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Make time for friends. Make time for Debbie Macomber.

CEDAR COVE 16 Lighthouse Road 204 Rosewood Lane 311 Pelican Court 44 Cranberry Point 50 Harbor Street 6 Rainier Drive 74 Seaside Avenue 8 Sandpiper Way 92 Pacific Boulevard

BLOSSOM STREET The Shop on Blossom Street A Good Yarn Susannah’s Garden (previously published as Old Boyfriends) Back on Blossom Street (previously published as Wednesdays at Four) Twenty Wishes Summer on Blossom Street Hannah’s List

Thursdays at Eight

Christmas in Seattle

Falling for Christmas

A Mother’s Gift

Dear Friends,

When I wrote The Shop on Blossom Street, I didn’t intend it to be a series. However, reader response was so positive that I decided to write A Good Yarn. I’ve discovered through messages left on my website and from your letters that you love Blossom Street as much as I do. So here’s our third visit, Back on Blossom Street.

Knitting is still a large part of my life—and even more so since the publication of these books. My yarn room (yes, room) is full. But what I’ve enjoyed most is the wonderful knitting friends I’ve made along the way. This book is dedicated to one, Joan McKeon (and her equally wonderful husband, Bob), who knits sweaters for charity.

I’ve included patterns in the previous Blossom Street books (for whatever Lydia’s class is knitting in the story) and Back on Blossom Street is no exception. I’m thrilled to share two patterns for prayer shawls with you, compliments of Leisure Arts and Myrna Stahman. I’m grateful to both for their generosity.

I hope you enjoy Back on Blossom Street!

PS You can reach me by mail at PO Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366, USA.

www.debbiemacomber.com

Back on

Blossom Street

Debbie Macomber

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To

Bob and Joan McKeon

Treasured Friends

CHAPTER
1

“One of the best kept secrets in the knitting world is that knitting lace appears to be much more difficult than it is. If you can knit, purl, knit two together and put the yarn over your needle to form a new stitch, you CAN knit lace.”

—Myrna A.I. Stahman, Rocking Chair Press, designer, author and publisher of Stahman’s Shawls and Scarves—Lace Faroese-Shaped Shawls From The Neck Down and Seamen’s Scarves, and the soon to be published The Versatility of Lace Knitting—

Variations on a Theme

Lydia Goetz

I love A Good Yarn, and I’m grateful for every minute I spend in my shop on Blossom Street. I love looking at the skeins of yarn in all their colors and feeling the different textures. I love my knitting classes and the friends I’ve made here. I love studying the pattern books. I love gazing out my front window onto the energy and activity of downtown Seattle. In fact, I love everything about this life I’ve found, this world I’ve built.

Knitting was my salvation. That’s something I’ve said often, I know, but it’s simply the truth. Even now, after nearly ten years of living cancer-free, knitting dominates my life. Because of my yarn store, I’ve become part of a community of knitters and friends.

I’m also married now, to Brad Goetz. A Good Yarn was my first real chance at life and Brad was my first chance at love. Together, Brad and I are raising our nine-year-old son. I say Cody’s our son, and he is, in all the ways that matter. I consider him as much my child as Brad’s; I couldn’t love Cody more if I’d given birth to him. It’s true he has a mother, and I know Janice does care about him. But Brad’s ex-wife is … well, I hesitate to say it, but selfish is the word that inevitably comes to mind. Janice appears intermittently in Cody’s life, whenever the mood strikes her or she happens to find it convenient—despite the parenting plan she signed when she and Brad divorced. Sadly, she only sees her son once or twice a year. I can tell that the lack of communication bothers Cody. And Janice’s cavalier attitude toward motherhood angers me, but like my son, I don’t mention the hurt. Cody doesn’t need me to defend or malign Janice; he’s capable of forming his own opinions. For a kid, he’s remarkably resilient and insightful.

On a February morning, my store with all its warmth and color was a cozy place to be. The timer on the microwave went off; I removed the boiling water and poured it into my teapot after dropping in a couple of tea bags. The rain was falling from brooding, gray skies as it often does in winter. I decided it was time to start another knitting class. I maintain several ongoing classes and charity knitting groups, and I usually begin a new session four or five times a year.

