But Knot for Me

Chapter One

It was Thursday morning, and the clock was ticking down to the arrival of my retreat group. I’d put on enough of these events to have a routine down. But just because I had a routine down didn’t mean the retreats were the same. If there was one thing I’d learned, it was that each one was unique and full of surprises—not always good, either. For now, the six women and one man were just names on a list, but who knew what secrets would be revealed by the time they went home.

On the surface, it seemed like they were all coming for a weekend of yarn craft in a place that felt like a world away from their everyday lives, but there was always more to it.

It was hard to imagine that not too long ago, I hadn’t known the difference between knitting and crochet. Now I knew far more than that one craft used needles and one a hook, and I had the finished projects to prove it. I had a certain sense of pride as I pinned on a red crocheted flower to the black sweater I wore over a pair of jeans.

My Aunt Joan would be proud, though the thought of her made my eyes well up. I pushed back the tears—they weren’t me. She’d been the one to make an offer I couldn’t refuse when I’d gotten to a dead end. It was either move back with my parents in their Chicago high-rise apartment with a view of Lake Michigan or come to Cadbury by the Sea and live in my aunt’s guesthouse.

Who wants to move back with their parents, who both happen to be doctors, when they’re in their thirties with a history of trying a bunch of professions that for one reason or another hadn’t stuck? I admit I’d given up on teaching elementary school pretty quickly. Law school had ended after one semester and that had been my choice. But leaving the job making the desserts at the bistro hadn’t been my choice. I’d loved the work, but the place had gone out of business. The temp jobs, well, the name said it all. It was a week here, working in a department store giving out samples of cologne, a few days there of handing out samples of a new gum on a street corner in Chicago, and two weeks with the job that I would have definitely stayed at. Working at the PI agency didn’t even feel like work, but the boss, Frank Shaw, couldn’t afford to keep me on. It might not have felt like work, but I couldn’t afford to be a volunteer.

My aunt had helped me turn my talents as a dessert maker into a livelihood. I’d become the dessert chef for the Blue Door restaurant and the freelance muffin maker for the coffee spots in town.

The yarn retreat business had been my aunt’s, but when she died shortly after I moved to Cadbury, her business, house and everything in it had passed to me. I’d discovered her death was murder and tracked down the guilty party. It had given me a little peace of mind and shown me that I had a talent for investigating that I’d put to good use since.

Much as I settled into life in Cadbury, there was still something niggling in the back of my mind. Would it last, or would I suddenly decide to take up my mother’s offer for cooking school in Paris or detective classes in Los Angeles, or something else.

Not that I was thinking about leaving just then. It was more like a possibility or option in the back of my mind. At the moment it wasn’t an issue—all my thoughts were on the long weekend ahead. I always went to the host site the morning of to bring over the tote bags I had made up for my people and to do a last-minute check.

I laughed at myself for calling it the host site as I gathered up the bin on wheels and went outside. Host site sounded so sterile and like a place with a lot of vending machines. At Vista Del Mar the only coin-operated things were the old-fashioned coin phones.

I always checked the sky when I went outside, and no surprise, any hint of blue was blocked by an even layer of clouds. As for the sun—I was sure it was up there somewhere. It was usually like that here on the tip of the Monterey Peninsula, making it always coffee weather, which was good for my muffin business. There was barely a hint that it was May, other than the length of the days and that even with all the clouds, the rainy season was over.

My house was on the edge of Cadbury, and it was more rustic than the places with neat lawns in town. Here the homes were small and cottage-like and most people either had ivy or native plants in place of a lawn. Native plants was the new way of saying weeds.

I didn’t have far to travel—Vista Del Mar was literally across the street. As soon as I passed the stone pillars that marked the entrance to the driveway, the view changed. My street was rustic, but this was wild. Lanky Monterey pines stood guard with the spaces in between filled with dry golden undergrowth. The story was that if a tree died and fell over, it was left to decompose on the spot, and it was supposed to be true if some of the wildlife met their maker as well. Ever since I’d heard that, I’d kept my eyes on the driveway as I walked in.

