1
THE LITTLE KNITTING BOX, WEST VILLAGE, NEW YORK CITY
When Cleo Jones first arrived in New York four years ago, divorced at the tender age of twenty-nine and desperate for her life to take on a new direction, the city had made her feel small. Everything around her was alive, huge, noisy and intimidating. It had felt like a giant clock and New York was the second hand, ticking around fast, no messing. It was a complete contrast to the quiet Cotswolds, slow and steady like the hour hand, plodding along reliably and in no rush.
It had taken Cleo quite a while to adjust to life in New York, and back then she never could’ve imagined feeling at home the way she did now. Clutching the letter on her way to work, it was hard to believe her life as she knew it could be about to come to an end.
It was early November and already the days were getting shorter, the air distinctively cooler, and this morning, for the first time in a long while, Cleo had pulled out the scarf and gloves set she’d knitted last year and bundled up to take the short walk from her apartment in Greenwich Village to the West Village and the Little Knitting Box. Owned and run by her Grandma Eliza, then Grandpa Joe, and now Cleo, the store had been in their family for almost forty years.
Cleo’s feet crunched across the mixture of elm and red maple leaves that blew across the streets as fall prepared to draw its curtain and let winter take over. The sun had braved the cold and already risen above the clouds to hover and bring the buildings out of the shadows. If they were lucky with the weather today, the same orangey glow would reflect off the majestic skyscrapers later as the city buzzed beneath. She couldn’t face the crowds at the café near her apartment for her usual morning coffee today, not with the letter burning a hole in her gloved palm. Instead, she’d passed it by, dodged people milling about ready to start their day at retail outlets and eateries, continued up Bleecker Street, past the acclaimed Magnolia Bakery and the man tending to the flowerbed nearby.
When she reached the Little Knitting Box, she unlocked the security grill at the store and hoisted it up, letting it slide all the way to the top, much further than her five foot six body would allow. She unlocked the front door, let herself in, and switched on all the lights. It always smelt the same in the store, the same as it had done for years, ever since the first time Cleo had come all the way from England to visit her grandparents. Grandma Eliza had used lavender sachets and cedar packets tucked all over the store at various points to be sure to repel insects and mould.
Cleo smiled, a contented expression as she came to this place of familiarity, the store that had embraced her at the start and never let her go. The smile only disappeared when she remembered the letter. She shoved it deep into the depths of her coat pocket, refusing to let it dampen her enthusiasm, at least not just yet.
She locked the front door behind her to give her a chance to set up. Already the city was a hive of activity and it wouldn’t be long before customers would descend. The first task of the day was to run a duster over the shelves by the front door, which seemed forever dirty now the heat of summer had passed them by. In a place filled with beautiful yarn, Grandma Eliza had taken no chances when this was her store. She was fastidious about cleanliness, something Cleo had continued when Grandpa Joe moved out to Connecticut and she took over running the Little Knitting Box.
The only part of Grandma Eliza that remained in the physical sense was the 1930s Singer sewing machine that sat on display behind the cash register. Its brown hardwood case with the gold embossed writing sat to one side and Cleo covered the machine up every night, clunking the lid into place. She removed the lid now and ran a hand across the black, sturdy machine, her fingers lightly finding the wind-on handle at the right. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, classic and part of the family that would be with them always. She wondered what Grandma Eliza would make of the letter she received this morning.
Once she’d taken the float from the safe and slotted it into the cash register, Cleo vacuumed the area by the front door that always attracted leaves and dirt from shoes and changed the sign on the door fromClosedtoOpen. They were into their busiest season now and when she wasn’t selling yarn in the store, she was doing the dreaded paperwork and admin side that came with having a business, or she was organising workshops or knitting groups. Cleo had gone from someone who knew the very basics of the craft to a proficient knitter with in-depth knowledge.
Not long after she’d turned the sign around, the tinkle of the bell above the door brought Cleo out from the back where she was sorting through yesterday’s deliveries of yarn.
‘Hi, Mary. You’re early today, it’s only nine-thirty.’ Cleo greeted one of her regular customers. With tight grey curls in her short hair, Mary was the type of woman you assumed was a natural knitter, until she made her request.
‘Edward is off to another knit and natter tonight.’ She smiled and added a playful roll of the eyes. ‘That man gets through a lot of yarn.’
‘It keeps him busy, I suspect.’ Cleo knew Edward had been in and out of hospital and had taken up knitting while he was convalescing. Mary liked to roll her eyes and tut a little at her regular trips to the Little Knitting Box, but Cleo suspected she enjoyed every minute of it.