As I considered my new class, I was also thinking about my mother, who’s adjusted to life in the assisted-living complex reasonably well. In some ways, I suspect that moving her was even more difficult for my sister, Margaret, and me than it was for Mom. Although Mom hated giving up her independence, she seemed relieved not to have the worry about the house and yard anymore. I wept the day the house was sold, and while she never allowed me to see her tears, I believe Margaret did, too. Selling the house meant letting go of our childhood and all the reminders of growing up there. It was the end of an era for us both, just as it was for our mother.

While I drank my tea, I flipped through the new patterns that had arrived the day before. The first one to catch my eye was a prayer shawl. Lately, I’d seen several patterns for these shawls, some more complex than others. I could easily envision knitting this one for Mom.

Prayer shawls have become popular in the last few years—and not only for prayer. They offer comfort and warmth, emotional, as well as physical. I’d received several inquiries about them and thought perhaps one of these shawls would make for an interesting class. I decided to discuss it with my sister, Margaret, who has a keen business sense and a good feel for which class I should offer next. I didn’t appreciate that about her until after she’d come to join me at the shop. Margaret worked for me part-time, which has now turned into full-time. She’s not as good with people as I am, but she knows yarn and, surprisingly, has become an excellent employee. She’s also my friend. Not so long ago, I couldn’t have said that; we might be sisters, but the tension between us was unbearable at times. Our relationship changed for the better, and I thank A Good Yarn for that.

Margaret wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes, since the shop officially opened at ten. Any number of tasks awaited my attention, things I should be doing, like paying bills and ordering new yarn. Instead, I sat at my desk, with my teacup between my hands. I felt so incredibly blessed.

Needless to say, I didn’t always feel this tranquil. When I was in my early twenties, a second bout of cancer struck with a viciousness that had me reeling. I survived, but my father didn’t. You see, he fought so hard for me, and when it seemed I’d make it after all, he died, suddenly and unexpectedly, of a heart attack. It was almost as though my recovery meant he could leave me now.

Before I lost Dad, I tended to approach my life tentatively, afraid of happiness, fearing the future. It was a void that loomed hopelessly before me and filled me with dread. Dad was the one who gave me strength. With him gone, I knew I was responsible for my own life. I had a decision to make and I boldly chose … independence. I chose to become part of the world I’d retreated from years before.

The ceiling above me creaked and I knew Colette was up. Colette Blake rented the small apartment over the shop. For the first two years, that tiny apartment was my home, my very first home away from family.

After I married Brad, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the apartment. It stood empty for a while. Then I met Colette, and I’d known instantly that she’d be the perfect tenant. The apartment would console her, give her a place to regain her emotional balance. A bonus—for me—is that she looks after Whiskers on my days off. My cat is a much-loved feature in my store, which he considers his home. I’ve had customers stop by just to visit him. He often sleeps in the front window, curling up in the afternoon sun. Whiskers generates lots of comments—and smiles. Pets have a way of connecting people to life’s uncomplicated joys.

Colette reminds me of myself three years ago, when I first opened the store. I met her shortly before Christmas, when Susannah Nelson, who owns the flower shop next door, brought her over to meet me. It wasn’t cancer that shook her world, though. It was death. Colette is a thirty-one-year-old widow. Her husband, Derek, a Seattle policeman, died a little over a year ago. When I mention that, people usually assume Derek was killed in the line of duty. Not so. Following a Seattle downpour, he climbed on the roof to repair a leak. No one knows exactly how it happened but apparently Derek slipped and fell. He died two days later of massive head injuries.

In the weeks since she’d moved here, Colette had only referred to the accident once, as if even talking about her husband was difficult. I’ve learned that she’s an easygoing person who laughs readily and yet at times her grief seemed palpable. Overwhelming. I understood how she felt. I remembered all too well that sense of anguish, that terror of what might happen tomorrow or the next day. Colette approached life fearfully, just the way I once did. I longed to reassure her, and I hoped my friendship provided some pleasure and solace. Friends like Jacqueline and Alix had done the same for me.

The apartment has an outside entrance, as well as the one leading into the store. Susannah Nelson had hired Colette soon after Susannah purchased what used to be known as Fanny’s Floral. Colette’s mother once owned a flower shop, and Colette had worked there as a high-school student. Her house sold practically the day it was listed, and Colette needed to move quickly. My tiny apartment was vacant, so we struck a deal. I assumed she wouldn’t be there long. Most of her belongings were in storage and she was taking the next few months to decide where she’d live and what she’d do.

