The Sweetgum Knit Lit Society (15 page)

Merry dreaded the November meeting of the Sweetgum Knit Lit Society with a sense of foreboding she’d rarely felt in her life. Now that she was four months pregnant, more than one person had given her belly a second look. She was still at the stage where her burgeoning middle could be attributed to weight gain, but time was running out on her secret.

And she still hadn’t told Jeff.

How could she after the fight they’d had the week before?
The only thing that could make our lives worse would be if we had more kids
. She’d repeated his words over and over so often that they were burned into her brain. And so she kept her silence, even as she tried to keep down her breakfast. She was more nauseated with this pregnancy than with her last. The symptoms were similar to what she’d experienced with Jake, which probably meant another boy.

It was the Friday before Thanksgiving, with all the added pressures of the holidays looming. She parked in her usual
spot in front of the church, moving as quickly as her expanding middle would allow through the early evening drizzle. She had to be more careful now about slick spots on the sidewalk.

After all, she was walking for two, she thought wryly.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she could hear voices coming from the classroom. The ancient radiator system hissed and groaned as it tried to provide a modicum of heat for the old building.

“Merry, there you are.” Camille met her at the classroom door with a forced, rather brittle-looking smile on her face.

“Eugenie wanted to start without you, but I wouldn’t let her.”

Merry didn’t know what to say to this unusual display of attention from Camille.

“Thanks, Camille. I practically had to force-feed Sarah. And then I couldn’t find my car keys.”

Camille smiled. “You’re here now.”

Merry followed her into the room. This time she deliberately took the seat next to Hannah, whose hair and clothing showed no marked improvement from two months before. Merry wondered if she should offer to take the girl shopping for clothes, but she doubted Hannah would be any more receptive to that idea than she had been to Merry’s offer to buy yarn for her in Nashville.

“Evening, Merry,” Ruthie said. “How are you?”

They passed a few minutes in pleasant if inconsequential chitchat. Ruthie said she liked the new pastor pretty well. Eugenie mentioned a few new books that had arrived at the
library. When asked, Camille informed them that her mother was about the same. Esther’s ten-year-old grandson was evidently about to win a Nobel prize, and Hannah grunted monosyllabic responses to any questions that came her way.
A typical meeting so far
, Merry thought.

“So,” Eugenie began, when it was clear that the time for chitchat was over. “Let’s talk about the book. I must confess I’d forgotten quite a few details over the years, but one question did keep coming up for me, so I thought I’d ask it of you all.” She paused and looked around the circle. “Do you believe there’s a princess in every girl?” Eugenie asked.

Hannah snorted.

Merry thought of the Cinderella comforter set she’d just ordered for Sarah’s fifth birthday. Ruthie looked militant—she’d no doubt have a great deal to say about antifeminist propaganda—and Esther was practically preening. Not difficult to tell where she would stand on the issue. Esther clearly had no problems whatsoever with cultivating her inner princess.

“I think that’s true,” Merry said. “Or if it isn’t, it ought to be.”

“What does that even mean, though?” Ruthie frowned. “I’ve never understood why we set such unrealistic expectations for little girls.”

“Boys have their own superheroes,” Esther pointed out. “I’m sure my son spent a lot of time playing Batman or Transformers or those strange turtle creatures. What were they called?”

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Hannah muttered.

“Yes. Those things. The idea of being a princess gives a girl something to aspire to, just as boys see their superheroes as models of strength and courage.”

“
Princess
seems to have a different definition today than it did when I was little,” Merry said. “Back then it was more about looks and being pleasant. Now it’s more powerful.”

Eugenie looked satisfied at the direction of the conversation. “So how is it more powerful?”

Hannah cleared her throat. “You don’t need a prince anymore. Nobody needs a prince anymore.”

“You’re right.” Merry nodded. She hadn’t thought of it that way before, but Hannah’s observation made sense. “All of the stuff I buy for Sarah focuses on the princess. The prince has become an accessory, not a central figure.” Ruthie laughed. “I like it.”

