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“Good morning, Mr. Dempsey.”
Those four words would forever change the course of her career—and her life.
He walked past her, with only the slightest acknowledgement of her greeting. It was then that she noticed everyone in the room watching her.
She waited until Christian Dempsey was inside his office, then gazed around her. People simply stared. Jenny, her boss, had a coffee mug half raised to her lips, her expression one of disbelief. Mark Taylor stood in front of a filing cabinet, shaking his head.
“Why’s everyone looking at me like that?” Colette asked.
Jenny set the coffee down on her desk and answered in a hushed whisper, “No one talks to Mr. Dempsey.”
“No one,” Mark reiterated.
Colette couldn’t imagine why not. He was flesh and blood like everyone else. Wishing him a good day was just the polite thing to do. But when she asked about it, she didn’t get a satisfactory response. Jenny sputtered, “Because he’s … because.” And Mark said, “Well, he’s very busy, you know.” None of which, in Colette’s view, justified the staff’s awed—or was it fearful?—reaction.
An hour later, she was summoned to Mr. Dempsey’s office by his assistant, who came to ask if she was the person who’d greeted him that morning. Her fellow workers cast her sympathetic looks as Colette rose from her desk and followed Dempsey’s assistant into the inner sanctum. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed that Jenny was biting her lip. Mark waved as if to bid her farewell. Karen Christie and the others shrugged mournfully. Colette hadn’t known what to expect … except the worst.
Christian was working on his computer when she was ushered into his office. His assistant announced her name and left her standing there. Mr. Dempsey didn’t look up. Consequently, Colette felt like some minion called in, awaiting his notice. Her mouth had gone dry and she resisted blurting out that she loved her job and didn’t want to lose it. In nervous agitation she clenched her fists at her sides. When he finally deigned to glance in her direction, his eyes held hers.
“Are you the one who spoke to me?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” She probably should’ve apologized but she couldn’t make herself do it. The thought of losing her job because she’d been polite to her employer was ridiculous. And yet … She and Derek had made an offer on a house and needed her income to qualify for the loan. Everything would fall apart if she was fired.
“Why?”
“Why did I wish you a good morning?” she repeated, wanting to be sure she understood the question.
He gave her a half nod.
“Well,” she murmured, “I was just being courteous.”
“Are you new to the company?”
“I’ve worked here for two years.” Her throat felt scratchy but she refused to let him see how nervous she was by clearing it. Dempsey’s was currently the largest Seattle import company and one of the biggest on the West Coast.
He frowned as if he didn’t believe her. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Colette squared her shoulders. “I received a promotion from customs clearance on the fifth floor to working as a customs broker.”
He studied her in silence, and when he spoke, she found his question surprising. “Is that a wedding band on your finger?”
“I was married a few months ago.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t know how to respond. Anything she said might be considered crossing the line between professional respect and what could be perceived as excessive familiarity.
“Peter is leaving my employment and I’m looking for a personal assistant. You’ll do.”
“Me?” Colette slapped her hand over her heart in astonishment. “What about HR? Shouldn’t they be sending you people to interview?”
“Do you want the job or not?”
“I … sure. Only …”
“I prefer to hire my own assistants. Now, are you interested?”
At that point, she should have asked any number of questions; instead, she nodded.
“Good. Peter will train you. I don’t know what you’re earning per hour, but from this point forward you’ll be salaried.” He named a figure that was three times more than her current rate. Colette nearly fainted.
“Thank you,” she managed to mumble. Before leaving, she almost curtsied, such was Christian’s effect on her.
That had been the beginning. For the next five years, she made Christian Dempsey’s travel arrangements, screened his calls, wrote his letters, did research of various kinds, checked contracts and hired translators. She also booked his tee times at the local country club, made reservations for his dinner dates and set up all his appointments. When it came to the business, she was aware of every detail. Or so she’d assumed. She even purchased corporate Christmas gifts on his behalf. The one thing she knew next to nothing about was his family. His mother was dead, although how she’d learned that she couldn’t remember. Probably gossip she’d heard from Jenny or Mark. But in all that time Christian had never said a word about his father or any siblings.
For the past five years, Colette had spent nearly every work day looking after the details of his business life—and his private life. She dealt with the women, too, and there was no lack in that department. This was hardly surprising, since Christian was rich, powerful and dynamic, not to mention attractive. Equally unsurprising, these relationships never lasted long.
