Christmas at the Little Knitting Box: The start of a heartwarming, romantic series from Helen Rolfe

1

THE LITTLE KNITTING BOX, WEST VILLAGE, NEW YORK CITY

When Cleo Jones first arrived in New York four years ago, divorced at the tender age of twenty-nine and desperate for her life to take on a new direction, the city had made her feel small. Everything around her was alive, huge, noisy and intimidating. It had felt like a giant clock and New York was the second hand, ticking around fast, no messing. It was a complete contrast to the quiet Cotswolds, slow and steady like the hour hand, plodding along reliably and in no rush.

It had taken Cleo quite a while to adjust to life in New York, and back then she never could’ve imagined feeling at home the way she did now. Clutching the letter on her way to work, it was hard to believe her life as she knew it could be about to come to an end.

It was early November and already the days were getting shorter, the air distinctively cooler, and this morning, for the first time in a long while, Cleo had pulled out the scarf and gloves set she’d knitted last year and bundled up to take the short walk from her apartment in Greenwich Village to the West Village and the Little Knitting Box. Owned and run by her Grandma Eliza, then Grandpa Joe, and now Cleo, the store had been in their family for almost forty years.

Cleo’s feet crunched across the mixture of elm and red maple leaves that blew across the streets as fall prepared to draw its curtain and let winter take over. The sun had braved the cold and already risen above the clouds to hover and bring the buildings out of the shadows. If they were lucky with the weather today, the same orangey glow would reflect off the majestic skyscrapers later as the city buzzed beneath. She couldn’t face the crowds at the café near her apartment for her usual morning coffee today, not with the letter burning a hole in her gloved palm. Instead, she’d passed it by, dodged people milling about ready to start their day at retail outlets and eateries, continued up Bleecker Street, past the acclaimed Magnolia Bakery and the man tending to the flowerbed nearby.

When she reached the Little Knitting Box, she unlocked the security grill at the store and hoisted it up, letting it slide all the way to the top, much further than her five foot six body would allow. She unlocked the front door, let herself in, and switched on all the lights. It always smelt the same in the store, the same as it had done for years, ever since the first time Cleo had come all the way from England to visit her grandparents. Grandma Eliza had used lavender sachets and cedar packets tucked all over the store at various points to be sure to repel insects and mould.

Cleo smiled, a contented expression as she came to this place of familiarity, the store that had embraced her at the start and never let her go. The smile only disappeared when she remembered the letter. She shoved it deep into the depths of her coat pocket, refusing to let it dampen her enthusiasm, at least not just yet.

She locked the front door behind her to give her a chance to set up. Already the city was a hive of activity and it wouldn’t be long before customers would descend. The first task of the day was to run a duster over the shelves by the front door, which seemed forever dirty now the heat of summer had passed them by. In a place filled with beautiful yarn, Grandma Eliza had taken no chances when this was her store. She was fastidious about cleanliness, something Cleo had continued when Grandpa Joe moved out to Connecticut and she took over running the Little Knitting Box.

The only part of Grandma Eliza that remained in the physical sense was the 1930s Singer sewing machine that sat on display behind the cash register. Its brown hardwood case with the gold embossed writing sat to one side and Cleo covered the machine up every night, clunking the lid into place. She removed the lid now and ran a hand across the black, sturdy machine, her fingers lightly finding the wind-on handle at the right. It was a beautiful piece of machinery, classic and part of the family that would be with them always. She wondered what Grandma Eliza would make of the letter she received this morning.

Once she’d taken the float from the safe and slotted it into the cash register, Cleo vacuumed the area by the front door that always attracted leaves and dirt from shoes and changed the sign on the door from Closed to Open. They were into their busiest season now and when she wasn’t selling yarn in the store, she was doing the dreaded paperwork and admin side that came with having a business, or she was organising workshops or knitting groups. Cleo had gone from someone who knew the very basics of the craft to a proficient knitter with in-depth knowledge.

