After Wally left, Violet dragged Mac and me back downstairs to meet the knitters and to let Lucille know the “good news” that she and Mac would be sharing a room.
The knitters were ensconced in the library toward the back of the hotel. Vi led us to the doorway and swung her arm to usher us in. Mac stood motionless in the doorway and I bumped into him. I peeked over his shoulder to see what had stopped him.
The room held more yarn than I had ever seen in my life. I had been to many yarn stores as a child when Violet had dragged me along on her shopping trips, but this was overwhelming. Skeins and balls of yarn congregated in soft, fuzzy piles. Eight women sat scattered around the room, all holding a piece of knitting while a very attractive instructor spoke in that strange knitterly language. She said things like “keep your tension steady,” “don’t forget the yarnover in the middle of the fourth row,” and “I have a great new cable needle to try, plus I’ll show you how to cable without a needle—you’ll love the freedom.”
The library was smaller than the lounge, with a scaled-down fireplace and walls covered in bookshelves. Ornate Victorian wallpaper in bright green and blue covered whatever wall space was left. Two small couches and several chairs made a conversational arrangement in the center of the room. It still retained the masculine aura of pipe smoke, whiskey, and leather, and must have been Alastair’s personal refuge. He likely would have been outraged by the invasion of fluffy balls of mohair. The knitters had dragged in some dining room chairs to accommodate their group. A wall of windows showed large flakes settling on the trees.
Mac seemed paralyzed and I pushed him to get him to move into the room. Either our tussling or Vi’s loud “ahem” caught the interest of the knitters. They all turned in our direction.
Mom jumped up, letting her knitting fall to the floor.
“Clyde! Mac! What are you doing here?” Mom said as she approached. “Is something wrong? Is Seth okay? Is it your father?” She clutched my arm, and her forehead crinkled in dismay. “The cards warned me that something terrible would happen this weekend. . . .”
She and Vi shared similar delicate features but rather than a braid and brightly colored skirts, Mom pulled her hair back in a bun and favored either tracksuits (she had one in every color) or khakis and blouses.
“Mom, everyone is fine. Our flight was canceled and we came here to stay because of the storm.”
Mom relaxed her grip on my arm, and a smile spread across her face. “Oh, how fun! You can finally learn to knit. Lucille was just saying how she thinks you’re a natural.” Mom leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to burst her bubble and tell her you don’t like knitting.”
Lucille had joined us at the door by this time. She was my height, very thin, and wore her silver hair short and spiky. She turned to Mac and said, “Phillip, I’m so glad to see you. I was worried about you flying in the storm.”
Mac’s face turned a bit pink as it always did when his mother called him Phillip.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Two of the other knitters, about the same age as Mom, Vi, and Lucille had joined us at the door. The younger ones showed a bit more decorum and remained in their seats. One of them had tattoos snaking up both arms, one sported hot pink spiky hair, and the other looked like a human Tinkerbell—tiny with a blond pixie cut.
“Oh, Lucille. Is this your son?” a short round woman with bright red lipstick on her lips and teeth asked. “He’s much more handsome than you said.” She batted her eyes at Mac.
Mac stepped back, onto my foot, and recovered by draping an arm over my shoulder. Lucille introduced the woman as Mavis Poulson and claimed Mac as her son. Mavis looked me over and returned to her seat without further comment. Her friend, Selma Stone, thin, tall, and entirely beige, shook my hand and then followed Mavis back to her seat.
The other knitters said hello and I quickly forgot their names in the sea of comments and yarn.
“Okay everyone, let’s get back to our projects!” The instructor clapped her hands. “We only have a few more minutes to work on them before dinner.”
She walked over to us and smiled. “Hello. I’m Isabel Keane.” She was petite, with short dark hair and large, expressive eyes. She had tossed a multicolored scarf artfully around her neck.
She shook my hand briefly and then took Mac’s hand and held on to it.
“It’s lovely to meet you . . . both,” she said.
Mom, Vi, and Lucille had returned to their chairs as instructed. Isabel asked us if we’d like to join them in a knitting lesson.
Mac shook his head. We smiled and backed out of the room.
“I don’t know if I can do this for the whole weekend,” Mac said. “My mother is here and that woman looked at me like I was dessert.”
“I noticed. She’s very pretty.”
“Who?”
“Isabel.”
“No, not her. Mavis—with the lipstick.”