Blossom Street Bundle. Debbie Macomber

to the sun.

      I joined her and handed her the glass, savoring the warm sunshine against my skin, the sound of birds in the distance along with the swish, swish of the sprinkler watering the lawn.

      “Tell me about the shop,” Mom suggested. “Did you get in any new yarn this week?”

      She especially enjoyed the stories about my customers; so many of them had become my friends, especially Jacqueline, Carol and Alix, my original class members. We’ve created a real bond, the four of us, and it’s rare for me not to see them during the week. If nothing else, one or two always showed up for the charity knitting session on Fridays.

      I talked nonstop for almost twenty minutes about the shop and described the three women who’d recently signed up for the sock class. The one who interested Mom most was Courtney Pulanski, the seventeen-year-old granddaughter of Vera Pulanski, a regular.

      “I’m thinking of holding a potluck once a month,” I said, wanting her opinion on this new idea—partly to allow her to feel involved and partly because I trusted her instincts. Over the years, she’d been a valuable sounding board to my father in his businesses.

      “Do you have room at the store?”

      “I think so, if I do a bit of shuffling.” When I first opened my doors, there was room to set up a large table for classes, but as I’d brought in additional lines of yarn, much of that space had disappeared. Now the table, which sat six people, was surrounded by several displays.

      “Are you sure you want food around all that yarn?”

      My mother echoed my own reservations. “I thought we’d sit at the table where I hold my classes and put the food on a card table in the office.”

      My mother raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “It might work, but what would be the purpose of these monthly potlucks?”

      Good question. “Well, I want my customers to get to know one another. Plus, when one person shows the others what she’s knitted, it inspires them.” It was for this very reason that I often knit up patterns for display in the shop. “You could join us, Mom,” I said enthusiastically. “Margaret and I would love that.” As often as possible, I try to include her. Both Margaret and I work at giving Mom little things to look forward to so she feels active and alive.

      From the way Mom frowned, I doubt she heard me. “Hold a monthly show-and-tell session and keep the food out of it. If you want to eat, go to a restaurant afterward.”

      I liked that idea. “Thanks, Mom.”

      I could tell she was pleased I’d come to her for advice. I’m sure it’s something she missed, since she’d so often taken that role with my father. We sat and chatted for another thirty minutes and then I left to meet Brad and Cody.

      They were in the parking lot at Green Lake waiting for me, Chase tugging at the leash.

      “Hi,” I called as I climbed out of the car. Chase wasn’t the only one eager for this outing.

      Cody raced over to the car and briefly hugged me. “Can we go now?”

      His father patted his head. “Okay, sport, but don’t get too far ahead of us, all right? And hold on to Chase.”

      Cody didn’t take time to answer. He was off like a rocket, boy and dog together, Cody’s young legs pumping with an energy I envied.

      Brad and I started walking at a brisk pace. As always on a sunny weekend day, the place was crowded with people and dogs. We passed a man with a guitar who sat on the grass strumming folk songs and a toddler chasing after a butterfly. There were a couple of canoes close to the shore. Brad and I walked side by side, keeping an eye out for Cody and Chase.

      “How’s your mother?” he asked, knowing I’d spent part of the afternoon with her.

      Right then, I didn’t want to launch into a long discussion about my anxiety over Mom. That conversation wasbest reserved for Margaret, and I’d initiate it soon. “She’s about the same,” I said, which was true enough. “My sister and the girls are visiting later today. Mom needs that.”

      “Speaking of Margaret, has she said anything to you?”

      “About what?” I asked cautiously.

      Brad reached for my hand and we entwined our fingers. I smiled up at him, forgetting Margaret. It’s times like these, when we’re feeling close and connected, that I get lost in a sensation of such bliss I can barely contain myself. Like any woman, I hunger for love, marriage, a family. Because of the cancer, I didn’t think I’d ever have that chance. Every single day, I was grateful all over again for Brad, grateful to have him in my life, grateful to be loved by him despite my imperfections and flaws. He says the fact that I’ve battled cancer not once but twice makes me a two-time winner. I am a winner and I feel so incredibly blessed.

      “I think I know what Margaret’s problem might be,” Brad said, jolting me out of my reflection.

      “You do?” I was a little reluctant to talk about Margaret at the moment; I preferred to revel in my own contentment.

      “Yeah. I ran into Matt at the hardware store yesterday afternoon,” Brad told me.

      My brother-in-law is a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. I consider him a good balance for my sister, who usually has a pessimistic slant on things. Matt doesn’t take life as seriously as she does. I find that he doesn’t overreact the way she tends to and—even more appealing—he never holds grudges.

      “What did Matt have to say?” The four of us had gone out on occasion, and Brad and Matt had hit if off. Margaret invited us over for dinner a few months ago, and we’d played cards until the wee hours of the morning. I’d hoped to see more of them socially, but so far we hadn’t.