Esther pursed her lips. “Feminism.” A one-word indictment.

“Reality,” Ruthie snapped back. “What did Gloria Steinem say about a woman needing a man? Like a fish needing a bicycle?”

“But we like men,” Camille said, frowning. “We’re supposed to like them.”

“But are they necessary?” Merry heard herself say. “Now that women can get an education and work and fend for themselves?”

“Well, they’re certainly necessary in one way.” Esther’s mouth was tight at the corners. And then she realized she’d said something slightly risqué and fell silent.

Eugenie intervened. “What about the character in this book?” She pointed to her copy of
A Little Princess
. “Did she need a man?”

“In that world she did,” Hannah said. “She was just a kid. The grownups were supposed to take care of her.”

Merry’s throat closed. In her mind’s eye, she saw the ramshackle trailer Hannah called home, the sagging redwood deck, the ominous pickup truck.

“So what saved her in the end?” Eugenie asked. “Was it a man, the neighbor who knew her father, or was it her own goodness?”

They fell silent, pondering the question. The radiator in the corner hissed like a kettle letting off steam.

Esther was the first to speak. “The character held her head high even when circumstances were against her. Perhaps that’s the mark of a true princess, if that’s what you want to call it. I call it being a lady.”

“But even she had a breaking point.” Ruthie said. “That’s the darkest moment in the book. When it seems as if all hope is lost. Even when the ‘magic’ comes, as she and Becky call it, it’s not enough. The headmistress tries to have them arrested for stealing.”

“And then she is saved by a man,” Esther pointed out.

“So how do you all feel about that?” Eugenie asked. “Do you agree that we can’t ultimately save ourselves, as the author seems to say?”

Merry chuckled. “If we can save ourselves, then I’ve been wasting a lot of years right here in this church.”

Hannah snorted. “Ya think?”

“Well, let’s move on. What about your shawls? How did they turn out?” Eugenie tactfully brought the discussion to a close and looked at the group with an unusual degree of expectation. Normally she was the most self-contained person in the group. Tonight she seemed almost … brittle somehow. Maybe the whole discussion of men bothered her. If you looked up
spinster
in the dictionary, you would most likely find Eugenie’s picture.

Merry was happy enough to help Eugenie change the subject. The story of a parentless child left to the mercies of self-absorbed people struck a little close to home, and it couldn’t be comfortable for Hannah either. Merry reached into her bag and pulled out the tissue-wrapped shawl she’d brought. This project had been the one bright spot in the past two weeks. She couldn’t wait to see Hannah’s reaction.

Everyone had something to place on the table. Eugenie’s thick, dark green wool looked warm enough to take on a subarctic trip. Camille had worked beads into the lustrous silk of her ruby shawl. Esther’s chenille piece shimmered with deep jewel tones. Ruthie’s was a vibrant cobalt blue shot
through with a silver metallic yarn. And Hannah’s dull green wool was once again so tightly knit that Merry had to wonder whether it would give enough to wrap around the girl’s shoulders.

“That’s very nice, Hannah,” Ruthie said with her usual kindness. “You finished that very quickly for a beginner.”

Hannah had completed the shawl at an unusually fast pace, Merry realized. The girl must have knit every spare moment to finish on time.

“Here’s mine.” Merry spread hers out on the table before her, her eyes fixed on Hannah’s face to see the girl’s reaction. She wondered if Hannah would recognize an apology when she saw it. “It’s for you, Hannah.” She slid the honey-brown shawl toward the girl. Hannah sat transfixed, showing no emotion. Her expression made Merry even gladder that she’d secretly bought the yarn Hannah had admired. It made those long hours of knitting over the last two weeks well worth the trouble.

