by Nancy Warren
Plus, there was my complete ineptitude around knitting. Gran had tried to teach me once, but somehow my simple knit-two-purl-two scarf kept curling itself up into intricate knots and bunching into unusual shapes every time I took my eyes off it.
“Well now, I’ve never seen a scarf turn out quite like that.” Gran had laughed, unperturbed by the fact that my winter scarf had transformed into a sea urchin.
I tossed it in the corner and Gran’s cat ate holes in it. He died shortly afterward and, even though he was an old cat, I always felt like my knitting might have done him in.
Without Gran here to guide my hand, I doubted I’d knit another stitch.
I headed down George Street with her precious letter clutched in my hand. I felt so lost. Seeing people in groups, whether of students, bus-sized clusters of tourists, or couples arm in arm, I also felt lonely. I’d planned to talk to Gran about my future and what I should do with it.
There’d been a small payout when I was made redundant. My parents had urged me to go back to school. I’d thought I might travel a bit. Maybe walk in Spain, or lie on a beach in Thailand. I’d never considered running Cardinal Woolsey’s. Or living in Oxford permanently.
I turned right onto Worcester Street and past Worcester College. Late summer roses rambled up the biscuit colored walls and the lawn looked recently mowed and as untried as the freshers who’d be starting college soon.
Worcester turned into Walton Street and headed into Jericho, one of my favorite parts of Oxford. It was less touristy and filled with cafes and little restaurants. I passed Oxford University Press, as timeless and elegant as a Penguin classic. Traffic was backed up and only the cyclists went faster than me.
A cyclist wheeled in front of me to the modernist college that looked like a spaceship had landed in the middle of this ancient city, and behind it I glimpsed the dome of the neoclassical Radcliffe Observatory, which I’d seen as a backdrop for countless British TV dramas.
I contemplated popping into The Jericho Café and sitting over coffee while I read my letter, but my feet kept going and I knew I needed to be in nature. I headed to Port Meadow, a large green space which meanders beside the River Thames. On a Tuesday afternoon there was no one but me, a few joggers and dog walkers. I followed the river for a while and then I sat down on a wooden bench, took a deep breath, and opened Gran’s letter.
My Dearest Lucy,
If you are reading this letter then I am gone. I’ve lived a good life and I am quite at peace, and grateful to have shared with you the time that we had.
I am so proud of you and everything that I know you will accomplish in your life. You are still young, but know that you have a great power within you. You are stronger than you know, and you will soon discover that you are capable of a great many things, which you may now believe are impossible. All will be revealed in time, but for now just know that you must stay strong. There will be challenges ahead. I am sorry I cannot be there to prepare you. In times of darkness, seek the light within. You will know what to do.
Seek the light within? What challenges?
I’m leaving all my worldly possessions to you, Lucy. I’ve left a letter for your mother, but she always knew I intended you to have the shop. Please keep Cardinal Woolsey’s exactly as it currently stands. I ask that you not sell or change it, and you will shortly find out why.
Why couldn’t she have told me why? And Mom had known all along that this was going to happen? Why didn't one of them tell me? This letter didn’t clear up anything at all.
I’M sure you still have questions—some of the answers can be found in our family diary. The big, leather-bound book I once showed you. Keep an open mind as you read it. You’ll find out more about your family if you can decipher the clues.
I love you dearly, Lucy, and trust that you will do your best to respect my wishes. Find the book and do not change the shop. Stay strong and keep an open mind. I have a feeling you’ll be making some rather special new friends here in Oxford before long.
Your loving grandmother,
Agnes Bartlett
A SPANIEL RAN up to me, nosing the paper I held on my lap, no doubt hoping it was a dog treat. That brought me back to my senses and I patted the black head. The dog ran off as soon as it understood that treats would not be forthcoming. I read the letter again. It was written on sheets of elegant stationary, with a decorative motif of faded wildflowers and blue curlicues adorning one corner.
