We look thoroughly debauched.
"You have a..." Mac reaches out and picks a price tag out of my hair. "Here."
"Thanks." I'm biting my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.
He picks up the yarn he came for, still sitting on the counter where he left it, and I ring him up properly this time. When I hand him the bag, his fingers linger on mine.
"I'll bring some pieces by," he says quietly. "Tomorrow. After work. We can talk about selling them. Figure out how to do this."
"Really?" I can barely contain my hope.
"Really." He leans across the counter and kisses me softly.
After he leaves, I stand behind the counter for a long moment, just staring out the shop window. My body is deliciously sore. Satisfied.
And under it all, I'm grateful for stubborn old women who insist on crocheting with sprained arms, for men who knit baby blankets and kiss me senseless in back rooms, and for the strange, perfect way life sometimes gives you exactly what you need when you least expect it.
seven
Mac
TheJunesunbeatsdown on the church lawn, turning the craft fair into a patchwork of color and shade. I'm standing behind my table and trying not to feel exposed.
"Mac, this is stunning." A woman holds up a baby blanket in soft yellows and greens. "How much?"
"Seventy-five. All proceeds go to veterans' children's charities."
"I'll take it. My granddaughter's having a boy in August." She digs in her purse, beaming. "You know, I always knew there was something special about you. Quiet men usually are."
I take her money, wrap the blanket carefully, and watch her walk away. Three months of this, and I'm still not used to it. To people knowing. To them caring. To them respecting what I do.
"Told you so." Isla appears at my elbow, pressing a cold lemonade into my hand. She's wearing a sundress that makes my mouth go dry, her dark curls pulled up off her neck. "You're a hit."
"You were right." I pull her against my side. "About everything."
And she was.
The first week after we put my work in her shop, I thought my heart might actually explode from anxiety. But then people started coming in. Asking questions. Buying pieces. Spreading the word.
Now, sales are good. But, I still do construction. A guy like me still needs the physical labor to keep me grounded and fit. But now I come home to Isla's apartment above the shop, and I knit until late, and in the morning she helps me photograph new pieces for the website she built.
We're building something together. A life. A business. A future.
"Mac Hawthorne!" Birdie's voice carries across the lawn. She's making her way toward us with her walker—decorated with fresh silk flowers, pinwheels that spin in the breeze, and what looks like a new bumper sticker that says "Old Age is a Work of Art."
She's fully recovered now, but the walker has become her signature. "Better safe than sorry," she'd said when I suggested she didn't need it anymore.
"Darling, you're almost sold out!" She arrives at the table, slightly winded but grinning. "I told you people would love these."
"You were right too."
"Of course I was. I'm always right." She winks at Isla. "How's my favorite shopkeeper?"
"Good. Busy." Isla's hand goes to her stomach in that gesture I've noticed more and more lately. Protective. Certain.
"Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. I have a crochet class to teach in twenty minutes." Birdie squeezes my arm. "So proud of you, Mac."
She shuffles off, and I watch her go, living her life with more energy than people half her age.
