The Shop on Blossom Street

by Debbie Macomber

  All of them encouraged her to pursue the relationship with Jordan.

  Following the roller-skating party, Alix had seen him only once. He’d stopped by the video store to tell her he was going out of town. Apparently he was involved in a summer camp program and was driving some kids to eastern Washington. He’d mentioned sending her a postcard, but if he’d mailed one, she hadn’t received it. That had been on her mind ever since he’d gone away.

  As she stood on the corner across from the Free Methodist church, the music drifted out the open doors. Alix recognized the song, which she’d heard several times before. For some reason she couldn’t identify, she boldly marched across the street and up the steps. As she did, she glanced around, half expecting someone to stop her.

  She missed Jordan, and if walking into this church was the only way she could feel close to him, then she was doing it. Anyone who questioned her was in for one hell of a fight.

  An usher looked in her direction, but she scowled at him with such ferocity that he backed off. She didn’t need anyone to tell her where to sit. Slipping into the last pew, she saw that people were standing and singing. She grabbed what she assumed was the hymnal and picked up a Bible instead. She wondered if anyone noticed. As casually as she could, she replaced the Bible and grabbed the red book, opening it to the number posted on a board at the front of the church.

  The sanctuary was surprisingly crowded. Alix had no idea so many people actually attended services. Perhaps if her family had prayed together, they might have stayed together. Yeah, right! As a kid she’d done her fair share of praying and a lot of good that had done her. A familiar bitterness welled up inside. These kids were lucky. They had parents who cared about them. By her own choice, Alix was no longer in contact with her mother and hadn’t seen her father in years. He hadn’t even bothered to show up when Tom died. As she thought of her brother, her hand tightened around the hymnal. All Tom had ever wanted was someone to care about him. They’d both been cheated in that department; their father was more interested in drinking with his friends than he was in his children, and their mother was no better. Little wonder they’d had serious problems of their own, but Alix was determined to have a better life.

  She studied the words printed on the page but didn’t sing. One of Alix’s fears was that she wouldn’t know when to stand or sit. That was the advantage of being in the back pew—she simply followed what everyone else was doing.

  When the song ended, the congregation sat down and the minister, an older man, stepped up to the podium. Alix figured she’d leave after the sermon, afraid that if she stood up and walked out now, someone might be offended.

  The minister preached from the Old Testament and the book of Nehemiah, which Alix had never heard of before. The sermon, about the ruined walls of Jerusalem and how they symbolized people’s lives, interested her, although she didn’t understand everything he said.

  Alix was just getting ready to slip out of the pew when she saw Jordan walk to the front of the church. He was obviously back from summer camp, although he hadn’t come by the video store.

  She tried to ignore the disappointment and the hurt. Seeing him in church wasn’t the only shock she received. Jordan wasn’t alone. A blond beauty came with him. The girl eyed Jordan like he was Jesus returning to collect His saints before Armageddon.

  The two of them had handheld microphones. The music started, and their voices blended as if they’d been singing together their entire lives. Listening to their performance was more than Alix could bear. In an effort to exit the pew as fast as possible, she nearly stumbled over the feet of the woman next to her. Without looking back, she rushed out the door.

  If she’d needed proof that she was deluding herself, this was it. Reeling, she ran into an alley. She closed her eyes and called herself every ugly name she’d ever heard. With her back against the brick wall, she slid down and hung her head.

  Naturally Jordan would be singing in church with Miss America. And why not? He was a preacher’s kid; he’d been raised in the church. He’d never sat in a jail cell or stood before a judge. His parents had loved him, wanted him. She could just imagine what his daddy would say if he knew Jordan was hanging with her.

  Alix squatted there, caught in a misery so deep she could barely move.

  “Hey, Alix?”

  A voice drifted into her awareness, and she glanced up to find Tyrone Houston, better known in the neighborhood as T-Bone, standing above her. He was a gang member and a known drug dealer. The last Alix had heard he was doing time. Apparently he was out.

  “Whatcha doin’?” T-Bone demanded.

  “Taking up space. You got a problem with that?” Normally no one flashed attitude to T-Bone and she could be risking her life. For a second, she wasn’t sure she cared.

  “No problem. You interested in a party?” He gave her the once-over.

  In her present frame of mind, Alix was in no mood for company.

  “I got the stuff,” he said enticingly.

  That meant he had a fresh supply of drugs. Probably meth or cocaine or any of a dozen different substances guaranteed to shut up the voices in her head.

  “I could be,” Alix said. She’d been clean a long time—ever since her brother had overdosed—but she hated this dark ugly feeling eating at her gut. If she could swallow something to make her feel good, she wanted it because whatever T-Bone had was better than these awful voices.

  The house was a couple of blocks away. Everyone in the area knew that if you needed a hit, T-bone would supply it—for a price, naturally. Alix didn’t know his sources, didn’t want to know.

  When they stepped into the house, the shades were drawn and the room was dark. Five or six guys were lounging around and the air was thick with sweet-smelling smoke. Alix buried her hands in her leather jacket as she slowly surveyed the scene.