Had I somehow misread her words? No, the graceful loops of Gran’s cursive hand were as precise as ever. When I reread the letter the meaning was the same. What meaning I could glean. Gran wanted me to run her knitting shop and spend my spare time reading an ancient family diary I barely remembered. And I thought my life in the corporate cubicle had been dull.
I folded up Gran’s letter and placed it back in its envelope with a sigh. I sat for a moment longer staring out into the river, watching a trio of white swans float past. I got up to leave, heading back to the city just as confused as ever.
When I returned to Cardinal Woolsey’s, I’d decided the first thing I’d better do was an inventory. I wasn’t sure I’d stay a year, or even a month, but I ought to figure out what was there. I still couldn’t figure out why everything had been so disordered. I’d have to talk to Rosemary Johnson, Gran’s assistant. She must know what was going on.
I made a start right away on the inventory. It helped keep me occupied while I let the contents of Gran’s will and her letter sink in. It didn’t take me long to notice that the knitting needles weren’t hung according to size and that tubular needles were hanging under a sign advertising miscellaneous buttons. A jumble of needlework threads had been thrust into a bowl on the cash desk like a dish of candy. It would take me ages to sort and put them back into the correct drawers.
I found cranberry wool mixed with maroon, Alpaca Classic pushed into the same cubby as Alpaca Merino. To the casual observer, the shop probably looked fine,, but to someone doing inventory, it was chaos. To a knitter, the muddled wools would be maddening.
I had to wonder if Gran’s mind had been going in her final days.
But if that was so, how come the upstairs apartment was so orderly? Gran had clearly cleaned it up and prepared it for my arrival. If she had taken the time to spruce up the guestroom, wouldn’t she have made sure to also have the shop in order?
I’d helped her computerize the inventory, but she liked to keep printouts, never completely trusting computers. Under the cash register, the desk held one cupboard and three small shelves. The bottom two shelves held nothing but a bit of dust, and the top one contained a few papers as well as a handful of peppermints that looked like they had seen better days. Inside the cupboard, I found the leather-bound special order book that contained order forms—and yes, there was the most recent inventory.
The shrill toll of the shop’s front bell rang, startling me in the quiet. I’d forgotten to lock the door, but still, the closed sign hung on the door. Anybody who couldn’t read a sign that said CLOSED probably didn’t see well enough to knit.
“Hellooo!” a woman’s voice called, the end of the word unnaturally extended in a lilting sing-song jingle that trailed off into an unspoken question mark. “Is anyone here?”
I stood up awkwardly from behind the counter. “Hi. Can I help you?”
The woman standing before me was of indeterminate age. There was a crinkling at the corners of her eyes and a slight sag to her jawline, but her skin was tight, her hair styled into a bob and sprayed down so hard it looked as though you could take a mallet to her hair and not crack it. She held herself in a confident pose with a straight back and an expectant smile.
She wore a black dress and a smart black and gray jacket. I was impressed that she could wear heels that high without keeling over. Tucked under her arm was a slim black leather attaché case. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said effusively. “Is Agnes here? It’s Sidney Lafontaine to see her.”
She came toward
s me and leaned forward, peering at me intently from sparkling blue eyes, getting a little too close for my comfort.
A pang of sadness swept over me at her words. “I guess you haven’t heard. Agnes passed away.”
The woman’s black-lined eyes popped open in surprise at my words, and she brought her hand to her mouth in an expression of shock. “Passed? You mean—”
“She’s dead.” I said the words she didn’t seem able to mouth. I found that euphemisms like passed away and crossed the rainbow bridge hurt just as much as plain old ‘dead.’
“Good heavens, it can’t be. I only saw her a few weeks ago. Are you quite sure?”
Who lies about their beloved grandmother being dead? “Yes. I’m sure.”
“Oh dear, this is dreadful news.” She seemed to be thinking rapidly. “Did she talk to you about her plans for the future?”