She and Derek were grateful for the money she earned, which they spent on things for the house and traveling. They’d taken trips to Australia and New Zealand, Europe and China, purchased new cars and dined out often. Colette enjoyed the benefits of her job. Then they’d decided to start their family and that was when her marital troubles began. She couldn’t get pregnant. There seemed to be no obvious reason, but Derek refused to seek medical help. In his opinion, if a pregnancy happened, it happened and if not, that was fine by him, too. It wasn’t fine with Colette; she wanted children, and her inability to conceive had devastated her.
After her husband’s death, Christian had been exceptionally kind. The biggest and most elaborate floral arrangement at the funeral had been from Dempsey Imports. He gave her a month off with pay, of which she’d taken two weeks. After that, it was either go back to work or go crazy. As much as possible, her work life returned to normal—until the company Christmas party.
Colette had handled all the arrangements for the party, which was held at a posh downtown hotel and took place on the third Friday of December. Dinner was followed by entertainment and dancing. It was her first Christmas without Derek, so her parents had wanted her to join them in Colorado. Colette’s flight was leaving late Saturday afternoon.
To blame alcohol for what happened would’ve been too easy. Yes, she’d had too much to drink. She’d always been fond of champagne and there’d been plenty of it available. Christian had been drinking, too. Perhaps more than a few glasses; she hadn’t kept count. They were both a long way from being clearheaded and sober, that was for sure.
At the end of the party, in the wee hours of the morning, she and Christian were the only people left. He’d thanked her for her part in making the evening a success. She’d already received her Christmas bonus but he surprised her by presenting her with a gift—a cameo on a delicate gold chain. Colette hadn’t known what to say. She couldn’t imagine Christian actually taking the time to shop for her. She was the one who always purchased gifts on his behalf. The gesture had touched her deeply. With this gift, Christian was telling her how sorry he was that she’d lost her husband. He was letting her know he appreciated everything she’d done for him and for the company.
Her eyes had clouded with tears. He tried to dismiss her gratitude but she wouldn’t allow him to do that. Impetuously she stood on the tips of her toes and kissed his cheek. Christian clasped her shoulders and stared down at her, his brow furrowed. Then slowly, as though he was waiting for her to stop him, he lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was explosive, not at all the gentle expression of thanks she might have expected. Colette was knocked off balance, physically and emotionally.
When the kiss ended, they were both breathing hard. He looked at her as if he’d never seen her before. He murmured something she couldn’t quite hear; a moment later, she realized he’d told her he was getting a room. No one needed to spell out his intentions, or her own. She wanted him to make love to her. Her head was spinning and even as he led her to the elevator and then to the suite, she knew this was a mistake. Yet she couldn’t make herself walk away. She’d been lonely for so long.
When Christian unlocked the door and they entered the room, she made one feeble effort to introduce a note of reason.
“Are you sure we should be doing this?” she’d asked, barely recognizing her own voice.
Christian had responded with a soft laugh. Then they were kissing again, his mouth warm as his tongue found hers. The passion in him left her trembling. They broke apart only long enough to breathe. In a brief moment of sanity, she tried to talk but all that escaped were incoherent sounds that seemed to encourage him.
He led her to the bed, stripping off her clothes as they made their way across the suite. They literally fell onto the bed. The ache in her was so powerful, so strong, that she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. A sob rose in her throat but his deep, openmouthed kisses swallowed any sound. Then he was making love to her….
He was an accomplished lover, she’d grant him that. Her body hummed with pleasure, her senses completely alive. Christian knew how to satisfy a woman. Despite knowing what she did about his history with women, she was a willing participant in their lovemaking.
He turned her face toward his so she couldn’t avoid his gaze. His eyes burned into hers and he brought his mouth to Colette’s, kissing her again and again. She didn’t want to respond and yet she found it impossible not to.
Afterward, he drew the covers over both of them, and they fell asleep. He drifted off first. Colette was harassed by doubts and regrets but she chased them away, refusing to listen. At least, not then … They would return later, the next day and the next. Even now, months afterward, she could hear them echoing in her mind, asking how she could have dishonored Derek’s memory that way. How she could have acted so irresponsibly. How she could’ve let such a thing happen …
At some point during that night she awoke, disoriented. She raised her head from the pillow; the room was still dark. As soon as she realized where she was and who she was with, she opened her eyes wide and her entire body tensed. She tried to slip silently away but the second she moved, Christian rolled over to face her.
