Knit in Comfort
Isabel Sharpe
Heartfelt thanks so Lucia Macro and
the wonderful women of the Whine and Dine breakfast group
for their unending cheerleading and support.
Contents
Chapter One
“I’m just about done! One more to go!” Sally held…
Chapter Two
Elizabeth still couldn’t believe she was doing this. Though sitting…
Chapter Three
Megan took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Too watery.
Chapter Four
Banana-cream pie!” Elizabeth couldn’t stop beaming. Another great meal. Pork…
Chapter Five
Megan sat on the front porch with Vera, working on…
Chapter Six
Elizabeth sat in the eagle-decorated rocker by her afternoon view…
Chapter Seven
Megan shifted in the lawn chair, unable to get comfortable.
Chapter Eight
Megan pulled the pie pan of oatmeal shortbread from the…
Chapter Nine
Elizabeth turned on Wiggins Street and dropped to a walk…
Chapter Ten
Elizabeth opened her eyes, feeling as if she’d been encased…
Chapter Eleven
Megan dragged the vacuum cleaner into Jeffrey’s room. Clothes were…
Chapter Twelve
“Megan, this is Mrs. Temple, I just heard about the…situation…
Chapter Thirteen
Dinner was the quietest since Elizabeth had arrived in Comfort…
Chapter Fourteen
Megan lay in her bedroom, eyes open, watching the ceiling,…
Chapter Fifteen
Elizabeth drove down Route 49 humming, feeling alive and excited…
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth drove into Megan and Stanley’s driveway, put the car…
A+ Author Insights, Extras & More…
About the Author
Other Books by Isabel Sharpe
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Fiona Tulloch lives with her family on the far western coast of Shetland Island, two hundred miles northeast of Scotland and the same southeast of Norway, in a community of crofters who rent land for crops and grazing from the local laird. Their house is a typical two-room low stone building with a turf and thatch roof, flagstone floors and walls coated with plaster stained with smoke from peat fires burned for warmth, cooking and for drying meat and fish.
In 1925 Fiona is sixteen, a blue-eyed beauty with blond curls and smooth cheeks pink from sea winds, strong and hardworking like all Shetland women. She has a way with Shetland horses—“ponies” to non-islanders—and the small, hardy Shetland sheep, and can coax grain, potatoes and vegetables out of the island’s poor soil.
Fiona spins exceptionally fine wool, six thousand yards from a single ounce, for the delicate lace shawls she, her mum, Granny Nessa and Aunt Charlotte knit. From thicker wool are made stockings, caps, mitts and sweaters for the family and for sale to supplement the family income. With sheaths attached to their belts holding one needle steady, they can knit with one hand, even walking and doing chores.
While women care for house, animals, children and crops, most Shetland men, including Fiona’s father, fish to sell and feed the family. Anchored in the warm Gulf Stream, the islands don’t suffer from extremes in temperature, but winds blow fiercely across their treeless surface, and storms are strong and unpredictable.
Most of the week men are at sea in their small, colorful double-prowed sailboats. When they return from a trip, wives, daughters and sisters sigh with relief and put a hot dinner of fish, potatoes and oats on the table. But there are days some women linger alone on the shore, still scanning the sea for boats that never appear, for husbands, brothers or sons who never come home.
If she can steal an hour, Fiona walks along Eshaness’s cliffs covered with summer wildflowers—bird’s-foot trefoil, buttercup, daisy and squill—gazing out at the Atlantic, bright blue, turquoise or cobalt, depending on its mood, smelling the salt and peat and heathery freshness on the clothes-catching wind, watching white spray foam and crash against the black rock far below, and hundreds of birds wheeling, diving, leaving and returning to their cliffside nests. Sometimes she talks to her older brother whose body is still somewhere under the waves. Sometimes she sings for the birds and the seals and the sheep and horses around her or simply for herself.
