Part Three
Mid-morning – Early Evening Rhapsody Knits
Martha Kent pushed gently on the heavy wooden and glass door of the store. As she stepped inside, the delicate sound of tiny bells chiming and the insistent ticking of an old wall clock reached her ears. <How lovely!> she thought as the last emanations of the bells faded away. Not only did the entry bell quaint bring back memories of a simpler time, but the yarn shop itself was a sweet mixture of past and present.
To the right were several tall, carefully marked large shelves filled with colorful yarns of every possible weight and description. Cashmere blends for sweaters and socks, bamboo DK weight yarn for snuggly baby items and thick alpaca for hats and garments of all types. Perched on top of each black wall unit were body forms displaying elegantly knitted or crocheted sweaters, shrugs and shawls. Martha eyes flitted, from one perfectly created item to another. Her fingers began to twitch, eagerly ready to begin a new project. Being an experienced welder, she had coaxed life into cold inflexible metal, but to have a pair of hand carved bamboo needles in her hand and feel skeins of yarn become a lush comforting bed throw or warm garment – such creations demanded real skill!
Martha was so enamored with the beauty of the place that she did not see or hear anyone.
“May I help you, my name is Grace Chen?” an elegant middle-aged Asian woman said, approaching her.
Slightly startled, yet quickly regaining her composure, Martha answered, “Yes. Do you have any yarn suitable for knitting a bulky sweater coat?”
“Which color did you have in mind?”
“A variegated wool yarn, heavy cream with touches of red or burgundy. I want something that will work with much of my wardrobe. This sweater will be worn in a barn as well as in the classroom!” Martha said, her eyes twinkling in delight.
Grace nodded. “Perhaps Peruvian yarn might do the trick. Please come with me.”
The two women walked over to a high black shelf with several nooks each filled with yarns from Peru. Grace worked with her examining the various yarns and shades of cream and red. As they did so, more customers entered the shop and were helped by Grace’s assistants. Martha was duly impressed by the shop owner’s smooth efficiency. This was much better than the shop she frequented in Smallville. The aged, dilapidated and disorganized store was run by a crusty old woman, more interested in foolish gossip than helping her customers unearth the items they needed.
Working with Grace Chen was a welcome change and sheer joy. It was almost like going shopping with an old friend, wise in the ways of the knitter’s craft. Shortly they found exactly the color and amount required for the pattern.
“This will work perfectly. I better take one skein extra just in case, especially since I live in Kansas. Thank you so much, Mrs. Chen.”
“You are most welcome! But you need not worry. We can easily ship additional yarns or tools to you - Mrs.?”
“Kent. Martha Kent,” she responded.
Grace’s mouth formed a small smile. “You would not be related to the Daily Planet reporter, Clark Kent?” she asked.
Martha’s face beamed with a mother's pride. “Yes, he is my son. His father and I are here helping him prepare for his wedding to…”
“Lois Lane! Michael’s niece!” Grace said.
Martha laughed. “Exactly! Clark had told me about the article he had written on Rhapsody Knits. I should have mentioned it when I first entered your shop. But there were so many exquisite yarns, patterns and tools here that cannot be purchased in Smallville I completely forgot all about that.”
“Thanks to your son’s writing such a compassionate article, a number of crafters in yarn guilds stepped up to create warm hats and gloves for cancer victims. Please tell him hello for me.”
“I will indeed! There is so much to do with less than two weeks before the wedding, but I have been itching to take a peek inside Rhapsody Knits, and now that I have this yarn it will knit up beautifully. Clark will hear about this tonight over dinner. Speaking of which, I need to get a move on if I’m going to make a decent meal for my husband and Clark.”
Grace laughed as she rang up and packaged the yarn. “If your cooking is *half* as good as Clark’s writing, dinner will be delicious!”
Martha thanked Grace again, gathered her purchases and with a last look around reluctantly exited the yarn shop.
