‘Now you listen to me.’ Grandpa Joe turned in his chair and clasped her hand with both of his. ‘What happened to our Diana happened because she was sick, she had an illness, and not you or anyone else could’ve changed that. God knows we all tried our best, but if you for one second blame yourself, then I want you to stop it.’
He stretched out a hand and the back of his fingers wiped away the tear on her cheek. ‘Tell me, did it go okay with Teresa?’
Cleo looked upwards to the ceiling to make the tears fall back instead of letting any more escape. ‘She’s nice.’
Grandpa Joe chuckled. ‘You mean you’ve only just noticed?’
‘Yeah, I suppose I have.’
‘Don’t push her away. Your dad married a good woman there.’
‘You don’t mind? You’re not at all bothered he replaced mum in a way?’
‘Diana was my daughter and she loved your father so very much, but I know she wouldn’t want him to be alone for the rest of his life, just like she wouldn’t want you to push away someone who has been there for you since you were a teenager and loves you like her own daughter.’
Teresa loved her?
‘If she didn’t love you,’ he went on as though he could read her mind, ‘then she wouldn’t have stuck around. You weren’t the easiest of girls to try to get along with in those years when they first married.’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Cleo. ‘I was a bitch.’
Grandpa Joe clutched a hand to his stomach as a laugh rolled out of him. ‘You were a pain, but I’d never describe you as that. Not my beautiful Cleo.’
Whether it had been the alcohol that had fuelled her confidence with her stepmother, or whether it was just about time, Cleo had bared all with Teresa at the bar following the Chinese restaurant. They’d talked about how Cleo had felt when Teresa first stepped into her life, they discussed Aaron and the emotional reasons Cleo had pushed him away, how it had contributed to their marriage breakdown. They talked about how Cleo felt now: the guilt, the fear. Cleo hadn’t even told Grandpa Joe the whole story because she’d never wanted to dredge up memories of his own daughter that he’d perhaps find too painful. She wanted him to remember the happiest of times with Diana, not the bad.
Cleo wiped her eyes with the tissue she pulled from her pocket and nudged Grandpa Joe. ‘Any chance of some of that chocolate beetroot cake I saw lurking in the kitchen? The box is labelled,’ she explained. ‘Can I assume it’s from Maggie?’
‘You assume correctly, and for you, an extra big slice.’ He went into the kitchen and took out the big knife and two small plates. ‘I’m proud of you for giving Teresa a chance.’
‘About bloody time, eh?’
His laugh wrapped around her like a length of velvet.
The Little Knitting Box, West Village, New York City
The next morningwas delivery day at the Little Knitting Box. It was the same every week: they’d have the busy Saturday, the store shut on a Sunday, and then by Tuesday it was all systems go. Today saw another nine boxes of yarn delivered from suppliers. The Christmas rush had hit good and proper and it kept Cleo in good spirits.
After she’d accepted the deliveries, she stacked them out the back. She wanted to get more Christmas sweaters on display before she did anything else. Seeing examples often enticed people in out of the cold, gave them ideas, and if they didn’t buy a sweater it often led to them buying more yarn. She pulled a piece of lint from the navy blue sweater she’d made. It had a round neck and a Christmas pudding in the centre with a sprig of holly on top. She’d used some glittery gold wool around the design, as everyone loved a bit of sparkle in the holidays. She positioned the sweater onto a sturdy wooden coat hanger, the type that would keep the garment nice and not let it stretch, and then picked up another of her creations, this time a Santa-red sweater with snowflakes knitted into the pattern and a Christmas tree to one side. Years ago you wouldn’t have been seen dead in one of these creations, but nowadays they were all the rage.
When she’d hung up all six sweaters, she turned the sign on the door toOpen, and jumped when she saw a face peering inside. It was Teresa.
She opened the door. ‘Come in, out of the cold.’ Despite the closeness they had shared lately, seeing her still felt odd. This woman had been in her way for years, and now Cleo had begun to feel an acceptance she never thought she’d reach.
‘It’s freezing!’ Teresa claimed.
‘Christmas is certainly in the air.’ Cleo smiled as Teresa came into the warmth of the shop and pulled off her gloves. ‘I thought you were shopping all day today?’
‘We are, but I fly the day after tomorrow and I wanted to see you again before we left.’
‘That’s nice,’ Cleo said, and she meant it.
‘I spoke with your dad last night. He’s happy we’ve been able to talk.’
‘I bet he thought it’d never happen.’ Cleo walked towards the cash register. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ She indicated the open box of yarn at her feet. ‘I had deliveries this morning and I want to get the store sorted before the rush starts.’
‘Of course I don’t mind.’
Cleo busied herself pushing yarn into appropriate sections of the shelving, into the correct straw baskets positioned around the store. ‘I’m glad we got the chance to talk.’ A hank of yarn in her palm, she said, ‘You never once stopped trying. You never gave up on me.’