The stairs creaked as she ventured down. Since Colette became my tenant, we sometimes shared a pot of tea in the mornings. She was always respectful of my time and I enjoyed our leisurely chats.

“Tea’s ready.” I reached for a clean cup. Without asking, I filled it and held it out.

“Thanks.” Colette smiled as she took the tea.

She was thin—too thin, really. Her clothes were a bit loose, but with her aptitude for style she cleverly disguised it. I noticed, though, as someone who’s done the same thing. Part of what I liked about her was the fact that she was lovely without seeming consciously aware of it. Despite her occasional silences, Colette was warm and personable, and I could see she’d be a success at whatever she chose. She hadn’t said much about the job she’d left, but I gathered it was a far more demanding position than helping customers in a flower shop.

This job change obviously had something to do with her husband’s death. She told me he’d died a year ago January fourteenth. She’d waited for the year to pass before making major changes in her life—selling her home, moving, quitting her job. These changes seem drastic in some ways and completely understandable in others.

Colette wore her long, dark hair parted in the middle. It fell straight to her shoulders, where it curved under. She seemed to achieve this effect naturally—unlike some women, who spend hours taming their hair with gel and spray.

In the short time she’d been here, Colette had made a positive impression on everyone she met. Everyone except my sister. Margaret, being Margaret, shied away from Colette, instinctively distrusting her. My sister’s like that; she tends to be a naysayer. She insisted that renting out the apartment had been a huge mistake. In Margaret’s eyes, a tenant, any tenant, wasn’t to be trusted. She appeared to think Colette would sneak into the shop in the middle of the night and steal every skein of yarn I owned, then hock them on the streets and use the money for drugs. I smiled whenever I thought about that, since not only did I trust Colette, I have a fairly expensive alarm system.

Margaret is, to put it mildly, protective of me. She’s older and tends to assume more responsibility than is warranted. It’s taken me a long time to understand my sister and even longer to appreciate her, but that’s a different story.

Colette held the teacup close to her mouth and paused. “Derek would’ve turned thirty-three today,” she said quietly. She stared into the distance, then looked back at me.

I nodded, encouraging her to talk. She’d only told me about Derek that one other time. I believed, based on my own experience, that the more she shared her pain, the less it would hurt. “Derek wanted children…. We’d been trying, but I didn’t get pregnant and now …”

“I’m sure you’ll have children one day,” I told her. I was confident that she wouldn’t be alone for the rest of her life, that she’d marry again and probably have children.

Her smiled was filled with sadness. “Derek and I talked about a baby that morning. The next thing I knew, I was choosing his casket. Ironic, isn’t it?”

I didn’t know how to comfort her, so I leaned over and gave her a hug.

She seemed a little embarrassed by my show of sympathy and focused her gaze on the floor. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to start your day on a sad note. Actually, it wasn’t until I glanced at the calendar on your desk that I realized the date.”

“It’s okay, Colette. I’m just so sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said, shrugging lightly. “Life is like that sometimes, you know?”

“Yes …” And I did.

Colette set the empty cup in my sink.

The back door opened, then shut with a bang. Margaret, of course, muttering about the weather. After Colette moved in, Margaret had taken to parking in the alley, apparently to keep an eye on my tenant’s comings and goings. After dumping her huge felted purse on the table, she hesitated, stiffening at the sight of Colette.

“Good morning,” I said brightly, pleased to see her despite her bad mood. “It’s a fine morning, isn’t it?” I couldn’t resist a touch of sarcasm.

“It’s raining,” she replied, eyeing Colette almost as if she were an intruder.

“Rainy weather’s good for knitting,” I reminded her. For me, there was nothing more satisfying on a rainy afternoon than working on my current knitting project with a cup of tea by my side. People looked for something productive to do when it rained and—fortunately for me—that sometimes included knitting.

Margaret removed her coat and hung it on the peg by the back door. “Julia dropped me off this morning,” she said in passing.

I caught the significance right away. “You let Julia drive the new car?” Only the day before, Margaret had said that her elder daughter, a high-school senior, had been asking to take the car out for a spin. If I recall, Margaret’s exact words were Not in this lifetime.

Margaret’s hot-from-the-showroom vehicle was a first for the family, since she and Matt had always purchased their cars secondhand. Margaret’s previous car was well past repairing, and she was excited about buying a brand-new vehicle. They’d looked for weeks before deciding on one that was in high demand and said to get incredibly good mileage. Once the decision was made, they’d waited two months for the vehicle to arrive. Which it finally had in all its metallic-blue glory.

