What Family Means Read Free Page B

to go. Vi needs me. But let me say this.” I looked at Shirley.
    “I’m a fiber artist. I knit, I weave, I create. I do things for my family every day. Why take time to agonize about the past? I don’t want to miss a minute of today. Anyway, I thought scrapbooking was to celebrate the joy of life.”
    Shirley didn’t buy it.
    “There are many ways to celebrate life and our families,” she said. “But scrapbooking gives your children a history to draw from.”
    She was the most vocal of our group, which I’d started almost a dozen years ago. Not one local election passed that Shirley wasn’t involved in, and she took up what, in my opinion, were some pretty odd causes. However, I had no argument with that as long as I wasn’t one of them.
    I swallowed a sigh.
    “I do celebrate my family, Shirley. We have great dinners whenever we can, usually on Sundays. Angie just moved back to town. Blair and Stella are finally talking babies, and Brian is successful.”
    I didn’t mention that Will was angry at me for being too involved with the kids. Nor did I bring up my suspicion that Angie had come home to Buffalo to distance herself from her husband. That I thought Blair and Stella were approaching their attempt to start a family more like purchasing a new car. Or that I worried that Brian was too driven in his architectural career to ever find a soul mate, much less have a family.
    “Deb, you’ve got to admit that none of us have had to fight for our husbands or family like you.”
    Shirley referred to the fact that I’m white and Will is black. It’s not as big a deal today. When we first metover fifty years ago, it was more than a big deal. It was a showstopper as far as relationships and marriages were concerned.
    I pulled out my car keys.
    “Of course we had some hard times,” I said. “But at least I’ve known Will since we were both kids. He’s been a part of my life forever. Not many spouses can claim that.”
    I didn’t want to examine the volcano of emotions that threatened to erupt at just the idea of looking back at our past. Our present was the best yet for Will and me. I didn’t want to mess with it.
    I wouldn’t mess with it.
    “Come on, Debra, it couldn’t have been easy back in the sixties and seventies.”
    No, but Paris made it all possible.
    I acknowledged the errant thought but didn’t share it with my friends. It was too private. Paris was the time in our lives that sustained Will and me through the storms that awaited us.
    “No, it was never easy. But my kids have grown up in as normal a world as I could hope for. None of them seem to have suffered. In any event, I see no point in putting myself through any of those emotions again.”
    Shirley shook her head and picked up her knitting.
    “I hear you, Deb, but I still think you’d gain a lot out of recording your life for your kids and your future grandkids.”
    I smiled.
    “You may be right.” I shrugged into my coat and offered my best smile to the group. “See you next week. Call me if anything really stumps you.”
    They often asked me for help with their knitting, since I was the only professional knitter in the group.
    I loved them because we shared so much more than knitting. But this morning the sharing cut too close….
    These women were special to me because they loved me for me. They knew I was a “famous” fiber artist but accepted me as one of them. A woman with a family she’d fight to the death for.
    The wind that greeted me as I exited the coffee shop was chillier than it’d been a half hour earlier. I looked up at the steel-gray clouds that seemed close enough to touch.
    “More darn snow,” I mumbled to myself. Mentally I went down my to-do list: check on Violet, then spend the rest of the day in my studio preparing for my upcoming art exhibition.
    I had just fastened my seat belt, hand poised to turn on the car stereo so I could listen to my favorite sixties station, when my phone buzzed again. Panic