Not long after she’d turned the sign around, the tinkle of the bell above the door brought Cleo out from the back where she was sorting through yesterday’s deliveries of yarn.

‘Hi, Mary. You’re early today, it’s only nine-thirty.’ Cleo greeted one of her regular customers. With tight grey curls in her short hair, Mary was the type of woman you assumed was a natural knitter, until she made her request.

‘Edward is off to another knit and natter tonight.’ She smiled and added a playful roll of the eyes. ‘That man gets through a lot of yarn.’

‘It keeps him busy, I suspect.’ Cleo knew Edward had been in and out of hospital and had taken up knitting while he was convalescing. Mary liked to roll her eyes and tut a little at her regular trips to the Little Knitting Box, but Cleo suspected she enjoyed every minute of it.

Mary pulled a pattern from her pocket. ‘He’s making a scarf for our grandson and I think it’s going to be a colourful one. Can you point me in the direction of the right yarns?’

Cleo smiled and skimmed over the pattern before she walked along the length of the white storage unit divided into cubes, perfect for separating yarn colours, brands, and types. ‘We have a fantastic range of alpaca, as the pattern here suggests,’ she confirmed, ‘and there’s a whole gamut of colours to choose from. There’s butterscotch or charcoal if you’re looking for earthy or plain colours, or we have stronger shades such as mulberry, cranberry, midnight blue.’

‘Knowing Edward,’ said Mary, ‘the scarf will be a mixture of colours, the more varied the better.’

After Cleo had helped her customer select the appropriate amount of yarn and a good variety of colours, she finished unpacking the stock from the back room. She spent the rest of the morning serving customers as usual and multitasking with everything else she needed to do in the store. She rejigged the display at the front, moving the more conservative sweaters to the side and swapping them for a few novelty Christmas designs with over-the-top features and lots of sparkle. They’d sell well once Thanksgiving marked the start of the holiday season. She hung scarves and pinned gloves to the display board at the side of the store, and she emptied more yarns into the large round baskets positioned around the place.

After lunch, Cleo undid another box, this time of acrylic yarn. In the shop in the Cotswolds, where she’d worked before she came here, she’d had to persuade Auntie Faith and Uncle Sid to stock anything acrylic. Yarn snobbery dictated the product wasn’t quite good enough for a yarn store, but Cleo had thought otherwise. Acrylic yarn was versatile, affordable, and easy to care for, and Cleo knew it enabled the Little Knitting Box to cater for all tastes and budgets. She pulled out an array of colours and out front filled another straw basket with a selection of camel, fig, coral blush, cornflower, cotton candy, and for the very brave, canary. The display added colour to the store, and sure enough, two of Cleo’s customers that afternoon had projects they were working on that called for this sort of yarn and Cleo was more than happy to recommend it.

With late afternoon came a lull in the store, so Cleo took the opportunity to grab a hot chocolate from the café next door. She took it out back at the Little Knitting Box, behind a teal curtain that hid her from view. What this store lacked in width and street frontage, it more than made up for in length. She had the main store itself, behind which was a storeroom and behind that again, an open room with shelves and countertops running along each wall. There, she kept several fold-down tables and chairs for workshops and knitting groups, and a kitchenette sat to one side with a cooker, kettle, microwave, and coffee pot, which was enough to provide basic refreshments throughout the day if she couldn’t get away.

Cleo relished the time to sit down on the wooden stool behind the curtain and take the weight off her feet, if only for a moment, and the hot chocolate was just the hit she needed, with the dark chocolate pellets and hot milk mixed together warming her right through. When the phone rang and it was her best friend, Violet, Cleo wasn’t surprised. She’d expected the phone call today, because although Cleo didn’t like to let people down, she was often guilty of reneging on social engagements unless knitting was involved. It was easier that way. And if she didn’t let anyone get close again, she wouldn’t have to hurt them and let them down, and make herself miserable in the process.

‘Please tell me you’re still coming tonight.’ Violet’s voice could just about be heard above the toddlers squabbling in the background. Like many people their age, Violet was happily settled in domesticity, procreating to make a happy family. But Cleo had decided the setup wasn’t for her. It never would be, and for good reason.

