He shook his head.
"It's no matter now. She'll be leaving, and likely she's glad of it."
"Edward, have you feelings for this woman?"
What was he to say to that? He wouldn't lie to his mother, but if he told her the truth—that, yes, he felt more for Carrie than he'd ever felt for any woman--then there would be more attention focused on Carrie, and he'd wager that attention from his mother would make the paparazzi look like friendly chums from one's nursery days. Soon, Carrie would be back in America. She'd be rid of him and all the attendant complications. She'd have the freedom she deserved, the freedom that could never be his.
"She doesn't deserve what's happened to her."
"Perhaps not, but, Edward, if she can't handle it, then she isn't the woman for you."
Carrie watched a pair of size eleven bamboo knitting needles go flying across her store, followed by a ball of pink washable wool yarn.
"I can't do this!" came a high-pitched voice.
Carrie was pretty sure she knew who the culprit would be. Ella had been taking lessons from Carrie for six months now and still hadn't mastered a passable purl stitch. Normally, Carrie wouldn't tolerate such behavior from her students, but Ella was only seven years old, so Carrie was inclined to cut her some slack.
"What seems to be the trouble?" Carrie asked in her most patient teacher voice.
Ella's face was red and her arms were crossed over her chest.
"I'm supposed to have twenty stitches, and I have thirty, that's what's wrong. I hate purling. I'll never figure it out. Never ever. Ever!" This last was accompanied by a foot stomp.
The girls around Ella tightened their grips on their own needles in case Ella decided more needle throwing was in order. Smart girls. Carrie retrieved Ella's yarn and needles and sat down next to her.
"Let's see if we can figure this out."
Carrie loved the kids’ class. She could tell from the very first day which ones were going to be passionate knitters and which kids were going to give it up in six months in favor of ballet or gymnastics. If she could pass on her love of knitting, a love given to her by her grandmother, then she could give these girls a hobby for a lifetime and endless hours of enjoyment. From a practical standpoint, the kids’ class was rewarding. Their problems were easy to solve -- unlike the problems Carrie faced outside this class.
"Now Ella, did you remember to move your yarn to the front before you made the purl stitches?"
Ella's shoulders slumped, "I forgot."
Carrie hugged the girl.
"It's okay. It's a mistake everybody makes when they're learning. Tell you what. I've got some cotton yarn in a bright yellow. How about you try a square of just purl stitches. It will make a beautiful dishrag, and the purl bumps will make it good for scrubbing. It can be a present for your mom. Once we get the hang of purling, then we'll go back to the pink scarf. Sound good?"
Ella agreed with a nod of her head and an oh-so-dramatic sigh. Sensing the girl was close to giving up, Carrie decided to cast on for her. She was almost finished when a delivery van parked in front of the shop. She wasn't expecting a delivery today. There must be some mistake. She was just about to go out and tell the driver as much when her mother breezed in from the stock room.
"Wonderful, the cashmere silk blend is here."
"What? I didn't order a Cashmere and silk blend."
"I know, but you'll love it. Everyone will love it.”
Carrie unpacked a skein from the box.
"It retails for $49.99 a skein."
"If you want quality, you have to pay for quality."
"There's a difference between wanting quality and being able to pay for a cashmere silk blend. My customers just aren't going to pay that price. This is Spring Valley, Kentucky, not Beverly Hills. How many of these skeins did you order anyway?"
She pawed through the box, the frighteningly large box.
"Seventy-five."
"What! You bought seventy-five skeins of this?"
"If you buy in bulk, the price per individual item is cheaper. Everybody knows that. Plus they were part of a close-out sale."
Carrie felt a headache building behind her eyes.
"Let me guess, that means they're nonrefundable."
Without warning, her mother burst into tears, great hiccuping sobs that had the students getting out of their chairs to come and see what was wrong. One little girl even started crying herself. Carrie shoved a travel pack of tissues at her mother while she broke out the granola bar and juice box snacks early. She had no hope of her mother being so easily placated.
"I was just trying to bring in some extra money. It isn't fair that we should have to pay for that wedding," her mother sobbed.
Not only was it unfair, it was impossible. Her parents just didn't have that kind of cash.
