Knot Guilty

by Betty Hechtman

  I even set up a place in the dining room. But eating alone didn’t take long, and there was no reason to linger at the table. I cleaned up and grabbed a crochet project. I had a whole array of half-done projects that I cycled through. This time I picked the tote bag I was making out of red cotton with navy blue accents.

  I had my smartphone sitting next to me, and my eye kept going back to it as I thought over my call to Mason’s office. It might have been true that he was out of town. It was stupid of me not to leave a message. If he really was out of town, he might have called when he got his messages. This way I’d never know for sure.

  I fiddled with the BlackBerry until the list of contacts came on the screen. I had the opposite of a magic touch with the cell phone. It turned itself to silent, never told me I had messages and screens appeared on it when I wasn’t even touching it. This time when the contact list showed up, it went right to Mason’s name all by itself.

  His cell number was staring me in the face. Was this some kind of sign?

  In a moment of bravado, I hit the little green receiver icon and the phone began to dial. There was still time to hit the red icon, but instead I let it ring.

  After about the fourth ring, I started expecting his voice mail. This time I would leave a message. Though nothing that would show my cards. I was thinking of something benign to say when I heard his voice come on. It took a moment for me to realize it wasn’t a canned recording asking me to leave a message, but a sleepy-sounding voice, a live voice.

  “Mason?” I said tentatively.

  “In the flesh,” he joked. I heard him suck in his breath. “Am I dreaming or is that really you, Molly?”

  I said something about being sorry—that it seemed I’d awakened him. “Where are you?” I asked, realizing the receptionist might have been telling the truth.

  “East Coast,” he said. After a pause he continued, “It’s 2 A.M. here.” But when I apologized again, he shrugged it off. “What’s up?”

  It was the moment of truth. My opportunity to be proactive had arrived, and suddenly I had cold feet. There were a few moments of dead air, and he actually asked if I was still there. Then the Mason I knew and loved kicked in, and he realized I had something to say that was difficult.

  “I’m guessing you have something on your mind,” he began. “You’re having a hard time with it, aren’t you, Sunshine?”

  I mumbled a yes and wanted to kick myself for being so wishy-washy. Just say it, I told myself, and then it came out in a stream. “Mason, I realize I was wrong about what I thought I wanted and I’m sorry that I didn’t return your calls but now I know that I want to have a relationship with you.”

  All I heard was breathing, and my heart sank. A multitude of thoughts went through my head. He wasn’t alone. He was trying to think of a nice way to turn me down. He’d fallen back asleep during my run-on sentence. But then I heard him chuckle. “Whew,” he said finally. “I thought you were going to tell me you and the detective got married.”

  Mason didn’t know what Barry had said when he stepped out of the picture, so I told him. Mason chuckled again. “He gave you the noble speech. Most women would have melted for that.” I didn’t want to tell Mason that I had thought about it. Didn’t the “noble speech,” as Mason called it, mean that Barry really loved me more? He was more concerned with my happiness than his own.

  But this was about what I wanted, and that was Mason.

  “So?” I said, finally. “What do you think about what I said?”

  “Hallelujah, you finally saw the light.” It seemed like it was taking a moment for it all to sink in. “I wish I were home. I’d come over and we could toast the beginning of us.”

  He started figuring when he’d be back in town. “I’m going to be tied up with a client when I get back,” he said. He gave no details about who, and I didn’t ask, knowing he couldn’t say. The whole lawyer privilege thing. I knew it was probably somebody I’d heard of. Mason’s specialty was dealing with celebrities who had gotten into trouble. They required a lot of care along with his legal expertise.

  “It’s just as well. I am going to be tied up with work all weekend.”

  He was wide awake now and sounding very happy. “We’ve waited this long, what’s a few more days. We can work something out.”

  All the tension had left my body, and I felt myself smiling. “Yes, we can,” I said. Neither of us wanted to get off the phone, but finally I said he ought to get some sleep, and he agreed.

  “Love you,” he said just before he clicked off.

  He was already gone before I could react.

