Yarn to Go

by Betty Hechtman

  “Skeins?” I said.

  “Sorry, that’s what they call these,” she said, picking up a ball of yarn. “It’s really a silly term. It’s not like there is a universal size of a skein.” To demonstrate, she pointed out a large peanut-shaped one of forest green yarn and a small fuzzy baby blue one in the mess on the floor. “Both of these would be called skeins. Go figure.”

  She helped me stuff everything back in the closet and shut the door before it could fall back out again.

  Joan had taken the smallest of the three bedrooms and made it into an office. An adorable lion was guarding the desk. Lucinda explained it was crocheted. There was a basket of half-made things in the corner. “Those are WIPs,” Lucinda said.

  “Huh?” I said, picking up a forest green tube that looked like it might be on its way to becoming a sock.

  “Works in progress,” Lucinda said. “Don’t get the idea I’m some kind of expert. Your aunt told me all of this.”

  As I held the tube of yarn, four silver needles slipped out and hit the floor with a pinging sound. I picked them up, examining the sharp double points. “These look like they could do some real damage.” I tried to put them back the way they’d been but finally just stuck them into the yarn and put it on top of the stuff in the basket. “I have to stop getting sidetracked.”

  The padded envelope with the papers I’d taken to the attorney was on the desk where I’d left it. I was about to dump out the papers when I noticed a box covered in red bandanna print fabric. I lifted the top and looked inside, surprised to find that it was a file box. I’d started to push through the hanging dividers when I heard something hit the bottom with a clunk. “I wonder what this is,” I said, fishing out a small black flash drive. Lucinda pointed to the computer on my aunt’s desk and suggested I put it in and see what was on it.

  We both watched the screen and I kept clicking on things until I got the flash drive to open and then opened a file. “What’s that?” I said, looking at what had come up on the screen. It said RIB across the top, then Test. Lucinda shrugged and said it didn’t mean anything to her. “We’re not getting anywhere.” I turned off the computer and pulled out the flash drive, dropping it back in the box.

  I had a sinking feeling when I saw the tabs on the hanging dividers. They all said something about retreats. I pushed through them until I came to one that said Upcoming. Inside there were several files all marked Petit Retreat. I opened the last one and there were several printed sheets with a bunch of questions.

  “That’s the information sheet I filled out when your aunt talked me into signing up.” Lucinda leaned over my shoulder and looked at the page. “That’s what she called it.” Lucinda pointed to the heading that read Petit Retreat. “She said of all the retreats she put on, this was the most special. I told her I barely knew how to knit, but she said I would have a great time. Frankly, the idea of spending some time away from Tag and the restaurant sounded appealing. I love him, but our styles are just different. If he would just relax a little.”

  The more we looked through the papers, the more upset I felt. There were seven other people besides Lucinda who had sent in the money for the retreat. From the pile of receipts it was obvious my aunt had already paid all the expenses. “What am I going to do?”

  “You can try to cancel the weekend, but you’ll have to give everyone a refund. Not me, of course. I’ll deal with Tag.”

  “With what money? Nothing personal, but I’m not exactly getting rich from baking. The house is paid off—maybe I could get a loan.” I sagged. “But that would take a while.” I looked at the date. “The retreat is in two weeks.”

  “You could go to Vista Del Mar,” she said, referring to the hotel and conference center where the retreat was being held. “And Cadbury by the Sea Yarn and Supplies, and see if they would return the money.”

  “What am I going to say? ‘Sorry, folks, for the last-minute notice but I didn’t follow through with things, which my mother will be happy to tell you is my habit.’” I rocked my head with dismay. I barely knew Kevin St. John, who ran Vista Del Mar, or the mother and daughter who owned the yarn store. How could I ask them to refund the money? “There has to be another option.”

  “Well, you could go ahead with the retreat. Everything is paid for and arranged. All you would have to do is take your aunt’s place.”

  “I have no idea what these retreats are. I know zero about yarn things except for what you’ve just told me. I don’t think knowing that skein is really a meaningless term is enough. Joan was a master at arranging things, taking care of problems. I’m afraid my expertise is in making them—problems, that is.”

