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He handed her a big oatmeal raisin cookie and she took a bite. It was delicious!
“Where does your mom buy these?”
Will snorted.
“She doesn’t buy them. Patsy bakes them for us.”
“Who’s Patsy?”
“Our help. Don’t you have help at your house?”
“No. But it’s just me and Mommy, so we don’t need help.”
“Oh.”
They slid into the high cane chairs and continued to munch on their cookies. Debra couldn’t stop looking at the kitchen.
The tall cupboards had frosted glass on them and she could see stacks of dishes. When did Will’s family ever use so many dishes? She wondered if he had his own dish, like her plate with the cartoon moose on it. Probably not.
Will was a big boy already.
“Will, did you—”
The voice reached Debra’s ears and jolted her upright. She turned and faced Will’s mommy.
Violet Bradley was so pretty, wrapped in a soft pink bathrobe. She even wore fuzzy pink slippers to match. And the little baby she held was so tiny! Had Debra and Will been that tiny? What would it be like to have a brother or sister?
“Will! You didn’t tell me you had a guest.”
From Violet’s tone Debra knew that Will was in trouble. And from the flash in his mother’s eyes, she knew it was her fault. She’d gotten Will into trouble. Debra felt a sick feeling in her tummy.
“This is Deb. Her mom works in Daddy’s office.” Will stood straight in front of his mom and Debra was glad he was there, glad they were facing Mrs. Bradley together.
“I know who she is, Will, but why is she here?”
“I had to go to the potty.” Debra remembered the I Love Lucy shows she watched with Mommy, where the friends were always sticking up for each other. So she stuck up for Will.
“There’s a bathroom in the office,” Will’s mother replied but still didn’t look at her. She was staring hard at Will, though. Debra wished she’d never agreed to come home with Will.
“But it’s cold, Mom, and you have the best cookies.”
Even Violet couldn’t resist such charm.
She sighed. “You take two cookies each and go back to the office right away. The girl’s mother will worry.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bradley.” Debra slipped through the kitchen door as quickly and quietly as she could.
Violet’s reply followed her into the foyer.
“Will, after you take her back, you come straight home. Do you understand me, Will?”
“Yes, Mama.”
CHAPTER THREE
Present Day
Buffalo, New York
Debra
THE SCREAM LODGED in the back of my throat. I swallowed and bit my lip. I no longer viewed the knitting needles in my hands as tools that turned a hand-spun mohair blend into a piece of art.
They were potential weapons.
If I heard one more boring remark about family trees from any of the ladies seated around the café table, I was going for it.
I was going to poke my eyes out.
“I like knitting, but it’s not the same as scrapbooking.” Shirley sat across the table from me and went on to rave about how scrapbooking had changed her life.
I wasn’t convinced. “Shirley, that’s nice, but isn’t it a lot of work, clipping and gluing and finding the right colored papers?”
Our group’s youngest member at age thirty-four, Maggie paged through Shirley’s latest creation. Her slim hand turned another sheet of Shirley’s ode to her youngest grandchild.
“I agree. Give me a ball of good yarn and my rose-wood needles and I’m set for any journey.” Dolores laughed. She was her own best audience.
Nine of us sat at the restaurant table, our breakfast dishes long cleared. We’d met here every Wednesday morning for the past several years. To knit, talk and grouse.
Maybe I could steer the conversation back to knitting.
“I just think it’d be tough to go through every single photo I’ve ever taken.” I kept purling as I spoke. “Besides, the best time of my life is now. I love to look at baby pictures of my kids, but to have to sift through them all…”
I shuddered at the thought of the boxes and boxes of photos shoved under the eaves in our attic.
“Can anyone help me with this? I dropped a stitch rows ago but I can’t bear to rip this out now.” Maggie held up the wool sweater she was making for her husband. It was a beautiful cable pattern. But an ugly ladder ran down one of the cables.
“Let me show you how to fix that.” I stood up to walk over to her when my cell phone rang.
“Hang on.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my phone.
It was Violet, my mother-in-law.
“Hey, Vi.”
“Debra.” Her voice was soft, too soft.
“What’s wrong?”
Alarm made my simmering estrogen flush turn into an all-out hot flash. I started fanning my face with a knitting pattern.
“My legs are swollen again and I’m having a hard time moving around.”
“Did you take your pills this morning?” Vi had chronic congestive heart disease. At eighty-five she was doing pretty well but every now and then her symptoms flared, despite the medications.
“Yes, but the cold’s making my bones ache.” I heard her sigh and the resignation it carried. Vi was used to good days and bad, but the “bad” days seemed to be getting worse, as though her circulatory system was wearing out.
And with it, her desire to continue the fight.
“I’ll be home in a few minutes. Keep the phone with you.” I put the phone back in its purse pocket and gathered up my knitting, shoving the needles into the large ball of yarn.