Fiona and her family are poor, the storms fierce, the clouds many, but the air and water are clean, the fish plentiful, the crops thriving and Fiona is in love. Calum Jamieson is a fisherman five years older. She’s loved him since she was a curious eight-year-old watching men readying their boats to put to sea from the sloping southern shore of the town. He’d tweaked her curls, told her she had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, and Fiona had fallen right there. Someday soon she’ll marry him, it’s understood, though they haven’t yet spoken of it. Already he is changing, from treating her like a little sister to recognizing her as the nearly grown woman she is.
“I’m just about done! One more to go!” Sally held up her ten-by-ten-inch square of multicolored green which she’d chosen to knit in a simple pattern of stockinette stitch with occasional purl-row stripes. “Dorene, how much more do y’all have?”
Dorene frowned at her violet square decorated with wobbly vertical cables. “I should be done this one in a few days.”
Megan bent over her blue square, shading navy toward teal in a modified Acre lace pattern. Seven colors of the rainbow: red, green, blue and violet being knit here tonight; orange and yellow already finished last week in a crazed hurry, before Jocelyn and Cara’s trip to Vegas; and back home, Megan’s mother-in-law, Vera, worked on indigo. Five squares assigned to each knitter in her chosen color, any design she wanted. Eventually the squares would be assembled into same-shaded rows, then the rows joined into a rainbow blanket, the Purls Before Wine knitting group’s entry into the annual Comfort Craft Fair contest.
They wouldn’t win. Everyone knew that as long as Roy Aldernack was judging, the contestant who slept with him or at least flirted the most outrageously would prevail. But the Purls Before Wine knitters entered every year anyway, then sold the craft at the banquet silent auction and donated the proceeds to a homeless shelter in Asheville.
“I still can’t believe Cara and Jocelyn went to Vegas in July.” Ella shook back her dark chin-length bob, fingers flying over her red square shot with silver thread. “They’re going to cook in that heat.”
“Jocelyn said they get the best deals in the summer.” Dorene yanked up another length of violet yarn, needles moving painstakingly slowly. “And Cara was crowing about getting away so poor Frank finds out what being a mom is like when the kids aren’t in school.”
“Cara told me they’re crashing two conventions while they’re there.” Sally giggled, shoving back a curling blond strand from her forehead. “Ready for this? Plastic surgeons and bodybuilders!”
Ella lifted a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Big bucks and big biceps?”
“One to wed, one to bed.” Dorene burst into laughter, always louder than anyone else’s, especially at her own jokes.
Megan took a sip of her passion-fruit iced tea. Cara had married Dorene’s brother right out of high school, otherwise Megan was pretty sure the others wouldn’t have included Dorene in their group. Megan wouldn’t be in either if Sally hadn’t invited her, an invitation Megan still wasn’t sure the other members were too happy about. An invitation she still wasn’t sure she should have accepted, except that Sally was so sweet and Megan loved to knit.
“Hey, Sal
ly.” Dorene put down her blanket square and grabbed her wineglass, giggling already over whatever she was about to say. “Did you use your shower present from Cara yet?”
“Oh.” Sally looked up from her green and blushed. “No, not yet. Maybe after the wedding…”
“His and hers lingerie! Tab A! Slot B!” Dorene thumped her flat chest and guffawed, showing a half inch of gum above her teeth. “And the husband-training kit from Jocelyn! I thought I was going to pee myself laughing. Those were the best presents.”
“And the worst?” Ella worked her red wool which matched her nail polish nearly perfectly, part of her effortless chic—nothing dared clash with her. “Your pin-on buttons, Dorene. ‘Groom,’ ‘mother-of-the-bride,’ ‘grandfather-of-the-groom’? Where in God’s name did you find those?”
“Hey, now, I thought those were cute.” Dorene lifted her large chin defiantly. “They’re so everyone knows who everyone is.”
“Sweet Jesus, Dorene, this is Comfort. Everyone knows who everyone is already.” Ella stretched her mile-long legs halfway across Sally’s worn brown carpet. “And who’d want to pin a red-striped button on a summer wedding dress anyway? Totally ruins the look.”