Violet had two children under the age of four, her husband worked on Wall Street, and they owned one of the most beautiful family homes Cleo had ever seen. Tonight, for no special occasion other than the host and hostess enjoyed having regular gatherings, there was a party to which Cleo was invited. And she supposed she should be grateful. Without Violet, she was in danger of never going out again.

‘Of course I’m coming.’ Cleo hovered at the curtain, ready to escape when the lull came to an end and it was all systems go in the store once again.

‘Don’t say it like that.’ Violet, knowing Cleo only too well, was panicking her friend was going to let her down. Her voice rose to drown out the kids in the background. ‘You didn’t come to my Fourth of July party and last month you pulled out of a dinner party. And I’m still not sure I’ve managed to persuade you to come to the Thanksgiving dinner I’m hosting.’

‘That’s because you’re always trying to set me up.’

‘No I’m not.’

Cleo waited, and sure enough Violet followed her last sentence with, ‘Okay, true. I am, but only because it’s time you met someone.’

‘Who says I have to meet someone?’

‘I do,’ said Violet with an ounce of frustration in her voice. ‘You’re married to that store and I’m here to tell you it won’t always make you happy.’

The letter in her pocket had already seen to that. Cleo sipped her hot chocolate, not willing to concede just yet. ‘It’s made me pretty happy so far. It led me to you, didn’t it?’

‘That’s true. If Robert hadn’t bought me a sweater I was allergic to and I hadn’t returned it, we may never have set eyes on one another.’ Violet had returned the sheep’s wool sweater that had given her red, sore eyes and a terrible rash around the neck. Cleo had found a replacement in an alternative yarn she’d knitted herself in a wine colour and only just placed on display. They’d chatted for so long, Cleo had ended up having dinner with Violet, who was pregnant and making the most of her alone time before her second child arrived. They’d bonded over pizza in Greenwich Village, swapped numbers and been friends ever since. Friendship was like that… sometimes it was built over years and sometimes it clicked in an instant.

‘All I’m saying, Cleo, is that you need to get out and about a lot more. Tonight’s party is very casual, there’s no seating plan where you’ll be lumped next to someone. Just bring a bottle and mingle with whoever you like.’

‘Oh relax, stop stressing. I’ll be there.’

‘Great, and what are you wearing?’

Cleo burst out laughing and threw her takeaway cup into the trash. ‘I’m wearing jeans and a woolly sweater.’

‘Not now, what are you wearing tonight? It’s casual but you’ll feel odd if you don’t dress up a bit.’

She’d fully intended to go straight to Penn Station without getting changed. She’d brush her hair and her teeth and spruce her make-up up a bit, but the temperatures outside in the evening were quite unforgiving towards the end of November and she didn’t fancy teetering around in anything other than warm clothing and sensible shoes.

When the bell above the door to the store tinkled, Cleo knew she’d been rescued. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Yes.’ Violet let out a sigh.

‘I’d better go. But I’ll be there tonight and I will make an effort, I promise.’

Back at her apartment that evening, after she’d called her Grandpa Joe as she did at least three or four times a week, Cleo rummaged through her wardrobe in the desperate hope she’d find something appropriate to wear to Violet’s party. Finally accepting she wouldn’t get away with jeans and a nice sweater tonight, she pulled out her faithful little black dress. Last year she’d sewn sequins around the fraying neckline, hoping to keep the garment wearable for a few years yet. Cleo had curves that some dresses in the stores didn’t allow for and finding this dress when she’d first arrived in New York had been a godsend. It was comfortable and flattered her natural shape and she’d ended up returning to the store to buy the same design in a wine colour.

She showered and changed, pulled on her dress, and made an extra effort by wearing the pearl-drop earrings her grandma had given her. She ran a brush through her freshly washed, dark-blonde hair, which always darkened that bit more in winter and attracted natural highlights come summer. She’d thought about fashioning an updo but knew she’d be warmer if she let her wavy hair fall about her shoulders tonight, and it’d also be easier to neaten up when she pulled off the hat she’d need to wear to keep the November chill at bay.

