The Yarn Spinner Read online

  “Have you ever done any knitting?” I asked. “Or crochet?”

  “No, but I admired women at my father’s church who made baby blankets,” the voice from the quilts said. “About the other night, I apologize.”

  “Well, you should. No fine china, no linens, and your table manners were terrible. I’m having your Maple Belle Etiquette Course certificate revoked.”

  Silence from the quilts.

  “I’m joking,” I said gently.

  “May I call you Cathy?”

  “No, you have to call me ‘Ms. Mitternich, the famous actress and biscuit liaison.’”

  The quilts shifted. Her pale, moon-doll face appeared. Her eyes were sky blue. “How do you do it? How can you still be . . . you? You didn’t get lost like me.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not special. I had help. I found a home here. People who love me the way I am. You’ll find that, too.”

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Start small. Very, very small.” I went to the mounds of caged wool. Tearing a small opening in one plastic bag, I pulled a tuft free, carried it to her, and held it where she could see through her quilt tunnel. “You picked this room because of the wool, I think. Maybe it was sub-conscious? Comfort. Texture. Warmth?”

  I watched her thoughts churn and furrow. “I don’t know. But this is where I want to stay. Where I feel safe.” She slid a hand out. I laid the tuft on it. She rubbed the delicate fibers between her fingertips. “It’s still alive,” she whispered. “It talks to me.” Her gaze rushed to mine, suddenly agitated. “Wool doesn’t talk. That makes no sense. I am crazy.”

  “Lucy, you’ve come to the Crossroads Cove, in the Ten Sisters Mountains, at the Rainbow Goddess Farm. Up here in these highlands, people talk to ghosts, to spirits, to Jesus, to themselves, to . . . haints and banshees and elves and ET’s and the wind off the weed they smoke. If you talk to wool and the wool talks back, you’ll fit right in. Believe me.”

  “Wool does not talk!” She dropped the wool on her quilt and brushed an errant strand off her finger as if it were soaked in poison.

  I gestured toward the door. “Out there, waiting to be moved in with your approval, is a spinning wheel and all the accessories you need to turn this room full of wool into yarn. I’ve ordered some how-to books for you, and we’ll set up a laptop so you can get on the Internet and look at video tutorials. Do you at least want to try?”

  She froze. TMI. Too many implications. Not a sound, not a flicker of an eyelash. I watched sweat bead on her pale-moon brow. Back away. Slowly.

  “You think about it, Lucy, and I’ll come back tomorrow.” I retrieved my satchel from the floor beside my blue-jeaned legs. “I brought you a drop spindle. You can spin yarn by hand with it. You don’t even have to get out of bed.” I placed the spindle and an instruction pamphlet on her nightstand; it was a wooden rod with a disc on it and a small hook on one end.

  Slowly, Lucy sank back inside the quilt, pulling it almost completely over her face again. “Wool doesn’t talk,” she repeated in a stark whisper.

  I better get Macy. She’s going down a rabbit hole.

  I was reaching for the door knob when Lucy said hoarsely, “If I’m not hallucinating from medication, or losing my mind, and I can now talk to wool . . . and you think that’s . . . an acceptable illusion around here . . . do you want to know what the wool told me as it left your fingers?”

  I turned slowly. The hair rose on the back of my neck. I’m not sure. My own psychic intuitions hadn’t always been pleasant. I’d seen foreshadowings of my dad’s death, and of my own car accident. On the other hand, because of a premonition, I’d saved Tom’s life one night. “I’m listening,” I said.

  She peeled the quilt back from her face and looked at me with a bewildering mix of uncertainty and wonder. “Twins,” she said. “And this time, you won’t miscarry.”

  Eight months later

  I COULD MAKE up stories that went well with the Cove traditions for tall tales and woo-woo wisdom: how I gave birth to Ned and Ben at Grandma Nettie’s Craftsman cottage up on Wild Woman Ridge with Delta feeding me biscuits and gravy while Alberta acted as midwife and Tom coached; and the Rainbow Goddess women chanted and Banger ate everyone’s makeup kits; that our teenage daughters, Ivy and Cora, cut the fraternal twins’ umbilical cords and held up their baby brothers to the July moon; that because the boys were born on the fourth of July, the fireworks at the Jefferson County High School football field just happened to coincide with their birth.

  But the truth was this: at thirty-four, with a history of several miscarriages plus being the proud incubator of two large babies, I went to Asheville and had a Caesarean. I was awake, watching Tom’s face for reassurance as he tried to look calm while alternating between Upper Me and Lower Me, while holding my hand.

  We’d agreed that the first son to reach daylight would be Ned; the second, Ben. The obstetrician wore a cap with Dazzle the Dragon Rider on the front of it. I voiced Dazzle’s character in a feature-length cartoon. When she laid Ned on my chest, Tom and I whispered to him and spoke his name and cried happy tears. The doc looked at me over her mask hopefully. I said in Dazzle’s twee Scottish accent, “Oh, fah, he’s a wee dragon now, fah le lah, but ’twill grow unto his mighty roooaaaar.”

  When Ben arrived, it was only right that I say the line again.

  Acting. Childbirth is a stage, and all the babies are merely players.