"I know Phillip's mother is angry, but surely she doesn't expect you and Dad to reimburse them for the wedding expenses. I mean, it isn't like you, or even Phillip and Amanda were consulted when the decisions were made."
"It's your father. He's so stubborn! He says we owe them after how things ended."
Carrie could see her father doing that, but he could leave retirement from the university and take on tutoring jobs from now to forever, and he'd still never make enough to pay Phillip's parents back all the money they sank into that wedding.
"I admire Dad's sense of propriety, but I'm not sure it's practical.”
Her mother retrieved a compact and mirror from her purse beneath the counter.
"I was hoping you could talk some sense into him. He'll listen to you. He never listens to anything I say."
So that explained the water works. Carrie was just about to refuse, in no uncertain terms, to get involved, when Marybeth Jude pushed through the door of the shop, her fake smile set to stun.
"Carrie, it's lovely to see you. Kind of quiet in here today isn't it?"
She might have been speaking to Carrie, but her gaze roamed all over the store.
"Hello, Marybeth, what brings you in this afternoon?"
"Just a friendly call, one local business owner to another."
Marybeth owned the town's quilting supply shop. Hers was far more profitable than Carrie's shop since quilting was a hobby usually enjoyed by older women, and older women tended to have more disposable income. Marybeth had recently acquired Sue Ellen Mackenzie’s interior design store, and it was no secret that she wanted to add Carrie's yarn store to her fiber arts empire.
"I guess you still need some time to adjust to all that business that went on before."
Was she even trying to seem concerned? If so, she was failing.
"Hello there, Janet," she said to Carrie's mother, "I can only imagine what you've been going through. One daughter publicly jilted and one”--her gaze flicked to Carrie--"well, it was an unfortunate business."
She laid a newspaper on the counter.
"At least, the press over there has moved on to other things. So has that prince of yours by the look of it."
Carrie knew from the smugness in her voice this wouldn't be good, but she had to know. She snatched up the tabloid against her better judgment. There, on the cover, was a picture of Edward, so gorgeous it made her heart flutter. The sight of the woman next to him, looking up at him with adoration in her eyes, had her heart doing less happy things than fluttering. The woman was tall and blond and perfect. Carrie skimmed the caption. And she was a princess. Crown Princess Astrid of Sweden, to be precise. She looked perfect next to Edward. No doubt, she was the kind of woman Edward deserved.
She slid the paper back across the counter. She would not cry.
"It does seem they've moved on. I never thought it would be otherwise."
She'd just let Marybeth wonder if Carrie meant the press or Edward. Or both.
"Is there something I can help you with today, Marybeth?"
All business. She had to keep it together.
"Oh no, like I said, just being neighborly."
She walked around the store fingering the merchandise, looking for all the world like a woman inspecting a horse she was thinking of buying.
"I can't stand that woman," Carrie's mother whispered as they each pretended to be tidying up the counter, "It'll be a cold day in July before I'll see that woman's name over this store."
Carrie appreciated her mother's support, such as it was, but Carrie couldn't help thinking, as she grabbed up the insanely expensive yarn for display, that Marybeth wasn't the only one who wanted to have control of the shop. It was Carrie's name on the deed after all. She'd been the one to take the leap, to start a business. In those early days, people had wondered in because of Jeannie's free cookies more than for the knitting lessons and yarn. Back then, Carrie had spent sixteen hours a day knitting because people had seemed more interested in buying hand-knitted items than in making their own. Eventually, though, the idea of knitting as a hobby caught on. Carrie went to 4-H meetings, women's clubs, even to bingo night at the VFW in an attempt to convert people to the joys of knitting. And it had worked. It had taken seven years, but here she was, owner of a store with so much business she'd been able to offer her mother part-time employment. It felt good.
As she walked past the counter for another armload of yarn, she carried the tabloid to the recycling bin. She'd made her own dreams come true and didn't need some playboy prince to make her happy. Still, she allowed herself one last look at Edward's face before tossing the paper in to join the empty juice boxes and napkins.
***
"There they are," Edward said through a forced smile, "to your left."
Astrid matched his smile with a forced one of her own.
"You owe me for this," she said.