Cleo critically examined herself in the mirror. Her blue eyes needed more lift these days so she applied a little eyeliner and mascara, and a shimmery eyeshadow Violet had persuaded her to buy. ‘Just cause you’re a knitter doesn’t mean you have to dress like an old spinster,’ her friend had told her. Cleo had retorted with the usual spiel about celebrities who had taken up knitting, how it was very fashionable these days, but Violet had just winked and said, ‘It winds you up every time, which is why I say it. I just want you to get out a bit more and have fun.’

And that’s what Cleo was doing tonight. After a panic that she had no alcohol to take to the party—or liquor as she knew she should call it by now—she retrieved the bottle of red wine she’d stashed away for Christmas Eve drinks at the café next door, and made a note to buy another. It was weeks away yet so plenty of time to replace it.

Bottle of wine ready, iPhone charged, and handbag packed, her heart sank again when she fished in the pockets of her scarlet coat hanging on the hook beside the door to find her gloves, and pulled out the letter. A little scrunched at the sides, she smoothed it out and put it on the kitchen table. She hadn’t even told Grandpa Joe about it yet. It wasn’t something you shared during a rushed conversation before heading out for the evening, and Cleo wondered what he was going to make of this latest development.

She left the letter and switched off the lights in the kitchen and hallway of her high-ceilinged apartment, with its large, bay window at the front of a brownstone that had been converted into apartments years ago. This was her home, a place of her own.

With the bottle of wine tucked beneath one arm, she walked down the steps to street level, greeting a city plunged into darkness. She set off towards Penn Station, past restaurants, store owners tucking away merchandise for the night, and she wondered whether she should’ve been prepared for the letter, for the moment all of this could change. After four years here, Cleo loved Manhattan. It had grown on her like a new sweater. It was still the same, loud, bright colour it always was, but she didn’t notice that any more. She noticed its fit, its comfort.

Could she ever say goodbye to all of this and be who she was before?

2

22 REDCLIFFE PLACE, STAMFORD, CONNECTICUT

Dylan Bakersfield ended the call with Carla from the hospice and slumped down at one end of the table that seated ten and stretched from one end of the dining room to the other. He pinched the skin between his closed eyes and rested his elbow on the table. After burying his mom that day, surely he was entitled to five minutes before the merry-go-round of life began again.

‘We’re so sorry for your loss,’ Carla had told him. It was such a formal phrase, given how much time he’d spent at the hospice as they nursed his mom during the final stages of the cancer that had riddled her body. Most of his distress and upset had been at diagnosis rather than in the last few months, where he’d willed her to pass away peacefully, no longer in pain.

And now it was time to carry on, time to move forward for the first time in his thirty-six years without either of his parents in the world around him. His dad, Walter, died almost seven years ago, and being without him or his mom threatened to overwhelm Dylan if he let it.

‘Daddy!’ Jacob, his four-year-old, flew down the stairs.

Dylan hoisted Jacob onto his lap, and with one finger he squished the cute button nose his son had inherited from his beautiful mother, along with her blonde hair and blue eyes.

‘You’re in your smart clothes, why are you in your smart clothes?’ Jacob squished Dylan’s nose in return and made his dad laugh.

‘We’ve spoken about this,’ Dylan began softly. ‘Look out, here comes the other one.’ He braced himself when he saw his daughter, six-year-old Ruby, running towards him. Ruby had darker blonde hair, a shade or two lighter than Dylan’s own, and she had green eyes just like him.

The babysitter had given both kids evening baths and they were dressed in flannel pyjamas: Jacob with his favourite superhero set and Ruby with her much-loved, purple pyjamas with multicoloured animals printed on them. Dylan picked Ruby up, she was still light enough to scoop up with one arm, and his children sat on one knee each. He couldn’t wait to take his suit off. It wasn’t his usual attire for a stay-at-home dad and it made him as uncomfortable as the occasion.