“I know, I know,” Margaret grumbled. “I said I wasn’t going to let her take the car, but I couldn’t help myself. She has something going on after school and somehow managed to convince me that her entire scholastic future rested on driving my car.” Her mouth twitched as she admitted how easily Julia had finessed her way past her mother’s objections.

“I don’t even have a hundred miles on that car,” Margaret said. “That’s how fast she broke down my defenses. Sad, isn’t it?”

Colette laughed. “Kids can do that.”

Margaret responded to the comment with a dismissive nod, barely acknowledging Colette.

Colette’s eyes momentarily met mine. “I’ll catch up with you later, Lydia,” she said and headed back upstairs.

Margaret’s gaze followed Colette. “You like her, don’t you?”

“She’s great.” I wished my sister would give Colette a chance. Hoping the sympathy factor might work, I added, “Today’s her dead husband’s birthday. She’d started telling me about it when you arrived.”

Margaret had the grace to look ashamed. “That’s tough,” she said, her own eyes returning to the stairs. The door had been left open and Whiskers wandered down.

“I know the rental income’s a plus, but frankly I don’t trust her,” Margaret said.

I sighed; I’d heard this far too often and it still made no sense to me.

“Why not?” I asked defensively.

“Think about it,” Margaret said. “Colette’s obviously far more capable than she’s letting on. Why is she working in a flower shop? She could get a job anywhere.”

“She just lost her husband,” I muttered.

“A year ago. Okay, that’s tragic and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t mean she has to go into hiding, does it?”

“She isn’t hiding.” I didn’t know that for sure. But I argued with Margaret because I sincerely liked Colette; my sister was overreacting and it troubled me that she went through life seeing everyone as suspect.

“Then why’s she working next door for minimum wage?” Margaret pressed. “There’s more to her than meets the eye and until we find out what it is, I don’t think it’s wise to be so chummy.”

“Everyone handles grief differently,” I went on to explain, although I didn’t have the answers Margaret wanted. It was true that Colette had made a lot of major changes in a short time. Equally true that I didn’t know much about her circumstances.

“I doubt any of this has to do with her husband, anyway,” Margaret said, still looking in the direction of the stairs. “Mark my words, Colette’s hiding something.”

My sister sometimes shocked me with the things she said. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, that’s ridiculous!”

Margaret raised one shoulder. “Maybe, but I doubt it. Something about her doesn’t sit right with me. I know you like her and apparently Susannah does, too, but I’m reserving judgment until we learn more about her.”

I shook my head stubbornly. My instincts told me Colette was a good person.

Margaret frowned at my wordless response. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

Careful? She made Colette sound like a fugitive. “You’ve been reading too many detective novels,” I teased, knowing how much my sister enjoyed reading suspense fiction. She kept a paperback tucked inside her purse and enjoyed discussing the plots with me. I tend to listen to audio books; that way, I can “read” and knit at the same time. That’s my idea of multitasking.

“Has Colette ever mentioned where she used to work before Susannah’s Garden?” Margaret asked.

“No … but why should she?”

Margaret cast me one of the looks that suggested I was far too trusting.

Clearly Margaret had a more vivid imagination than I did. “I don’t think she’s in the witness protection program, if that’s what you’re implying.” I walked to the front of the shop, rolled up the shade on the door and turned the Closed sign to Open. I saw that the rain had intensified in the last while. Whiskers immediately leaped into the window and curled up, purring softly.

“I wanted to discuss another knitting class,” I said, remembering my thoughts of earlier that morning. I flipped the light switch and through the steamy windows of the French Café across the street, I saw my friend Alix Townsend, who worked there as a baker. The rain came down in a torrent, falling so hard it bounced against the pavement and ran in the gutters. It’d been nearly two weeks since Alix and I had talked and I’d missed her. I knew she had less free time these days, since she was in the middle of planning her wedding.

Many changes had taken place since I’d come to Blossom Street. The French Café, of course, and Susannah’s Garden. There was a new bookstore three doors down from me now, and directly across from that was the old bank building, which had been turned into ultra-expensive condos. They sold so fast, even the real estate people were shocked. A few of the residents had taken my knitting classes and I was beginning to know them.