***
After Martha Kent’s departure, Grace assisted a steady stream of customers, some demanding, some pleasant and a few nervously approaching the art of knitting for the first time. It was a typically busy yet profitable day at the well-known Metropolis establishment. In between helping customers and directing her small staff, Grace sat behind the cashier desk and worked industriously at her computer and on Mike’s sock. The navy blue merino wool and silk blend felt warm and reassuring under her skilled fingers. Inevitably as with all her projects she thought about the person who would eventually wear the article of clothing. <He is a most pleasant man, very gentle and loving, the kind who will stand by your side no matter what may come. Ah, if only he would open the door of his heart and bid me inside. There must be a reason for his reluctance.> She put the partially completed sock down and thought with a pang of sadness. <But perhaps I *do* know what obstacles stand in his path, yet am too afraid to give them a voice?> She continued to muse about her friend for the course of the day. Conversations they had shared in the past convinced her that he felt loneliness like the rustle of dead leaves in the wind - a sad empty feeling she knew all too well.
She remembered one instance in particular where he complained bitterly that Lois would end up an old maid with a display case full of prestigious but dusty old awards - yet no one to love - if she did not leave the newsroom every once in a while and have a real life.
A tiny smile tugged at her lips, <Perhaps he should follow his own advice and get out of that restaurant ‘every once in a while’ himself. It seems the Lanes are a family driven to be the best in their chosen fields. But not long after that conversation Lois began working with a mild-mannered young man named Clark Kent and the rest, as they say, is history.>
She sighed. <Sooner or later I have to decide whether to wait for him to make the first move or move in a different direction.> Looking down at her handiwork a decision bloomed in her mind. <Perhaps these socks will force a tiny wedge into his heart and we can begin to be more than friends?>
***
A few hours later Grace watched the door close behind her last customer of the day, a young woman anxious to recreate a complex shawl from her Grandmother’s old Icelandic pattern. They had worked hard to find the proper materials and tools to duplicate the pattern just as she had remembered its appearance to her as a child. It was an exacting task, but seeing the happy expression on the customer’s face when the correct materials had been assembled was reward enough for Grace.
Now with practiced ease she began the routine of closing the shop for the evening. First, she and her staff restored all the misplaced skeins of yarn and backfilled any sparse stock. The floors and shelves were carefully swept and dusted and all the display items were brushed for lint. The cashier was emptied and locked and the black and gold bank bag readied for its nightly drop.
“Michelle, Christine, you can leave. I will make the drop tonight,” Grace said.
“It is getting dark. Shouldn’t we do that together?” Michelle asked with concern.
“Oh, I should be fine! Look at that dinner crowd over at the Café Americana. Too many people milling around on the street, especially near the bank. Both of you go home. See you tomorrow morning!” She hugged both women and sent them out the door.
She locked the front door behind them and turned over the ‘Closed for business’ sign. Lights in the large display window shone down onto numerous paraphernalia of the knitter’s craft.
Just before turning off the display lights she stood at the door of the shop gazing across the darkening busy street and saw Mike Lane greeting customers entering Café Americana for their evening respite. Leaning against the doorway Grace watched him for a time, her thoughts considering the friendly energetic man once more.
Many was the morning she would see him standing just outside the restaurant greeting customers and looking after people having their breakfast in the bright, morning sunshine rather than inside. They had gotten into a comfortable morning routine, she picking up her usual order and pretending not to notice he had been outside waiting for her to appear he pretending Grace was just another customer. Yet there was a tug of happiness, a string of joy which seemed to grow tighter as time passed and their friendship deepened. Mike was always catering her artisan events and she was a sounding board for incidents happening at the restaurant.
Theirs was a sweet, comfortable friendship, a place to come into after the storms of the day, yet Grace’s heart yearned for more. She was going to be fifty-five next month. Her children were grown and off on their own adventuresome lives. Her late husband Jeffrey had been an excellent provider, good father and considerate husband, but their marriage had been more of a friendly business liaison punctuated by affection. After his death, Grace had sold their landscaping business and with single-minded purpose turned her love of the knitting craft into the comforting new reality that was Rhapsody Knits. For several years she endured widowhood with its expected loneliness. After her own brush with cancer she needed - no wanted to take on a new adventure, one of the scariest of all – falling in love.
The gentle chime of the wall clock reminded Grace of the time. She gathered up bank bag and handbag, stepped outside, locked the heavy wooden and glass door and made her way down the street towards the bank.
“Good-night, Grace!” Mike shouted from his customary post.
“Good night, Michael!” She called back. A curious trill of contentment went through her being when she caught sight of him. With a happy smile playing on her lips, she walked on, satisfied at the end of a busy day.