He put his hand on the small of her back as they exited the restaurant. Once they were in the open, the paparazzi swarmed en masse. Astrid looked surprised and leaned into him.
"Have you ever considered a career in acting?"
Edward made as though to shield her from view, but not before making sure the press got the money shot they were after. That done, he gave the signal for his own security detail to intervene.
A black Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of the restaurant. An agent hurried forward to open the door for them. Before Astrid got in, she looked up at Edward with unabashed adoration in her eyes. He barely got the door closed behind him before he started laughing.
"What was that?"
She shrugged as she slipped out of her insanely high heels.
"You said, be convincing."
"Anyone who knows you at all, knows that you would never look at a man like that."
"Like what?"
"So utterly besotted."
"Just because I typically don't look at men that way doesn't mean I couldn't. Perhaps I simply haven't met the right man."
"Haven't you? I have to say that I'm glad to hear it. Maybe there's hope yet."
"Hope for you? Why, Edward, I had no idea. Is this a declaration of love?"
"You know of whom I speak."
"It's been such a delightful evening. Must we end it by speaking of such unpleasantness?"
"You do realize, don't you, that you are very possibly the only woman in all the world who considers my brother unpleasant."
"Yes, I am fully aware that women everywhere go into spasms of ecstasy at just the sight of James. They might be less delighted if they had to face the very real possibility of marrying him. Marrying him, in fact, with full knowledge that they were doomed to a lifetime of pretending not to notice as he engages in one indiscretion after another."
"I know how Jamie seems, but you're wrong about him."
"Really?"
Astrid settled back against the supple leather and challenged Edward with a look.
"Tell me that whatever this farce is you've asked me to join in doesn't somehow involve Jamie?"
He tried not to squirm in his seat. He failed.
"It's complicated."
"It always is. I know you, Edward. I've known you and Jamie since we were all babies. You have been getting your brother out of trouble the entire time. The only reason you would ever court the paparazzi like this, not to mention involving me, is to divert their attention from Jamie."
"You're half right. I do want to draw their attention, but it isn't away from Jamie."
"Oh? I'm intrigued."
"Did you see the most recent round of gossip about me?"
"Something about an American, as I recall. The Skanky Yankee, I believe they called her."
"Bastards."
"Edward, this woman--this American--is she important to you?"
He thought of his father. What was the majestic way to answer that question? How did one admit to one's feelings in a dignified manner? Now that he thought on it, perhaps that's why he'd never seen his father expressing any authentic emotions. Maybe it was just impossible to be a king and have feelings. If so, he felt a pang of sympathy for Jamie, who loved life and lived it to the fullest. In the end, Edward scrubbed his hands over his face.
"Yes. She is important to me."
Astrid squealed. She beamed with a smile that was nothing like the one she'd put on for the photographers. She bounced in her seat and clapped her hands.
"Edward has a girlfriend. Edward has a girlfriend," she chanted.
"I have sisters for this sort of immaturity, you know. Plus, that sounds positively bizarre with your accent."
"I don't care. I've never known you to have a woman you really cared about. I'm thrilled for you. But, Edward, won't seeing these pictures of us together be difficult for your American? It can't be easy for her."
"She isn't my American, and I doubt it'll matter much. My intention was only to free her from being badgered by the press. I think our performance tonight will have done that."
"You don't want a relationship with this woman?"
"Carrie. Her name is Carrie."
"Carrie, then. Don't you want a relationship with this Carrie? Because it's clear that you have strong feelings for her. Have you spoken to her about a relationship?"
"Our acquaintance has been nothing but a source of difficulty for her. She'll be better off once she can forget she ever met me."
Astrid muttered something in Swedish. He didn't understand it, but the gist was disapproval. That came through clearly enough.
"What?" he asked.
"Men are all the same. Swedish, American, French, Dutch. You all believe you know what's best. I might be tempted to appreciate your efforts if you were ever once, just once, correct in your assumptions. Shouldn't it be Carrie's choice whether or not she's willing to endure the difficulties that come with you?"
"You don't understand."
"No, I understand nothing. It isn't as though I am uniquely suited to sympathize. Being the princess of a country that allows female accession to the throne, that wouldn't put me in a position to understand anything about the particular difficulties you face!"