Till Death Do Us Purl

by Anne Canadeo

  “Everything is fine. We get along perfectly. But we’re definitely not talking about marriage. For goodness’ sake, we’re not even living together,” she reminded them.

  “That’s debatable,” Dana added. “I mean, you spend most nights of the week together now. You have keys to each other’s houses. And a space in each other’s closets. His dog even sleeps over and has his own set of bowls on your kitchen floor. Practically speaking, you might as well be sharing the same address,” she concluded. “You’re both just a bit in denial about it.”

  Dana had a clear, unemotional way of pointing out the elephant in the room. Lucy couldn’t argue with her assessment.

  “Yes, that’s all true. But we’ve both been married before and Matt has barely caught his breath from his divorce. And there’s Dara to consider,” she added, mentioning Matt’s eight-year-old daughter. “It’s very different for us than it is for Rebecca. We’re comfortable moving a little slower.”

  “If you moved any slower you guys would be going backwards,” Suzanne noted, flipping her rows of rose-colored knitting to the opposite side.

  “So you don’t want to get married again, is that it?” Phoebe asked.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I can see how great it could be, with the right person. But I’m not in any rush. And neither is Matt. And that’s just fine with me. Honestly.”

  Lucy felt her friends looking at her while she stared down at her knitting. No one commented for a moment and she took a breath, thinking they had finally let it drop and would get on to some new subject.

  “You don’t hear your biological clock ticking?” Suzanne said suddenly.

  Lucy hated that expression. All she could picture was the sneering crocodile from Peter Pan, which had swallowed an alarm clock and continually hovered just below the surface of the water, waiting to get another taste of Captain Hook.

  Tick-tock. The biological croc, she called him.

  But she didn’t dare try to explain her ticking croc, even to her good friends.

  “Suzanne, please. Let’s just leave Lucy’s poor ovaries out of this,” Maggie said, rescuing Lucy just in time. “It’s a whole different ball game the second time, especially when there are children involved. I know what she means.”

  Maggie had lost her husband, Bill, several years ago. She’d left her job as a high school art teacher soon after and opened the knitting shop. A decision she believed had rescued her from a deep well of grief. But so far, her new life did not include a satisfying, long-term relationship. Though she did date from time to time.

  Lucy wondered if that was because she hadn’t met the right person yet and wasn’t the type to settle for a mediocre romance. Or because Maggie feared risking her heart again. Or maybe she was just content to be on her own. If Maggie felt a lack, she never mentioned it.

  “I’m fine with talking about weddings,” Lucy insisted. “And I’m not worrying about getting married again, or having babies . . . or any agendas about me and Matt. Right now, we’re just happily rolling along.”

  Her friends looked at her and then at one another. She felt as if they weren’t buying her story but were willing to let the matter drop. For now at least.

  “If you say so, Lucy,” Maggie finally said. “Just don’t give us two weeks’ notice if you decide to knit your own wedding gown. That’s all we ask.”

  Lucy had to laugh. “Fair enough.”

  When Lucy got home she found Matt waiting for her, stretched out on the couch in the TV room, watching a basketball game. The Boston Celtics, of course.

  Matt sipped a beer and had obviously shared a bowl of popcorn with the dogs; a trail of crumbs on the rug led directly to her golden retriever mix, Tink, and Matt’s chocolate Lab, Walley. The two were now sleeping peacefully at Matt’s feet, curled up back to back, like a pair of very large, fuzzy slippers.

  Taking in the domestic scene, she couldn’t help but recall the well-intentioned comments of her friends. But the happy equilibrium she and Matt shared didn’t need discussing or dissection, Lucy reasoned. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it . . . And don’t break it, either,” had always been her motto.

  Lucy carefully stepped over the dogs and dropped down onto the cushion beside Matt. He leaned toward her and gave her a long, deep kiss.

  “How was the meeting? Any wild demonstration? Maybe Maggie spun a clipping from Bigfoot?”

  He was teasing, of course. Though Maggie often showed them fiber findings from exotic creatures such as alpaca or angora rabbits, with fur as soft as clouds.

  “It was even more thrilling than that,” Lucy reported.