“Maybe I’ll go and see Alix this morning,” I said casually. I rarely ate breakfast but I was in the mood for something sweet. If I timed it right, maybe Alix would be able to join me for a muffin and a cup of coffee.

“You’re changing the subject again,” Margaret said from behind me.

“I am?” I tried to recall what we’d been discussing. “I didn’t mean to. I was just thinking about everything that’s happened on Blossom Street.”

Margaret glanced at me. “It all started with you and A Good Yarn,” my sister said. “You set the tone for this neighborhood. People like it here.”

Praise from Margaret was rare indeed and I felt a surge of pleasure at her words.

Despite the rain and despite our disagreement about Colette, I knew we were going to have a good day.

CHAPTER
2

Alix Townsend

It was raining—again. Alix Townsend dashed across the street, already drenched by the rain that had been coming down steadily since the Thursday before. She needed a cigarette. Bad. After more than two years without one, she could hardly believe how intense the craving was. She felt blindsided by it. The damn wedding—that was the problem. A whole vocabulary of swearwords raced through her mind. In less than four months, on June second, she would become Reverend Jordan Turner’s wife, and frankly, that terrified her.

Alix Townsend a pastor’s wife! It was almost laughable. Although few people knew it, her mother was in prison for a variety of crimes, including forgery, passing bad checks and attempted murder. This wasn’t her first stint in jail, either. Tom, Alix’s only brother, was dead of a drug overdose and she hadn’t had any contact with her father since she was twelve. As far as she knew, he’d made no effort to get in touch with her. When it came to family, Alix definitely felt cheated.

She didn’t consider herself a fancy-church-wedding candidate, but somehow, almost without noticing it, she’d become immersed in this whole crazy mess. This … this sideshow of a wedding.

“Alix,” Jordan shouted, running after her, his feet pounding hard as he crossed the road and splashed his way through the puddles on Blossom Street.

Alix had visited Jordan’s office during lunch break. They hadn’t actually argued, although they’d come close. She hated what this wedding had turned into, hated having no control, hated that no one seemed willing to listen. Not even Jordan. When she realized he wasn’t hearing her, she’d rushed out of his office with a huge lump in her throat. The stinging tears surprised her as much as the craving for a cigarette.

She ignored Jordan’s shout. With the rain and wind, it was easy to pretend she hadn’t heard him.

“Alix!” he yelled again and a moment later caught up with her.

She slowed her pace and he fell into step beside her. “What just happened back there?” he asked. He was obviously confused by the way she’d hightailed it out of his office.

“What do you mean?” she asked, annoyed that he couldn’t figure it out.

“Why’d you leave like that? We were right in the middle of a conversation and all of a sudden, you’re gone.”

“You weren’t listening to me,” she said, looking up at him, not caring that the rain had drenched her short hair, dripping down her face and onto her chin.

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he began. “I—”

“You don’t know?” she cried, struggling not to get emotional. “Shouldn’t I have some say in my own wedding?”

“You do.” He still seemed befuddled. “The last thing I remember was you telling me Jacqueline and Reese had decided to hold the reception at their country club.”

“And you think that’s a good idea?” she asked him.

“I think it’s very generous.”

“It is, but …” Jacqueline and Reese had been wonderful—about everything. Alix owed them far more than she could ever repay.

She’d met Jacqueline in a knitting class at A Good Yarn, and after a rough start the older woman had taken Alix under her wing. Alix had signed up for that class in order to work off community service hours on a trumped-up drug charge; she’d decided to knit a baby blanket and donate it to charity. Her caseworker had approved the project and that was the beginning of her friendship with the Donovans.

Through Reese Donovan’s business connections and the Rotary Club, Alix had been able to attend culinary school. The Donovans had provided part-time employment, as well. She’d filled in as their housekeeper when needed, and they’d let her move into their guesthouse, where she still lived. Jacqueline and Reese were about as close to family as Alix ever hoped to have. They’d given her the love, encouragement and support her own parents never had, and Alix loved them in return. She’d asked their daughter-in-law, Tammie Lee, to serve as her matron of honor. Jordan’s brother, Bret, was to be his best man.

“From what my mother told me, Jacqueline had to call in all kinds of favors to get the country club for a Saturday in June,” Jordan said.

“I know.” The guilt was even stronger than her craving for a cigarette. “But, Jordan—the country club?”

Her fiancé placed his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get out of the rain.” He led her under the awning outside the French Café. The rain beat against it and the water fell in a solid sheet over the edge.

