Free A Holiday Yarn by Sally Goldenbaum

and hearts. It was decades in the making, but there it was. It made keeping secrets difficult.
    Ben knew she was worried about Izzy; of course he did. They both loved Izzy like the daughter they never had, and were forever grateful to Caroline Chambers for sharing her daughter with them in a lifetime embrace.
    "Izzy is a wise and amazing woman," Ben murmured beside her.
    His breath was warm on her cheek. Nell closed her eyes. Yes, she is . And that would be enough for Ben, even if he sensed something not quite right. Izzy would handle it. It was a difference between them, a chasm that even all these years of marriage couldn't breach. A male-female difference, maybe. She would forever be the mother bear, ready to right all wrongs, to fight for her young--even those loaned to her by her sister.
    Ben, on the other hand, would rationalize the situation, analyze it until he was comfortable that it would be handled wisely. And then he would let it go.
    She rolled her head on the pillow until she was looking at the familiar profile of his face.
    Ben's breathing slowed, then fell into the comforting rhythm of sleep. His chest rose and fell. His mouth fell open.
    Next to him, Nell sighed. And then she began counting, and as the night slipped away, a whole farmyard of sheep moved before her closed eyelids.

Chapter 8
    A holiday cookie exchange was such a normal, sane thing to do that Izzy called Nell to see whether she should cancel Monday's gathering.
    "The papers are filled with stories about Pamela Pisano. Not just the Sea Harbor Gazette-- the Globe is all over it," Izzy said. "It's on everyone's minds. A cookie exchange seems so . . . I don't know, so frivolous."
    "Maybe that's exactly why you shouldn't cancel it, Iz."
    The knitting groups that Izzy's shop hosted loved the holiday season--the warmth and delicious colors of yarn piled high in baskets all over the store, Izzy's hot chocolate, the fire in the back room, and the festive gatherings of knitting, eating, chatting, and music. It was safe and happy. It was good.
    The phone was silent for so long that Nell wondered whether Izzy had hung up on her.
    "Iz?"
    "I'm thinking."
    "Would you like to think at Annabelle's? Ben and I were about to drive over for brunch. Birdie will probably be there. Mae can open up the studio for you today."
    Again her words were met with heavy silence. Disturbing silence, Nell thought, but Ben would have countered her if she'd said that out loud. You can't hear emotions in silence, Nellie , he'd say.
    But she could. Some silences were peaceful, like sitting in the family room with Ben at night, reading. Or on Birdie's deck during a snowfall, bundled up, just the two of them and two glasses of wine, the ocean stretched out in front of them and snow silencing the world. No words. Just peace.
    Some were awful, like the silence after bad news falls from the sky. The silence when staring at a dead body in the snow.
    And some were disturbing. Like the silence on Izzy's phone call.
    "All right," Izzy said finally, and the click of the phone echoed in Nell's ear.

    Nell half expected Sam to follow Izzy out of her tiny house when she and Ben drove up to the curb. He'd push a shaggy lock of hair back from his forehead as he greeted them, and his slow, lopsided smile would warm the cold air.
    But Izzy was alone, her down jacket zipped up to her chin and a thick knit cap pulled down over her ears. Her multicolored hair fell from beneath the cap and around her shoulders like a cape.
    "A goat-cheese frittata with spinach and roasted peppers--fresh basil sprinkled on top. Maybe some avocado slices and a dollop of sour cream on the side. That's what I want," she said, climbing into the backseat. "Oh, and fried potatoes, too."
    Well, at least Izzy had an appetite. When Nell and Ben were negotiating their relationship--an odd word that strangely fit the process those many years ago--she sometimes found it difficult to eat. Her heart seemed to take over her whole body,