“You-shouldn’t-have,” Hannah said, all the words crammed together in a low monotone. Clearly she was so stunned by Merry’s generosity that she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I enjoyed making it for you,” Merry said. “I know you really liked the yarn.” And then Merry took a second look at the girl and realized that Hannah wasn’t pleased at all. Thin lines radiated out from the girl’s mouth. Her slumping
shoulders seemed lower than usual, and she wouldn’t look Merry in the eye.

“This is lovely, Merry.” Ruthie jumped into the awkward silence. “What stitch is it?”

“Fan and feather. Or my version of it anyway.” She said the words, but they tasted bitter on her tongue. Half of her understood the girl’s response, but the other half struggled with the ingratitude. She was only trying to help. Why couldn’t Hannah see that?

“Very nice.” Eugenie looked at Hannah. “Merry went to a lot of trouble to make this for you.”

“It’s okay, Eugenie. Don’t worry about it.” The last thing she wanted was to get Hannah in trouble with the librarian.

“We just had an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

And then Merry saw the tears that were trying to squeeze out of the corners of Hannah’s kohl-blackened eyes. “Who else has something to show?” Merry asked brightly, turning their attention from the girl. Merry oohed and ahhed over Camille’s project and tried not to look at Hannah anymore.

Once again, by trying to do the right thing, she’d done it all wrong instead.

Eugenie shut her copy of
Pollyanna
and laid it on the tall reference desk in front of her. When the library was quiet, as it had been that morning, she allowed herself to read if all her other tasks had been completed. She reasoned that it never hurt for people to come into the library and see her with a book in hand. She was only setting a good example.

Or so she told herself.

In the last several weeks, she’d struggled to complete her regular duties, turning to the solace of books instead. Hard work had been her motto, her creed, her mantra. Now she struggled to drag herself out of bed each morning, much less reshelve books or help patrons look something up on the Internet.

Paul was to blame, of course. Since that day at the diner, he’d disturbed her daily routine, much less her peace of mind.
Once upon a time she had enjoyed her solitary morning walk down Spring Street, past the church and on to the library, where she entered the building at precisely eight o’clock. Now she found herself taking the long way around, through the town square, stopping at Tallulah’s for a cup of coffee as an excuse for her detour. Tallulah was always glad to see her, but Eugenie knew that the café owner was nobody’s fool.

“You okay, honey?” Tallulah had asked that morning. “You seem out of sorts lately.”

“I’m fine.” Eugenie was a bad liar. She always had been. Except for that one memorable occasion that involved the very cause of her current distress.

Eugenie was beginning to regret choosing
Pollyanna
for the next meeting of the Knit Lit Society. She’d just gotten to the part in the book where the eponymous heroine explained her personal philosophy. The little orphan girl was a determined optimist. Some people would call it finding the silver lining. Pollyanna called it the glad game. Eugenie’s whole life for the past forty years had been a silver lining, a silk purse made from a sow’s ear, the living embodiment of the glad game.

I’m glad I’ve been able to share my love of reading with so many people
.

I’m glad I’ve been independent, able to come and go as I please
.

I’m glad I never had to be a preacher’s wife. I would have been a disaster at it
.

And now Paul was here in Sweetgum, a living, breathing daily reminder of her folly.

How could she be glad about that?

She heard the peculiar sighing sound that the exterior door made when it opened, and she looked up. From her perch, she was a good twenty feet from the library entrance. Late November sunshine backlit the man coming through the door, but Eugenie had no doubt as to his identity. She didn’t need to see his face or the color of his eyes. No, she could tell by the shape of his shoulders, the way he carried himself, the line of his jaw. It was Paul, entering her domain for the first time. Eugenie bristled, like a mother wolf called on to defend her cub from a predator.

“Good morning, Eugenie.” He greeted her as if they were the oldest and best of friends. As he moved closer, she saw the familiar genial smile on his face. He wore a dark trench coat. Between the lapels she caught a glimpse of a shirt and tie—practically formal dress in a town like Sweetgum. How unfair that he looked even better in business attire.