“Mom was really pleased when I told her what Jacqueline had done,” Jordan continued.

Alix lowered her head. Jordan’s mother was a subject best avoided. Susan Turner would’ve preferred a more traditional bride for her son. Her future mother-in-law hadn’t said or done anything overt, but Alix wasn’t stupid. She knew. Jordan was close to his parents, though, and Alix would never mention any of this to him.

“Kiss me.”

Jordan’s eyes flared wide. “Here? Now?” He glanced over his shoulder through the large picture window at the café filled with customers.

Alix nodded, not caring who saw them or what anyone thought. “And not a peck on the cheek, either. I need a real kiss.”

“All right.” He clasped her shoulders with both hands and bent down to cover her mouth with his. His lips were warm and moist as they touched hers, his mouth slightly open. Relaxing, she savored his taste, his feel. She did her best to remember that while a big fancy wedding wasn’t what she wanted, it would make a lot of people happy—people like Jordan and his family and Jacqueline and Reese. She’d do it; she didn’t have to like it. With that in mind, she slid her arms around Jordan’s neck and leaned into him. She wanted him to know how much she loved him. She must love him if she was willing to go through with this craziness.

When he broke off the kiss, she sighed and instantly felt better.

“You have to talk to me, Alix,” he whispered, holding her tight, nuzzling her neck. “Tell me when you’re worried about something….”

“I did. You weren’t listening.”

“I was trying,” he said in a low voice. “Do you want to call off the wedding? Is that it?”

“No!” Her response came fast and vehemently. “I love you. I want us to be married.”

He brushed the wet hair from her forehead, his eyes intense. “And I love you.”

She looked away because the love shining from his eyes confused her and made it difficult to speak. “As soon as you gave me the engagement ring, I should’ve known everything would change.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“Before … before, it was just you and me—and your teens, of course.” As a youth pastor, Jordan planned church-related activities with the teenagers in his congregation. Alix often tagged along to help. It was understood that once they were married, her role would continue in a larger capacity. That was fine; she enjoyed working with that age-group. She related to a lot of the temptations they faced in the world and found it gratifying that she was able to steer some of them away from making negative choices, choices she’d made as a teenager and come to regret.

Then the minute he’d slipped the engagement ring on her finger, life as she knew it changed.

As soon as she heard the news, Jacqueline had instantly started talking about the wedding. In fact, for Christmas, Jacqueline had presented Alix with a huge hardcover book titled Planning the Perfect Wedding. At the time, Alix hadn’t given the actual ceremony much thought. She figured she’d marry Jordan with his family and a few friends in attendance, open gifts, eat cake, and that would be it.

Boy, was she wrong. The wedding was turning into a production, like a Broadway musical or something, with a dinner that cost more per plate than she’d earned in a week back when she’d been employed at the video store.

That wasn’t all. The dress—correction, gown—had become a major issue. Each one she’d seen came covered with expensive lace or hundreds of tiny pearls. Or both. Jacqueline had taken her to a boutique, and Alix had made the mistake of glancing at the price tag. She’d nearly fainted. People bought cars for less money than those dresses!

“Can’t we elope?” she pleaded, her face buried in Jordan’s chest. She knew the answer; still, she had to ask.

“Sweetheart, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” She looked up, hoping he’d give her the confidence she needed to see this through. The acceptance—the resignation—she’d felt earlier had faded. She was no longer sure she could be Alix Townsend, Perfect Bride. The wedding was four months away and already she could feel the panic rising inside her.

More than anything she wanted to be Jordan’s wife. She’d fallen in love with him when they were in the sixth grade; he embodied everything she’d ever longed for in life. Then she’d met him again three years ago, shortly after she’d joined the knitting class. She remembered every single fact about Jordan from grade school. She remembered what she’d learned about his family, too. His mom and dad loved each other and cared for their children. They weren’t drunks and losers like her parents. They had regular meals, during which the entire family sat down at the table and talked about their day. In Alix’s home, no one did anything together. If her mother was inclined to cook, dinner was left on the stove and everyone dished up their own meals. Most nights Alix ate alone in front of the television while her parents argued in the background. More often than she cared to count, the fights turned physical and she hid in the closet, where she’d invented a fantasy world—a whole family of parents and siblings like the ones on TV. Or the ones at Jordan’s house …

The contrast between her life and his didn’t stop there. Alix’s mother had once fired a gun at her father and landed in jail. By the time she left school, Alix had gone through a whole series of foster homes. During those years she’d been in plenty of trouble, too. But when Tom died of a drug overdose, it had hit her hard. Alix knew she was headed for the same fate if she didn’t change her life. From that moment, she swore off drugs. They were death with a capital D. She’d been tempted more than once, but had always found the courage to walk away.

