Before she left for good.
The Little Knitting Box, West Village, New York City
Bumping into Dylanlast night had taken Cleo by complete surprise, and it left her in no doubt as to how strong her feelings were for him. Without his presence, she could tell herself how she was right to steer clear, let him be a family man. But seeing him made it almost impossible to see it that way.
Cleo still hadn’t given her auntie and uncle an answer about the store in the Cotswolds but she’d discussed the possibility at length last night with Grandpa Joe.
‘I’ve had a proposition regarding the business,’ she’d told him as they sat in the kitchen opposite one another at the table. Maggie had just nipped round to talk about Christmas Day arrangements and Joe had suggested a coffee morning the next day with the rest of the gang. His youthful phraseology had made Cleo laugh.
‘What sort of proposition?’ he asked.
‘A store. It runs as a knitting store already so I can either take over the business or change it to the Little Knitting Box.’
‘Why do I get the impression you’re not divulging everything, Cleo Jones?’
He’d only ever last-named her as a kid when she was in trouble. Like the time she’d tried to steal a madeleine cookie from the jar and dropped the jar on her foot. She’d tried to say she was reaching for the apples but, last-naming her, Grandpa Joe had got the truth. And having had four madeleines already, she’d been told not to have any more before her tea.
‘The store is in the Cotswolds. It’s Uncle Sid and Auntie Faith’s.’ Her Uncle had been drawn into the knitting world by Auntie Faith, much like Eliza had taken Grandpa Joe in the same direction.
‘Ah, so that’s why they’re here.’
She’d wanted to be able to read his thoughts, but no such luck. He had his poker face on.
‘I think they wanted to see New York and this was an added extra.’ She smiled at him, this man who’d lost his daughter, then his wife, this man who had no other family here apart from her.
‘And how do you feel about it?’
Cleo twiddled her fingers in her lap. ‘I don’t know. In a lot of ways it’s the answer: a ready-made clientele, a place to live above the store which is in one of the most beautiful parts of England, and I’d be living right near Dad.’
‘What about the extended year’s lease here? It could give you a while longer to think about your options.’
‘What do you think I should do?’
Grandpa Joe pushed the plate of shortbread towards his granddaughter and she took one. ‘I can’t tell you what to do. I’d be sorry to see you go, I love having you close by, but that’s selfish of me. I wouldn’t want to be the reason you stayed behind. The reasons must come from in here,’ he tapped his fingers against his heart, ‘and you must do what’s right for you.’
Cleo was fed up with what was right. Dylan getting back together with Prue was right, but it didn’t make it easier to bear.
‘You’re a wise man.’ Cleo patted his hand.
‘An old man.’
‘An old man who’s still got it.’
He looked at her, perplexed. ‘Still got it? What does that mean?’
‘I saw the way Maggie looked at you!’ Cleo grinned. ‘She wants to share more than a Christmas turkey, you mark my words.’
Cleo had spent a lovely evening with her grandpa, reminiscing about Christmases past, memories of Father Christmas and the magic of snowfall. And she’d thought she knew what she wanted to do until she bumped into Dylan on the street. That man confused her the minute she laid eyes on him like he was a device to scramble her thoughts, a cell phone jammer that prevented her from being rational.
Now, at the Little Knitting Box, Cleo and Kaisha were putting up more Christmas decorations. Apart from Christmas sweaters and twinkly lights around the front door, she’d done little else. Her heart hadn’t been quite in it, knowing her time in the West Village would soon be coming to an end. But this morning she’d woken up and looked out at the frost covering the tips of the roofs, sparkling ice on the sidewalk as she looked out across the street, and she knew she’d regret it if she didn’t make Christmas at the Little Knitting Box the best one ever. Christmas was her thing. She loved it. Always had and always would. So she’d leapt out of bed with a smile on her face and she’d left for work knowing exactly what her first task of the day would be: she was going to pull out all the other boxes of decorations and decorate the store the way it deserved.
Cleo wound white LED lights around the empty rungs of a wall ladder and then hung hanks of yarn around the rungs intermittently. She cut lengths of white satin ribbon ready to hang more decorations as Kaisha served another customer.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said Cleo when the customer passed her by, clutching their brown bag with the Little Knitting Box written on it.
‘Merry Christmas,’ the customer replied and pulled open the door. The street cart on the corner was selling roast chestnuts and the smell drifted in with Dahlia, a regular customer. Cleo left Kaisha to secure humbug-striped baubles, round and oval, with the ribbon while she waited at the till to help Dahlia, who, predictably, had a pattern to discuss with Cleo before she knew exactly what yarn and haberdashery she required.
With another satisfied customer venturing out into the New York air, Cleo and Kaisha continued adding their little touches of the holiday season. They put a three-foot Christmas tree in the front window and decorated it with red, white, and silver baubles as well as glitter-covered pine cones. Kaisha was taller than Cleo so she stood on tiptoes to reach the top of the window as they decorated the glass with a few delicately shaped snowflakes. Cleo set a glass vase next to the cash register, and using green, floral tape she made a grid pattern on top. Then she inserted tall, glittery, silver twigs with tiny crystals hanging from each one, which stood tall and proud and looked amazing beneath the store’s downlights.
