She nods thoughtfully. “I get that. It’s just a mailbox, but it takes character to face something that’s been nagging at you, even something small.”
My gaze drifts to the painted mailbox, and sure, it’s no big deal. But I want to be part of this town, baking for these people, asking for their support day in and day out. It seemed the least I could do.
My throat tightens, but I thrust the flowers I’ve been holding at her, along with the treats. “For you. Thank you.”
She takes both. “You didn’t have to. You could have just called, but I appreciate the flowers and treats very much.”
“Thank you. Also your dogs are adorable. I can bring them dog cookies if you’d like.”
“They’re fosters. Through Little Friends. They’re a bonded pair, so they’ll only be with me till they find a forever home.”
Well, isn’t this kismet. “You know, I have a friend who’s going to do that too. Foster.”
“You don’t say. I need a temp foster for them for a couple days next week,” she says, eyes twinkling. “And I bet they’d love dog cookies.”
“Sold.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m back at the bakery, setting up to open in an hour when I spot a familiar face at the door, waving to get my attention.
I scurry over to answer it. It’s Clementine and she strides in, the picture of preppy in her argyle sweater vest over a white top and trendy jeans, with cute white sneakers. Her blonde hair cascades in waves. She holds up a small canvas bag. “Who’s a goddess?”
“You are. And I am not worthy.” I pretend to genuflect.
“Please, your adoration is not necessary, though it is much appreciated,” she says, faux regally.
“It is necessary, since I’m seriously impressed you found it.”
“I’m a knitter. And a finder. It’s what I do.”
I peek inside the bag and shimmy my shoulders at the skein of magenta chenille inside. “You’re the best. Do you play pickleball?” I ask, hoping to enlist her in our friend group game.
She shudders. “I’m not a sports fan. But I love a game of poker if you ever want a round.”
“I bet I’d like poker. Can we start with penny bets?”
She crinkles her nose, doubtful. “Maybe a dollar?”
“I’m in.”
She leaves and soon after I leave too, repeating the words from Russ to Harriet when she was struggling to fit in—Don’t let them get you down.
With that sentiment propelling me, I leave the bakery with cookies and something else. Something Dottie wanted badly—the specialty yarn Clementine tracked down.
I pull open the door to A Good Yarn, steeling myself. This might flop, but I have to try. I can’t let the knitting club get me down.
They aren’t here, but I didn’t expect them to be. The owner is, with her head bent over a book, and her short, gray-streaked bob hitting her chin.
“Hello,” I say.
Setting her book down, she gives me a friendly but quizzical look. “What can I help you with?”
“When I was here the other week, Dottie said she was looking for a type of yarn, and I think you said you didn’t have it. Magenta chenille. But a friend of mine who’s a knitter tracked some down. And I thought I would bring it to you in case you want to…”
She makes grabby hands. “Sell it to her?”
“Yes.”
“Damn right I do,” she says, “but what do I owe you?”
