Knit in Comfort

by Isabel Sharpe

  She says no, shyly, eyes shining, and right there in front of her parents he offers to take her to see. Fiona says yes, hardly able to control her joy. Her parents beam; they like this young man, trust him and want their daughter to be happy with him almost as much as she does.

  As Calum says his thank-yous and good-byes, there is a knock at the door, always unlocked, always open to strangers and friends alike, as is the Shetland way. A beautiful woman stands outside. Green eyed, ruby lipped, she clutches a black cape around her tall, proud, slender body and greets them in the voice of an angel temptress. She is Paul Halcrow’s niece, Gillian, moved here from Unst, the most northern of the Shetland Islands, into her family’s house next door to Calum. Would he bring his tusker and help her cut and stock peat the next day after church? She will pay him for his trouble, though she hasn’t much to offer.

  Watching her full lips surrounded by alabaster skin speaking such unexpected words, and watching her loose black hair blowing wild, Calum suddenly understands, as well as he understands the wind and tides on the surrounding sea, why he needed to wait.

  Megan took a sip of coffee and grimaced. Too watery. She didn’t like the new machine, or maybe she hadn’t yet figured a way to work out proportions and grind. Her old maker had lasted five years before it vanished. She was used to things developing legs around the house, though so far, nothing too personal had disappeared, like jewelry—she’d kill him—but she’d liked that coffeemaker. When replacing it, she should have known better than to go for the lowest price. You got what you paid for.

  Another sip, sitting in the backyard on the worn green lawn furniture handed down from Vera and Rocky. Megan didn’t need to be rich, but being able to own things she enjoyed rather than put up with would be nice. She and Stanley had had big plans when they moved in, to renovate floors and bathrooms and cabinetry first, then gradually replace the worn and ancient furniture and appliances with quality. But money had been tight at first; they waited to try for children, then her body took a while to catch on to the idea of pregnancy. Everything changed while she was carrying Lolly, when she discovered her husband’s other life.

  She’d married Stanley because she loved him, but also, with her family moving again, to embrace the luxury of stability, of staying in one place with a chance to put down roots, form relationships that didn’t have to be cut short before they’d deepened enough to become comfortable and dependable. Megan had read that sometimes soldiers hesitated to form close friendships in combat situations to keep themselves safe from grief on top of the fear and stress. Moving became her combat situation. She’d learned to keep to herself, devouring books, playing alone, spending time in her head. The skills stood her in good stead in this town. Things hadn’t turned out the way she expected, with her husband gone so often and with Comfort the way it was. Unless you were native, you didn’t really belong.

  The only deep friendship she’d developed in childhood was with her mother, Aileen, who stayed calm through the relentless upheavals, knitting the Shetland lace of her ancestors, passing along the craft and the stories to her daughter. Megan had wanted to pass the same along to Lolly and Deena, but she’d stopped knitting lace. She wasn’t even sure they knew the curtains in their house had been made by Megan’s mother and her grandmother Bridget. None of the lace her great-grandmother Fiona knit on Shetland had survived.

  Megan settled back, adjusting her shoulder blades more comfortably against the chair’s plastic slats. A cool breeze brought fresh herbal scents to mix with her coffee’s too-weak aroma. This time of day was her favorite, early, just after dawn, before the kids got up, before Vera got up, when the only creatures sharing her day were birds and butterflies, none of whom asked or expected anything. The only time she could reliably be other than mother and wife except the precious hour before sleep when she escaped into a book.

  Megan needed this morning more than most, having spent yesterday helping her new whirlwind move in. Taking her to Hendersonville to rent a car; giving her directions to the supermarket, then back home; in the middle of making oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies answering the phone to hear Elizabeth exclaim that there was so much pork in the meat section at the supermarket and hardly any chicken. Then calling Stanley with the news that she’d succeeded in finding a renter, and Stanley insisting he speak to Elizabeth, thereby giving the necessary head-of-the-household stamp of his approval.

