A few months ago, Mom’s constant worry would have irritated, but now I understood its roots. Neila Whittle, who was helping me understand my own psychic gifts, had once predicted that Mom would attend a funeral for one of her children. It was Neila’s dubious talent to sense when a parent might lose a child.
I had yet to discuss Neila with my mother—unsure if she would be thrilled I was pursuing my gifts or furious I was spending time with Neila. As if proximity would make her prediction come true. But Neila had helped me and I felt I was finally gaining control of some of the premonitions that came unbidden in dreams or flashes of history when touching an object, and I was better able to find lost items. For whatever that was worth.
Mac caught my eye from across the room and held up a glass. I nodded gratefully and he turned to fix my drink.
Thoughts of Neila reminded me that I was supposed to practice whenever possible. A room full of strangers was a great opportunity to test my skills. My insights are enhanced through touch—mostly skin-to-skin contact. In my days with the police it was often difficult to maneuver that type of contact. Officers don’t tend to shake hands with suspects. But the information, if it came, was invaluable and I trusted it.
I brought my thoughts back to my mom, who was looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry, Mom, what did you say?”
She grinned. “You can’t keep your eyes off him, can you?”
“Pardon?”
“Mac. You’re aware of every move he makes.”
I felt my face growing hot. “I don’t know what you mean.” I studied her brightly colored scarf to avoid eye contact.
She put her hand on my arm. “It’s lovely. I’m very happy for you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I glanced toward Mac again and saw that Mavis and Selma had ambushed him. Mom followed my gaze.
“I’ll go rescue him in a moment,” she said. “I want you to meet the rest of the knitters.”
She steered me toward the fireplace, where a trio of young women were laughing and knitting. They turned and smiled when we interrupted.
“This is my daughter, Clytemnestra,” Mom said.
I smiled while clenching my jaw—not easy to do, but I had a lot of practice.
“Call me Clyde,” I said. I shot a look at Mom and said, “Everyone does.”
Mom smiled at me and went to pry Mavis away from Mac.
Tinkerbell stood and introduced herself as Heather.
When we shook hands I focused my thoughts on that contact and opened my mind to any insights. A fizzy, bright tingling touched my face and I knew Heather was just as open and friendly as she appeared.
“I work as an ICU nurse, but only to support my yarn habit.”
The other two chuckled.
“I’m Amy,” the pink-haired woman said. “I own the local yarn store. And this is Tina.” She gestured at her tattooed friend. “She’s a fiber artist.” Tina flicked a glance in my direction and grimaced a small smile. Both held a knitting project and didn’t offer to shake hands.
“She’s the mastermind behind the yarn-bombing competition,” Heather said and hooked her thumb at Tina. “Isabel even donated a cool set of knitting needles as the grand prize!”
“We were admiring the yarn bombing earlier,” I said. “It’s a very . . . unique competition.”
“Knitting isn’t just for grandmas anymore,” Tina said. “I like to see so many new people embracing it and using knitting to make an artistic statement and bring awareness.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of awareness was related to colored tubes on chandeliers, but sensed this sentiment would not be met with warmth.
“It’s a fun thing to do and since the owners are knitters—” Amy said.
Heather interrupted. “Not all of them. Clarissa has made her feelings pretty clear.”
“Right, well Jessica and Linda don’t mind having yarn draped everywhere,” Amy said.
Heather turned brightly toward me. “Your mother told us you’re a police officer on leave. Are you planning to go back to work?”
Amy elbowed her in the ribs. “She just met us—save the interrogation for later.”
“Oh.” Heather’s smile slipped a bit but she recovered quickly. “Sorry, I’m so used to asking personal questions at work that sometimes I forget . . .”
“It’s fine.” I smiled to reassure her. But how do I answer a question I had been asking myself every day for the past couple of months?
My search for a new career was reaching a critical point. My sister, Grace, had a knack for investing in the stock market and she had parlayed my inheritance from last summer into a great nest egg. But I couldn’t continue to use the money I had inherited for everyday expenses and I was getting bored. I didn’t want to return to police work. I had to live in Crystal Haven for at least six more months before I could sell the house or move out—an odd and meddling stipulation of the will.
I chose the simplest route. “I doubt I’ll move back to Ann Arbor, but I’m still figuring out what I’ll do next.”
“I understand that,” Tina said. “I feel like I change careers almost as often as Amy changes her hair color.”