“The wedding’s just one day out of our lives,” Jordan pointed out.

Alix sighed. Twenty-four hours—actually, less than that—she could handle. The wedding was scheduled for five o’clock in the afternoon, followed by a dinner and reception at the country club. Jordan already had reservations at a hotel in Victoria, British Columbia, for their honeymoon. If enduring a formal wedding meant she’d be Jordan’s wife at the end of that day, then she’d do it without another word of complaint.

“I know this isn’t your kind of thing,” Jordan said, kissing the top of her wet head. “The truth is, all I care about is being married to you.”

“Really?”

He smiled. “Really.”

“Then why don’t we just get married by ourselves and tell everyone after the fact?” Even as she said it, Alix knew that would never happen.

“We can’t, sweetheart, I’m sorry. My mother would feel we’d cheated her and … there’d be talk.”

“Talk,” she repeated, her voice numb.

“I work in a church,” he reminded her unnecessarily. “Eloping isn’t a good example to pass along to the kids in the congregation. You might not realize it, but they watch everything we say and do.”

This wasn’t news to Alix, since she was well aware of how the teens looked up to Jordan and consequently, to her. She remembered the first time she’d seen Jordan with a group of church kids at a local skating rink. He’d made her think of the Pied Piper leading children through the town. Those kids thought the world of him; they idolized him and had sent frequent glances her way, apparently shocked that he was associated with her. They weren’t the only ones.

It’d taken Alix a long time to believe that Jordan loved her. Even now, she wasn’t sure what had attracted him to her. Whatever it was, she felt deeply grateful.

“It’ll be a small wedding,” Jordan promised.

She nodded. Her guest list was limited to a few friends, most of whom she’d met through the knitting class. Maybe twenty people.

“Mom’s putting together her list this week.”

At the mention of his mother, Alix tensed. She liked Jordan’s mother but couldn’t shake the feeling that she was a disappointment to Susan Turner. In truth, Alix didn’t blame her and was determined to do whatever she could to make this relationship a successful one.

She derived some comfort from knowing that Jacqueline hadn’t liked her daughter-in-law in the beginning, either. Jacqueline couldn’t understand why Paul, their only son, would marry someone like Tammie Lee, whose southern background was so dissimilar to his own.

If Alix recalled correctly, Jacqueline had had another woman in mind for Paul. Tammie Lee had persevered, though, and eventually her kindness and charm had won Jacqueline over. By the time her first grandchild was born, Jacqueline had wholeheartedly accepted Tammie Lee. Now they were as close as … well, family. And Alix considered Tammie Lee one of her best friends.

Susan Turner might well have another woman in mind for her youngest son, too. If so, Jordan had never mentioned anyone. One Sunday, three years ago, Alix had slipped into the back of the church without Jordan’s knowledge. As part of the service he’d sung a duet with a beautiful blonde—who’d turned out to be his cousin. But seeing him with someone else, even in church, had infuriated Alix. Jordan had been equally upset with her for jumping to conclusions. He was right. Not once in all the time they’d dated had Jordan given her reason to suspect he was interested in anyone else.

That didn’t mean his mother shared his certainty about Alix, though. Still, Susan had always been polite, if a bit cool. Jordan got along exceptionally well with his parents, and the last thing Alix wanted to do was mess that up for him.

“You need something to take your mind off all this wedding business,” Jordan said.

“Like what?” She was eager to do anything that would help her get through the next few months.

“What about another knitting class?”

Alix bit her lip as she considered the idea. She nodded slowly. “Lydia was in the other day and we chatted for a few minutes. She’s always got classes going and she’s starting a new one for a prayer shawl.”

“What a great idea.”

“Who would I give it to, though?” Alix asked.

“What about my grandmother Turner?”

Alix knew immediately that this was the perfect suggestion. She’d met his grandmother for the first time over the Christmas holidays, shortly after Jordan had given her the engagement ring, and had felt an instant connection with the old woman. They’d talked for hours, finding that their views were surprisingly alike and laughing at the same corny jokes. Although well into her eighties, Grandma lived on her own and still managed to keep a large flower garden. Alix had called Grandma Turner several times since and been out to see her last month with Jordan.