  I was still smiling about the phone call the next morning. I kept thinking about what it would be like spending time with Mason again, this time as a couple. It might have been a bit teenagerish, but I was kind of floating a little above ground. However, I had to force my feet back to earth. There was too much going on for me to be wandering around in a romantic fog.

  When I walked outside and felt the cold morning, it was the slap of reality that I needed. I was glad I had a warm jacket on, but the chilly air went right through my cotton khaki work pants. The thermometer in my car confirmed that it was cold. Forty-four degrees. There was still even a thin coating of frost on the windshield of the greenmobile. Not that it was going to last. Already the rays of sunlight were working on turning the ice into droplets of water.

  The ride was so short, the heat had barely started to warm the interior of the car by the time I pulled into the parking lot of Shedd & Royal. CeeCee pulled her electric car next to mine, and we were both getting out at the same time. She looked at her royal blue car, clucking her tongue.

  “Being green gets tiresome. Sometimes I wish I had my gas-guzzling Caddie back.” She sighed. “But can you imagine the flak I’d get. We celebs are supposed to be an example and all. If we drive electric cars, other people will want to emulate us and give up their inefficient cars, blah, blah, blah.” CeeCee looked down at her deep brown fur jacket. “This fake fur looks almost too good. I hope none of those animal rights people start harassing me. I feel like I need to wear a sign that says it’s not real.”

  While we stood there talking, Adele zoomed into the parking lot in her gray Matrix. She flounced out of the car and over to us. “You two don’t have to go with. I can handle K.D. Kirby all on my own.”

  CeeCee and I said, “No,” in unison, and Adele rocked her head at what she considered a waste of our time.

  “If you insist,” she said. “Let’s get going.” She looked at my vintage car and CeeCee’s little electric number. “I’m driving.”

  Adele led the way back to her car. She had dressed for the occasion. She was wearing an example of her stash buster wrap. She’d focused on yarn in shades of red with just enough deep blue to throw in some contrast. The wrap wasn’t really warm enough for the cold morning, but Adele wasn’t about to hide it under a coat. Underneath she wore slacks and a top in a bluish shade of lavender, which made the color of the wrap pop even more.

  She hadn’t spared the makeup, either. Adele had the habit of going to extremes. When her boyfriend suggested she tone things down when she met his mother, she went so far, his mother thought she was too dull for him. And then when she had another chance to try to impress Mother Humphries, as she called Eric’s mother, she went too far the other way, wearing clothes that were too bright and turning the drama up to a fever pitch.

  Was it any surprise that Adele was a wild driver? I heard CeeCee letting out gasps from the backseat as she reached over the passenger seat grabbing my shoulder. Adele took one of the canyon roads through the mountains. She zoomed past Sunset Boulevard, through the residential streets of Beverly Hills and onto Wilshire Boulevard. I think we both let out a sigh of relief when we turned off Wilshire and into the parking lot for the Knit Style headquarters. It was one of the classic old buildings along the major thoroughfare. Just
two stories tall, it was white stucco and had been built in the days when time was spent adding decorative details to the facade.

  We walked around to the front, and I looked through the large ground-floor windows into a yarn store. CeeCee saw me instinctively heading for the door.

  “The Knit Style Yarn Studio is part of K.D.’s empire, but we’re meeting her upstairs in her office,” CeeCee said, taking my arm and steering me to a glass door that had “Knit Style Publishing” written in gold paint. Inside there was a small alcove with a bunch of plants and a door to an elevator. Ahead of us a marble staircase led to the second floor. Was there really a red carpet going up the center of the stairs? Yarn studio, red carpet, I thought, shaking my head. Maybe just a little pretentious.

  This was going to be the first time I met K.D. Kirby in person. All the dealing for the booth had been done by phone and email with her staff. We followed the red carpet up the stairs and ended up in a reception area.

  “Let me handle this,” CeeCee said, turning to Adele and me, but mostly to Adele. I got it. Her reputation was at stake. I had the feeling she was sorry she’d suggested we have a booth at the show and that Adele teach one of the classes. CeeCee pulled ahead and approached the receptionist, who seemed to know her. It made sense. CeeCee had been there for the photo shoot to go along with the magazine article.

