“Hi there. Did you want me to get you the rundown on the employee United Way campaign you’ll be heading up next month?”
He bit back a groan. “Can it wait? I barely survived the compliance meeting.”
The older woman smiled sympathetically. “Those really are terrible, aren’t they?”
He shook his head, still a bit numb from sitting for so long. “Terrible. I need to do something outside this building.”
“I don’t suppose you need to visit the Knit Nook?” she asked hopefully. “Char’s holding some variegated sock yarn for me to pick up.”
Did heneedto visit the Knit Nook? No. But at the same time, yes. A resounding yes.
“I haven’t seen how their new space is shaping up,” he said slowly.
“Perfect!” Darla turned to exit, then pivoted back immediately, a thoughtful look on her face. “You know, the overseas grant managers spend plenty of time in the field, working with people on the funded projects.”
“Oh yeah?” He paused in the act of shrugging on his jacket. The tie could stay in the drawer.
“It seems to me that you can justify spending this afternoon with Char’s people.” She raised her brows. “In fact, when she called this morning to tell me my order was ready, she said they had a huge stash of yarn that needed to be boxed and organized for shipping. They could probably use some help.”
The first real smile of the day touched his lips. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“Just doing my job,” she replied before she bustled out of the office.
He was breathing a little easier by the time he reached his car in the parking garage, but he still cranked his windows down to let the brisk autumn air rush in as he drove toward the converted downtown warehouse where Char had set up her yarn shop. The nearest on-street parking he could find was two blocks over, and he took his time walking to the entrance, enjoying the sun on his face and the business of the street. He passed a coffeehouse, an arcade, and a CrossFit gym, all buzzing with customers. Beaucoeur had grown in the decade he’d been gone, and he was excited to help it develop in sustainable ways.
When he pushed open the door to the Knit Nook, Char gave a happy shout and hustled around the counter to pull him into a soft, squishy hug.
“Our hero!” she cheered. “Look what you made possible!”
Ignoring his protests that the advisory board had been the ones to make the decision, she proudly swept her arm out to show off the dozens of display cases with yarn and supplies and pattern books along the old brick walls. A cluster of people in comfortable armchairs were knitting and chatting, and in the center of the space, eight women were turning puffy mounds of yellow-white wool into strands of yarn using complicated-looking spinning machines that they operated with their feet.
She introduced them one by one, and although she gave their names and not their circumstances, Leo knew that each of them had struggled with poverty, unemployment, and unsafe living situations before Char had put them to work making hand-spun, small-batch yarn that she sold online to crafters around the country. Others she tasked with knitting sweaters, scarves, hats, and afghans. She sold some of them on Etsy, and others she donated to shelters that needed supplies. Any profits she made were funneled back into the shop so it could serve more people in need of work, a purpose, a community.
“This all looks incredible.” He spun on his heel to take it all in again. “Darla tells me you might need some help with a yarn shipment?”
The tall woman flipped her graying braid over her shoulder. “If you have the time, yes. We’ve been finishing up a huge order that came in last week, and we’re behind.”
“Point the way,” he said. And he spent the next hour getting a crash course in all things fiber: weights and colors and dye lots. He now knew what both variegatedandsock meant when it came to yarn, and he quickly mastered wrapping each skein in a label, stamping it with the dye lot number, and boxing it for shipment while the women in the shop kept their spinning wheels turning.
When he’d finished packing the boxes, Char pointed him to a stash of worsted weight yarn—look at him using the lingo—that needed to be shelved for sale. As he piled the soft skeins into the square shelves, he learned the soothing magic of rainbow-colored sorting.
When there was no merchandise left for him to arrange, he returned to the counter. “What else have you got for me?”
Char cast him a sly look. “Do you want to try?” She gestured to the spinning machines.
Leo immediately held up his hands. “Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t want to ruin your merchandise.”
But the women laughingly encouraged him, and he started to weaken. A new skill, something to occupy his hands…
“Let’s do it,” he said, rolling up his sleeves.
Char grabbed an extra stool for him, and he watched intently as one by one each woman demonstrated her technique for feeding the raw wool into the spinning wheel. He guessed the youngest in the group to be in her twenties, a painfully thin woman with mousy-brown hair and blotchy skin. Her fingers were a blur as she plucked and spun and twisted. When the woman with the salt-and-pepper bob took her turn at showing him the ropes, her movements were slower and more deliberate as she pinched and slid the wool while working the treadle. Each woman had a slightly different technique, but they all had the same basic motions at the heart of their work.
After observing all of them, he was ready to try, and the young woman stood to let him take her place. His motions were tentative as he did his best to copy their steps, and they all laughed gently when his first efforts emerged lumpy.
“No, mijo. Mírame,” the oldest woman in the group commanded, and he immediately straightened. His DNA was coded to respect abuelitas the world over, and he concentrated on the woman’s fingers, the knuckles swollen and knobby with arthritis, as she dipped and twisted the wool to produce a perfect strand of yarn. He painstakingly attempted to re-create her motions, his tongue caught between his teeth as he struggled to maintain a steady speed and tension.
By the end of the hour, he’d managed to produce a few measly yards of almost passable yarn, and Char held it up for display the way you’d present a favorite toddler’s crayon drawing. The women all cheered, and he experienced a spurt of pride at havingdonethat.