The hotel and conference center had started out as a women’s camp over a hundred years ago. The original buildings were all dark weathered wood with stone accents and were scattered over the sloping one hundred or so acres. The trees and dry grasses turned into a strip of sand dunes and beyond that lay the beach. I zipped up my jacket as the constant breeze carried a chill. The air had a hint of a salt smell, but the pungent scent of woodsmoke from fireplaces going in all the buildings predominated.

It was the perfect spot to get away from it all. Once you crossed those gates, the present world faded into the background. The definition of a retreat was withdrawing to a secluded space for prayer, meditation or instruction under a leader and Vista Del Mar was certainly the place for that.

The grounds were quiet at the moment. It was still too early for any guests to be checking in. The driveway forked off into a small parking lot and went on either side of the main building, which was called Lodge. It functioned as a combination hotel lobby and social gathering spot. It was built in the Arts and Crafts style, as were the other buildings, with a lot of dark wood and stone. An unmarked truck was parked next to the entrance. I walked around the men unloading stuff and went in through the open door.

There was a cavernous feeling to the large inner space thanks to the open construction. At one end of the main room a wooden counter marked the registration area. A door was open to the Cora and Madeleine Delacorte Café, which had recently been added, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted toward me. The back of the room was set up with table tennis and pool along with shelves of board games. The door to the gift shop in the corner was still closed.

In between there were tables and hard-back chairs and a main seating area with couches and comfortable chairs arranged around a massive fireplace that had a fire set waiting to be lit. I pulled the wheeled bin up to one of the tables I planned to use to check in my people. I grabbed a couple of chairs and arranged the tote bags on them. I was just setting out a clipboard when a voice echoed through the barnlike space.

What are you doing? Kevin St. John demanded. I followed the sound to the massive wooden counter and saw that he seemed to be glowering at me. He was the manager of Vista Del Mar and as usual seemed overdressed for the rustic surroundings in a dark suit and white shirt.

Was that a rhetorical question? I said. I held up one of the blood-red tote bags with Yarn2Go emblazoned on the front. I’m setting up for my group, like I always do, I added with a shrug.

No, no, he said frantically. His usually placid moon-shaped face suddenly looked as if a storm had just hit. Take all of that out of here. You’re mixed up. Your group is coming next week.

He was still fussing when he came out of the doorway that led to the business area behind the counter and marched to where I was standing.

I don’t think so, I said. I had already pulled out a sheet from one of the folders. The date of the event was written across the top. I held it up for Kevin St. John to see. In my head, I always referred to him by his whole name, though when I actually addressed him, he insisted on being called Mr. St. John. We had a rather adversarial relationship. He didn’t like me putting on retreats at Vista Del Mar, but he also had no choice, so he made it as difficult as possible, probably hoping I’d just give up.

He pulled the sheet out of my hand and began to shake his head. This date is just wrong, then. He turned in a huff and rushed back to the registration area with me close behind. As soon as he saw that I was with him behind the counter, he started to shoo me away then relented. Fine, I’ll let you see for yourself. He went to a computer screen and started scrolling through something. He had a triumphant look as he prepared to point out my error, but then his face froze and he muttered, It can’t be. I took the opportunity to look over his shoulder, and there on the screen it showed the reservations for guest rooms and a meeting room for my group for this weekend.

You have to change it, he said with a gulp. What about moving it to next week, or maybe to another hotel in the area? His eyes flashed panic. You live across the street. Have them stay at your place.

No, no and no, I said. My group is already on their way. They specifically wanted this place this weekend, and you can’t be serious about that last suggestion. Kevin had begun to pace with his hand on his forehead in the traditional worry pose. I’m assuming there’s a problem, I said. Maybe I can help work it out. Just because he always looked for a way to give me a hard time didn’t mean I had to be that way. I really wanted us all to get along.

Yes, Ms. Feldstein, there is a problem, he said, almost spitting out the words in a condescending tone. He had stopped pacing and was glaring at me, obviously dismissing my offer of help. I assume you’ve heard of Jordan. He didn’t pause for me to respond. He’s holding his Find Your Greatness retreat here this weekend. He was specific about having the whole place. They’re taking over everything. They’re arranging all the meals and all the activities. He was silent for a moment to let it sink in.