  In one corner she noticed another girl sitting with a guy. His arm was wrapped around her and he appeared to be out of it, in a drug-induced haze. Alix looked again, harder this time. The girl seemed familiar, but Alix couldn’t figure out how she knew her. Working at the video store she saw a lot of people; while she might not remember names, she rarely forgot a face.

  This girl hadn’t been in the video store, Alix was fairly certain of that. She was young, fourteen, possibly fifteen, and trying to look older. Alix knew the signs because a few years back she’d done the same thing.

  Then it came to her. The girl was familiar because Alix had seen her at the roller-skating rink with Jordan. She was a church kid. The girl recognized Alix, too. She averted her gaze.

  Anger surged through Alix. This kid didn’t belong here with a bunch of druggie losers.

  She strolled to the sofa where the girl sat with her stoned boyfriend in a tangle of arms and legs. Alix sat down on the sofa arm and glared at them.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded of the girl.

  The teenager glared back at Alix, her eyes full of defiance. “Same as you.”

  The guy she was with rolled his head and pointed at Alix. “Who’s this, Lori?”

  Yes, Alix remembered her now. Her name was Lori and she’d come with a couple of friends. Roller skating with church kids one month, doing drugs with criminals and losers the next. Quite a contrast.

  Lori stared up at Alix, her face hard and her eyes cold. “This,” she said, sneering, “is no one.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Alix said as she came to her feet. “Sorry, we have to go now.” She grabbed Lori by the arm. The girl protested but let Alix pull her up.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “Getting you outta here.”

  “Like shit you are.”

  “You don’t belong here any more than I do.”

  “Baby?” Her boyfriend was so out of it he didn’t protest, which was good. T-Bone, however, wasn’t pleased. He blocked the door, his arms crossed over his massive chest as he focused narrowed eyes on Alix. Fear shivered down her spine. T-Bone
could slit her throat if he perceived that she was hurting his business. He wouldn’t hesitate, either.

  “She’s a church kid,” Alix said, meeting his gaze. “You keep her here and you’re gonna have a pack of little ol’ ladies marching outside your door, carrying signs and bringing the heat.”

  T-Bone’s gaze shifted from Alix to Lori, who squirmed under his scrutiny.

  “You want trouble, it’s up to you.” Alix raised both arms in a hands-off gesture.

  “Get out,” he said to Alix, “and take her with you.”

  Alix seized Lori’s upper arm and dragged her out of the house.

  Once outside, Lori jerked her arm free. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she screamed.

  “What am I doing?” Alix repeated, laughing. “What I’m doing, little girl, is saving your sorry ass.”

  “I don’t need anyone to save me.”

  Those words were almost identical to what she’d said when Jordan announced he was a youth minister. But they weren’t true for Lori—and maybe not for Alix, either. Lori had no idea what kind of danger she’d so blithely stepped into. She didn’t appreciate the risk Alix had taken by pulling her out, either. Alix’s knees shook when she realized what she’d done in standing up to T-Bone. It was time to make herself scarce.

  “Go home,” Alix said.

  Lori rolled her eyes and headed back into the house, only to be stopped at the door. Alix didn’t hear what was said but apparently Lori got the message and came scurrying out a moment later. She hurried down the street without a backward look.

  With no place else to go, Alix returned to her apartment. Laurel was gone. In her unhappiness her roommate was eating everything in sight—and leaving the mess for Alix to clean up. She wondered if Laurel still fit into her jeans. She must’ve gained twenty pounds since her breakup with John. If Laurel wasn’t at work, scarfing potato chips on the sly, or at home, sitting in front of the television with her face in a bowl of ice cream, Alix didn’t know where she could be. But for once she was grateful to be alone.

  Picking up her knitting, she heaved a sigh when she saw what she was doing and threw it down in disgust. Carol had given her the gray yarn and the pattern, as well as the work she’d already done. Alix had painstakingly continued the project, knitting a sweater for Jordan. Yeah, right, like he cared. Like anyone did.

  Lying on the sofa, Alix stared at the ceiling for an hour before she was scheduled to work. The video store did good business on Sunday afternoons and she was kept busy, especially when Laurel didn’t bother to make an appearance, even though her name was on the schedule to work with Alix.

  An hour into her shift, Jordan walked into the store. Alix’s heart reacted instantly and that infuriated her. As effectively as she could, she ignored him.

  “Alix,” he said.

  “You’re back.” She made sure he knew it wasn’t any big thing to her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She shrugged and handed two videos to the customer at the register, offering him a wide smile. When she turned her attention to Jordan, the smile was gone. “Should there be?”

  He frowned. “I was hoping we could get together tonight.”

  She considered his invitation. Part of her was shrieking with excitement and another part, the part that insisted she get over him, was saying something else.

  “Who’s Miss America?” she asked coldly.

  “What?” Jordan said, blinking in confusion.

  “You sang with her this morning.”

  His eyes widened. “You were in church?”

  “Long enough to see you and Miss America smiling at each other. You seem to be very good friends.”

  “We are.”

  “I’ll just bet.”

  “Can I get some help here?” the next customer at the counter asked.