“I’m sorry, Maggie, I have to go. Can you get someone else to help?”
At Maggie’s murmured agreement, I finished my cup of tea.
“Debra, of all people, you should put together a series of scrapbooks about your family. You’ve been through more than any of us. You’re a living part of American history!” Shirley’s intent gaze was on me and I saw the serious glint in her blue eyes.
I waved my hand. “Please. Let’s not be drama queens. We’ve all had our troubles.” I returned my knitting to my tapestry tote bag. I was sorry to leave and even sorrier that Vi wasn’t feeling well. But I was also secretly grateful for a way out of the knitting group’s current conversation.
“I have to go. Vi needs me. But let me say this.” I looked at Shirley.
“I’m a fiber artist. I knit, I weave, I create. I do things for my family every day. Why take time to agonize about the past? I don’t want to miss a minute of today. Anyway, I thought scrapbooking was to celebrate the joy of life.”
Shirley didn’t buy it.
“There are many ways to celebrate life and our families,” she said. “But scrapbooking gives your children a history to draw from.”
She was the most vocal of our group, which I’d started almost a dozen years ago. Not one local election passed that Shirley wasn’t involved in, and she took up what, in my opinion, were some pretty odd causes. However, I had no argument with that as long as I wasn’t one of them.
I swallowed a sigh.
“I do celebrate my family, Shirley. We have great dinners whenever we can, usually on Sundays. Angie just moved back to town. Blair and Stella are finally talking babies, and Brian is successful.”
I didn’t mention that Will was angry at me for being too involved with the kids. Nor did I bring up my suspicion that Angie had come home to Buffalo to distance herself from her husband. That I thought Blair and Stella were approaching their attempt to start a family more like purchasing a new car. Or that I worried that Brian was too driven in his architectural career to ever find a soul mate, much less have a family.
“Deb, you’ve got to admit that none of us have had to fight for our husbands or family like you.”
Shirley referred to the fact that I’m white and Will is black. It’s not as big a deal today. When we first met over fifty years ago, it was more than a big deal. It was a showstopper as far as relationships and marriages were concerned.
I pulled out my car keys.
“Of course we had some hard times,” I said. “But at least I’ve known Will since we were both kids. He’s been a part of my life forever. Not many spouses can claim that.”
I didn’t want to examine the volcano of emotions that threatened to erupt at just the idea of looking back at our past. Our present was the best yet for Will and me. I didn’t want to mess with it.
I wouldn’t mess with it.
“Come on, Debra, it couldn’t have been easy back in the sixties and seventies.”
No, but Paris made it all possible.
I acknowledged the errant thought but didn’t share it with my friends. It was too private. Paris was the time in our lives that sustained Will and me through the storms that awaited us.
“No, it was never easy. But my kids have grown up in as normal a world as I could hope for. None of them seem to have suffered. In any event, I see no point in putting myself through any of those emotions again.”
Shirley shook her head and picked up her knitting.
“I hear you, Deb, but I still think you’d gain a lot out of recording your life for your kids and your future grandkids.”
I smiled.
“You may be right.” I shrugged into my coat and offered my best smile to the group. “See you next week. Call me if anything really stumps you.”
They often asked me for help with their knitting, since I was the only professional knitter in the group.
I loved them because we shared so much more than knitting. But this morning the sharing cut too close….
These women were special to me because they loved me for me. They knew I was a “famous” fiber artist but accepted me as one of them. A woman with a family she’d fight to the death for.
The wind that greeted me as I exited the coffee shop was chillier than it’d been a half hour earlier. I looked up at the steel-gray clouds that seemed close enough to touch.
“More darn snow,” I mumbled to myself. Mentally I went down my to-do list: check on Violet, then spend the rest of the day in my studio preparing for my upcoming art exhibition.
I had just fastened my seat belt, hand poised to turn on the car stereo so I could listen to my favorite sixties station, when my phone buzzed again. Panic fluttered in my throat but was quelled when I saw the caller.
Angie.
“Hi, honey, everything okay?” I put her on speaker so I could back out of the parking lot.
“Um, yeah, I’m fine. How are you?”
Angie’s distracted tone didn’t alarm me. But her question about my well-being did. Usually her conversations were full of her latest career feats as a meteorologist, and her marriage to Jesse, the love of her life.
“I’m fine, sweetheart. What’s up?”
“Mom, can you meet me at the coffee shop this morning?”
“Oh, I’d love to, but I’m just leaving the knitting group. I have to go back home and check on Vi.”
“Is Grandma all right?” Angie’s voice rang clear and concerned over the car speaker.
“I think so. She’s not getting any younger, and she needs a little extra TLC every now and then.”
“Is it her heart?”
“Honey, it’s always her heart at this point.” I turned the key in the ignition—February in Buffalo felt like Siberia. The heater cranked up as I did my best to reassure Angie that Vi was likely okay.
