“Is there anything you need me to do here?”
Susannah shrugged. “Unfortunately, no.” Glancing down at her watch, she said, “I shouldn’t be more than an hour, two at the most, but I’ll have my cell with me.”
“I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“I’m sure it will, too.”
Susannah left, using the exit that opened into the alleyway. As if they’d coordinated the event, as soon as the back door closed, the front door opened—and in stepped Christian Dempsey.
Again.
At the hard look in his eyes, Colette knew. The INS had acted on the letter she’d written. It was inevitable that sooner or later he’d find out who’d done this. Her stomach heaved with dread.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” he said without greeting or preamble.
Colette’s mouth went dry. Instinct told her to play dumb, to pretend she didn’t understand what he was talking about. One glance told her he felt both angry and betrayed.
“You couldn’t have come directly to me?” he demanded when she didn’t respond.
Dredging up the courage to meet his eyes was difficult, but she managed. She clasped her hands behind her back to hide their trembling and shook her head.
“You got on my computer when I wasn’t there.” It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact, a fact that obviously infuriated him.
Colette felt she had to explain. “I needed the service code for—” She wasn’t allowed to finish.
“Who gave you my password?” His eyes were like burning coals. “My computer was off.”
“I f-found it.”
He didn’t seem to believe her.
“Who other than me could figure out where to look?” she asked. “I know just about everything there is to know about you,” she said and faltered because clearly she didn’t.
“Who else did you tell?”
“No one…”
“Swear it.”
“No,” she cried, clenching her fists. “How dare you come at me like this! I’m not the one—”
Again he cut her off. “That’s the real reason you resigned, isn’t it?”
She refused to answer him.
“You led me to believe it was about us and what happened at Christmas. That had nothing to do with it. That night was just a convenient excuse, wasn’t it?”
For an instant Colette saw a flash of pain in his eyes. It was immediately replaced with resentment.
Colette had questions of her own. “Why would you risk everything like this?” she asked quietly.
This time he was the one who refused to answer.
“I’ve thought this through a hundred times, and it makes no sense.” She gestured hopelessly, lifting both hands. “You have a profitable business in a growing market. You’re respected. I can’t understand what would compel you to take such a huge risk.”
“I can’t discuss this with you.”
“If not with me, then who?” she muttered.
“You think I should trust you?” he said. “Because of you I spent an unpleasant morning with a roomful of attorneys.”
“All I want to know is why,” she pleaded, needing some excuse, some explanation. “Is it the money?”
“I said,” he returned pointedly, “that I can’t discuss this with you.”
“Are you working for the INS?” That was the only possible reason that might explain his behavior. Or the only possible legal reason, anyway.
He didn’t respond, just looked at her, his gaze impassive.
Colette had so desperately wanted to believe this was the answer that she felt like crying. Instead the anger broke through. “Unless you’re here to place an order, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.” Rather than let him see how upset she was, she stood with her back straight, her shoulders square and her feet firmly planted. Her arms hung loosely at her sides.
After an interminable moment, Christian released a deep sigh.
She thought he’d leave then, but he continued to stand there, studying her. He no longer seemed so angry, and the change in his demeanor confused her. Curious and at the same time afraid, she reached for her pad and pen as if preparing to take his order.
“I asked myself over and over why you left the way you did,” he said at last. “Both of us made mistakes. Both of us reacted stupidly.”
“Now you know,” she said, doing her best not to be swayed by emotion. Colette had her answer. He’d gotten himself into a mess there was no getting out of. She couldn’t be involved with him. “I think you should go. And please don’t come here again.”
“Not even to order flowers?” he challenged.
With business so slow, Colette didn’t dare turn him down. “Perhaps you should deal with Susannah.”
“I prefer to deal with you.”
“Fine.” She poised the pen above the pad.
“I’ll take five dozen roses.”
Five dozen? Colette wasn’t sure she could even fill such a large order. “Where would you like these sent?” she asked as if it was perfectly normal to have a man walk in off the street and ask for five dozen roses.
“Make that ten dozen.”
She found it difficult to hide her reaction.
“I’m ordering flowers. You just told me I had to, otherwise you’d have me evicted from the shop. I imagine you’d call on your detective friend to help you do that.”
Colette remembered telling Christian about Steve Grisham but she didn’t recall mentioning his name or his rank. Now she regretted any reference to Steve. In fact, she hadn’t heard from him since their chance encounter on the waterfront. It was just as well; any relationship was sure to be complicated.
She bit her lip. “I didn’t threaten to kick you out,” she muttered wretchedly. “I just…suggested you leave.”
He merely raised his eyebrows in an annoyingly superior way.
“Would you like roses of any particular color?” she asked, as though nothing else had been said.
“Red,” he responded. “Blood-red. The best, most expensive roses available.”
“I’ll personally see that they’re the best available.” He was doing this purposely to hurt her. She’d hurt him and he was striking back, telling her there was someone else in his life. She’d been a one-night stand, and he was making sure she knew it.