  In my hospital room full of flowers and cards, with Ivy and Cora sitting nearby in rockers, each with a baby brother in her arms, and Tom sitting beside me stroking my hair, I felt more at peace than I’d ever thought possible. Delta tiptoed in. “Pike and me are heading back to the hinterlands for the night. But I promised I’d deliver a gift to y’all. Something special.”

  She laid a soft package on my lap, wrapped in blue tissue paper. A notecard on top was addressed to: Ms. Mitternich, the famous actress and biscuit liaison.

  I opened it and read,

  I don’t know what to call this gift I’ve been given, but I’m thankful for it, because it helped you.

  I have a long way to go. I like my wool burrito, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to leave it for long. I have good days and bad days, you know that. But because of you I’m holding onto a long lifeline that includes Delta and Macy and Alberta and everyone else at the farm—also the woolies, as I call them—they’re my partners, after all, and since we live together in the barn they often gather on my door stoop to visit me. They seem to believe I’m one of them. I like that. Being hidden in the herd.

  Perhaps I’m meant to stay right here from now on, quietly spinning life into yarn that becomes blankets and scarfs and mittens and hats—coverings, protections. Burritos. I promise you I’ll keep listening to the wool. It doesn’t really talk, but . . . it is the messenger. I have little cracks in my heart where open doors used to be, but something special happens when I touch the soft, gentle fibers that my woolies give from their bodies.

  Each hair is fragile. But twist them together? Strong. I feel safe, for just a second. That’s when the messages slip through.

  When hope is offered, hope responds. You brought me hope. My heart gave you some in return. Here is what it looks like.

  —Lucy

  Tom and I unwrapped the gift. Baby blankets made of yarn Lucy had spun.

  Delta smiled and gave me a thumbs up. “Now it’s just a matter of time,” she said. “I’ve already picked out the man for her.”

  She left in a cloud of satisfaction and the sweet buttered scent of mystery.

  (Please continue reading for more information about Deborah Smith and a knitting pattern created especially for The Yarn Spinner)

  Lucy’s First Baby Blankets

  The pattern below was designed especially for THE YARN SPINNER by Erica Dwyer of Hampd
en Hills Alpacas in Western Massachusetts. When you picture Ned and Ben Mitternich swaddled in the blankets that Lucy made by hand during her first year at Rainbow Goddess Farm, imagine the boys snuggled happily among the soft cable pattern and the nubbled edges made by the seed stitches.

  Many thanks to Erica for contributing her skill, her art, and her gorgeous Creé-Ah’s Breath alpaca yarn (a cria is a baby alpaca) which is hand-painted at Erica’s farm.

  “Baby Cable” Baby Blanket

  This simple cable baby blanket is great for anyone looking to move up from very basic knitting patterns. Edged with a seed stich, the body is so snuggly looking with small cables all over. Want to learn to do cables? This blanket will give you lots of practice. Made of 100% baby alpaca, it’s sure to keep a baby cozy and warm.

  Materials:

  4 skeins Artisan Yarns from Hampden Hills Alpacas Creé-Ah’s Breath 100% baby alpaca yarn. Pictured color is Avocado. Available at artisanyarns.biz

  Size US 8 24” or longer circular needle (Used as straight needles)

  Cable needle

  Stitch markers

  Darning needle to weave in ends

  GAUGE: 26 stitches = 4” in cable pattern – however, it’s a blanket, and gauge is not that critical.

  Pattern:

  Cast on 200 stitches. Do not join if using circular needles, blanket is worked back and forth using straight needles.

  Row 1: Knit 1, Purl 1 to end

  Row 2: Purl 1, Knit 1 to end

  Repeat these 2 rows 4 more times (Seed Stitch) You should have 10 rows.

  Begin Baby Cable Section

  Baby Cable Pattern:

  (Stitch pattern in multiple of 6 stitches)

  **Each row begins and ends with 10 stitches of Seed Stitch. (Knit 1, Purl 1 for 10 stitches)**

  Row 1 (right side): Knit

  Row 2 & every even row: Purl

  Row 3: *K2, cable 4 back; rep from * to end

  Row 5: Knit

  Row 7: *Cable 4 front, K2; rep from * to end

  Row 8: Repeat Row 2

  Repeat these 8 rows.

  Seed Stitch: Knit 1, Purl 1 across row. Next row, knit your purls and purl your knits. (So next row would be Purl 1, Knit 1)

  Key:

  Cable 4 back – slip next 2 stitches to cable needle, hold cable needle in BACK of work, knit next 2 stitches, knit 2 stitches from cable needle

  Cable 4 front – slip next 2 stitches to cable needle, hold cable needle in FRONT of work, knit next 2 stitches, knit 2 stitches from cable needle

  (See below for pictures)

  About Deborah Smith

  Deborah Smith is the author of more than thirty-five novels in romance and women’s fiction, including the New York Times bestseller, A PLACE TO CALL HOME, and the Wall Street Journal bestseller, THE CROSSROADS CAFÉ. She is also a founding partner and editor in chief of Bell Bridge Books, a Memphis-based publishing company known for quality fiction by new and established authors. THE YARN SPINNER is a lead-in to THE KITCHEN CHARMER, Book 3 of THE CROSSROADS CAFÉ NOVELLAS, coming in Winter 2014. Book 1 is THE BISCUIT WITCH and Book 2 is THE PICKLE QUEEN. All are available in print and ebook at all online bookstores.

  Learn more about Deborah’s books at bellbridgebooks.com