Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(106)
My lack of melancholy was why I’d ended the video call with my knitting group early. They’d conferenced me in—both Ashley in Tennessee and me in Boston—and I’d been having a good time. But then I felt badly about having a good time. So after finalizing the details for the group’s upcoming visit to Boston, we’d ended the call.
Hearing the front door open then close, I jumped to my feet. First, I stopped by the fridge to pull out the dinner for Dan’s mom. I then placed it in the microwave and set it to reheat. Checking once more that everything was in order, I left the kitchen to meet her.
She looked tired, but seemed to perk up as soon as she saw me. “Kat. You didn’t need to wait up.”
Eleanor opened her arms; I stepped forward to accept a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Did you eat? There’s dinner.”
“You’re not supposed to make dinner.” Eleanor made a face, but mostly smiled. She’d said the same thing the last three times I’d waited up and had dinner ready for her. She was right, I wasn’t supposed to be cooking or cleaning, but being waited on and doing nothing made me feel useless. Also, so far, she seemed to enjoy both the food and the company.
Also, technically, I hadn’t made it.
“It’s the delivery that Uncle Eugene arranged. I promise, I wasn’t cooking.”
“Okay, good. Sit with me and tell me about your day.” She left her stuff on the console table by the front door and we walked to the kitchen together. “Did you finish your shawl?”
“Almost. I just need to weave in the ends. I’ll show it to you.” I’d left my knitting bag on the kitchen table so I could show her the finished piece as soon as she got home. She didn’t knit, but appeared to admire my works in progress. “How was work?”
Eleanor sat at the place I’d set for her and told me about her day while I retrieved her food and grabbed new ice for her water. I settled in across from her, hiding away most of my mess in my knitting bag and picking up the shawl I’d just finished. Using my darning needle, I wove the ends of the yarn along the sides.
As I listened to her, it was clear she was especially tired. I stood, crossed to the counter, and turned on the electric kettle as she neared the end of her meal; I knew she liked tea before bedtime.
I pulled down teacups, located the chamomile tea bags, and placed the bags in her old blue willow teapot. She’d told me earlier in the week that it was her grandmother’s. The antique had a small chip at the spout and the handle for the lid had been glued on repeatedly, but Eleanor believed it was important to use heirlooms, even fine china, as much as possible.
“A thing has no value except through use and the accumulation of memories from its use,” she’d said. “What good would it do to leave such a thing in the china cabinet collecting dust? What value would it have? I remember my grandmother and my mother every time I use this teapot, and I use it with my children, so they’ll remember me.”
At present, she was silent, sipping the last of her water and watching me as I moved around the kitchen. I sent her a small smile, which she returned with genuine warmth, but then her features turned thoughtful.
“How—” she started, stopped, sighed, and then started again. “Let me first say, I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed having you and Dan this past week, despite the sad circumstances that brought you here.”
“Thank you. I can’t thank you enough for opening your home to me.”
She waved away my gratitude. “This is your home now, too. I know you’re going through a tough time.” She stopped again, openly examining me. “Tell me, how are you doing? With the loss of your father?”
“I didn’t know my father very well,” I hedged, an acute spike of shame flaring within me.
Still examining me, she leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “Forgive me, but I’m not so good at dancing around things, being polite for the sake of politeness, especially when things need saying. So, Kathleen,” she waited until I met her eyes before continuing, “I’m just guessing here, but it seems like you’re experiencing some guilt about not feeling grief—or, a lot of grief—that he’s gone.”
I gathered a deep breath and passed her a teacup, exhaling an excess of pent up self-recrimination. “Yes. I should be devastated. I should be inconsolable. Right?”
“Not necessarily. Your father has been sick for a long time, slipping away little by little. Sometimes you mourn a person before they die, so that when they pass, you’ve already made your peace with it. I see that kind of thing all the time with families in the ICU.”