“I’ll sign up for the class after work,” Alix told him.

“Good.” He sighed, as though relieved the matter was settled.

Alix leaned into Jordan and kissed him again. She wanted him to know how much she appreciated the fact that he’d come after her. She’d left before he’d begun to really listen to her. Before he’d taken her doubts and fears about this wedding seriously. But he was listening now.

She must have put a bit more emotion into the kiss than she’d realized because Jordan was breathing hard when they broke apart. He cleared his throat. “That was nice.”

“Yeah,” she agreed in a soft voice. “It was.”

Jordan pulled her back into his arms. “June can’t get here too soon as far as I’m concerned.”

“I second that,” Alix said with a laugh.

CHAPTER
3

Colette Blake

Colette suspected that Margaret from the yarn store had never meant for her to hear that comment. The truth was, she was running away; she was hiding … from Christian Dempsey, from her past and—mostly—from herself. Colette had been halfway up the stairs when Margaret’s words hit her square in the back and now, a week later, those words continued to sting. She felt an overwhelming urge to explain, but she resisted. How could she tell these two women she’d been a widow for a year but was two months pregnant? Life was full of ironies, to say the least. Bitter ironies …

For three years she and Derek had tried to have a baby with no success. Then … one slip. A one-night stand, and here she was, carrying the child of a man she’d hoped never to see again. The very thought of Christian Dempsey filled her with dread. How could she have worked as his personal assistant for five years and been so naively unaware of the kind of man he was? Losing Derek, her shocking discovery about Christian and now this unexpected pregnancy—it was enough to drive anyone to the brink of emotional collapse.

Memories of her dead husband always brought her a pang of loss. It shouldn’t hurt this much after a full year and yet it did. His death made no sense to her. Her guilt over the fight they’d had just before his accident, another fight about their fertility problems, didn’t help. Nevertheless, her husband was dead, and she had to deal with that reality. She hated it. She hated every minute of life without Derek.

It was so stupid that he’d died. So incredibly stupid. For the first few weeks, her anger at the unfairness of it had consumed her. Derek should never have gotten up on that roof in the first place. All it would’ve taken was a simple phone call, and a professional repairman could’ve come out to take care of the leak. Derek had no business even attempting it. However, he’d said that any delay would cause more damage and claimed the job was a “no-brainer.” Before she could stop him, he had the ladder up against the side of the house and a tool belt slung around his waist. This was his opportunity to use the tools he’d gotten for Christmas; she wondered if that was his real motivation, or part of it, anyway. So pointless. So foolish.

If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was the fact that Colette hadn’t witnessed his fall. A neighbor friend had been there, talking to Derek, when he lost his balance and slid off the roof onto the concrete driveway. The neighbor called 911 from his cell phone before Colette even knew anything was wrong. Derek had been rushed to the hospital and never regained consciousness.

Initially Colette had been in shock, and then, as soon as the fog cleared and her numbness dissipated, she became angry. Deeply, furiously angry. The anger was followed by a feeling of sadness and overpowering loss. But none of this was a good reason for what she’d done a couple of months ago.

Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment as she sat at the round oak table in her tiny kitchen. Covering her face with both hands, she relived the night of the company Christmas party.

Colette had been Christian Dempsey’s personal assistant for five years. That had come about in a completely unexpected way.

After working at Dempsey Imports in customs clearance, she’d been transferred to another floor near the corporate offices. Recently married, she was excited about her promotion to broker and the raise that went with it. She and Derek were just setting up house and with the added expenses of the honeymoon and the wedding, which they’d paid for themselves, the increase in pay had been a blessing.

Although she’d been with the company for two years, Colette had only seen Mr. Dempsey briefly and in passing. He was a man who exuded authority and power. He was frequently away from the office on foreign buying trips, and whenever he made an appearance, he seemed remote and preoccupied. This had probably contributed to the mystique that surrounded him. It didn’t hurt that he was six-three, solidly built and exceptionally good-looking. Heads turned anytime he walked into a room; he commanded that kind of respect and attention. Her first day on the second floor, Mr. Dempsey had arrived at work soon after she did and Colette, standing in the corridor between his office and her own department, had greeted him.

“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….