  I glanced at the framed covers of the knitting magazines that graced the white walls. It was fun to see how the style of the magazine and the style of the knitted garments featured in it had changed over the years.

  A man came into the reception area and looked over the three of us. He recognized CeeCee and greeted her with a hug and an air kiss, before turning to us.

  “Delvin Whittingham, I work with K.D.,” he said in a clipped tone. “And you must be Molly Pink.” He held out his hand for me to shake it. He let go and moved on to Adele.

  “Adele Abrams, crochet expert,” she said, putting out her hand before he had a chance to offer his. I tried not to stare at him, though it wasn’t his self-important expression that got my attention. It was his clothes. His outfit was the kind of thing that could look totally stupid or very hip, depending on the style at the time. He reminded me of a mismatched puzzle with all kinds of pieces that really didn’t belong together. The skinny jeans gathered at his ankles, spotlighting the red pointy shoes. On top, he wore a black T-shirt, layered with an unbuttoned white dress shirt and a red brocade vest over that. He accessorized with a knitted tie done in some kind of variegated yarn that made it looked striped and a gray fedora-style hat. Oh, and there seemed to be a lot of chains going between his belt and pants pocket.

  “K.D. is expecting you,” he said, taking us down a corridor to the knitting mogul’s office. It took up a corner with lots of windows that looked out into the foliage of elegantly trimmed trees. The furniture was all beautifully refinished antiques, including the large desk that K.D. Kirby was sitting behind. I’d seen a photo of K.D. before, but seeing her in person was quite different. Let’s just say the photo had perfect lighting and some nice Photoshop touches to remove imperfections. Not that the magazine head looked bad. She just looked real. She was one of those people whose hair turned grayish white early, and instead of making her appear old, because of the texture and abundance, it made her stand out.

  I guessed she was somewhere in her fifties, but who could tell anymore. Maybe it was true that fifty was the new thirty. Her features had the look of someone who knew who she was and was used to being in charge. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly it was. Maybe the almost defiant set of her mouth. Of course, she was stylishly attired. It wasn’t so much the clothes, exactly, but how she wore them. K.D. seemed to use the basic black dress as a backdrop to show off the lacy mohair shawl in shades of yellows and gold tied at just the right angle around her shoulders.

  We’d barely gotten past introductions when Adele began to model her wrap. She did a few turns and then let it slip from her shoulders and flung it on K.D.’s antique desk. I noticed K.D.’s eyebrows go up, but other than that she didn’t respond.

  “Why don’t you sit down.” She indicated the two chairs in front of the desk, just as another chair was brought in. “Delvin, show her where to put it,” K.D. said with a dismissive wave.

  When the three of us were seated, she began. “I’m very hands-on with my magazines, the yarn studio and this show. We are the most elite of the yarn shows, and people come from all over the world to take our classes.” She looked directly at Adele. “We charge a lot for our classes, and our teachers are all world-class. When I decided to add some crochet classes and CeeCee suggested you as a teacher, I thought she understood our criteria.” She looked even more directly at Adele. “The point is, I ran a Google search on you and nothing came up.”

  I suddenly got it. She was asking Adele for her pedigree. “Most of our teachers have published numerous pattern books, have design credits and have done workshops at shows and retreats. What about you?”

  Adele squirmed in her seat and mumbled she was more into practical aspects of crochet. “Well, then do you have some kind of certificate showing that you are a master teacher?” K.D. pressed. Adele looked to us for help.

  CeeCee stepped in and tried to smooth things over, explaining that Adele’s passion for crochet was going to make her class memorable.

  Delvin had remained standing. He picked up the wrap and looked it over. “It looks pretty simple. Why not just let her give us a demonstration of her teaching method,” he said. K.D. reluctantly nodded, and he turned to Adele. “What Ms. Kirby would really like to see is a snippet of how you plan to conduct the class.”

  I thought it interesting that while he was trying to give the appearance that he and K.D. were equals, when he was in her presence he called her by her last name. She was the power.