  Lucinda extracted one of the invoices from the file and waved the yellow sheet in front of me. “Joan hired a master teacher. Her name is Kris Garland, and your aunt raved about her. You don’t have to know anything. You would just have to greet everybody and hang around for the weekend. I’d be there to help you. And Vista Del Mar is right across the street from here.” She pointed to the wall of trees outside the window. When I still hesitated, Lucinda brought up the obvious. “You don’t really have a choice, do you?”

  I took the fabric box to the guesthouse, promising to think about putting on the retreat, before walking Lucinda back to her car. I held the flashlight as she pulled out her keys.

  A red Ford 150 pickup truck slowed as it neared us and stopped next to Lucinda’s white Lexus. I knew the color and make even in the dark because I knew who it belonged to. The driver’s window opened and a man stuck his head out. I shined my flashlight in his face and he squinted in response.

  “Hey, anything wrong?” he asked.

  “No, everything is just fine,” I said in a curt voice.

  “Just being neighborly,” he said with a smile. “I’m just down the street if you need a cup of sugar.” Lucinda stared at him for a moment. I knew she was trying to process who he was. She was used to seeing him in uniform and driving a police car.

  “The Cadbury police officer,” she said with a friendly smile, and he nodded.

  “Well, somebody’s glad to see me. Night, ladies,” he said and pulled his head back inside before driving off.

  “I think he likes you,” Lucinda said.

  I threw my arms up in a hopeless manner. “I don’t think he even knows my name. Not that I care anyway. Do you have any idea what goes on at his house?” Ahead we watched his taillights disappear as he pulled into a driveway. “It seems like every night there’s a bunch of cars parked outside. There’s loud music that seems to be coming from the garage. He never parks in it and I think it’s some kind of party room. I know they say cops have to blow off steam, but he’s ridiculous. Well, he can just party hardy without me.”

  I waited until Lucinda left, then I locked up and went back to the restaurant to finish my baking. By the time I took out the last batch of carrot muffins, I had made my decision. Lucinda was right. I had no choice but to go ahead with the retreat. She had promised to be my wingman. What could go wrong?

  2

  ALMOST EXACTLY TWO WEEKS LATER, I WALKED down the driveway carrying a violet folder with the retreat papers and a basket of muffins. I’d like to say that I was cool and calm, ready to rise to the occasion, but my heart was thudding so strongly against my chest I expected the red flower on the lapel of my black Armani blazer to be bouncing up and down.

  Lucinda had helped me with the clothing choice. It figured that she’d found the one thing with a fancy label in my closet. I think everything she owned was designer. As I said, I was a jeans and T-shirt person. What did it matter anyway? My work time was spent alone in an empty restaurant during the last hours of the day. Until now, that is. Now I was supposed to be in charge of an event and I was going to be surrounded by people.

  The black Armani blazer had been a gift from my mother. It was one of those things that never went out of style and, depending on what I wore un
der it, could work for a variety of situations. Lucinda had found a pair of dark-washed jeans and a black turtleneck made of a mixture of silk and other fabrics. The red six-petaled flower was something we’d found in my aunt’s box of completed items. Lucinda thought it was crocheted. However it was made, I thought it was lovely.

  I usually wore my shoulder-length hair twisted up in a scrunchy. I don’t know if there was an official name for the style, but I called it a squished-up ponytail. Nobody wants hair hanging around batter—it’s too easy for some to fall in. Lucinda had talked me into getting it trimmed and wearing it pulled off my face with a headband. I wasn’t so sure about the lipstick. The feel of it on my lips and the fragrance made it impossible to forget I was wearing it. At least I’d been able to talk Lucinda out of the bright red she’d picked out at Cadbury Drugs and Sundries. I thought the pinkish nude color was more me.

  I could do this, I told myself. All I had to do was smile and be friendly and take care of any little problems that might crop up.

  I was taking care of things, wasn’t I? Hadn’t I called everyone connected with the retreat? Well, almost everyone. It wasn’t my fault that one of the retreat participants hadn’t included a phone number or address. My first call had been to Kris Garland, the master teacher. It was hard to have to tell her about my aunt, but she thought it was a good idea I was going ahead with the retreat and assured me I had nothing to worry about—at least in the knitting department. She had it covered.