Megan kept her fingers working, her face peaceful. Sometimes she despaired at the level of conversation at Purls meetings, though it was far better without Jocelyn and Cara. Megan had once suggested a combined knitting and book group, so they’d have something interesting to talk about while they worked, but that idea had been met with all the enthusiasm of women facing pelvic exams. “Speaking of dresses, when will you get yours, Sally?”
“Mm, the end of this or early next week, I think.” Sally put her wineglass down, blue eyes sparkling wide. This would be her second marriage, but her first church wedding; she eloped after high school and was widowed by the Iraq war a decade later. Rough years until she and Foster, her Comfort High sweetheart, rediscovered each other after his divorce. “It’s off-white with a full skirt, lots of pearl and lace trim. It’s so beautiful. I’ll feel like Princess Diana.”
“But you practically had to throw a fit before Foster’s mama would get the dress you wanted,” Dorene said.
“What did she want you to buy?” Megan asked.
“A plain strapless silk sheath—without even a veil. I know she has incredible taste, and I’m sure the dress was gorgeous, but I can’t wear strapless for one thing, because of my scars, and I really wanted the whole frou-frou Cinderella getup, puffy sleeves and train and the whole works.”
“She shouldn’t be dictating what you wear to your own wedding,” Ella said.
“She’s paying for the dress…”
“So?” Ella exchanged her knitting for her wine. “Stand up for what you want. I should lend you my copy of When Women Rule.”
Everyone laughed, uncomfortably, because they all knew David, and what his wife’s book did to their marriage.
Megan turned her square to start her next row. “I’m glad you got the dress you wanted, Sally. It’s sweet of Foster’s mom to buy it for you.”
“I think she’s just horrified at the idea of the dress I could afford. In front of all her Asheville country-club friends.” Sally shuddered comically. “Bet you could feed a family with teenage boys for a year on what this dress costs. It doesn’t seem right.”
Ella shrugged. “It’s her money to waste.”
“You’ll be gorgeous,” Megan said.
“I hope so. Aunt Trudy wanted me to wear Mom’s dress. I had to explain about Beatrice.”
Megan murmured sympathetically. Trickiest part of getting married was trying to keep everyone happy. Megan had made so many compromises that by the time her wedding rolled around, she felt like she’d stepped into the middle of someone else’s.
“Sugar break!” Ella rose gracefully from the couch, tall model’s body virtually unchanged from her teenage years when it sent boys and men alike into a slack-jawed stupor.
“Bring me another pecan bar, would you?” Dorene patted her flat stomach. “I’ll probably gain ten pounds, but I need to keep my strength up for all this knitting.”
Ella snorted. “You haven’t gained an ounce since puberty. Sally? Want anything?”
“I won’t fit into my dress…but sure, I’ll have another. A small one.”
“Aw shoot, Megan, I messed up my cable,” Dorene wailed.
“Can you fix?”
“Too much wine, Dorene honey?” Ella loaded up her plate. Unlike the rest of them she could put away glass after glass and stay steady as a ledge. “Want anything, Megan?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks, Ella. Sure, I’ll fix it, Dorene.” Megan dug out her crochet hook, crossed to the ottoman next to Dorene, took her violet square and scanned the uneven stitches for the mistake. “Here. You got off one and started your cable too early.”
“Oh, yes, I see.” Dorene’s eyes were already devouring the pecan bars.
Megan took two stitches off the needles, let them unravel down a few rows and used the crochet hook to weave them back up to the top. So simple. She’d been knitting cables by the time she was five, taught by her mom, who knitted to keep herself busy and to keep herself company—probably to keep herself sane. Megan had learned to do the same.
“Oh, there’s my cell.” Dorene dug it from her purse and squealed. “It’s Cara! Hey, girlfriend. What are you doing? Tell us everything, especially about the bodybuilders. Leave nothing out, not a thing!”
