Evelyn’s concern was evident in the way her forehead creased with worry lines. “How’s your mother doing?”
“Fairly well. Her blood sugars are good, and for a time that was a big concern. The stroke did some damage, but, thankfully, nothing permanent. A few weeks of physical therapy will help. It’s amazing how resilient she is. Her left arm is in a cast, and it’s cumbersome for her, but she’s managing.”
“And Casey?” Evelyn asked. The crease lines on her forehead thickened. “How’s she doing?”
Lydia’s spirits sank as her own worries came front and center. “Not so great, I’m afraid. When we got the news that Mom had fallen, Casey came unglued. I don’t know when I’ve ever seen her more upset. It took Brad and me and Cody to calm her down.”
“Is she better now?”
“Yes, but she spends every available moment with my mother at the nursing home. Mom was in the hospital the first couple days and then transferred to the nursing facility,” Lydia explained.
“What’s happening with the nightmares?”
“They’re not improving. If anything, they’ve gotten worse.” Much, much worse, in fact, especially in the last week.
“By worse you mean more frequent? Lasting longer?” Evelyn inquired.
“More frequent,” Lydia explained. “She’s woken us up three times this week, screaming and trembling.”
“And she still refuses to tell you about the dream?”
Lydia’s heart clenched. “Not a word. If you have any advice, I’d be more than grateful to get it.” When it came to Casey and her dreams, the entire family was willing to do whatever was necessary to help the teenager overcome this psychological speed bump.
“Like I explained when you first mentioned it, these dreams aren’t unusual for a teenage foster child.”
“Casey has been adopted.” Casey was no longer a ward of the court. She was an important part of their family.
“Correction. I should have said that for a child who has been part of the foster program and is going through puberty, this isn’t uncommon. Many have nightmares in varying degrees of intensity. It sounds like Casey’s case might be severe.”
This was worse than anything Lydia had ever encountered. “The best advice I can offer you,” Evelyn continued, “is to get Casey into counseling.”
Lydia was almost afraid that would be Evelyn’s suggestion. “Brad and I have already talked about that.”
“I can recommend several excellent counselors.”
Lydia nodded. “It’s just that when I checked with a couple of the ones our family physician mentioned, the cost was prohibitive for what Brad and I can currently afford.”
“I have the names of a few excellent counselors who charge on a sliding scale, according to the family income.”
Lydia nodded again. “I’d appreciate getting those names.”
Evelyn got out her cellphone and shared the information with Lydia.
“Thank you.” She was genuinely appreciative.
Not long after Evelyn left, Lauren Elliott arrived, bringing along the baby blanket she was knitting for her pregnant sister. She’d purchased the yarn weeks earlier but hadn’t knit much beyond the border, which was only a few inches. Then over the course of the last two days the new knitter had completed nearly half the blanket. As far as Lydia could tell, Lauren must have spent every available moment with knitting needles in her hands.
“I made a mistake,” Lauren said, pulling the project out of the colorful quilted bag.
“Let me take a look,” Lydia said, keeping an eye on the door, watching for customers.
Lauren spread the project out on the table and pointed to the error. “The stitch count is off now, too.”
“Yes, it would be.” Lydia examined the mistake. It wasn’t glaring and could be easily overlooked.
“Do I need to rip it out?” Lauren asked.
“You could fudge it.” Lydia had done that often enough herself.
“Yes, I suppose, but I’d always know it was there, and it’s a gift for my sister, and …” she let the rest fade.
Lydia understood. If she could live with the mistake, she let it be, but like Lauren, if the project was a gift, then she took a closer look. “Feeling the way you do, I suggest you frog it.”
“Frog it?”
“Rip it, rip it, rip it.”
Lauren’s smile was only momentary.
Lydia didn’t know what had happened in Lauren’s personal life, but clearly something had. She’d always known the other woman to be friendly and happy, not in an effervescent way, but polite and sociable. The last couple days, when Lauren had visited the shop, she’d barely said a word. She seemed caught up in her own thoughts and didn’t welcome conversation.
Whatever was troubling her seemed to be coming out on the needles as well, Lydia noticed. Her tension was extremely tight, making it almost impossible to move the stitches on the bamboo needles. Just the day before, Lydia had teased Lauren and explained that she needed to relax. She wasn’t knitting armor.
“Would you like me to unravel it for you?” Lydia asked, knowing how irksome it could be to undo a project.
“Please.”
Lydia pulled out a chair, sat down next to the other woman, and took the blanket off the needles, tugging at the yarn, which was so tight it took effort to slide it free.
“I don’t know that I can watch,” Lauren said, looking away.
“Don’t,” Lydia advised. “Frogging hurts, no matter how experienced a knitter you are.”
Lauren looked back at her and asked with surprise in her voice, “You mean to say you make knitting errors, too?”
“All the time,” Lydia assured her. “I misread a pattern or get distracted. Mistakes happen.”
“Don’t I know it,” Lauren said with feeling.
Lydia looked at her and saw tears form in her eyes. Lauren struggled to hide them, and, not wanting to embarrass the other woman, Lydia pretended not to notice.
