PROLOGUE
WILMA AND FAYE
(The Quylt Queens)
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“ROCKY RIDGE CREEK’S matchmaking folklore is known far and wide,” my sister begins, like she does each time we start a new Love Quilt.
And this quilt may be my favorite thus far, and it has more to do with the couple than the quilt itself.
“Generations of families have handed us scraps of fabric, and we stitch each piece with memories, notes, and meaning.” My sister lifts off the lid from the plastic bin on the chair beside her.
We’re gathered around a harvest table by the front window of Quyltville, our sewing shop.
“These scraps aren’t just cloth; they are love letters in disguise, keys to pairing souls meant to be.” She lifts a colorful pile of perfectly cut squares and sets it on the table.
The members of the Quilting Guild patiently await the reveal of the two people chosen.
A truck door slams shut outside, and I glance out the large bay window. And as if it’s meant to be, our next victim—I mean candidate—is right there.
“Wilma, there she is.” I nudge my sister. “Our next project.”
The Quilting Guild follows my gaze across the road to the truck parked in front of Carver’s Custom Woodworks.
Jade Fox jumps out of her family’s truck with that trademark no-nonsense stride of hers. Her boots hit sharply on the pavement, and her ponytail bounces like it is full of opinions, which it undoubtedly is. The woman is a walking declaration, daring the world to question her.
“Jade Fox?” Nessie pushes her red glasses up her nose. “She’s our next candidate?”
There’s reluctance and surprise in her tone. It’s not a shock since Jade has made it clear that she plans to stay single forever. Little does she know, fate has its own agenda for her.
“Yes, Nessie. This is her Love Quilt.” My sister points at the piles of squares she’s started to unpack.
Albion, the guild’s long-time needle wizard with silver hair as sharp as his wit, twirls his needle thoughtfully.
“Love ain’t always easy, Nessie,” he says. “The strongest quilts sometimes come from the roughest patches.”
“It’s fate,” I say. “We’ve gathered here today to start weaving her love story, and she appears.”
The quilting guild murmurs reluctantly as Wilma holds up the very first patch, ready to divulge in a story we both know they won’t be prepared to accept.
But these decisions do not come lightly. It’s a significant responsibility to transform these scraps into something meaningful. A Love Quilt whispers secrets only the heart can understand.
Another truck rolls into view.
Hart Wilde.
“Well, I’ll be.” I snatch my binoculars from my bag, not that I need them; I like to be very present.
I flip up the sheer net veil, dotted with tiny embroidered croissants, on my Kentucky Derby hat. It’s National French Bread Day, and I've designed my outfit from head to toe aroundthe theme. My hat is a literal bread basket piled so high I had to duck under the doorway.
I focus on the heated episode about to take place. “Slap my knee and call me matchmaking royalty!”
Which many do. Matchmaking has been in our blood since before Rocky Ridge Creek had paved roads or proper gossip.
Some folks are born to farm, some to preach—us? We were born to pair hearts like quilt squares.
“Hart Wilde!” I point. “Hart Wilde!” My heart does a little kick, and so does Wilma’s knee against mine.