‘Do you remember how we talked about Grandma Connie going up to heaven?’ Dylan continued, determined to keep his voice steady. Both children nodded sombrely, their smiles on pause. ‘Well, today we had the special ceremony for her.’

‘I wanted to come.’ Jacob burrowed his head into the space between Dylan’s chin and collarbone. He smelt of soapsuds and washing powder, with that overpowering kid scent emanating from his hair that every new parent wished they could bottle and treasure forever.

‘Me too.’ Ruby spoke quietly and somehow managed to slip her hands around Dylan’s neck and grip onto him like one of those animal toys she loved so much. After a visit to Central Park zoo last year, Ruby had devoured books on animals and in her Christmas stocking a few months later Santa had left her a set of cling-ons: a polar bear, rabbit, toucan, and a pig.

‘Funerals aren’t the place for you two.’ Dylan held his children close. ‘I want you to remember Grandma Connie the way she was with you, when she’d play hide and seek in the house, when you’d make home-made lemonade together after nursery and school, and the times she took you camping.’

‘She was fun,’ Ruby concluded with a serious nod. She’d always been wise beyond her years.

‘She was fun.’ Dylan kissed her cheek and then Jacob’s.

When the babysitter, Mackenzie, came through from the kitchen she told him how well his children had behaved while he was out. Dylan smiled at his neighbour’s daughter. Mackenzie was his first port of call when he needed extra help. His ex-wife may be beautiful, he’d admit that, but she always seemed too caught up in her own life to worry about theirs. She’d walked out on them two years ago and since then he’d been finding his feet as a stay at home dad. He’d been in the throes of a career change at the time too, leaving law behind to do something he was passionate about. But his kids had, and always would, come first. When his mom had fallen ill, Dylan moved in to take care of her and shared his time between her, Ruby and Jacob, and his fledgling web design business. The kids had settled in quickly in the house he’d grown up in, and now, with schooling all lined up, he hoped they’d never have to leave this pretty neighbourhood. Part of him sometimes wanted to. The house was a painful reminder that neither of his parents were there any more, but at the same time it was a form of comfort coming home here.

‘Well, if they’ve been good for you, Mackenzie…’ Dylan looked at each of his children in turn, ‘…it must be time for hot chocolates.’

Both kids leapt off his lap and ran to the kitchen, and he heard cupboards and the fridge door opening. They knew where everything was, including the cream to dump on top, and tonight he didn’t mind the indulgence one bit.

‘Do you still need me to stay on?’ Mackenzie asked him in limbo between the dining room and the kitchen before his kids made too much mess. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, it’d probably do you good to get out tonight.’

He nodded. He’d bumped into Robert, an ex-college buddy at the park in Stamford three weeks ago and Robert had invited him to a party, which was tonight. Of course, when he’d said he would go, he hadn’t predicted burying his mom on the same day. When Mackenzie had turned up this morning to babysit, she’d seen the official invite and suggested it might do him good. She’d told him Connie would want him to get out there and enjoy life.

He thought about his mom now. Connie Bakersfield had never been one to sit in a corner or wallow in self-pity. She was about seizing the day. Dylan took after his father far more. Walter Bakersfield was a tall, serious looking man with a heart that radiated warmth at a hundred paces. He was quiet and hard-working and he’d built up a considerable property portfolio over the years, taking ownership of business premises and homes all across Manhattan and into Connecticut. Connie had always supported him and together his parents were the perfect match. Dylan had longed for that kind of relationship growing up, longed to bring children into a marriage that was as solid as the ground they all walked on. But Prue had struck like a bolt of lightning and before he’d known what was happening, he was going down a path he hadn’t really been sure he’d wanted.

‘So should I stay?’ Mackenzie hovered next to the curved staircase that led to the upper part of the house.

‘Yes please, I’d really appreciate it.’ He knew what he needed more than anything right now was to get out of this house.