After a few minutes, Lydia put the stitches back on the needle and handed the blanket to Lauren. “There you go; it’s good as new.”
Lauren thanked her and placed the project back inside the quilted bag. “You wouldn’t by chance have happened to see Bethanne lately, have you?” she asked.
“No,” Lydia explained. “But then, I’ve been away from the shop a good deal this week. My mother’s been in the hospital.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I hope she’s doing well.”
“She’s much better; thanks for asking.”
“I should give Bethanne a call,” Lauren said, almost as if she were speaking to herself. With that, she left the shop. Watching her go, Lydia felt as if Lauren Elliott must be deeply concerned about something.
Margaret arrived a little before noon, and within a few minutes Lydia was free to leave. She phoned Casey before she left the shop, grateful that her daughter now had her own cellphone.
“How’s it going with Grandma?” Lydia asked.
“She’s looking much better today.”
How cheerful and upbeat Casey sounded. A stark contrast to only a few hours earlier, when she’d woken up screaming in terror.
“I think she might be able to go back to her apartment this afternoon. Would you like to talk to her?” Casey asked.
“Oh, sure.” During the last conversation with her mother, Lydia had the disheartening impression her mother didn’t have a clue who she was.
“Grandma, Lydia is on the phone.”
Lydia heard Casey tell her grandmother, and then the teenager added, lowering her tones, “Lydia is your daughter.”
“I know who Lydia is,” Mary Lou Hoffman insisted.
A moment later, her mother’s voice came over the cellphone. “Hi, honey. I’m feeling much better today.”
“You sound great, Mom.”
“Are you coming by to visit?”
“I’ll be there as soon as Cody’s baseball game is over.”
“Cody?” her mother repea
ted.
“That’s my brother,” Casey whispered in the background.
“Oh, of course, Cody and Brad. You married them.”
“You got it, Mom. I’ll see you later.” She hung up the phone, and, after chatting briefly with her sister, Lydia headed toward the ball field.
When she arrived, she found Brad sitting in the bleachers. He had saved a spot for her next to him. She joined her husband and settled in. The opposing team was up to bat, and Cody played shortstop.
Their son was athletic and enjoyed sports. In the fall, he played on a select soccer team. Having Cody or any child involved in sports was a major commitment for their family, requiring travel to other cities and even other states. To this point, because Lydia often worked weekends, Brad had taken over transporting Cody from one event to the other.
“How’d your morning go?” Brad asked, while keeping his attention focused on the field.
“Evelyn Boyle stopped by.”
Brad’s gaze momentarily left the game. “Did you mention how bad Casey’s nightmares have gotten?”
“I did.”
“And what did she say?”
Lydia mentally reviewed the conversation. “Well, it’s what you and I came up with originally. We need to get Casey into counseling.”
Brad took a couple of moments to digest this. It wasn’t an idea they’d overlooked.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Lydia said, remembering their earlier concerns.
“It isn’t the cost, Lydia. Somehow we’ll find the money. If Casey needs to talk to a professional, then we’ll make it happen, no matter what sacrifice we have to make.”
Lydia leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. How she’d been able to marry such a wonderful man she would never know. All she could figure was that God in His goodness had decided to bless her with Brad in an effort to make up for the brain cancer she’d suffered in her youth and then later as a young adult.
“I love you, Brad Goetz.”
He chuckled. “Heaven knows I’m crazy about you. I was from the first moment I delivered yarn to the store.”
That was how they’d met. Brad had been her UPS delivery man.
“My only concern,” Brad continued, “is if Casey won’t talk to us about these nightmares, what makes Evelyn think she’d discuss them with a complete stranger?”
He had a point. “I don’t know.”
“They are professionals,” Brad added, as though thinking this through.
“Right. Counselors are trained for just this sort of thing. And …” She paused, uncertain how best to mention the change in the yarn store situation.
“Yes?” He glanced her way.
“I have good news.”
“Great. Are you going to share it?”
“With pleasure. I was going over the figures for the yarn store in the last month, and business is up substantially.” She didn’t want to sound overly optimistic. They were heading into summer, when customers didn’t think as much about knitting in hot weather as they did during the colder months of the year.
“Really? The shop is doing well financially? Lydia, that’s great news.”
“It is,” she agreed. “And I think it’s all due to those yarn baskets someone has set out. All the publicity those baskets have generated has been a huge boost.”
“I’m sure that the newspaper article helped, too.”
“You’re right, it did. Because people are curious, they’ve made a point of stopping in and asking about charity knitting. Several have purchased yarn. A handful have signed up for beginning knitting classes.”
“Sweetheart, that’s fabulous.”
“I might even be able to help finance Casey’s counseling sessions.”
Brad took a moment to assimilate the news. “I guess we need to thank the person who came up with this brilliant idea—that is, if we ever find out who is responsible.”
Lydia agreed.
Now all Lydia had to do was figure out who’d come up with this plan and find a way to thank them.
Chapter Thirty-one
Bethanne sat in her office, but her mind wasn’t on the email in front of her or business matters. It’d been almost three weeks since Annie had left. Three long, torturous weeks. Never once did she suspect her daughter would stay away this amount of time.
