The Sweetgum Ladies Knit for Love - By Beth Pattillo Page 0,90

happiness at top speed, it was Camille St. Clair. She’d been the golden girl in high school, not a loser like Hannah, but she was still miserable. Hannah couldn’t understand why. If she’d been homecoming queen, prom queen, and head cheerleader—the perfect trio—she’d never know a minute of unhappiness the rest of her life.

“What kind of love would you say Emily Brontë was writing about in the novel?” Eugenie asked, keeping to her theme. “Try to describe it in one word.”

“Obsessive.” Camille’s answer was as flat as it was succinct. “She’s trying to show that you can love too much. That in the end it can destroy you.”

Well, that was cheery. Hannah shook her head, then looked up to see if Camille had noticed.

“I disagree.” Maria frowned. “That horrible old man, Cathy’s father. What was his name? He couldn’t love enough. Not real love. He wanted everything on his own terms. There was no room for anyone else’s needs or desires in his mind.”

Hannah nodded her agreement. Frankly, the old man had born a distinct resemblance to her mom. Self-centered, ruthless, and manipulative.

“I think Emily Brontë must have been haunted by love,” Merry said. She reached down to adjust Hunter’s blanket so he was fully covered while he slept.

Another pang shot through Hannah. She’d felt alone before the whole disaster with Josh. Now, watching Merry with Hunter, she felt even worse. It didn’t help that Merry was Courtney’s mother. She thought Courtney would have turned out nicer given how much love and attention she’d always had.

“So what can we learn about love from Wuthering Heights?” Eugenie asked. “What does Brontë say that’s unique? Different from the other authors we’ve read?”

Hannah wanted to say she’d learned to quit thinking that one day she’d finally find someone who loved her enough to put her welfare above his own. As nice as Rev. Carson and Eugenie were, they weren’t family. They could change their minds at any moment and kick her to the curb without looking back. Not that they would—at least, she didn’t think so—but the possibility still existed.

“Brontë’s not much of a romantic,” Maria said. “Her characters are all so mean to each other.”

“But they’re mean out of love, which is weird,” Hannah couldn’t help but add. “I thought love was supposed to make people nice.”

Camille shook her head. “No. Sometimes love is the worst thing that can happen to you.”

Hannah looked around the table, wondering what the others would say to that. As she expected, everyone was quiet. Eugenie tried several other questions to prompt more discussion, but there wasn’t much energy. Hannah looked at Eugenie, at the lines of frustration around her mouth. Too bad that by making them read all these love stories, she’d made everyone less of a believer than they were before.

“All right. Well, what about the project then?” Eugenie asked. “What did you design with the fan-and-feather stitch?”

The majority were shawls for one of the Cathys. The colors and textures, though, ran the gamut from Camille’s sparkly silver angora to Eugenie’s sensible navy wool. Hannah’s own project—a scarf for Heathcliff—looked a little strange. The lacy pattern was hardly masculine, but Eugenie said it was okay to experiment. Hannah thought she’d about had her fill of trying new things.

“You’ve all done a nice job,” Eugenie said. “Next month we’ll discuss Pride and Prejudice.”

“Appropriate,” Esther said under her breath, and Hannah chuckled at her sarcastic tone. After Mr. Jackson died, Hannah thought Esther might lose her edge, but she seemed to be returning to her usual prickly self. Hannah preferred people like that, because you always knew where you stood with them.

The group remained around the table for a while longer, chatting and knitting. Hunter woke up at one point, crying for a bottle. When Merry asked Hannah if she wanted to give him his bottle, she started to refuse, but before she knew what was happening, she had the baby in her arms and he was greedily sucking away.

“You’re a natural,” Merry assured her. Hannah looked down at the baby, touched that Merry would put him into her care. Hannah knew how distressed she’d been about his illness.

Looking at Hunter McGavin, Hannah wondered, not for the first time, why her own mother couldn’t love her enough to stick around. Once upon a time, Hannah had been a baby like this. Her mother must have fed her, rocked her, changed her diaper. But somewhere along the way, that love had gone wrong, like in Emily Brontë’s story.