“You’re awake,” he whispered.
She blinked uncertainly but he didn’t give her a chance to respond.
Instead, he leaned closer and gently pressed his lips to hers. Colette wanted to tell him they’d made a terrible mistake. She tried, she sincerely tried, but it was useless. He distracted her with his hands, his mouth, and she forgot her protests. Their lovemaking was passionate and uninhibited. And it didn’t end there. Twice more they made love.
The next afternoon, when they finally left the hotel room, Colette barely had time to race home, shower, grab her suitcase and fly into Denver to meet her parents.
It was the worst Christmas of her life. On Christmas Eve she and her parents watched their church’s reenactment of the Nativity, complete with live animals and a newborn baby. The service had her sobbing uncontrollably. Her parents assumed her tears were related to Derek’s death and how dreadfully she missed him, and they were. But it was more than that. She wept for reasons she had yet to fully understand.
Another worry nagged at her. In their rush and foolishness, neither one had bothered with birth control. Colette had never done much praying until then. A quick glance at the calendar told her that a pregnancy could result from her night with Christian.
When she returned to work, it was embarrassing for both of them. Christian treated her as if nothing had happened and for a while she pretended, too. Then one day while he was out of the office, she received an important call from one of the customs brokers and needed to get onto his computer to find a contract service code. His system was shut down, although he’d never turned it off before; she’d frequently needed to refer to files in the past and he always left his computer on for that reason. Knowing him as well as she did, it didn’t take her long to discover his password, which he’d listed on his Rolodex under P. She’d explain when he got back. She retrieved the necessary information and was ready to close when a file with an odd name caught her attention. It consisted of several Chinese words, none of them familiar. Christian was fluent in Mandarin, but he named his files in English. Not only that, these words didn’t seem to correspond with any of their suppliers in China. What made her open the file she’d never know. Their relationship was strained as it was and neither of them had ever spoken of that night. For whatever reason—idle curiosity or latent suspicion—she did open the file. A hundred times since—no, a thousand—she’d found herself wishing that she’d left well enough alone. In that moment, she learned more than she’d ever cared to know about the man who was her employer. She hadn’t immediately understood what she was reading, but then it became all too apparent. Christian Dempsey was involved in smuggling illegal aliens from China, using his import business as a cover. At first she refused to believe it. But as she considered his actions since Christmas, certain details started to add up. She’d assumed his uncharacteristic behavior was because of their night together. Now his activities seemed more sinister. He’d begun to close the door between their offices, too, with strict orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed. He was away for lengthy periods without explanation. And sometimes, always late in the day, he had guests who weren’t announced by Reception. Guests he didn’t introduce.
Then, three weeks into the new year, Colette knew she could no longer ignore the obvious. A pregnancy test from the drugstore confirmed it. Under normal circumstances Colette would probably have discussed the situation with him. Not now. She wanted no further contact with Christian Dempsey. The biggest struggle was what to do with the information she had. For several sleepless nights, she debated the best course of action. Her conscience wouldn’t allow her to ignore the fact that he was trafficking in humans. At the same time, she wondered if she could put the father of her child behind bars. In the end, she wrote an anonymous letter to the Immigration and Naturalization Service. One thing was certain—she couldn’t work for Christian anymore. As far as she could see, leaving was the only solution. Early one morning, she typed up her letter of resignation and placed it on his desk.
Colette wasn’t sure how he’d react when he read it. She soon found out. He called her into his office and glared at her. Then with a look so scornful it cut straight through her heart, he suggested she take her two-week vacation now and leave immediately. She nodded, convinced that he was aware of exactly what she’d uncovered. Without a word, she turned and walked out. That was the last time she’d seen or heard from Christian Dempsey.
Her house sold right away and she’d obtained the job in the flower shop the next week. Fortunately, real estate in her part of Seattle moved quickly. When she heard about the apartment above the yarn store, it had seemed perfect. She was hiding from Christian, praying he wouldn’t ever look for her. What she earned at the flower shop covered her meager expenses. The insurance money she’d collected after Derek’s accident, plus the proceeds from the house, had paid off her car and given her enough to make a few sizable investments. She was financially comfortable.
