Blossom Street (Books 1-10). Debbie Macomber

she said, finishing the row and paying less attention to the stitches than she should. “But it was a bogus rap and the judge knew it. I got community service instead of jail time. Does that shock a good boy like you?”

      “No.”

      She wasn’t sure she believed him but let it slide.

      “My mother knits.”

      Alix stopped herself just in time from telling him that her mother was in prison. Enough honesty for today, she decided; no need to overload him with the truth. His interest flattered her, and she rather liked the fact that he’d sought her out. Glancing up, she was tempted to ask what grade school he’d attended, still wondering if he was the Jordan Turner she’d once known. She only half remembered what that boy had looked like, although she recalled he’d worn glasses. Unlike this Jordan. She might have asked, except that he posed a question instead.

      “Are you hungry?” He looked over his shoulder at the display counter in the front. “They’ve got great scones if there are any left. Want one?”

      “I could eat,” she said which wasn’t the most gracious statement she’d ever made.

      He got up and walked to the counter. Alix watched him for a moment and tried to calm her pounding heart. She turned back to her knitting and finished the row, then triumphantly counted exactly one hundred and seventy-one stitches. Jordan returned to her table, a coffee cup in one hand, with a plate and scone balanced on top of it. In the other hand he carried a second plate with a scone.

      “We’re in luck,” he said as he set everything down on the small round table. “They only had two left.”

      She nodded, accepting the scone. “Thanks.”

      Jordan took a sip of his drink. “Danny didn’t actually know where you’d be and I just happened to see you in the window as I walked by.”

      She broke the scone in half and was grateful this had been the only table available when she’d arrived an hour earlier. Normally she wouldn’t have sat in view of the entire street. It depressed her to see what was happening to the neighborhood, mainly because she sensed it was only a matter of time before she and Laurel lost the apartment. If that happened, it wouldn’t be long before she’d be back to sleeping in cheap, rat-infested hotel rooms every night. Getting another apartment would mean taking on a second job and waiting tables for tips in places decent guys like Jordan didn’t frequent.

      “Where’ve you been?” Alix asked, since he hadn’t volunteered the information. He’d said he was away.

      He sipped his coffee, then put it down. “I was running a youth retreat at Warm Beach.”

      Alix didn’t have a clue what that was. “This whole time?”

      “Not entirely, but the church needed help with the organization, so I worked in the Stanwood office for a few weeks.”

      “Oh.” This was the second time he’d mentioned church, and she’d begun to feel a niggling suspicion.

      “It’s nice to know you missed me,” he murmured.

      “I didn’t say that,” she said a bit more defensively than she’d intended.

      He chuckled.

      Alix was relieved to see she hadn’t offended him. “Well, maybe I missed you a little.”

      “I’m glad to hear it.”

      “You got any more youth retreats you need to organize?”

      He sighed. “I don’t know. Frankly, I hope not. When I accepted the job as youth minister, I expected to spend my time with the teenagers here in the Blossom Street neighborhood.”

      Alix felt as if her world had caved in. “You’re … a preacher?”

      “Youth minister,” Jordan corrected. “I’m currently working at the Free Methodist church in the neighborhood, the one right off Blossom.” His mouth twitched; he seemed to be suppressing laughter.

      “What’s so funny?” she muttered irritably.

      “Nothing. It’s just that you made it sound as if being a minister was like being a drug lord. Or worse.”

      “It’s just that …” Alix was aghast and words failed her—as they always did when she was flustered.

      “I’m a youth minister, Alix,” he said and reached for her hand. He smiled then. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

      “It is you!” Damn, she’d thought so and wished like crazy that she’d said something first.

      “Remember sixth grade at Jackson Elementary? It took me a while to make the connection myself.”

      “I thought it might be you…. I can’t believe it.” Her mind flashed back to grade school and she narrowed her eyes as she studied him. “We were in the same class, remember?”

      “What I remember,” Jordan said, grinning, “was that you sat next to Jimmy Burkhart.”

      Alix remembered Jimmy as though it was yesterday. She’d given him a bloody nose and ended up in the principal’s office, and all because Jimmy had been teasing her about wanting to marry Jordan Turner. She and half the other girls in the sixth grade had been agog over the preacher’s son—and now, apparently, Jordan had followed in his father’s footsteps. He was a minister. Damn, wouldn’t you know it?

      “I had a valentine for you.”

      She stared up at him, overwhelmed by the memory of that fateful year—the year her mother had tried to kill her father.

      “I brought it to school and you weren’t there and you never came back.”

      Alix didn’t answer. The night before the sixth-grade Valentine party, her mother shot her father. Both had been drinking heavily and then, inevitably, a fight had broken out. Soon the police had arrived, followed by paramedics. Her mother was led away in handcuffs and because there were no relatives to take them, Alix and her brother had been shuffled off to foster homes. That night was the beginning of the end of Alix’s family life, sad as it’d been. Her mother had been sent to prison, and her father, once he was released from the hospital, drifted away, losing contact with his children. Soon she and Tom were wards of the state. With all the turmoil, Alix had never returned to Jackson Elementary … and the valentine Jordan claimed to have for her.

      “So,” Jordan said, leaning closer. “I was wondering what you would’ve said if I’d asked you to be my sixth-grade valentine?”

      She nearly laughed aloud. Yeah, sure. The daughter of drunks and the son of a preacher. Somehow, she didn’t think this relationship was going to last.

      17

      CHAPTER

      “With a little practice and patience, our hands learn to knit, then our minds are free to enjoy the process.”

      —Bev Galeskas, Fiber Trends

       LYDIA HOFFMAN

      Business was beginning to pick up and I was pleased. I’d sold out of most of my inventory in nearly every yarn weight. I already had my second order into my main supplier. My first beginners’ class was about to officially end. I couldn’t believe six weeks had gone by so quickly. I was thrilled that after five weeks, my three students claimed they wanted to continue, so I agreed to extend the course. Because each class member was working on a different project now, except Alix, I suggested we turn Friday afternoons into a knitting support group. That way, they could all bring in whatever they wanted to work on, and I’d be there to help them at each stage of development. Despite their differences, these three dissimilar women were becoming friends. I could see it happening. Friends with each other and my friends, too.

      As for their skills as knitters, Carol’s the most adept and has started a felted hat project.

      Alix