He pulled a pen and pad from his briefcase and wrote something down. “Have the roses delivered to this address first thing tomorrow.”
He handed her the slip of paper. Ms. Elizabeth Sasser, she read. The address was on Capitol Hill.
Although Colette had worked for Christian for five years, she couldn’t remember his ever dating a woman named Elizabeth. But she’d been gone for more than two months now.
“Would you like to sign a card?” she asked, keeping her voice devoid of emotion.
“Of course.”
Colette’s hand shook as she waited for him to write out the small card. He inserted it in the envelope, which he sealed, then scrawled Elizabeth across the front. Colette noticed that he’d chosen one of the more romantic cards.
“Will that be all?” she asked, struggling to maintain a professional facade.
“No, as a matter of fact, it won’t. I’d like roses delivered to Elizabeth every week.”
“Every week?”
“Yes.”
“For what period of time?” Christian went through women so quickly, she couldn’t imagine anyone lasting more than a few months, four or five on the outside.
“A year.”
“A year?” she repeated, too stunned to keep her mouth shut. She couldn’t have disguised her shock had she tried. So Christian was obviously in a serious relationship. He must be to go to this expense. As his personal assistant, Colette had ordered flowers for him dozens of times. She knew his routine; he generally ordered roses at the beginning of a relationship and again close to the end.
“Does that satisfy your demand that I do business or leave?” he asked.
; “Yes,” she said curtly. She didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed at the way he’d outmaneuvered her—or sad about the connection that no longer existed.
“Is there anything else?” she asked after an awkward moment of silence.
“Nothing.”
His voice was almost tender, and she had the feeling this would be the last time she ever saw him. “How would you like to pay for this?” she asked, working hard to keep the pain out of her voice.
He answered by withdrawing his credit card and handing it to her.
When the slip printed out, she tore it off and gave it to Christian for his signature. He didn’t so much as blink at the amount, which was substantial.
“Take my credit card number and bill me weekly for the roses. Make sure they’re impressive.”
“I’ll see to them myself,” she promised and wondered why she should care.
He stared at her, and she squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. “I wish you’d come to me before you wrote that letter,” he said.
“I couldn’t.” Once she’d recognized what he was involved with, she had no option but to turn him in—even if she’d done it in the most cowardly possible way.
“I know,” he said, sounding genuinely regretful.
“Can’t you get out of it?” she pleaded.
Slowly he shook his head. “It’s not that easy. I never meant it to go this far, and now there’s no turning back.”
“I’m sorry, Christian. Can I do anything to help?”
He hesitated, his eyes holding hers. “I know it’s a ridiculous thing to ask, but would you have dinner with me?”
“Dinner?”
“Just once.”
She couldn’t understand why he’d ask. “Is there any particular reason?”
“No. It’s just that I’d rather end our relationship on a positive note. I’ll understand if you decline but I’m hoping you won’t.”
Colette saw the sincerity in his eyes. “I’m…not sure it would be a good idea.”
“You’re probably right,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “But if you do agree, I’ll give you my word of honor that I’ll never trouble you again.”
The silence between them crackled with tension. She told herself she should run away from him, run in the opposite direction, and discovered she couldn’t. Even knowing that he was involved in illegal activities and likely to be arrested, she couldn’t refuse him this one request.
“All right,” she said reluctantly.
Colette was terrified of spending an evening with him, because of what he might say—and because of what she couldn’t.
CHAPTER 12
“If more people knitted and crocheted, the world would see fewer wars and a whole lot less road rage.”
—Lily Chin, www.lilychinsignaturecollection.com
Lydia Goetz
The prayer shawl class was going well. Susannah, in particular, was learning quickly, full of enthusiasm for knitting. Before she’d even finished her first project, she’d already purchased a pattern and yarn for a sweater she planned to make for her daughter, Chrissie.
Alix was a great help to me in this class. And knitting, as usual, brought its calming effect. She was more relaxed, more optimistic and I hadn’t heard her say anything negative about the wedding in at least a couple of weeks.
Colette managed to learn the basic stitches, although I have to admit she didn’t take to it as easily as I’d hoped. It’s like that sometimes with beginning knitters. Almost always, a new knitter will catch on after a few simple instructions. Soon it’s as if they’ve been knitting all their lives. Then there are others who struggle with each step and get discouraged when they see how slow they are compared to everyone else. In the previous class, I’d explained to Colette that each person learns at his or her own pace, reminding her that it isn’t a competition. I felt confident that as she continued to knit she’d become more comfortable with the process.
Margaret joined the class, too. I’d hoped sitting down with the others and forming new friendships would help her. And I thought concentrating on the act of knitting would soothe her, especially since she’d stopped doing any handiwork at all. The attack on Julia had been more than a month ago, and my sister was still focused, to the exclusion of everything else, on finding the man responsible. I can’t tell you how many times she called the police asking for an update on the case.