Too nauseous to eat, she swallowed the rest of her tea, washed her cup and dressed for the day. Colette had a new life now, a brand-new beginning. She was doing her best to prepare for her baby, trying to eat properly and taking prenatal vitamins. She’d bought a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting from the bookstore down the street, wishing she could have shared this whole experience with her husband. No one knew about the pregnancy yet, not even her parents. Until the authorities arrested Christian, she’d keep it to herself.
When she got to work, Susannah Nelson was already there, cataloging a shipment of fresh flowers. The scent of roses filled the shop.
“Good morning.” Susannah greeted her absently, intent on her task.
“Morning. Those smell gorgeous.”
“They do, don’t they?” Susannah looked up with a smile.
With Valentine’s Day the following week, they’d received a huge shipment of roses, in addition to the flowers that arrived every other day. Colette’s favorites were the antique roses with their intense fragrance, although they tended to be smaller and less colorful than the hybrids.
“I expect we’ll be extra busy today,” Susannah said. This was her first full year of owning Susannah’s Garden and she was learning as she went. “Oh, before I forget, there was a phone call yesterday afternoon, just after you left.”
A chill went up Colette’s spine. She’d told only a few people where she’d gone. “Who was it?”
Susannah frowned. “I don’t remember the name, but I wrote it down.” Leaving the counter where she’d been working, she walked over to the phone and sorted through a stack of pink message slips until she found the one she wanted.
“The call was from a Christian Dempsey. He said it was personal.”
Colette’s hand felt numb as she accepted the slip. She glanced at the phone number, one she knew so well, and with her heart pounding, crumpled the note and tossed it in the garbage.
CHAPTER
4
“When individual fibers are knitted together with a thread of emotion, they become an original, personal design. This creative process is my joyful obsession.”
—Emily Myles, Fiber Artist. www.emyles.com
Lydia Goetz
One of the joys of owning my yarn store is the pleasure I derive from teaching people how to knit. I wish I could explain how much delight it gives me to share my love of knitting with others. I know machines can create sweaters and mittens and other things cheaper, faster and far more efficiently. That’s not the point. The projects I knit are an extension of me, an expression of my love for the person I’m knitting for. And—something else I love about knitting—when I’m working with my needles and yarn, I link myself with hundreds of thousands of women through the centuries.
I was on my lunch break, sipping a mug of soup in my office as I reviewed the names on my latest class list.
I think if I’d had a normal adolescence, I might have decided on teaching as a profession. Don’t get me wrong, owning A Good Yarn is a dream come true for me. It’s part of the woman I am now, the woman I’ve become not because of the cancer, but in spite of it. I’m proud of that.
What I especially love about my classes is getting to know my customers, some of whom are among my dearest friends. For example, in the very first beginning knitters’ class I formed three years ago, I met Jacqueline Donovan, Carol Girard and Alix Townsend. We still see each other often, and they’re as close to me as my own family. Over the last three years, I’ve taught dozens of classes, but that first one will always hold a special place in my heart.
Certain of the other classes are also special to me. Like the sock-knitting class two years ago. That’s where I met Bethanne Hamlin, Elise Beaumont and Courtney Pulanski. Bethanne is so busy with her party business these days I rarely see her, but Annie, her daughter, often stops by while she’s running errands for her mother. Her friend, Amanda Jennings, another cancer survivor, comes with her whenever she can. Bethanne and I don’t communicate regularly, but I consider her a good friend. Elise, too, although most of her time these days is spent nursing her husband, Maverick, whose cancer has taken a turn for the worse. Her tender patience brings tears to my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple more in love. Foolishly, I assumed that kind of love was reserved for the young, but Elise and Maverick have shown me otherwise. The way they love each other is what I pray for in my marriage with Brad.
Courtney Pulanski is at college in Chicago and teaching everyone in her dorm the benefits of knitting. She keeps in touch; I also hear how she’s doing from Vera, her grandmother. After her mother’s death, Courtney’s dad took a job in South America, and Courtney went to live with her grandmother in Seattle for her senior year of high school. It wasn’t an easy transition. I’m proud of Courtney, who’s become a lovely and well-liked young woman with a strong sense of her own potential, although I have little claim to her success.
It seems to me that each woman who signed up for one of my knitting classes taught me a valuable lesson. I suspect that’s another reason I feel so close to many of them.