  I’d gotten to the street, but my feet now seemed stuck. I glanced up at the white sky. It was a Thursday afternoon in March, though you couldn’t tell by the weather. Cadbury by the Sea had one climate year-round. It was cool and damp with a lot of fog. When the sun came out it was late in the day and ready to go down. What would you expect with a town on the very end of the Monterey Peninsula? Wherever you were in town, the sea wasn’t far away. So much more poetic to call it the sea than the ocean. I thought the term went well with the moody feel of the weather.

  Here on the edge of town, there was a certain wildness. Nobody had a lawn—just tall wild grass and lots of tall, slender Monterey pines and cypress trees whose foliage had a horizontal shape due to the constant breeze. To me those trees looked like someone running with their hair flowing behind them. Even my aunt’s window boxes of petunias didn’t need much attention. They got their water from the air.

  Vista Del Mar was literally across the street, though from here I could barely see it through the filter of trees. The street I was standing on dead-ended at the lighthouse. It sent out its beam day and night, because once you got past the small, silky beach by Vista Del Mar, the coast became a rocky cliff with all kinds of warning signs. Danger, danger, danger—treacherous currents, killer waves and a bluff overlooking mounds of jagged rocks that jutted into the water. The Pacific Ocean wasn’t very peaceful here.

  Dangerous but beautiful. This area drew tourists from all over the world. The quaint charm of Cadbury by the Sea helped, too. Thanks to the town council there were no chain stores or restaurants, billboards were banned and streetlights were outlawed.

  A voice in my head—maybe it was my mother’s—said something like grow up and get moving. Okay, maybe mulling over the wonders of the town was just me stalling.

  I propelled myself across the narrow street and through the stone pillars that marked the driveway to Vista Del Mar. Entering the hotel and conference center grounds felt like stepping back in time. The trees were more plentiful here and the land more au naturel. I passed a Monterey pine that had fallen and been left to return to nature on its own. I followed the roadway to the main area of the hotel and conference center and a building called the Lodge. The rustic structure was built in the Arts and Crafts style. It had lots of windows looking out at the grounds in one direction and across a deck toward the boardwalk that led through the dunes to the beach on the other. All the buildings had names, and most had been built in the early 1900s. The dining hall was called Sea Foam and was just down the path. I’d never been inside, but from the outside, it appeared to be almost all windows. The Grace Chapel exterior was covered in local stones and tucked near the beginning of the dunes. The other buildings scattered around the 107 acres were covered with weathered wooden shingles and housed guest and meeting rooms.

  Even though the water was obscured here by the sand dunes, I felt the ocean breeze as it sailed right through my jacket. The Armani might look nice, but my usual fleece zip up worked better with this weather.

  The Lodge served as a social hall, registration and the business office of Vista Del Mar and was to be our meeting place. I was glad to go inside to the cheerful warmth of the large open room. A fire was going in the massive stone fireplace surrounded by comfortable sofas and chairs.

  Kevin St. John looked up from the registration counter as I walked in. “Don’t you look nice, Casey,” he said. “I hope it’s okay that I call you Casey. I could call you Ms. Feldstein, if you prefer.” He was the manager of Vista Del Mar, and up until the last week or so the only contact I’d had with him was when I passed through the Lodge to deliver muffins to the small gift shop that sold coffee drinks and snacks along with souvenirs. He’d always been wearing a neat dark suit and striped tie. I’d always been in jeans and a fleece.

  Once I’d started baking for the Blue Door, Joan had talked me into taking samples of my muffins around to various places that sold coffee drinks, and I’d gotten standing orders from all of them. No matter how many muffins I brought in, they were gone before noon.

  “Casey is fine, Kevin,” I said. He flinched at the sound of his first name.

