The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,97

to be enjoying himself no end, cleared his throat.

“Well. Guess Red and I’ll start unloading the truck.”

“Right,” Teddy said, making a move to follow. “I’ll come help.”

“Hang on a minute, Teddy,” I said.

Lorne beat a hasty retreat and Teddy turned toward me. The expression on his face was almost as sheepish as the dogs’ had been a moment before.

“So, Teddy. Bug and Pebbles: these are your dogs?”

“Uh-huh. Didn’t I tell you about them?” I shook my head and he scratched his. “Gee. Guess I forgot.”

I crossed my arms over my chest but said nothing.

Teddy sighed. “You’re right; I didn’t forget. I just didn’t tell you.”

“Teddy, if we’re going to share a house, then we’ve got to be honest with each other, okay?”

“But I was afraid you wouldn’t let me bring them,” he said. “They didn’t allow dogs at the group home, so I had to give them to Mr. Menzies, one of my old neighbors. When I told him that my cousin was going to let me live with her, in a real house with a garden and a fence, he said I could have them back. They’re real good dogs,” Teddy assured me. “Most of the time. They just got excited because we’re so happy to be here. Do you like dogs?”

Teddy looked at me with a heartbreakingly hopeful expression. I considered my options.

“Absolutely. Love ’em.”

“Me too!” Teddy whistled and the dogs swiveled toward him, eyes bright, ears perked. “Come on, guys. Let’s go help unload the truck.”

Teddy clomped back down the stairs and the dogs pranced after him, tails swishing like furry flags.

“Hey, Teddy?” He stopped in mid descent and turned toward me. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

That wasn’t a lie. For all my worries about how inviting Teddy to move in might impact the adoption, worries that still hadn’t completely dissipated, it felt right to have him there, like he’d always belonged. While helping him unpack later that afternoon, I realized how true that was.

“Teddy,” I asked, after opening one especially large box, “what is all this?”

Teddy, who was busy shelving his considerable collection of CDs, glanced in my direction. “Sweaters.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I can see that. But how many sweaters do you need? There must be fifty in here!”

Teddy shook his head and corrected me. “Only forty-seven. It’s not all sweaters; there’s some hats in there too, and a scarf.”

“Okay,” I said, still grinning. “But that still seems like a lot. Where did you get all these? Was your mother a knitter?”

“No,” Teddy replied, as he unwrapped a speaker and put it on the shelf next to a very old-school CD player. “Momma sewed clothes. She didn’t knit. But a box with a sweater and a note would show up every year on my birthday. Well, not this year,” he said, pausing and looking a little puzzled by this, before going on. “But I don’t know where they came from.”

“A note? From who?”

“Don’t know.” Teddy shrugged. “Said the same thing every year—‘Happy Birthday, Dear Teddy. Sending you some sugar.’ That’s all. Here,” he said, then walked over to the box, reached into the neck of the topmost sweater, and pulled out a note that had been written on a typewriter, an Olivetti typewriter with a wonky y:

Sending you some sugar . . .

Suddenly I understood. The yarn cave wasn’t my grandmother’s. It belonged to Calpurnia. Perhaps the idea had started with Beebee. Perhaps, after Calpurnia gave up the baby and returned home, Beebee had taught her depressed daughter to knit, offering her an outlet for her grief and a way to stay in contact with her son. Or perhaps she’d taught herself? Maybe that was why, though no one else in the family ever locked their bedroom doors, Calpurnia sometimes did. Maybe she was locked in with her memories and secrets, knitting something special for Teddy. Maybe, when Sterling moved out and took me with him, and she was left all alone, she had created a small haven of sanity for herself in the midst of madness.

So many maybes.

When it came to Teddy, there were so many questions that would go unanswered, but one thing was sure: Calpurnia had never forgotten her son, never stopped loving him. Later, when the time was right, I would explain it to Teddy. There was no need for secrets now and I was sure that knowing the truth, knowing that she had always cared, would make him happy.

But I couldn’t speak of it just yet. Instead, I placed some of