This new class, the one to knit a prayer shawl, has a good feel, although I wish more than three people had enrolled. The first person to sign up was Alix Townsend, which surprised me until she mentioned that she needs something to help with the prewedding stress. Because she’s an experienced knitter, I suggested she attempt a more complicated pattern, and she agreed. She chose a beautiful lace shawl.
I certainly understand why Alix is feeling anxious. My own wedding was a low-key affair with just family and a few friends in attendance, yet I was an emotional wreck by the time Brad and I were officially married. Margaret didn’t make things any easier. She fluttered around me with questions and criticisms and unwanted advice until I thought I’d scream. But she was the one who broke into uncontrollable sobs halfway through the ceremony. My sister, for all her gruff exterior, has a soft heart and genuine compassion for others. I didn’t figure that out until I was over thirty.
That’s because, until recently, my entire existence revolved around me. It was all I could do to deal with my disease. I was so focused on myself, I failed to notice other people as I should. That knowledge opened my eyes in any number of ways, and I’ve learned to listen to others, including and perhaps especially Margaret. She still has her irritating mannerisms but I overlook them now—for the most part—and I try to ignore her suspicious reactions to people like Colette. I understand she’s trying to protect me (patronizing though that is). I’ve become much more tolerant, too. And I find myself reaching out more, getting involved in my neighborhood and business community.
Anyway … Alix signed up for the class; Susannah Nelson did, too. With Susannah’s Garden she’s brought a new energy to the retail neighborhood. She has such interesting and inventive ideas. In the beginning, she gave away more flowers than she sold but the strategy paid off and her shop’s doing well. Since Susannah and I hadn’t had much opportunity to know each other, I welcomed her presence in the knitting class.
Colette Blake, my tenant, enrolled, too, with Susannah’s encouragement. She’d stopped coming by for tea in the mornings and I knew why. She’d obviously overheard Margaret’s comment. Ever since that morning, our conversations were brief and a bit stilted. She’d started using the outside entrance right afterward. I missed her.
Because Susannah and Colette were both taking the class, I’d purposely scheduled it later in the afternoon. At four-thirty, Susannah’s college-age daughter, Chrissie, would be available to work at the flower shop and Alix would have finished her shift at the café.
The bell above the door jingled and I was distracted from my lunch break. Thankfully, Margaret was out front. She’s increasingly more comfortable dealing with customers, although she can sometimes seem brusque and unfriendly. That’s a shame because she isn’t really like that.
A minute later, Margaret came into the office. “Do we have any yarn made from soy beans?” she asked, frowning. “I never heard of such a thing.”
I swallowed my soup. “I have some on order.”
Margaret’s frown darkened. “You’re joking! There’s actually a yarn made from soy?”
I nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the fibers being used for yarn these days.” Margaret should’ve known all this, but she prefers wool, as do I. However, I can’t discount the incredible ribbon yarns and some of the newer acrylics. There’s even buffalo yarn—or should that be bison?—and I’ve heard about a yarn from New Zealand that’s a blend of wool and possum fur, of all things.
My sister shook her head in wonder and left me to my lunch and my thoughts once more. I’m so grateful the shop has brought Margaret and me together after all the difficulties we faced in our relationship. A few years ago I would never have believed that possible.
Margaret hadn’t supported my efforts in the beginning and in retrospect I can’t blame her. I’d never taken a single business class or even worked at a full-time job. Margaret was afraid I’d set myself up for failure; as it turned out, she was wrong. Later I could see how much I’d absorbed about business from my father. He’d taught Margaret and me a strong work ethic, too. Our dad had his own business for years, and almost by osmosis I learned a lot from him without even realizing it.
After I finished my lunch, I joined my sister. We did a steady business for the rest of the afternoon. I counted up more than forty sales by four o’clock, which is excellent for a two-person shop. Another bonus—the days pass quickly and pleasurably when we’re busy like this.
“Julia’s late.” Margaret glanced at her watch for the fifth time in the last minute.
“You let her take the car to school again?”
Margaret nodded curtly but wouldn’t look at me.
I didn’t remind her that she’d sworn the new car was hers and Julia wasn’t going to drive it ever. She hadn’t owned the car for more than a few weeks and already my niece was behind the wheel more often than my sister.