Yes, I’d heard of Jordan. Who hadn’t? He was the rock star of gurus. No linen pants and tunics for him. He was all about well-fitting jeans, work shirts with a red bandana hanging out of his pocket. His pitch was that he had the secret to being confident and self-reliant, which was a cure for whatever issues anyone had.

I’ll give you a refund with something extra, he offered. The same for your people. His tone had turned to cajoling, but when I shook my head, he went back to snippy. Then I’m just canceling your reservations. The rooms you have reserved had a flood—an act of God. There’s a clause that says we can do that.

I looked at him and rolled my eyes. Really?

His shoulders slumped as he seemed to deflate. We both knew he couldn’t pull something like that. One of the reasons he was so hostile to me was that I had a relationship with the Delacorte family, who were the owners of Vista Del Mar. They had given my aunt a sweetheart deal and it had continued on when I took over her business.

The Delacortes were considered the local royalty and owned lots of property in Cadbury by the Sea, in addition to Vista Del Mar. It had been assumed that Cora and Madeleine Delacorte were the sole heirs of the family fortune. But thanks to my meddling, the love child of their brother was uncovered. No one would have guessed it was the down-to-earth owner of Cadbury Yarn, Gwen Selwyn. She only reluctantly came forward. The Delacorte sisters ended up being glad to have some help with Vista Del Mar even though their new family members preferred to stay in the background. Kevin St. John didn’t share their pleasure. He worried it was more people to interfere with his running of the place.

Cora and Madeleine Delacorte had led very sheltered lives and after finding out about their brother’s secret life and meeting family they didn’t know existed, they reconsidered their lifestyle and decided it was time to spread their wings beyond Cadbury and had gone on an Alaskan cruise.

Now that Kevin St. John had dropped the ridiculous threat, he changed to conciliatory.

You don’t understand, he said. What am I going to do? Jordan thinks he has the whole place. If he sees your group . . . He looked out over the counter as the delivery people continued to bring things in. I noticed that no one was asking Kevin where to put everything. It was as if they’d gotten instructions from someone else. The manager turned back to me. You do understand the Jordan people have taken over the dining hall. There won’t be any meals for your people. And none of the regular activities we usually have for all the guests. So, no marshmallow roasting or movie on Friday night and no special event on Saturday night. Your people would be barred from taking part in anything they put on.

As much as I said he was my nemesis, I did sort of feel for him. His life was being manager of Vista Del Mar. He was always trying to prove his worth and even more so now that he felt there were more people to impress. Having a Jordan retreat was a big deal for the place and if it blew up, a disaster for him.

Here’s a possibility, I said. I have a very small group and we could keep a low profile. The Jordan people probably wouldn’t even realize they’re not part of their group. I can arrange for some of their meals at the Blue Door and have some brought in. Of course, since the rooms usually come with meals, Vista Del Mar would have to pick up the tabs. As for the activities, I can add some for my group and I could check the Jordan retreat’s schedule, so we don’t interfere with theirs.

Kevin’s eyes shifted back and forth as he considered what I’d said. Eventually, he seemed to realize that he had no choice and grumbled something about us keeping out of sight. He waved for me to follow as he rushed back out into the main area of the big room and packed up everything that I’d just set up for my group. He grabbed the handle of my bin and led the way back to his inner sanctum behind the counter just as the door opened and the two men brought in several life-size cardboard cutouts of Jordan.

The first thing is to get rid of those, Kevin said, pulling one of my red tote bags out of the bin. Kevin went to a stack of boxes against the wall, opened one and took out a handful of natural-colored bags that had Vista Del Mar written in black type and the silhouette of a cypress tree on the front. He removed the inserts out of all but one of them. This is for you, so you’ll know where they’re going to be. He dropped the bags into my bin. You can transfer the stuff for your people into these.

They’re so plain-looking, I said. But then I shrugged it off. There was no use fighting to keep my bags. If it would keep things smooth, it seemed a small concession to make. I put the new bags in the bin with the ones I’d already made up. It was my turn to grumble. Here I’d thought I was all set for my group’s arrival and now I had to rush to redo the bags and make arrangements for meals. I’d have to come up with fill-in activities, too. I squeezed around the men bringing in another load of boxes for Jordan’s retreat, barely avoiding running over their toes with the bin. In the short time I’d been there, they’d already hung posters with Jordan’s favorite sayings and placed the cardboard cutouts around the large room. Each one had a slightly different pose and a different Jordanism.

