“Time for you to go.”
Allison nodded. “All right.” On impulse, she opened her purse and took out a small pad. Tearing off a piece of paper, she wrote down her phone number. “If you hear from Anson again, would you call me?”
Cherry didn’t answer.
“I’ll let you know if he phones me.”
When Cherry turned her back, Allison laid the sheet on the table and quietly left the trailer.
Sixteen
When Charlotte left the Garden Club meeting, she stopped by her friend Helen’s on Poppy Lane. Ben was playing bridge with some other men, and then later Charlotte would meet him for soup at the Pot Belly Deli, one of her favorite lunch spots. Their homemade soups were not to be missed. However, she’d promised Helen Shelton a quick visit before lunch. Her friend was working on a Fair Isle sweater for her only granddaughter and wanted Charlotte to take a look. At one time or another, Charlotte had tackled just about every type of project in the knitting world, and Fair Isle was no exception. Helen found this sweater a challenge; Charlotte admired the way she’d refused to give up, although she’d had to restart more than once before she figured out the correct tension.
Charlotte and Helen were both widows. They’d begun as casual acquaintances, but their friendship had grown through their involvement in the Senior Center. Now Charlotte considered Helen one of her dearest friends. She knew Helen had been in France during World War II, but only recently had she learned that Helen had been part of the French Resistance. This information came to her by accident, when Charlotte happened to see a faded poster while visiting her friend. She’d asked about it and then, reluctantly, as though every word had to be forced out, Helen explained that as a young college student, she’d been trapped in France after the German invasion.
Determined to support the Allies, she’d joined the French Resistance, helping downed American and English pilots find their way back to England. Although Charlotte had tried to ask further questions, Helen sidestepped them. Instinctively Charlotte had realized that her friend didn’t want this information shared. The only person she’d ever told was Ben. The friendship between Helen and Charlotte had deepened from that day forward.
Helen met her at the door of her duplex and immediately ushered her inside and out of the drizzle. No one used umbrellas in the Pacific Northwest—or residents didn’t, anyway. An umbrella was a sure sign of a tourist.
Now, as she sat in Helen’s living room with a cup of tea, Charlotte examined the body of the sweater, which was knit in the round. This was the method Charlotte had recommended and it seemed to be working well.
“It’s all in the tension,” Charlotte said, looking closely at Helen’s knitting. She nodded. “Nice job.” Holding a strand of yarn in each hand was a learned skill, but one grew accustomed to it quickly enough. “Ruth’s going to be thrilled when she sees this.”
“I certainly hope so,” Helen said, shaking her head. “I can’t tell you the number of rows I’ve had to take out.”
“You’re doing just fine.”
Helen set her tea aside. “Ruth’s engaged—did I tell you?—and I’m thinking of knitting something for her wedding.”
Since Helen was already knitting her granddaughter this difficult sweater, Charlotte was loath to suggest a wedding coat, which was meant to be worn over the wedding dress following the ceremony. She’d come upon a 1970s pattern for one and was quite taken with it. Perhaps she’d find an excuse to knit it up herself.
“Let me look through my patterns to see what I can dig up,” Charlotte said.
Helen thanked her with a smile. “I’d appreciate that. Any suggestions are welcome.”
Charlotte finished her tea and bade her friend an affectionate farewell, promising another visit soon. She put on her raincoat, collected her large purse and stepped into the May drizzle. With gas prices what they were, Charlotte had decided to walk. Fortunately the Garden Club meeting room, Helen’s duplex and the deli were located only a few blocks apart.
By the time she arrived at the Pot Belly Deli, Ben had secured a table and was reading the menu. As soon as her husband saw her enter, he stood, giving her a discreet kiss on the cheek and helped her remove her coat. The fact that Ben exhibited such impeccable manners had endeared him to her from the very start. Such courtesies didn’t play much of a role in social relationships anymore, so when they existed, she felt they were often indicative of real respect. In Ben’s case that was definitely true. Those protective, caring gestures—opening a door, helping her into a car, walking on the curb side of the street—touched her. She and Ben believed in treating each other with politeness and consideration. Her first marriage, to Clyde, had been marked by those same small displays of love.
“How did the meeting go?” Ben asked after seating her and reclaiming his own chair.
Charlotte was afraid he’d ask. “I was elected president again,” she said with a slight grimace. “Everyone’s so busy these days, and no one else wanted the position.” The Garden Club didn’t require a lot of her time, but it was a monthly commitment that took her away from him.
His lack of response unsettled her. “Are you upset with me, dear?”
Ben lowered the menu and his eyes widened at her question. “Why would I be upset? If I were a Garden Club member, I’d want you as president, too. You’re the perfect choice. You’re organized, practical, responsible—and the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”
The things this man said. Things that made her heart expand with joy. “Oh, Ben, I do love you.”