  At dinner, Elizabeth continued her examination, questioning the kids, what were their favorite toys, movies, subjects…more questions than even Jeffrey asked, which was saying something.

  This peaceful morning time gave Megan the energy she needed, charged her batteries almost better than sleep could, and good thing, because she hadn’t slept well. All night long she’d wakened, her subconscious aware of Elizabeth’s new presence as if she were sleeping right there on the floor in Megan’s room.

  The garage apartment window rattled up only yards from where she sat, making her jump and grip her mug too tightly. The screen grated up next and Elizabeth’s blond head poked out, straight hair falling neatly into its fashionably uneven bob, even though she was still in her pajamas and probably just out of bed. Her bright blue eyes were closed; she breathed in the morning air as if it would save her life. Megan held still, coffee clutched halfway between resting and her next sip, memory bringing back New York’s sounds and smells and the lung-starving feeling that there wasn’t enough space or air. The move away from there was the only one she hadn’t objected to.

  Elizabeth’s eyes opened; she scanned the sky, David’s trees next door…

  Maybe if Megan didn’t move, she’d pull her head back in without—

  “Hey, good morning. It is so-o-o gorgeous here!”

  Megan put her mug down, breathing through a wave of annoyance. Overreaction. Maybe her new housemate had woken early just today. Maybe it wouldn’t be a habit and Megan could keep her sacred alone time for the next month—or however long before Elizabeth left.

  “Good morning. How did you sleep?” She kept her voice low to signal that the rest of the house wasn’t awake yet.

  “Like a rock.” Elizabeth didn’t take the hint. “I couldn’t believe how quiet it was. No shouting, no sirens. No honking horns.”

  “Only birds.” Megan smiled more warmly than she felt. And now you.

  “They’re wonderful.” She took another rapturous breath. “I’ll get dressed and be right down.”

  Megan picked up her mug again, wrapped both hands around its fading warmth. She’d do fine without her quiet time, even if Elizabeth did get up this early every day. For heaven’s sake.

  She got to her feet and wandered around her soothing garden. The tall okra plants were blooming well, unfurling yellow petals to show off deep purple inside. Some pods needed harvesting; if they grew bigger than three inches, they’d get tough enough to build with. Next to the okra, bees buzzed around the flowering mint. She brushed her hand over the rounded sage bush and pinched a rosemary needle to inhale its calming fragrance.

  The side door to the garage opened and out stepped her tenant in another expensively casual outfit, a floral minidress that showed off her still-young cleavage and made Megan feel dowdy in her plain khaki shorts and pale olive T-shirt.

  “Hi again!”

  This time Megan put a finger to her carefully smiling lips.

  “Everyone’s still asleep.”

  “Oops. Sorry. I assumed you were all up.” She stretched her slender, muscular arms above her head. “Mmm, is that coffee?”

  Megan’s smile drooped. She thought she’d been clear about supper being the only meal she’d offer. “Would you like a cup?”

  “I’d love it, thank you.” She brought her arms down, smiling and more relaxed than the day before, when she’d been all nervous energy and draining excitement. “Just tell me where it is, I’ll help myself.”

  Megan started toward the house, ashamed to have been so grudging about a cup of coffee. “It’s in the kitchen. I’
ll show you.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “It’s no trouble. This way.” Megan stepped into the house and into the kitchen.

  “Good morning.” Vera, up already, shuffling in her green flowered robe and pink terry mules, fissured heels slipping sideways off the soles.

  Grand Central Station this morning.

  “Did we wake you?” Megan reached into the cupboard for Stanley’s favorite mug, the biggest one they had, to scold herself for feeling so inhospitable.

  “No. I was up reading. I can’t sleep worth a nickel anymore.” She nodded to Elizabeth. “Getting old is not for sissies.”

  “Bette Davis.”

  Vera lowered herself stiffly into the chair, letting go the last few inches so she thumped down with her trademark loud sigh.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Bette Davis said that.”

  “That is such a pretty dress, Elizabeth. Megan, why don’t you get something like that? It’d look real cute on you. Get Stanley to buy you a dress next time he comes home, he’s always buying you things. Something with some color in it. You’re always so drab.”