Mary pulled a pattern from her pocket. ‘He’s making a scarf for our grandson and I think it’s going to be a colourful one. Can you point me in the direction of the right yarns?’
Cleo smiled and skimmed over the pattern before she walked along the length of the white storage unit divided into cubes, perfect for separating yarn colours, brands, and types. ‘We have a fantastic range of alpaca, as the pattern here suggests,’ she confirmed, ‘and there’s a whole gamut of colours to choose from. There’s butterscotch or charcoal if you’re looking for earthy or plain colours, or we have stronger shades such as mulberry, cranberry, midnight blue.’
‘Knowing Edward,’ said Mary, ‘the scarf will be a mixture of colours, the more varied the better.’
After Cleo had helped her customer select the appropriate amount of yarn and a good variety of colours, she finished unpacking the stock from the back room. She spent the rest of the morning serving customers as usual and multitasking with everything else she needed to do in the store. She rejigged the display at the front, moving the more conservative sweaters to the side and swapping them for a few novelty Christmas designs with over-the-top features and lots of sparkle. They’d sell well once Thanksgiving marked the start of the holiday season. She hung scarves and pinned gloves to the display board at the side of the store, and she emptied more yarns into the large round baskets positioned around the place.
After lunch, Cleo undid another box, this time of acrylic yarn. In the shop in the Cotswolds, where she’d worked before she came here, she’d had to persuade Auntie Faith and Uncle Sid to stock anything acrylic. Yarn snobbery dictated the product wasn’t quite good enough for a yarn store, but Cleo had thought otherwise. Acrylic yarn was versatile, affordable, and easy to care for, and Cleo knew it enabled the Little Knitting Box to cater for all tastes and budgets. She pulled out an array of colours and out front filled another straw basket with a selection of camel, fig, coral blush, cornflower, cotton candy, and for the very brave, canary. The display added colour to the store, and sure enough, two of Cleo’s customers that afternoon had projects they were working on that called for this sort of yarn and Cleo was more than happy to recommend it.
With late afternoon came a lull in the store, so Cleo took the opportunity to grab a hot chocolate from the café next door. She took it out back at the Little Knitting Box, behind a teal curtain that hid her from view. What this store lacked in width and street frontage, it more than made up for in length. She had the main store itself, behind which was a storeroom and behind that again, an open room with shelves and countertops running along each wall. There, she kept several fold-down tables and chairs for workshops and knitting groups, and a kitchenette sat to one side with a cooker, kettle, microwave, and coffee pot, which was enough to provide basic refreshments throughout the day if she couldn’t get away.
Cleo relished the time to sit down on the wooden stool behind the curtain and take the weight off her feet, if only for a moment, and the hot chocolate was just the hit she needed, with the dark chocolate pellets and hot milk mixed together warming her right through. When the phone rang and it was her best friend, Violet, Cleo wasn’t surprised. She’d expected the phone call today, because although Cleo didn’t like to let people down, she was often guilty of reneging on social engagements unless knitting was involved. It was easier that way. And if she didn’t let anyone get close again, she wouldn’t have to hurt them and let them down, and make herself miserable in the process.
‘Please tell me you’re still coming tonight.’ Violet’s voice could just about be heard above the toddlers squabbling in the background. Like many people their age, Violet was happily settled in domesticity, procreating to make a happy family. But Cleo had decided the setup wasn’t for her. It never would be, and for good reason.
Violet had two children under the age of four, her husband worked on Wall Street, and they owned one of the most beautiful family homes Cleo had ever seen. Tonight, for no special occasion other than the host and hostess enjoyed having regular gatherings, there was a party to which Cleo was invited. And she supposed she should be grateful. Without Violet, she was in danger of never going out again.
‘Of course I’m coming.’ Cleo hovered at the curtain, ready to escape when the lull came to an end and it was all systems go in the store once again.
‘Don’t say it like that.’ Violet, knowing Cleo only too well, was panicking her friend was going to let her down. Her voice rose to drown out the kids in the background. ‘You didn’t come to my Fourth of July party and last month you pulled out of a dinner party. And I’m still not sure I’ve managed to persuade you to come to the Thanksgiving dinner I’m hosting.’
‘That’s because you’re always trying to set me up.’
‘No I’m not.’
Cleo waited, and sure enough Violet followed her last sentence with, ‘Okay, true. I am, but only because it’s time you met someone.’
‘Who says I have to meet someone?’