Ella wiped her fingers on a napkin and picked up her red square again. “Especially not how many breaths they’ve taken since they arrived.”
“Cara, honey, Ella wants to know how many breaths you’ve taken since you arrived.” Dorene listened, then giggled. “Cara says you came back from Florida an old fart, Ella. She wants to know what happened to you.”
“A divorce.” Ella knitted peacefully, but her relaxed posture had stiffened. “I’m allowed to be cranky.”
Sally looking up anxiously. “Aw, Cara doesn’t mean it. You know her…”
“Oh my Lord!” Dorene lunged forward in her seat, as if the force of her laughter had knocked her over. “She says they haven’t been sober for three days! Wait ’til you hear this…”
“Here you go, Dorene.” Megan held out the repaired square, then put it down and got to her feet when Dorene made no move to take it. Megan wasn’t at all sorry Cara and Jocelyn would be out of town for a while. Even coping with them on the phone wore her out.
She’d known the women of Purls Before Wine for over two decades, since Dad moved Mom and her yet again the summer before Megan’s senior year, trading the Minnesota lakes for the North Carolina mountains. Time marched on, but the group didn’t change. Shortly after Megan married Stanley, Ella had moved to Florida with her new husband, but Jocelyn, Cara, Dorene and Sally kept right on going to the Anchor Bar every Thursday night, to the nail salon every Wednesday morning, to the Chit Chat Café for coffee. They still kept in touch all day, notes in class and giggling conferences in the halls and during lunch evolving to phone calls, e-mails and text messages. As if they might cease to exist in any recognizable form if they reached beyond the social boundaries of Comfort High School.
Their daughters played together, joined cheerleading squads together, tried out makeup and hairstyles together, ensuring their mothers’ immortality by repeating their lives. Hundreds of years from now there would still be descendants of Cara, Jocelyn, Dorene, Sally and Ella sitting at the Anchor Bar on Thursday nights, talking about clothes and children and husbands and other people’s flaws.
As soon as it was polite, Megan took her glass and plate into the kitchen and laid them on the discolored counter next to the scratched metal sink. After good-byes all around, she stepped out of the house and down the front steps, careful not to stumble on the loose board at the bottom. Sally deserved the easy life she’d inherit by marrying into the Tucker family. She was a real sweetheart, the only one in Purls, in Megan’s opinion. But without them, Megan would be home knitting on the f
ront porch with her mother-in-law, as she was most every night, and so she kept coming.
Down the front walk, she stepped onto the cracked, uneven pavement. At this time of night North Carolina’s July became a friend, free from vengeful sunlight, with crickets chirping and floral smells magnified by lack of daylight distraction.
Even after twenty years here, and after nearly another twenty moving around the country year after year whenever her father got restless, Megan couldn’t get Newfoundland, her birthplace, out of her blood. When the thermometer reached toward a mild eighty degrees, natives glowed with languid enjoyment of the summer weather while she wilted and sweated and dripped dark stains through her clothes.
She strolled to the end of Snowden, turned left onto Wiggins, not letting herself hurry even though she needed to relieve her mother-in-law from kid duty. At fifteen, her eldest daughter, Lolly, was old enough to sit for the other kids, but Megan wouldn’t bet on the younger two having a healthy or stimulating time in their sister’s care. The thought made her smile and slow her steps further. On warm nights she could still believe in romance, still craved it. Dancing under the stars, necking on an old porch swing…
From David’s darkened porch she heard the tinkle of ice against the side of a glass. “How was knitting class?”
Megan took a couple of steps, to the edge of his front walk. The lights were off in his house, but she could see his dark shape sprawled on the oak bench his great-aunt Delia Cooper had bought shortly before she died the previous spring.
“Fun.” She wouldn’t bother elaborating. He knew the cast of characters, knew the general drill. He’d come to Comfort only a couple of years before Megan, though with his great-aunt already here, he had more to root him in the community than she did.
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