I wondered if this woman was some kind of an ambulance chaser. Was there such a thing as a hearse chaser? All I knew was that I instinctively recoiled from this woman. “May I ask how you knew my grandmother?” The woman didn’t look like a knitter. She hadn’t even glanced at the contents of the shop.
“It’s a little delicate. Are you a relative?”
I hesitated, but I couldn’t see that me being Agnes’s granddaughter should be a big secret, so I told her about our relationship. She nodded. Then asked if my parents were in town.
When I told her they weren’t, she tapped red painted fingernails against her case. I was finding this conversation tedious and uncomfortable. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes. Do you know who is handling your grandmother’s affairs? My business is with Agnes Bartlett’s beneficiaries.”
I could send her to George Tate who would probably be very discreet, but since I’m fairly certain wills are public documents she’d end up back here, eventually. On the other hand, my mother didn’t even know about the will yet. I wasn’t going to tell this pushy woman that I was the beneficiary before Mom even knew. “Perhaps I could get a message to my mother? She was Agnes’s only child.”
“Only the one child.” I felt she was once more debating with herself. Finally, she said, “I’m an estate agent. I have a client who is interested in buying Cardinal Woolsey’s. Your grandmother was very keen to sell, getting on in age, and with no one living close by who was interested in running it.”
“Is that so?” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
My fingertips started to tingle. I glanced down and saw sparks shooting out of the index finger on my right hand and the ring finger on my left. The static electricity in here must be insane. It had never happened to me before, but maybe the dry air and the wool were having some kind of strange reaction. I rubbed my fingers on my jeans.
She nodded. “I know it’s a terrible time for all of Agnes’s loved ones, but I’m sure you don’t want to be burdened with a knitting shop all the way over here in Oxford. You and your parents should talk it over.” She leaned in confidentially, getting into my personal space. “Buyers who are excited tend to pay over the odds.”
“How much are we talking?” I was curious about the value of this property. She glanced around as though she was about to reveal state secrets, and then lowered her voice though the shop was empty but for us. She mentioned an amount that was eye-popping to a girl who’d struggled to pay the rent, groceries and all the bills on her last salary. She looked at me to gauge my reaction and must have liked what she saw because she smiled, smugly. “Talk to your mother and ask her to give me a ring.”
I found myself being handed yet another business card, which I took carefully, hoping my fingers wouldn’t spark again and start a fire, even though I liked the idea of using her business card as kindling. And then, with a cheerful goodbye, she was off.
Why would Gran give this woman any encouragement if she was determined that I should run the shop after she was gone? Sidney Lafontaine had to be lying. I tapped the edge of the card against the wooden sales counter, frowning. Once more the possibility flitted through my mind that Gran hadn’t been entirely herself in the months since I’d seen her.
I locked the door after she left. I had so many things buzzing around in my head I couldn't seem to focus on any one. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to center myself. And came to a conclusion. I needed to make a list.
There was a pad of paper and a pen upstairs in the desk. I’d made a good start on the inventory and I decided I could take a break. I went upstairs, found paper and pen and began to write, in no particular order, the things that were on my mind. When I was done, I felt a little clearer. I read over my list. It wasn't very long, but every single thing on it was a really hard thing to do.
One: Phone Mom and tell her Gran's dead. Really not looking forward to that one.
Two: Explain will to Mom. Ditto.
Three: Phone Rosemary. When is she coming back to work? Don’t like Rosemary. Wish I didn’t have to.
Four: Rafe Crosyer. Google search. I felt a shiver just seeing his name.
Why had I agreed to meet him this evening? If I'd been more with it I would've told him not to come. Maybe I could find someone to hang out with me, so I wasn't all by myself when he arrived. But even as I had the thought I dismissed it. I was a perfectly capable woman. A tall, dangerously sexy insomniac with poor circulation wasn't going to scare me. At least, not much.
Five: Do I want to run a knitting shop? Research options. Hire manager? Preferably not Rosemary.
