I timidly raised my hand to ask my great-aunt a question, something I’d never done with her before, but suddenly felt that it was very important; however, she pressed my arm to my side, not giving me any leeway to speak.
“And one more thing, Maisie dear,” her eyes were cold as she looked sternly at me. “Polite young ladies use their eyes to gesture, not their hands.”
Then, to my horror, she squeezed my shoulder and led me out the door, explaining as we left, “I thought this would be a good experience for you, Maisie, but I can see now that I was mistaken. You have a lot to learn and many changes to make in your personality before you’ll be close to ready for a finishing school…if ever.”
I’d cried with my mother when we got back to Sweetpines. Mom had tried to comfort me, saying, “Don’t give your Aunt Camille another thought, Sweet Pea. Her opinion doesn’t matter. You know how much I love you. Exactly the way you are.”
My head heard her, but my heart figured she had to feel that way about me. She was my mom. I mean…moms are supposed to say those kinds of things to their daughters.
The shop door creaks open, the jingle of bells yanking me out of my flashback. I stare straight ahead and breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, the bergamot smell souring in my stomach.
“Excuse me?”
I glance up slowly, my heart dropping from its frenzied sprint to a normal rhythm.
A woman stands just inside the threshold, clutching a reusable coffee cup and looking screenshotted out of a Pinterest board. “Is something going on in town? I almost got run over by a couple in matching outfits dragging a tandem bicycle and arguing about salad dressing.”
Without hesitation, I pluck a cluster of roses from the bucket and answer, “Yep. The Sweetpines Matchmaking Festival. Happens every year.”
I take a small step closer to the counter. “It’s what you get when a quilt club, small-town mischief, and way too much free time collide.”
Her laugh tinkles like fairy bells. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” I head to the wrapping station. “People fill out compatibility forms. Some of the questions are deep. Some are completely ridiculous.”
The woman takes a few curious steps further into the shop. “This sounds like it could be made into a Hallmark movie.”
I grin. “You’re not wrong. And honestly? The Stitch Sisters would demand script approval.”
She chuckles into her coffee. “So, do you get matched, too? Or just watch the spectacle?”
“Hmmm.” I debate how to reply. “This year it’s both,unfortunately. My best friends, Jenna and Tess, signed me up without asking. Classic BFF sabotage.”
The visitor sets her cup on the edge of the wrapping table like she’s settling in. “I’m Melanie. I have a podcast, and I’ve been considering a small-town feature. This is the kind of story people would eat up. Tell me more.”
“Well, if you want colorful characters and unsolicited love advice, you’ve come to the right town.”
“Okay.” Fairy bells again.
“Anyway, the quilt club members, who call themselves the Stitch Sisters.” I lift my fingers to make air quotes. “‘Analyze’ and pick the lucky couples for the week.”
I let the sweetness drip on thick. “Think tea, highlighters, and decades of meddling experience, all in the name of soulmates.”
She blinks, then grins. “So… strangers get matched?”
“You gotta see it to believe it. Though some of the couples aren’t strangers. Some rig the entries to get matched year after year.”
“That’s…” she trails off with a laugh. “An interesting way to find love.”
“There’s a quilt,” I continue as I put the finishing touches on another centerpiece. “A literal quilt. Names stitched into themed squares based on their answers: roses, pies, musical notes, gothic fashion. Then the couples compete in challenges.”
“Oh?” Melanie’s voice lilts upward.
“Yep. Most points by the end of the week wins a romantic weekend getaway, a spot on the town calendar, a cash prize, and bragging rights until the next festival.”
Melanie lets out a laugh, half incredulous, half charmed. “This is the most aggressively adorable display of small-town charm I’ve ever heard of.”
“Adorable?” I smirk. “Tell that to the couple who almost broke up during the trivia round. It’s more like a circus.”