This had gone on far too long, and over nothing. Despite the fact that Bethanne missed Max and wanted to be with him, she wouldn’t be moving to California. On the flip side, it didn’t seem likely that he would move to Washington State, either. Bethanne felt as if she were in a no-win situation, complicated by her own daughter.
Reaching out to Annie hadn’t helped. She’d already tried that, but her daughter was as stubborn as they come. Andrew had already attempted to reason with his sister, and he, too, had met with no success. Nothing, no logic, no words of persuasion, no heart-to-heart chat, was able to change Annie’s mind. She was bound and determined to sever all ties with her mother. Because he loved her, Max had reached out to Annie, too, and met with the same icy reception as everyone else.
It went without saying that Grant bolstered his daughter’s resolve. It suited his ego to have Annie stand by his side, no matter what price she had to pay. Although she’d resisted to this point, Bethanne didn’t feel she had any other option but to seek out Grant’s help, which she suspected was exactly what he wanted.
Using the office phone, she called the office where her ex-husband worked as a real-estate broker.
“Southard Realty.” Annie’s voice startled Bethanne, although she knew her daughter had taken a job as a receptionist at Grant’s workplace.
“Grant Hamlin,” she said, as if she didn’t recognize her own daughter’s voice.
“Mom?”
Bethanne hesitated. “Yes.”
“Why do you want to talk to my father?” Heavy emphasis fell on the word “my.”
“I believe that is my business, Annie. Now please put me through.”
Annie paused as though debating a course of action. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”
“Annie, just put me through to your father.”
“No.”
Bethanne’s tempter flared, but she quickly brought it under control. “Don’t you think you’re being just a little bit ridiculous?”
“Maybe, but I don’t care,” Annie returned flippantly. “You made your choice, and I’ve made mine. I want nothing more to do with you. As far as I’m concerned, I only have one parent, and that’s my dad.”
The words cut like the serrated edge of a knife. Bethanne swallowed hard and did her best to breathe normally, despite the pain. The tension between the two lines was taut, stretched tight as a violin string. Neither spoke, and after a few seconds Annie disconnected the line.
In an effort to hold herself together, Bethanne cupped her hand over her mouth. Once she felt she could think clearly, she punched out Grant’s cellphone number. He answered after the first ring, almost as if he’d been waiting for her call.
“Bethanne,” he greeted cheerfully, “it’s great to hear from you.”
She didn’t return the compliment. She could picture him in his corner office, smugly leaning back in his chair. He seemed to think he had her exactly where he wanted her, squirming and needing his help.
“How’s Annie?” she asked.
He sighed, as if she should already know the answer. “Annie’s doing great, and the staff love her working here. It didn’t take long before she got the entire office reorganized. I can’t tell you what an asset she is.”
Bethanne tensed. Grant seemed to enjoy rubbing salt in her wounds.
“It’s a joy having her around,” he finished.
“No doubt.”
“I imagine you must miss her.”
More salt. More gloating. It was tempting to lie, but Bethanne didn’t. “I miss her dreadfully.”
“Annie mentioned that Max stopped by her place. I heard they had a little heart-to-heart, which unfortunatel
y didn’t go well.”
With this comment, he brought out the entire salt canister. Naturally, Grant made it a question, as if he wanted her to fill in the blanks. What transpired between Annie and Max was their business, and she wasn’t about to break confidences. In actuality, Max had said very little about his meeting with Annie. All Bethanne knew was that it had been a wasted effort.
“I know you must be pleased with Annie’s unwavering loyalty to you, Grant, but at what cost?”
“What do you mean?”
Apparently, she needed to spell it out for him. “Annie has a business degree; with her experience and background, she could have almost any job she wanted.”
“I admit, she’s amazing.”
“Do you honestly believe she’ll be satisfied working as a receptionist for long?”
“Time will tell,” he said, seemingly unconcerned.
“Is this what you really want for our daughter?” Bethanne knew her ex-husband could be selfish and self-centered, but not once had she believed he would sink to this level, using their daughter against her.
“I want,” Grant said, steel in his voice, “what Annie wants, and at this juncture, it’s not being around you. If you must know, she’s happy working with me.” All pretense was gone. Grant was angry, and he wasn’t shy about making sure Bethanne knew to what lengths he was willing to sink.
“Grant, you don’t mean that. This is our daughter; don’t mess with her future.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Annie,” he insisted. “Once she gets a feel for the real-estate business, she can get her license, and if she proves herself, she can work for me.”
For him, not with him; Bethanne caught the subtle difference.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Grant asked, basically telling her that he was a busy man and that she was taking up his valuable time.
Even though she’d suspected it wouldn’t do any good to reach out to her ex, Bethanne felt she’d had to try.
“Thank you for your time,” she said, and with that she cut off the call.
As far as she could see, the only option left open to her was to wait until Annie became disillusioned with her father. That might take weeks or even months, but in due course it would happen. Grant wouldn’t be able to help himself. Eventually, his true self-centered nature would reveal itself. Then, and not before, would Annie be willing to face the truth. Until that time, all Bethanne could do was wait and pray that it wouldn’t be long until her relationship with her daughter was restored.
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