The bell over the door jingles again.
Dr. Brooks strolls in with his usual calm, nodding at the visitor and heading straight to the counter. Dr. Sam Brooks, the town’s widowed physician, is the unofficial voice of wisdom and reason in Sweetpines. He’s known for his house calls, dad jokes, and prescribing hot tea as often as antibiotics. He’s here for a small bouquet, same as every week, for his late wife Ruthie’s memorial bench. I’ve seen him sitting there before, quietly sipping something from a thermos and reading old paperbacks, savoring every page.
He always takes the longest pause before choosing his bouquet, as if he still wants to give Ruthie a gift she will cherish. Something about that has always stayed with me. Maybe because it reminds me how unshakably faithful people can be.
It’s the kind of devotion I used to believe in without question. These days I’m not so sure. But seeing him each week, still choosing flowers for someone he can’t speak to anymore…it makes me want to believe again.
While he’s counting out the exact change, Dr. Brooks lifts his eyes with a grin and says for everyone to hear, “This matchmaking mayhem is the best entertainment I get all year.”
“You really enjoy this commotion, Doc?” I quiz.
“Better than reruns ofThe Office.Keeps me from becoming a couch potato.”
I roll my eyes. “So, you’re prescribing laughter with some mocking thrown in now?”
“Only when I run out of hot tea,” he says with a wink.
“You’d be shocked how many people in town think you actually write ‘tea’ on prescription pads.”
“Only for the ones who need it most.” He gives me a knowing look.
“Oh, and Maisie, thanks again for bringing that apology bouquet out to me last minute. I was about to lose Mrs. Clausson to a doc up the river. Mr. Clausson said Marla was offended. Claimed I…” he raises his fingers in air quotes “‘… came down too hard on her about her dietary choices.’”
“Anytime, Sam.” Then I murmur under my breath as he heads out the door, “Better thanThe Office. Huh.”
I brush a fallen petal from my arm and turn to the visitor. “Well, I need to head out. Gotta get these centerpieces to the quilt gals.” I pluck a yellow daisy from the vase and tuck it behind my ear. “Oh, and I have to compete again, too. Small-town obligations and all.”
My arms are full as I walk through the square for the centerpiece hand-off. The floral tray wobbles slightly with each step. It’s balanced with six carefully arranged centerpieces and a hopeful prayer that none of the daisies decide to make a dramatic leap. I spot the Stitch Sisters gathered beneath the judging tent, their voices floating across the breeze.
I slow my pace, not wanting to interrupt. I’m close enough to hear but they haven’t spotted me yet, so I wait, hovering beside a shade-dappled picnic table, letting their conversation wrap around me.
Frances Doyle flips through a clipboard while Millie Song fans herself with a folded quilt swatch. “Nine couples. Five days. Two contests down. Three to go. Check. Check. Check,” Delores calculates, counting on her fingers. “We’re off to a good start. And don’t let anyone tell you it’s just for fun. That quilt holds ten years of Sweetpines love stories.”
I bite back a smile. Delores has always had a flair for drama—Shakespeare with a quiltingmachine and a matchmaking agenda; but, she is the one who keeps the Stitch Sisters organized and on track.
“The Sweetpines Matchmaking Festivalwasyour idea,” the youngest Stitch Sister, Estelle—who insists everyone call her ‘Essie’ now—reminds her as she adjusts her thick bifocals. “You said if a quilt couldn’t bring two people together, nothing could.”
Essie’s still got that starry-eyed optimism. She used to babysit me, Tess, and Jenna when our parents needed time for themselves. Years later, she tried to match me with her nephew using a personality test and some leftover cupcakes that had absolutely no business being involved in romance.
“Dot, that first festival was the year we matched your niece Evelyn with her mailman,” Franny laughs. “Now they run a llama rescue together.”
I grin at that one. Evelyn had always said love finds you in unexpected ways.
“We sure do know how to give love a nudge. Half instinct. Half mischief,” Reenie pipes up.
Reenie commands a room with one raised eyebrow, and bakes lavender shortbread that somehow manages to taste like encouragement. Her hair is always in the same no-nonsense twist she’s worn since the ‘90s, tight enough to survive a windstorm, or a quilting brawl. If she says it’s instinct and mischief, I’m inclined to believe her, especially when she says it while wielding a highlighter as a matchmaking wand.
Franny, who can whip out a statistic from any of the past festivals, adds proudly, “We’ve had three engagements, two business ventures, one public breakup, and a grand total of six calendar-worthy couples.”
That voice of hers always gets more animated whennumbers are involved. I swear she tracks romance as though it’s baseball.
“That’s because we’re pros at designing challenges to test all kinds of compatibility—creativity, communication, chemistry, and chaos tolerance,” Reenie brags.
And chaos tolerance, I think, eyeing my tray.No truer words.
“And if the town gets a little entertainment out of it,” Dot adds with a wink, “all the better.”
“And we all know it’s just as likely, if not more so, that failed matches, spicy drama, and blowups are what the town gossips enjoy most,” Delores whispers, and they all dissolve into companionable, knowing laughter.