Some days there was no explaining her behavior. Out of the blue, she’d get restless and angry and reach for the phone. The way she talked to the police embarrassed me; no matter what she said about Detective Johnson, I couldn’t believe the man was a slacker.
I’d tried hard to be patient with her and while I understood how she felt, I honestly thought it would be best for Julia if my sister let go of her anger. But Margaret refused to do that, refused to rest until the man who’d hurt her daughter was charged in a court of law.
The knitting class took place late on Wednesday afternoons, when Chrissie could fill in for Susannah and Colette at the flower shop. She’d visited A Good Yarn recently, and I’d enjoyed our conversation; Chrissie had a quick humor and wide-ranging interests. We’d spoken about the resurgence of traditional women’s crafts. She’d chosen this as the subject for her Art History essay, and I found that exciting. Knitting was so many things, could be so many things. Including art.
That afternoon in late March, Susannah and Colette arrived together, toting their yarn and needles. They immediately sat down at the table, in the same chairs they used every class, and pulled out their projects. I noticed that Susannah was almost finished, while Colette had only about a third of hers done.
“We got the biggest flower order last week,” Susannah told me, her voice shimmering with enthusiasm. “A man named Christian Dempsey placed a standing order—ten dozen roses, to go to the same address every Friday. For a year!”
“Now that’s love,” I said, joking. I have a wonderful husband, but I couldn’t imagine Brad ordering me one dozen roses, let alone ten. Let alone for a year.
“It really helps,” Susannah said. “Revenue was down for March and this new order makes a huge difference. Orders for wedding flowers are starting to come in, too.”
“That’s terrific!” I was genuinely pleased for Susannah and wanted her to know that.
During our conversation Colette had remained suspiciously quiet. I smiled at her and walked over to examine her knitting. I saw that the tension in her work had loosened in the past week and praised her effort. She returned my smile and made a small joke about relaxing more. I rarely saw her outside class these days and I missed our morning chats over tea. I understood her reluctance to join me, however. Margaret made it difficult, especially now that she was in a perpetual bad mood. Right now, she was helping a customer choose yarn for a baby sweater. I could only hope her demeanor wouldn’t discourage the young woman, who was new to my store.
Alix was the last to arrive, breathless after racing across the street. “I was late getting out of the kitchen,” she said as she sat down in her usual chair. She took her knitting out of her backpack and set it on the table.
Now that all my students were present, I checked their work and commented on the progress Susannah and Alix had made. Everyone was doing well and I took pleasure in complimenting their efforts. Actually, the pattern’s relatively easy, even for a novice knitter, and Alix, of course, was equal to the challenge of her more complicated lace shawl.
I was interested in learning who would knit a prayer shawl and why. My little group of knitters was teaching me.
I pointed out that the border was knit in a seed pattern of knit three, purl three. “Does anyone have a comment on the pattern?” I asked, curious about what the women would say.
“I’ll bet the three stitches are significant,” Colette murmured as she switched the yarn from the back to the front in order to purl.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Three is a significant number in our culture.”
�
�Faith, hope, love,” Alix stated in a thoughtful tone.
“Mind, body, spirit,” Susannah said.
“Past, present, future,” Colette threw in. I wondered again if living day to day was all she could handle.
“What about birth, life, death.” This came from Margaret, who’d finished with her customer. Dressed in her dark sweater, she hovered in the doorway, a gloomy and forbidding presence. It figured, of course, that she’d be the one to bring up the subject of death.
I didn’t meet her eyes as I circled the table. “All excellent observations,” I murmured.
“Why knit a shawl?” Margaret went on. “I mean, we could be knitting anything for someone who needs a bit of TLC.”
“True.” I agreed with her there. A lap robe or any of a dozen other projects would do just as well.
“Why a shawl, then?” Alix asked.
I shrugged. “What do the rest of you think?”
Colette spoke first. “Wrapping a shawl around someone is a symbolic embrace. That’s how it seems to me, anyway.”
The others nodded.
“I like what Colette said—it’s like a hug.” Susannah sounded as if she was thinking out loud. “I can’t be with my mother as much as I’d like, so when I mail her this shawl, it’ll be like reaching out to her with an embrace, letting her know how much I love her and miss her.”
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
“She’s more active than she’s been in the last couple of years. Before the move, she spent hour after hour in her rocking chair, watching TV—mostly the Food Channel. Since she’s lived at Altamira, she’s interacting with other people more and taking small trips with them. Last week she went on a garden tour and loved every minute of it.”
“Hey,” Alix teased. “I guess this means your mother’s off her rocker.”
We all laughed. I wish I could say something that positive about my own mother. But I could see she was losing ground. Every time she had another health crisis, she deteriorated a little more. With Margaret consumed by the carjacking and Julia’s emotional state, we hadn’t really discussed Mom. I sometimes wondered if my sister had even noticed our mother’s recent decline. Still, I decided I could deal with Mom for the moment; Margaret needed to focus on her daughter. Unfortunately, Julia had refused counseling, although the doctor had recommended it.
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