  “Really? Tell all.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder and Lucy leaned against him in a cuddling, comfortable pose.

  “Maggie volunteered us to help a customer in distress. A bride-to-be, Rebecca Bailey.”

  Lucy quickly related Rebecca’s crisis, then described the sweater she was going to knit for the bridesmaid.

  “The pattern is easy. I just hope I can finish it in time. Maggie has the real challenge. Knitting a wedding gown is pretty intense.”

  Matt laughed. “That’s a nice way to put it. I think it’s sort of crazy. I’d worry if you ever started that project.”

  “No way. I’d skip the knitting shop and go straight to a bridal salon.” She glanced at him, then back at the basketball game. “Not that I’m thinking about wedding gowns, or anything like that. I mean, if you’re getting married a second time, most brides don’t even wear a big fancy gown . . .”

  She stopped herself. She was only making this worse. Now Matt was going to think that she had been daydreaming about weddings and gowns and all those combustible topics she was trying to avoid.

  When she really was not thinking about any of this. Not until her friends had put the bug . . . or perhaps just a rose petal . . . in her ear.

  He was suddenly so quiet. She felt his body tense up against her. Had all this wedding talk caused a problem already?

  She snuck a glance to gauge his reaction. Then realized his eyes were glued to the action on the TV screen and he probably hadn’t heard a single word of her rambling.

  Matt sat up even straighter and held his breath as the Celtics’ point guard brought the ball down the court and the players on both teams shifted and dodged.

  He pulled his arm off her shoulder and yelled at the set, “Pass it to Pierce! He’s wide open! Are you blind?”

  The ball was passed, a shot taken, it bounced off the rim of the basket, and the guys in the red uniforms—not our team, Lucy knew that much—managed to snatch it.

  Then a whistle blew—Lucy had no idea why—and Matt collapsed with a long, frustrated sigh.

  “We’re never going to make the play-offs. KG strained his groin muscle. He’s out for two weeks . . .”

  How did male athletes always seem to strain their groin muscles? Was that some macho thing? She didn’t even know where her groin muscle was. She nodded, trying to commiserate.

  “I’m sorry, honey . . . You were saying something?” Matt turned to her.

  “Nothing important.” She smiled and patted his knee. “I’m really beat. I’m going up to take a shower. When is this over?”

  “One more quarter . . . I’ll just set the DVR,” he said quickly. He smiled as she picked up the empty bowl. “I’ll clean this stuff up. Don’t worry.”

  Music to her ears. That was one of the many things she appreciated about him, one trait that made it so easy to be not quite cohabitating. He never left a trail of beer bottles, shoes, socks, newspapers, half-opened mail, and dirty dishes in his wake. Well, rarely.

  As Lucy climbed the stairs to her bedroom, she knew she’d dodged a bullet. She had to be careful not to let all this wedding talk rub off on her real life, like dog hair on a black sweater.

  No matter what her friends thought. She didn’t think she and Matt were ready for “the talk.” Not even the living-together talk.

  Sometimes, the less said the better. Most of the time, she
thought.

  Chapter Two

  Maggie sent a short e-mail around on Friday morning to let the knitting circle know Nora had dropped off the rest of the yarn for the bridesmaids’ sweaters, just as she’d promised.

  Please come pick up your yarn for the shrugs ASAP. You should all be finished with the sample by now and needing the rest. We have a deadline to meet. Let’s not let dear Rebecca down.

  Lucy cringed. She had hardly made a dent in the sample of dark pink yarn she’d taken home the night before. She’d planned to knit for a little while in bed before going to sleep. But once Matt came up, the needles had been tossed overboard without a second thought.

  She decided to walk down to the shop to pick up her share of yarn that afternoon, whether she needed it or not. Right after she sent off a project she’d been working on all week.

  It was a fairly simple brochure for a local jewelry store, promoting their top-selling spring items—mainly engagement rings and wedding bands. Lucy hadn’t noticed the graphics very much. But she suddenly felt smothered this morning by photos of diamond solitaire rings and gold bands. It seemed like some sort of conspiracy.

  The moment Lucy shut her computer and stood up, her dog, Tink—stretched out under her desk doing a perfect imitation of a yellow bath mat—jumped to her feet.

