“Give them both time to adjust,” Evelyn advised.

“Time?” I echoed. “Casey’s leaving tomorrow, isn’t she?”

Evelyn paused, and that short silence told me everything I needed to know.

“The problem is,” Evelyn said with obvious reluctance, “the family that was going to foster Casey is on vacation. I can try to f ind another one, but that’ll take a day or two, and we’re always short of homes in the summer.” She paused. “I hate to ask this, but to be on the safe side could she stay with you for a week? I should be able to f ind a suitable family in that time.”

“A week,” I repeated, a little shocked. “I’ll need to check with Brad, of course.”

Cody walked up and stood directly in front of me, hands on hips, his thin arms jutting out as he glared up at me. His thoughts on the matter were perfectly clear.

“And of course Cody will have a say, as well.”

At this rate I’d need clearance from Chase, too.

“I’d appreciate it if you’d get back to me as soon as you can,”

Evelyn said.

“Of course.” Slowly I replaced the receiver.

“Mom!” Cody wailed.

I looked down at him. “Can we be kind enough to let Casey stay with us an entire week?” I asked. “What do you think?”

My son shook his head. “No way!”

“Okay, then I’ll call Ms. Boyle back and tell her it’s impossible. Casey will have to pack her things and go.”

Cody studied his bare feet and shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Just a week, right?”

“That’s what Evelyn said.” I didn’t mention that a few hours before, the social worker had promised that it would be two nights at the most.

Cody chewed his lip. “What do you think?”

I was of two minds, but compassion won out. It wouldn’t be an easy adjustment for any of us. Casey wasn’t going to make this pleasant. However, I’d seen that glimmer of a smile in the young girl’s eyes. When I’d said Cody wasn’t bad for a boy, Casey and I had connected for a few seconds.

“Mom?” Cody pressed.

“If your father agrees, I think it’d be f ine for Casey to stay the week,” I told him.

“Okay,” Cody muttered. “But only one week and she can’t call me a baby ever again.” He nodded emphatically, as if that settled the point.

Chapter 7

Phoebe Rylander

At 5:20, forty minutes before her first knitting lesson, Phoebe left work. Clark didn’t know about the class; her mother didn’t, either. Phoebe couldn’t explain why she preferred it that way; she just knew she did. It was hard not to answer the constant phone calls and messages, although she realized the sanest approach was simply to ignore them. She should have changed her home number, too, but that was more complicated, or so she told herself. She hated to admit that maybe, with one small part of her, she did want to hear from him. Still, she wasn’t even sure whether Clark was calling because he wanted her back or because he couldn’t tolerate what he saw as her rejection. Winning was everything to him. If their engagement was broken he wanted to be the one to call it off. He hadn’t let up since she’d returned his engagement ring. Phoebe badly needed a reprieve. The knitting class offered that. Although Leanne hadn’t admitted it, Phoebe was fairly certain her mother had joined forces with Clark’s parents and was doing everything in her power to repair the rift. What her mother, and more importantly, Clark, failed to understand was that Phoebe intended to keep the breakup permanent, no matter how much she wished it could be different.

Even now, knowing what he did, part of her yearned to believe that Clark didn’t comprehend what he’d done or why she was upset. But she’d told him the f irst time—she couldn’t have been any clearer—and this time she wouldn’t give in. She couldn’t. Phoebe knew his weakness for paid sex would continue after they were married. It was an addiction; it had to be. Otherwise he wouldn’t go on taking these ridiculous risks. Twice he’d been arrested for solicitation, and heaven only knew how many other occasions there’d been, occasions when he’d been fortunate enough not to get caught. A woman off the streets, no less. If he was going to pay for sex, Phoebe would have assumed he’d want a higher-class prostitute. Unless it was the danger that thrilled him? She sighed. None of this made sense to her. He’d promised it would never happen again and she’d reluctantly forgiven him that f irst time. She’d believed he was sincere—and yet he’d succumbed again. She needed a man who’d be completely committed to her and their relationship. Addiction, attraction to danger, whatever it was, Clark seemed either unwilling or unable to control it. She refused to put her emotional and physical health at risk because of his weakness. So far she’d held out. Whenever she wavered, Clark seemed to sense that and bombarded her with notes and f lowers and gifts, all of which she’d sent back. That didn’t seem to bother him. If anything, he redoubled his efforts.

Rather than take her car out of the garage at work, Phoebe decided to walk the half mile or so to Blossom Street. She’d brought her brand-new knitting bag, f illed with skeins of yarn in a restful sage-green color, her pattern and a pair of needles still in their clear plastic case. It was a lovely evening, but cool enough to require a sweater. Because she was early, she stopped at the French Café and purchased a half sandwich, pastrami on rye with mustard, and a cup of coffee.

Since the breakup, her appetite had suffered and she’d lost weight. This was the f irst hunger pang she’d experienced in two weeks, which was an encouraging sign. It felt like years since she’d been with Clark. That, too, was encouraging, and yet…

She struggled to hold back unexpected tears. The end of her engagement, the end of Clark’s presence in her life, necessary though it was, had brought her such grief. This was so much harder than anyone else imagined, than anyone would ever know. To her friends and her mother she came across as determined and unshakable, but Clark lingered constantly in her mind. It would get better soon; she’d told herself this so often that she’d actually started to believe it. It had to.