  Alix reached for his videos and typed in the codes before taking his money. She gave him his change and smiled sweetly in his direction. Once again she returned her attention to Jordan, making sure there was no evidence of pleasure at seeing him.

  Jordan frowned. “You’re jealous of Pastor Sutton’s seventeen-year-old daughter?”

  The girl was only seventeen? From the back of the church it was hard to tell. Still…

  “I don’t have time to put up with petty jealousy. If you want to be angry with me, then fine. But I’ve got better things to do.”

  Alix was about to answer when he whirled around and left the store.

  CHAPTER 31

  “If you can count the number of projects you have going, you need to begin another, so you have a varied range of complexity, from the very simple ‘mindless’ ones to those that demand undivided attention.”

  —Laura Early, lifetime knitter

  LYDIA HOFFMAN

  I’ve spent so much time in doctors’ offices that over the years I’ve come to dread even the most routine appointments. It’s almost always the same. I sit in an uncomfortable chair in a waiting room full of strangers and we all avoid looking at one another. Generally, I bring my knitting or I flip through magazines that are months if not years old.

  The one advantage of being in Dr. Wilson’s office is that after all this time the staff have become practically as familiar as family, especially Peggy, Dr. Wilson’s nurse.

  Peggy was working for Dr. Wilson when I came in for my first appointment, nearly fifteen years ago. I remember when she was pregnant, not once but twice. I vividly recall wondering if I’d be alive to see her second baby. The thing with cancer is that you learn to take nothing for granted. Not one day, not one season, not even a minute. At sixteen I wanted to make it to seventeen so I could attend the Junior-Senior Prom. I survived, but no one asked me to the prom.

  “Lydia.” Peggy stood in the doorway holding my chart, which must weigh twenty pounds. My medical history was filled with details, of symptoms and procedures, as well as documentation of the different medications I’d taken.

  When I got up, it seemed that every eye in the waiting room was on me. If I’d been the type of person to grandstand, I would’ve leaped to my feet and announced I was a two-time winner in the lottery of life. Having a more subdued nature, however, I calmly stuffed my knitting into my quilted bag and followed Peggy.

  “How are you doing?” Peggy asked after she’d weighed me and made a notation on the chart.

  “Great.” I stepped off the scale and sighed with relief to note that my weight was within a couple of pounds of my last visit. Peggy led me to the cubicle at the far end of the hallway, where she thrust a disposable thermometer under my tongue and reached for my wrist. She stared at her watch and quickly made a second notation on my chart. “Good strong heartbeat,” she said, sounding pleased.

  I should hope so; my insurance company had paid plenty for the privilege of having that heartbeat. I would’ve told her as much but talking wasn’t an option at the moment.

  Peggy was pumping the blood-pressure cuff, which she’d wrapped around my upper arm. It grew uncomfortably tight before she released it. When she’d finished listening, she nodded. “Very good.”

  At last she removed the thermometer. “You’re feeling well?”

  “I feel fabulous.”

  Peggy smiled. “There’s a sparkle in your eyes. You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, hardly.” I brushed aside her insight, but found I really did want to tell her about Brad. I didn’t, because there wasn’t that much to tell. Not yet, anyway. We’d met for drinks twice, talked on the phone two or three times a week, sometimes for an hour or more. He came by the shop at least once during the course of a week and occasionally—no, more than occasionally—we kissed.

  Brad and I were only beginning to know each other. We weren’t serious, weren’t even close to being serious. Brad was deeply involved in his son’s life and I was deeply involved in my business. We were friends in the same way I was friends with Carol Girard. Okay, maybe not exactly the same way, but nevertheless friends. For now, tha
t was comfortable for me and apparently for him, too.

  “Have you met someone?” Peggy asked again.

  I nodded hesitantly.

  I thought she was ready to burst into applause. “I always knew you would,” she said with a smile of delight.

  “Oh, honestly, Peggy, I’m thirty years old.”

  “And your point is?”

  It was embarrassing to be this transparent, especially at my age, but that’s another aspect of having had cancer as a teenager. My social maturity seemed stuck where it was the day I got my driver’s license. Social development is delayed for those of us who are detoured by the fight for life. I don’t want to sound like I’m feeling sorry for myself because I’m not; this is a simple fact that needs to be taken into account in relationships.

  I knew the routine visits well enough to know that the next part was to stretch out my arm for Peggy to extract vial after vial of my blood. I once teased her that I should be paid for the amount she collected. Not one vial but four, two large and two small.

  I barely blinked as the needle pricked my skin. In the beginning, though, I used to get dizzy with fear at the sight of a needle. Once I nearly fainted, but that was years ago. Compared to some of the procedures I’ve endured, having my blood drawn is kid’s play.

  Peggy paused to exchange a full tube for an empty one and glanced up.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look happier.”

  “I am happy,” I assured her. My new happiness had come about for several reasons. Opening my shop played a big role in how I felt and so, of course, did meeting Brad. A Good Yarn was my affirmation of life and allowing myself to get involved with Brad was an additional act of faith.

  “I’m so pleased for you.” Peggy repeated the process with the tubes and then wrote my name on each one. “I’ll give you a call in a couple of days.”