  “Ready to go out?”

  What a question. When was Tink ever not ready?

  The dog picked up a sneaker and raced to the back door, her long tail swishing from side to side like a brush in a car wash.

  The past winter had been brutal, even by New England’s standards, with snow piles that often reached to Lucy’s shoulder and frigid cold temperatures. It was a challenge to walk to the car without breaking a bone. No less walking a large, rambunctious dog down the street. Tink had definitely been deprived of exercise the past few months, but now that spring was almost here, Lucy vowed to do better.

  She slipped on her jacket, then hooked up Tink’s new harness. Lucy had adopted Tink about a year ago but had not progressed much with training, including walking properly on a leash. “Calm” was not a word in Tink’s limited canine vocabulary. Though she did seem to understand multiple variations for the concept of dog treat.

  “Just hold still now for a second.” Lucy struggled to make the clasp meet under the dog’s chest. “Suck it in a little, pal. And don’t tell me that’s just fur.”

  Did she talk out loud to the dog too much? Lucy sometimes wondered. Maybe that was a sign she should be more eager for Matt to move in.

  With Tink leading the way at a relatively sedate pace, they headed down the winding streets that led to the village of Plum Harbor. Tucked into Boston’s north shore, the town had once been a popular summer destination, but had since evolved into a place some might call an ex-urb. Not close enough to Boston to be a suburb, but not completely rural, either.

  Lucy lived in an area of the village known as the Marshes, a neighborhood bordered by tracts of tall grasses and marshland that eventually led to the town beach.

  The community of summer cottages had been winterized and expanded over the years, evolving into a distinct, year-round neighborhood. Small, cozy houses were the perfect fit for young families or seniors looking to downsize.

  Lucy and her sister had inherited one such cottage from their aunt, who had died three years ago. They’d spent many summers with Aunt Laura and the place held special memories. Lucy had arrived intending to stay just for the summer and ended up making it her full-time address.

  Somebody should have told the weatherman spring was coming, Lucy thought as she rounded the turn onto Main Street. There was no sign of it today and she pulled the zipper of her jacket up to her chin. A cold, sharp wind blew straight into her face, making her squint and making Tink squint, too, her ears blown flat against her head. The wind rose off the harbor and they were walking straight into it.

  Lucy tugged Tink down the street toward Maggie’s shop, then up the brick-lined path that led to the steps and covered porch. The shop looked stark this time of year, bare of flowers or even holiday decorations. But the bay window in front always held a creative display that rarely failed to amuse.

  As Lucy tied one end of the dog’s leash to the porch railing, she noticed Maggie had set up a new window today, showing different knitted pieces—a hat, a mitten, a baby sweater—floating against a blue sky, like airborne kites. Lucy had to look close to figure out how it was done. Very clever and original, she thought.

  When she walked in, the shop was empty. Maggie was at the table in the back unpacking and sorting some new stock. The bright spring colors were enticing and put Lucy in the mind for warm-weather projects, like a halter top or felted summer bag.

  “Hmm . . . this looks interesting,” Lucy picked up a skein of sunny yellow yarn and touched it to her cheek. “Soft, too. What can I make with this?”

  Maggie snatched it from her hand with a disapproving shake of her head. “Not so fast, my dear. First things first.”

  She picked up a plastic bag of yarn from the sideboard and handed it over. “Here’s your share of the bridesmaid yarn. I think we need to have everything done by next Tuesday, so we can block the shrugs and they have time to dry.”

  “Next Tuesday? I thought you said Thursday.”

  “I had to rethink that plan. I’m concerned that the sweaters might not dry in time for the ceremony. We’re really cutting it close as it is.

  “Tell me about it. I thought Thursday would be a tough date to make.”

  “Don’t worry, Lucy, you’ll make it. My mother used to say, ‘A task will expand or shrink, according to the time you have to do it.’”

  Which was probably true, Lucy thought, knowing how she could fiddle and procrastinate for weeks on a work project with a long, loose timeline.

  Before she could reply, another voice chimed in, “I know just what you mean. It’s the same about pocketbooks. Ever notice? If you carry a big clunky bag, you find all kinds of junk to fill it. Stuff you absolutely must have handy. Feels like you’re carrying a ton of bricks. But if you grab a little bag, you can’t fit half that stuff and never miss it.”

