The Shop on Blossom Street Read Free

shut, but I couldn’t stop myself.
    “You’re probably right,” Margaret said with the caustic edge that never failed to appear in our conversations. “Dad couldn’t deny you anything.”
    “The money was my inheritance,” I pointed out. I suppose her share is still accruing profit.
    My sister walked around the shop, eyeing it critically. Considering Margaret’s apparent dislike of me, I don’t know why my relationship with her is so important, but it is. Mom’s health is fragile and she hasn’t adjusted to life without Dad. Soon, I’m afraid, it’ll be only Margaret and me. The thought of not having any family at all terrifies me.
    I’m so grateful not to know what the future holds. I once asked my father why God wouldn’t just let us know what tomorrow would bring. He said that not knowing the future is actually a gift because if we knew, we wouldn’t take responsibility for our own lives, our own happiness. As with so much else in life, my dad was right.
    “What’s your business plan?” Margaret asked.
    “I—I’m starting small.”
    “What about customers?”
    “I’ve paid for an ad in the Yellow Pages.” I didn’t mention that the new phone directory didn’t come out for another two months. No need to hand Margaret any ammunition. I’d distributed flyers in the neighborhood, too, but I didn’t know how effective that would be. I was counting on word of mouth to generate customer interest and, ultimately, sales. Which was something else I didn’t mention.
    My older sister snickered. I’ve always hated that scoffing sound and had to grit my teeth in order to hide my reaction.
    “I’m just getting ready to post a sign for my first knitting class.”
    “Do you seriously think a handmade sign taped in the window is going to draw people into your store?” Margaret demanded. “Parking is a nightmare out there and even when the street’s open again, you can’t expect much traffic through this construction mess.”
    “No, but—”
    “I wish you well, but—”
    “Do you?” I asked, cutting her off. My hands shook as I walked over to the display window and secured my notice for knitting classes.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    I turned to face my sister who, at five foot six, stood a good three inches taller than me. She outweighed me by about twenty pounds, too. Looking at us now, I wonder if anyone would guess we were related and yet when we were small we resembled each other quite a bit.
    “I think you want me to fail,” I said honestly.
    “That isn’t true! I came this morning because…because I’m interested in what you’re doing.” Her chin went up a notch as if she was daring me to challenge her again. “How old are you? Twenty-nine, thirty?”
    “Thirty.”
    “Isn’t it time you cut the apron strings?”
    That was blatantly unfair. “I’m trying to do exactly that. I left Mom’s house and I moved into the apartment upstairs. I’ve started my own business, too, and I’d appreciate your support.”
    She turned her hands over to display her palms. “Do you want me to buy yarn from you? Is that what you want? You know I don’t knit and have no desire to learn. I much prefer to crochet. And—”
    “Just this once,” I said, cutting her off a second time, “couldn’t you think of one nice thing to say?” I waited, silently pleading with her to search inside her heart for at least a token word of encouragement.
    My request seemed to be an overwhelming task for Margaret. She faltered for several seconds. “You have a good eye for color,” she finally said. She gestured toward the display of yarn I’d arranged on the table by the door.
    “Thank you,” I said, hoping to sound gracious. I didn’t mention that I’d used a color wheel to create the display. Hard as it was for Margaret to offer me praise, I certainly wasn’t going to give her an opportunity to withdraw it.
    Had we been closer, I would’ve told her the real reason I’d decided to open a