Blossom Street Bundle

“Oh.” Jacqueline wasn’t sure how to respond.

“The committee puts out a cookbook every two years and it’s always the same people and the same recipes. Just how many recipes for Cranberry Mold do we need?”

Jacqueline refrained from mentioning that she’d been the one to submit the gelatin recipe, which had long been a club favorite.

“Tammie Lee had some wonderful ideas, and frankly I’m thinking of asking her to chair the committee. Louise has done it for several years and she’s ready to try her hand at something else.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Jacqueline could no longer remain silent. She respected Bev’s opinion, but in this case her friend was wrong. Tammie Lee would be an embarrassment to them all.

“I know, of course, that with a baby due in the next few months, I can’t ask her to take on any additional responsibility,” Bev said as she neared the parking lot. Her convertible BMW was parked next to Jacqueline’s Mercedes. “I don’t want to overwhelm her. Paul would never forgive me, although I think Tammie Lee’s a natural.”

“Yes, yes, she’s going to have her hands full,” Jacqueline agreed and stood rooted to the spot, too stunned to move while Bev climbed into her car and drove off. Had the entire world gone mad? Jacqueline wondered. Was she the only one who recognized Tammie Lee as the insincere little manipulator she was?

Her thoughts troubled, Jacqueline pulled into the garage at home and was astonished to realize she couldn’t remember driving there. One moment she was in the restaurant parking lot and the next she was in her own garage.

Another surprise awaited her when she found Reese in the kitchen. He was dressed in one of his best suits and either he was home early or ready to take his blonde out for the evening. Jacqueline didn’t ask. She’d rather not know than have to hear him lie.

She put away her purse and glanced at the mail, paying special attention to the sale flyers. When she’d finished, she walked over to the liquor cabinet and reached for a bottle of gin. “Want one?”

“I’m driving.”

Jacqueline shrugged. “I’m not.” The margaritas had long since worn off.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What makes you think anything’s wrong?”

Reese frowned. “I’ve never known you to drink this early in the afternoon.”

“Some occasions call for it.” She turned around to study this man with whom she’d spent most of her life. She knew him so well—and yet she didn’t know him at all.

“Where were you?” he asked.

She couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested or making small talk. Jacqueline found it curious that he was questioning her whereabouts; he’d done that a few times recently but she had no idea why.

“Out with the girls. For our monthly birthday lunch.”

“You might invite Tammie Lee on one of your outings sometime.”

He had to be joking. “Why would I do that?”

“Because she’s your daughter-in-law and it would be one way of welcoming her into the family.”

“I refuse to be a hypocrite. She isn’t welcome. She’s tolerated and frankly even that’s becoming difficult.” If one more person sang her daughter-in-law’s praises, Jacqueline swore she was going to scream. “Why does everyone think Tammie Lee’s so terrific? I don’t get it.”

Reese stared at her for a long moment. “Have you ever asked yourself why Paul fell in love with her?” His voice was cool and controlled, which usually indicated that he was curbing his anger.

“Of course I understand why Paul married her. He was ruled by hormones instead of common sense.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Reese shouted, slapping his palm against the kitchen counter.

Jacqueline nearly leaped out of her skin at her husband’s uncharacteristic display of temper.

“Tammie Lee is loving and caring and generous. The only person who doesn’t see it is you and only because you’re so blinded by your own agenda for our son you refuse to open your eyes.”

Jacqueline stared at him. “Are you suggesting I’m a cold, selfish bitch, Reese?” How dare he speak that way to her!

It looked as if he meant to leave without any kind of response, but apparently he changed his mind. “Perhaps you should answer that question yourself,” he said.

Then he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

19

CHAPTER

“Handknitting is a soothing and comforting means of creative expression that can result in a warm, useful and lovingly knitted garment … what a bonus.”

—Meg Swansen, Schoolhouse Press

LYDIA HOFFMAN

The three women in my knitting class sat around the table, eager for the last scheduled lesson. Before I could start, however, Jacqueline spoke up.

“I’d like to let everyone know I’ve decided against returning for the new session.” She meant our knitting “support group,” for which I charged five dollars a week.

No one made any protest, so I felt I should say something. “I’m sorry to hear that, Jacqueline.” I was, and my feelings weren’t entirely mercenary, although I knew if she stayed, Jacqueline would be inclined to purchase the higher-end yarns.

“I’m not,” Alix said without so much as a second’s hesitation.

“I didn’t expect anything different from you,” Jacqueline muttered, not hiding her scorn.

Truth be known, I was just as glad not to be stuck refereeing those two, although it did make for an amusing moment now and then. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two women who disliked each other more intensely. I’d believed that their animosity had lessened in the past few weeks, but apparently I’d read the situation completely wrong. Once again, my lack of experience when it came to relationships was showing.

Jacqueline was difficult to know—and to like. I did give her credit, though; she’d made a genuine effort to learn to knit and had nearly completed the baby blanket she was making for her first grandchild.

“I felt I should attend the last class and tell everyone what I’d decided.”

“Like we’d care,” Alix mumbled under her breath.

Standing behind Alix, I placed my hand on her shoulder as a way of asking her to keep her comments to herself. Through the last six weeks, I’d discovered that for all her crusty exterior the girl was actually quite sensitive. Even a hint of criticism was enough to make her withdraw.

“I don’t think I could stop knitting now if I wanted to,” Carol said. She was working on a sweater for her brother. The cashmere yarn was the most expensive in the shop and she’d bought it in a creamy gray.

“I’m going to continue, too,” Alix said, glaring across the table at Jacqueline as if to suggest the older woman lacked willpower. “I’m gonna get this blanket right no matter what it takes.”

I had to admire Alix’s determination. She was still rather clumsy in her handling of the yarn and needles, but she refused to give up. I suspect she undid as many rows as she knit in the first few weeks. Thankfully, she’d learned what she was doing wrong and was progressing nicely. Her biggest hindrance was lack of time.

“Are you saying I’m a quitter?” Jacqueline asked, challenging Alix.