  “Oh, hello, Edie,” Maggie said. Both Maggie and Lucy had turned to find Edie Steiber walking toward them. She’d obviously entered the shop without their noticing. Which was saying something, since Edie was not the type of woman who easily flew under the radar.

  Edie ran the Schooner, the town’s most popular eaterie, though certainly not the fanciest. The diner was an unofficial historic landmark and Edie, sort of an unofficial landmark, as well. Edie worked at the diner from dawn until late at night, ruling her little fiefdom from a stool behind the cash register and filling her downtime by passing along town news—commonly known as gossip—and knitting.

  She often trotted across the street to Maggie’s shop to stock up on supplies, solicit a tip or two, or just to sit and chat. Lucy suspected that most of the time, the former reasons were just an excuse for the latter.

  “Oh, that’s a nice color. It would go with my coat.” She picked up a bag of the bridesmaid yarn and held it up against her down coat, which reached to her ankles and puffed out around her body like a lavender thunder cloud.

  “So what are you up to with all this pretty yarn? Did I miss a sign-up sheet for a class?”

  “Nothing like that, Edie. The knitting group is just doing a good deed. Rebecca Bailey is getting married and she needed some help knitting shrugs for her bridesmaids and finishing her gown.”

  “Rebecca who . . . ? Oh sure, I know who you mean. She’s making her own wedding gown, right?” Maggie simply nodded. “Well, good luck to her. Who’s she marrying anyway?”

  “Jeremy Lassiter. Do you know the Lassiters?” Maggie’s tone was polite, though they both knew Edie was acquainted with everyone in town. If not personally, then by hearsay, which was just as good in her book.

  “At-Las Technologies? Those Lassiters you mean?” She sat down at the table with a grunt and yanked open a few s
naps on her coat. “Well, well. She reeled in a big fish. You wouldn’t think she was the type to go after money. To look at her, I mean. She seems so homespun. So wholesome and whole foodie.”

  Lucy actually agreed with Edie’s assessment. Though she would have phrased the impression in a more polite way.

  “Edie, please. You make it sound like poor Rebecca is a gold digger. She’s nothing like that. I’m sure it’s a total love match,” Maggie insisted.

  Edie shrugged, unfazed by Maggie’s scolding. “If you say so. Otherwise, she might be in for a little surprise. All mighty At-Las has hit some hard times, I hear. Her new in-laws might not be as loaded as she thinks.”

  Edie was still not conceding that Rebecca was not interested in Jeremy for his money, Lucy noticed. But her tidbit of gossip piqued Lucy’s curiosity.

  “What do you mean, Edie? Is the company having problems?”

  “You might say that. Lassiter’s partner, Lewis Atkins, up and left about a year or two ago. That was a nasty split. Nearly brought the whole place down around him. See it was Atkins and Lassiter from way back. At . . . Las, get it?” she asked the other women. “College roommates and close as brothers. They started that business fresh out of school with Lassiter’s father’s money. What, nearly forty years ago?”

  “Why did they part company?” Maggie asked.

  “Oh, the usual. Some fight over money or royalties from a patent. Something like that. Anyway, Atkins got a payout that drained the coffers. Not to mention the lawyers’ fees. So now Lassiter is left beating the bushes for investors. He’s definitely got a cash-flow problem since his BFF left. Mainly with the flow part,” she added curtly.

  “Investors? Is the family selling off shares of the company?” Maggie asked curiously.

  “I wish. I would have bit on that carrot,” Edie countered. “All my guy would tell me was that I could get in on the ground floor, on something big. But risky.” Edie paused and pulled out her knitting. “I was tempted. But I decided to pass.”

  Lucy had no idea of Edie’s net worth, but guessed that their local queen of hash browns was one of the wealthiest people in town, if not all of Essex County. In addition to a thriving business, a prime chunk of Main Street real estate, and a grand Victorian showplace she called home, Edie had been the sole heir to her father’s savings and investments, and spent almost as much time analyzing and manipulating her nest egg as she did knitting.