Eventually this ache in her heart would lessen. However, right then, sitting by herself outside a café on a perfect summer evening, watching couples wander past holding hands, made her feel ten times worse. Ten times as lonely…

She crossed the street to A Good Yarn at precisely six. While eating her meal, she’d seen two other people walking into the yarn store and wondered if they were part of the Knit to Quit class, too. It didn’t seem likely. One was a man and the other apparently a street-savvy teenager. The bell above the door jangled when she stepped inside, selfconsciously clutching her supplies.

“Hi, Phoebe,” Lydia said, hurrying forward to greet her.

“Everyone else is already here. Come on back and join us.”

Phoebe followed her to the rear of the store. The teenager and the man had both taken places at a large table and looked up as she approached. So she was wrong—these two were indeed part of the class. Well, it made for an interesting mix.

“This is Phoebe Rylander,” Lydia said, slipping an arm around Phoebe’s shoulders.

“Hi,” she said, nervously wiggling her f ingers. The man stood and extended his hand. “I’m Bryan Hutchinson. Everyone calls me Hutch.”

“Hi,” she said. Normally Phoebe wasn’t shy, but for some reason she felt awkward and unsure of herself. Maybe because this was a whole new venture for her, one that required skills she lacked. Although she’d done a bit of knitting as a girl, she’d never been very interested in any of the domestic crafts. Maybe that was about to change.

“I’m Alix, spelled with an I, ” the girl said. Her hair was black, probably dyed, and she wore it in a short, spiky fashion that suited her. She had on a leather jacket and jeans. When she’d f irst noticed Alix-with-an- I, Phoebe had assumed she was a teenager, but on closer inspection she decided Alix had to be in her early twenties. The leather jacket was unzipped and revealed a cotton shirt with a lace collar in stark contrast to the rest of her appearance. She was obviously a bit unorthodox but that seemed rather charming to Phoebe. Smiling at Alix, who smiled back, Phoebe pulled out the chair next to her.

Lydia moved closer to the table. “Since this is a Knit to Quit class, I thought it might be helpful if we each shared the reason we joined and what we’re hoping to achieve by knitting.” She looked at Alix. “Would you mind starting us off, Alix?”

The young woman shrugged. “Sure, why not. As you know by now, my name is Alix.”

“With an I, ” Hutch inserted, grinning.

“Right.” Alix gave him a cocky thumbs up. “I assume Lydia asked me to begin because I’ve taken classes here before. I learned to knit almost five years ago, when Lydia opened the shop.”

“Alix was in my original class and has become one of my dearest friends,” Lydia told them.

“I’ve changed a lot since that f irst class,” Alix went on to say.

“Back then, I was pretty angry at the world. I’d gotten a bum rap on a drug possession charge. I think the judge must’ve realized that because he sentenced me to community service rather than jail.”

Hutch leaned closer to the table. “And you took up knitting as your community service? How did that work?”

“It was knitting for charity. I got approval from the court to knit a baby blanket for Project Linus. I f igured it wouldn’t hurt to learn something constructive for once in my life.”

“Good idea,” Phoebe said, nodding. Alix certainly wasn’t typical of other young women her age. But then again, maybe she was….

“The reason I signed up for this class is that I started smoking before Jordan and I were married. All the stuff going on before the wedding turned out to be pretty stressful and I decided I needed a cigarette. I told myself I’d only smoke the one pack. As you might’ve guessed it ended up being a lot more than that and now I’m trying to quit.”

“I can’t believe you’re married,” Phoebe blurted out, then felt like a fool. “I mean, you seem so young.”

“I’m older than I look.” She laughed softly. “I hope it’s my appearance and not my behavior that made you think I was younger.”

“Of course!” Phoebe said.

“Def initely,” Hutch mumbled.

“Anyway, Jordan and I want to start a family. Before I get pregnant, I have to quit smoking. Knitting’s helped me through other things and…here I am.”

“And we’re glad you are,” Lydia told her. She turned to Hutch next. “What about you, Hutch?”

He was a nice-looking man, Phoebe thought, studying him across the table. It was diff icult to tell how old he was. Midthirties, she guessed—although she’d just proven she wasn’t very good at judging age. He had pleasant, regular features and light-brown hair. Although she hated to admit it, he didn’t possess the strong masculine appeal of Clark. He seemed like a regular guy, not that there was anything wrong with that. What Phoebe did like was how interested he was in what everyone had to say. Other than her boss, she didn’t know many men who were good listeners. Hutch sat back in his chair. “Actually, my doctor’s the one who suggested I try knitting. He’s a college classmate of mine. I was in for my annual checkup recently and Dave lectured me about working too hard and not getting enough exercise. I’m on medication for high blood pressure and, with a history of heart disease in the family, he felt I should f ind a method of relaxation. In fact,”