There were always problems when I put on a retreat, but this seemed worse than usual. For a moment I wondered if I should have tried to move my group, but as I’d told Kevin St. John, several of them had specifically wanted Vista Del Mar. I couldn’t blame them—it was a unique spot. I took a deep breath of fresh damp air and caught sight of a very grand-looking Monterey cypress tree. The constant breeze had shaped the foliage so it had a horizontal feel. I always said the cypress trees here reminded me of someone running with their hair trailing behind. I was sure I’d manage to work it out.

A flat-bottomed truck had just pulled in with what looked like prefab structures ready to be assembled. Wow, Jordan had brought along his own buildings. He really was taking over the place.

But then his retreat had a totally different purpose than mine. His people were coming there to fix their lives, mine were more interested in fixing a dropped stitch.

As I reached the end of the driveway and passed through the stone pillars that marked the entrance to Vista Del Mar, or in this case the exit, it was like stepping back into the world.

I was about to cross the street to my place when a red Ford 150 truck came barreling down the street and then pulled to the side, stopping so abruptly the tires squealed. The driver’s door opened and Dane Mangano got out. His face lit into a smile as he approached me. I must have had a troubled expression because the smile faded into a look of concern.

What’s wrong? he asked. It wasn’t my nature to complain, but I told him about the mess with the overlapping retreats. It sounds as if you handled it, he said. You know how to stand your ground. His eyes lit up again and his mouth curved into a grin. About this weekend. What about Saturday night—my place, dinner and . . .

He lived down the street and was a cop for Cadbury PD. Honestly, there wasn’t a lot of crime, and he spent a lot of time telling people to pick up after their dogs or urging tourists to drive slower. There was the occasional domestic abuse call or vandalism and even this lovely town on the tip of the Monterey Peninsula was not immune to murder.

There’d been an immediate attraction between us, but I’d learned the hard way that romance in a small town was different than in Chicago. We’d gotten looks and been teased the first time we went out to dinner. People were practically asking about wedding invitations. I couldn’t handle being under that kind of scrutiny and we tried taking our dates out of town, but ultimately, I’d kept him at arms’ length. Since I thought my time in Cadbury might be temporary, it seemed wrong to get all entwined in a relationship with him and then leave him hanging when I took off. But no one could say that Dane wasn’t persistent. He’d ignored all my warnings about not staying and made a grand gesture about offering me his heart.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care for him and there was definitely chemistry. It wasn’t just his looks, which were hot, but it was his character. I always said he had character to spare. His life had been light-years from my comfortable upbringing with two doting, though maybe too much at times, parents. His mother was an alcoholic and his father was completely out of the picture. Dane had been the one to take care of everything from cooking, shopping for embarrassing things for his younger sister, and taking care of his mother when she fell off the wagon again. All the while, he’d given the impression to the world that he was a bad ass. Even now he was the one his mother and sister turned to when they messed up.

And there was what he did for the local teens. His idea of being a cop was to stop trouble before it started. In a small town like this, the kids were bored and looking for mischief. To keep them busy, he’d turned his garage into a karate studio and offered them free lessons. He also cooked massive amounts of spaghetti for them and gave them big-brother-like advice.

Even with all of that, I’d been successfully keeping a distance—the standing my ground he’d referred to—but when he did the whole thing about offering his heart to me, my resolve had weakened, and we were sort of a couple, but without benefits. There had been lots of hot make-out sessions, but that was all. Until recently. What was the point of holding back? But after all this waiting, both of us wanted to make it an event—though a very private one. I know I was deluding myself that the whole town didn’t know about our relationship, but I needed the illusion.

Then it became a problem of when. I baked at night. He often got the night shift. We’d been going in circles for weeks. The one night I got off, he had to work. The night he had off, I had baking to do.

I have the retreat, I said, pointing at the bin.

He seemed undaunted. "Fine, you