  “We have better things to spend our money on, Vera. Do you take anything in your coffee, Elizabeth?”

  “Black is fine.” Elizabeth walked around the kitchen touching everything in reach like a child—the china plate on the wall, Jeffrey’s black and red drawing of a battleship, the basket of still-unripe peaches. “This house is so nice.”

  Vera raised her thin brows. “I’ll show you the house I grew up in. Now that was a house. Built by a retired ship’s captain who was sick of the sea in, oh, let’s see, can’t remember the date exactly…”

  “Here’s your coffee, Elizabeth.” Megan thrust it out to her.

  “A little weak I’m afraid. New machine I’m getting used to.”

  “Thanks.” She took a sip, looked surprised and set the mug down on the counter, went back to touching. The bunch of mint in the glass on the sill; the tile backsplash; the butcher-block holder for Megan’s knives; the vase of peonies with a doily underneath, leaving her mark everywhere. “Okay, now you have to tell me exactly where you got this lace. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Megan set Vera’s coffee down in front of her, then turned and began putting together plates of homemade biscuits, sliced plums and her own strawberry jam. All these questions. Let Vera answer how she would.

  “I made that.”

  “You did? Wow!” Elizabeth gently pulled the doily out from under the vase and trailed a reverential finger around its edges. Her hands were smooth and elegant, not yet showing the ten-dons and veins that had turned Megan’s middle aged. “Tatting? Is that what you call it?”

  “Ah, no. No no. This is Shetland lace, it’s knitted.”

  “Knitted!? You knitted this?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Vera was practically floating out of her chair with pride.

  “With what needles? Size zero?” Elizabeth laughed as if she thought she was making a hilarious joke, and held the lace up to the window for the light to come through its delicate design, transferring shadows of the trellis diamond center and wave edging onto her face.

  “I used double zeros.”

  “Double zero needles?” She turned, mouth dropping comically wide.

  “One-point-seven-five millimeters thick.”

  “Holy shi—” She stopped when she saw Vera’s scowl. “Sorry, New York mouth.”

  “Do you knit, Elizabeth?” Megan spoke to give Vera time to recover, though she’d heard her mother-in-law swearing up a storm when she thought no one could hear.

  “Yup. My grandmother taught me. She and my great-grandmother both worked for the National Knitting Company in Milwaukee when they were young, making gloves, mittens, sweaters…My mom knits too. How did you learn to do this?”

  “Megan’s great-grandmother grew up in the Shetland Islands, north of Scotland.”

  “Really! Wow! Where the ponies come from?” Elizabeth laid the delicate circle over her arm and stroked it admiringly.

  “So you taught Vera, Megan?”

  “Yes.” Megan spoke shortly, putting a loaded plate in front of Vera, praying no more questions would be hurled at her. Her relationship with lace was none of Elizabeth’s business.

  “It’s so beautiful.” Elizabeth held the doily back up to the light, then draped it onto her hair and preened, laughing.

  Megan wanted to grab the lace and put it back under the vase where it belonged. “Have some breakfast, Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t eat breakfast.” She saw Megan holding the plate and gasped. “Oh no! You shouldn’t have gone to that trouble.”

  “It was no trouble. Someone else will eat it.”

  “Why don’t you sit down here, Elizabeth, so we can chat.” Vera patted the table beside her, Megan’s place. “I still haven’t heard how you came to Comfort. Megan was vague on answers.”

  Megan poured herself more coffee and put her plate at Jeffrey’s spot.

  “Well, it was funny.” Elizabeth plunked herself down as if she’d lived with them all her life. “No, not funny. It’s actually sort of weird.”

  “Weird how?” Vera asked.

  “Kind of…message-from-beyond-the-grave weird.”

  “Mercy.” Vera was all ears. “I’ve often thought I had psychic powers myself. Tell me.”

  “Two days ago my grandmother told me to go find ‘comfort.’”

  “The one who knits?”