Six: Find out where Gran is buried. Visit. Flowers. Of every task on the list, this one would be the most difficult. A gravesite visit would confirm that she was gone.
Seven: What happened to her glasses? Who would know? Wondering about this led to:
Eight: Visit her doctor and find out what she died of.
I DECIDED to tackle the items on my list one at a time in the order I had written them. Getting hold of my parents was not a simple matter of picking up the phone and dialing. There was a satellite phone at the dig site, mainly for emergencies. I called and left a message with one of the Italian students helping at the site. After he said he would pass the message along, and rang off with a cheerful, Ciao, I calculated the chances that he’d remember to give her the message at about fifty-fifty.
I decided a backup to the satellite phone would be a good idea. Telling a person by email that her mother was dead seemed cruel, so I crafted a careful message saying I’d arrived safely but had some news and asked her to call me. We weren’t the kind of family that called from very long distances for chitchat so she’d know something serious was up.
Once I’d sent the email, I felt better. I’d started to take charge of this crazy mess I was in.
I crossed item one off the list, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. That also pretty much took care of the second item. I’d tell my mother about the will when she called. I’d also tell her about the strange woman who seemed to think Gran wanted to sell the shop, even though Gran’s last wishes had been to keep it.
The next item was Rosemary. She’d been Gran’s shop assistant for several years now and she’d know all the things I didn’t, like whether there were any orders coming in or classes scheduled. A lot of Cardinal Woolsey’s business came from giving knitting classes and then providing the supplies for all those budding knitters. Gran had taught a lot of the classes herself. Since I didn’t think anyone wanted to learn how to knit a scarf that resembled a sea urchin, I figured I would need to find some new teachers.
If I stayed.
Rosemary’s phone number was written in the binder where Gran writes the special orders. I can’t say I’ve ever warmed to Rosemary. She’s got a whiny voice and always acts like her life is unfair. Even the way she said, “Hello?” you could tell she expected the caller to deliver bad news.
“Rosemary, this is Lucy Swift, Agnes Bartlett’s granddaughter.”
“What do you want?” She snarled the question. I’ve always suspected she never warmed to me, either, but
she’d always pretended to be delighted to see me, so the surly attitude was kind of strange.
“I was wondering if you’d be able to come into work on Friday?” I asked. It was Tuesday today, that would give me a few days to get organized.
There was a pause. “You mean at the knitting shop?”
No, at MI-5. “Yes, the knitting shop. Cardinal Woolsey’s.”
“And why would I do that?” Again with the attitude.
“I really need your help. I know it will be hard without Gran, but she wanted the shop to carry on.”
“Where’s Agnes?”
Had Rosemary been drinking? “She’s dead. She’s been gone three weeks. Didn’t you know?”
The woman gave a snort of laughter that sounded like hysteria rather than humor. “Dead. Three weeks.” There was another sound like a hastily snuffed giggle. Then, “Yes, of course I knew.” There was silence on the line and when she spoke again she seemed to have controlled herself and her words were more appropriate. “I’m so sorry for your loss. This must be a terrible time for you. I haven’t been well since your grandmother passed. The doctor says it’s grief. I’m so sensitive, you see, things always affect me harder than other people.”
“Of course.” I rolled my eyes. Thanks for making Gran’s death all about you.
“I can come in whenever you need me. Would you like me to come in tomorrow at my usual time?”
I had a sudden sense that I should tell her no, but it was an impression, gone so swiftly that I ignored it. I needed Rosemary. I’d have to put my personal feelings aside and start thinking about what was best for Cardinal Woolsey’s and the customers who relied on us for their knitting, crochet, and needlework needs. “Friday’s fine. I’ve some things to organize before we open.”
“For Agnes’s sake, I’ll make the effort. I’ll be there at nine.”
“Thank you.”
After I hung up, I stood staring at the phone. That was weird. But then everything since I’d arrived back in Oxford had seemed weird.
Including the next thing on my list: Do a Google search on Rafe Crosyer.