  “Mr. St. John, if you don’t mind. I like to set a tone,” he said as I stepped up to the counter. He noticed the basket on my arm. “Ah, so you’re planning to win them over with muffins.” So he liked to set a tone, did he? I might have to call him Mr. St. John to his face, but in my head he would be Kevin; well, maybe Kevin St. John. He was impassive looking with a moon-shaped face and cleft in his chin. I couldn’t gauge his age. The best I could come up with was that he was somewhere between my age of thirty-five and Lucinda’s of fifty-four. He had seemed nice enough when I explained I was taking my aunt’s place and going ahead with the retreat. “Well, just remember, I’m here to help,” he said. He smiled and appeared cordial, but it felt a little forced.

  I had tried to find out more about him, but Lucinda hadn’t been much help. She’d lived in town longer than I had, but not long enough to know the real dope about everybody. Kevin occasionally ate at her restaurant. Always alone. Her impression was that he considered himself the lord of Vista Del Mar rather than just the manager. She knew he lived in a cottage on the grounds.

  “I never understood why your aunt bothered with these small retreats. For the time and energy she could have put on something larger.” He examined my face for some kind of answer.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about her business. But I’m sure she had her reasons.”

  Kevin adjusted some brochures on the counter. “I know what these weekends meant to your aunt. I think it would be nice to honor her work and continue with the yarn events. If you would give me her mailing list, her vendors . . .” He shrugged casually. “Probably it would be best if you just gave me all of her paperwork connected with the retreats.”

  It took a moment to register what he was saying. “Oh, you mean you would put on the events.”

  His face broke into a broader smile. “I’m planning to do the same with the other retreats that book here. We have everything from bird watchers to quilters holding events.” He gestured toward a row of photographs on the wall adjacent to us. I scanned the pictures and saw they were of various groups that had held meetings there. My eye stopped on one of my aunt with a group of women. “There will be so much more quality control when I’m handling all the arrangements instead of just renting out space.”

  “I suppose I could turn everything over to
you. Maybe after this weekend. But right now I need to concentrate on this retreat.” His expression darkened at my answer before he seemed to catch himself.

  “Of course. You’re right. You need to deal with what’s in front of you.” He started to turn away and then turned back. “One more thing. You might want to remind your charges that walking along the rocks is dangerous. You wouldn’t want another incident.”

  “Incident?” I said, snapping to attention.

  Kevin dropped his voice, and I had to practically lean over the counter to hear him. “It wasn’t really connected to the last Petit Retreat. What I mean to say is that the retreat had ended with lunch and technically was over. Someone—” He stopped abruptly as a couple walked in and approached the counter, saying they had reservations.

  Kevin was acting very much the host and turned his total attention to the couple. So much for the rest of the story.

  “Casey, where do you want these?” I turned and saw that Gwen Selwyn, the owner of Cadbury’s local yarn shop, had come in pulling a stack of plastic bins on wheels behind her. Through Joan, I’d met Gwen before. Another thing about Cadbury by the Sea—they had a rule against cute names. So instead of calling the place Darn It or Wild and Wooly, the store was simply called Cadbury by the Sea Yarn and Supplies. The reason I know is that when I first started baking muffins for the various outlets around town, I had given them names like Fourteen Carrot, A Raisin in the Sun, Plain Jane and Merry Berry. Would you believe I got a note from the town council to drop the cutesy names and just call them what they were? I thought the town took itself a little too seriously. I mean, they were just muffin names.

  Gwen ran the yarn shop with her daughter, Crystal Smith. Again, Lucinda had come through with what information she knew. Gwen had lived in Cadbury all her life, but her daughter had recently moved back. Something about being abandoned by her husband who was a troubled musician. Was there any other kind? Lucinda didn’t know if Gwen was a widow or divorced. Just that there was no current man in her life. She appeared very old school. Her brown hair was streaked with gray and cut short in the kind of style that needed just a little combing when you got out of the shower. I was willing to bet she’d made the long heathery gray sweater she wore. I loved the details of the etched silver buttons and generous-sized pockets. Underneath she had loose-fitting slacks and tie shoes with crepe soles. All that cool damp air had given her a ruddy complexion untouched by makeup. I had a pretty good feeling I wouldn’t see her jogging in spandex or hanging out on singles’ night at the Cadbury Wine Bar.