  “She’s no longer alive.”

  “Well my goodness.”

  “It was in a dream. I had no idea what she meant at first, but then I remembered the day before in a coffee shop, I’d had Comfort tea.”

  Megan brought Stanley’s mug to the table, then sat down to her breakfast. She didn’t want to hear the rest of the story almost as much as Vera did. “Did you want your coffee, Elizabeth?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” Elizabeth took another tentative sip.

  “So then I remembered that after the coffee shop, I’d been at this antique store on Tenth Street that specializes in Biedermeier furniture, and the guy kept talking about the convenience and comfort of the furniture compared to the Empire style. I swear, he kept repeating this word. So I was actually standing there thinking of naming my first fabric line Comfort!”

  “You’re a designer?” Vera glanced at Megan, who didn’t react.

  “I’m attempting to be a designer. I brought my sketchbook and paints with me. I thought I could try the mountains and woods around here for inspiration. So far I haven’t come up with any patterns I really love.”

  “You will.” Vera attacked a biscuit, a crumb adhering to one of the ords in her upper lip, dug by years of smoking, though she quit when Rocky was diagnosed with cancer.

  “Anyway, then, on the radio in the cab coming home from the museum, I heard them say something about Comfort, North Carolina! I wasn’t listening to the story, but the name jumped out because the word was so in my brain.”

  “Oh, yes. They’d have been talking about—” Vera caught Megan’s look. “Something local.”

  “What?” Elizabeth looked eagerly between them, puppy hoping for a treat.

  “We had a minor celebrity event. The news wires picked it up.” Megan spread jam on her last bite of biscuit, not sure why she was bothering to protect David except that the ugliness had touched them all. “Go on, Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, so, well, then the next day, after all those signs pointing to Comfort, there came my dream about my babcia—my grandmother. I still didn’t put it together until I had a fight with my boyfriend, and I was so upset and thinking if I didn’t get out of the city, I’d totally lose it. It was like…” She beckoned with her hand, coaxing out the analogy. “Like being in a jar filled with stones that some giant was shaking, you know?”

  “Well sure. I feel that way at least once a week. No offense to your children, Megan, they’re fine children.”

  “Yes, they are.” Megan fi
nished her breakfast and took her plate back to the sink. Without the full measure of her quiet alone time the day already felt long.

  “I knew I had to leave New York. I just didn’t know where to go.”

  “You don’t have family?” Vera asked.

  “None I’m close to.”

  “So you came here.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth laughed uncomfortably. “Pretty wacked-out reason, huh?”

  “No. Your grandmother meant you to come here. She’s a wise woman.” Vera held up a wise-woman finger. “This town does give comfort. And peace. Otherwise I couldn’t have survived the death of my husband. Forty-six years we were married. Without him I’m like a sailboat with half an oar.”

  “Sailboats have sails, not oars.” Megan’s youngest, Jeffrey, from the hall outside the kitchen where he’d probably been eavesdropping for some time. He loved curling up small and silent—under a desk, on a closet floor—so no one knew he was there.

  “I know boats that have both, young man.”

  “Jeffrey, come in and say hello to Elizabeth and have some breakfast.”

  “Yes, Mom. Okay, Mom. Hi Elizabeth.” He dragged himself in, skinny legs emerging like knobbly sticks from his short pajamas. Megan ruffled his hair, bent to kiss his sleep-smelling skin, feeling love so deep she wanted to pull him back inside her body.

  “This town will help calm you down, point you in the right direction. Make you feel God is on your side after all,” Vera continued.

  “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.” Elizabeth turned her delighted smile on Jeffrey. “Hi there. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes. You have weird dreams.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Sure. Sometimes. Can I ask you a question?”

  “O-kay.” She grinned and touched his chin.

  “If people were jelly beans, how many would you eat?”

  “Jeffrey, that is not a question for guests.”

  “Sorry, Mom.” He took his place at the table, next to Elizabeth, clearly not sorry at all. “I just think it’s interesting. I’d make the good people into bad flavors so no one would touch them.”