  “No problem,” Adele said, reaching into the tote bag she’d brought along. She took out several small balls of yarn in shades of red and an unusual crochet hook, which got K.D.’s attention right away.

  “Let me look at that hook. Where did it come from?” she said, holding out her hand.

  Adele seized the moment. “You won’t find another hook just like that anywhere.” Adele went on about how it had come from an author who’d come to the bookstore. A doctor who had written a book on alternative healing methods and suggested crochet as a means of relaxation. He’d carved the hook himself. Adele started to talk about the immediate connection they’d had but CeeCee saw K.D.’s eyes begin to glaze over and stepped in.

  “Dear, why don’t you just go right into a demonstration on how to start the wrap.” She picked up one of the small balls of yarn and pressed it into Adele’s hand. I think we both let out a breath of relief when Adele dropped her story and showed off how to make the foundation chain for the wrap. Adele might be over the top on a lot of things, but she was an excellent teacher. Just to make sure K.D. got that, I explained the crochet parties the bookstore put on and how Adele handled the lessons. I went on about what a passionate teacher she was. K.D. only had to watch for a few minutes before she seemed satisfied.

  “That’s enough, Adele.” K.D. put up her hand like a stop sign. “I think you will do. Your class is so basic and we are charging less for it. Actually we’re discounting all the crochet classes since they’re new.” I watched as Adele paused and cocked her head. She wasn’t very good at picking up the subtext in things, but this time Adele seemed to infer that what K.D. said wasn’t a compliment.

  It was an awkward moment, and I was afraid of what Adele might say, so I stepped in and made a big deal about admiring a Lucite box on a pedestal with an oversize pair of gold knitting needles crisscrossed in it. The light caught on the tops of the needles and reflected back. “Are those diamonds?” I said.

  K.D.’s manner changed and she smiled at me. “Those needles are the company’s logo. We use them for everything including the Knit Style Show. A
nd yes, the stones at the end are diamonds.”

  Adele’s face clouded over, and she peered closely at the box. “Logo, huh? We ought to have one for crocheting.”

  CeeCee and I looked at each other and nodded. Our mission had been accomplished. K.D. was okay with Adele’s class. We ought to get going before Adele messed things up.

  CeeCee and I stood up and prepared to each hook one of Adele’s arms and make an exit, but before we could, K.D. turned to CeeCee.

  “Have you considered what I said?” the woman with the shoulder-length fabulous whitish gray hair asked. CeeCee suddenly looked uncomfortable. “You are a celebrity. Your role in that vampire movie has generated an Oscar buzz. Why not hang out in an environment that suits your status? Join our group at the yarn studio.”

  I didn’t dare look at Adele. I was afraid there might be flames coming out of her eyes after that comment. Actually, I wasn’t that pleased with it, either. K.D. had stopped just short of demeaning the bookstore and our group, but I wasn’t about to show it. I felt bad for CeeCee, who had been put on the spot. No matter what she said, somebody was going to be upset.

  “I caught a glimpse of your store before we came up here. It looks wonderful,” I said, hoping to distract the magazine head. I was relieved when it worked, and after correcting me that it was a studio and not a shop, K.D. offered to show it off. I was pretty sure it was another play to win over CeeCee, but I acted thrilled at getting a personal tour from her.

  “We shoot a lot of photographs for our magazines here,” K.D. said as she led us into the store through a private entrance. Delvin was by her side, opening doors and then holding them for the group.

  When we walked inside the retail area, I stopped and glanced around in awe. It was so perfect that it looked like a yarn store in a movie set. The back wall was covered with cubbies of different sizes and shapes filled with yarn in luscious colors and textures. Sweaters, scarves and shawls made from the yarn were artfully displayed. At one end of the store there was an antique library table with refinished wooden kitchen chairs. Each had a bright-colored seat cushion and all were uninhabited for the moment. Not so for the grouping of wing chairs around a large coffee table strewn with designer tote bags and balls of yarn. The comfortable chairs were all filled with knitters.