to avoid.
Finally Anne Marie yawned and went back to bed. She crawled under the covers and closed her eyes with renewed determination to cast out all thoughts of Tim Carlsen and his unreasonable request.
She still couldn’t sleep.
Her mind whirled with a thousand different subjects. She’d talked to two real estate agents that day and had an appointment to look at a house after the holiday weekend. But regardless of what entered her mind, her thoughts always came back to one subject.
Summer on Blossom Street Page 13
