It’s not certainty. Not surrender. But something close.
It’s the fragile awakening of being worthy of love, and perhaps taking steps to embrace it.
Chapter 14
Counsel of the Sisters
Beau
Tess caught me in the driveway this morning with a folded scrap of gingham fabric in one hand and that familiar little-sister smirk on her face. “Reenie needs this at the quilt shop ASAP. Apparently, it’s a thread-matching emergency,” she said, as if it was life or death.
“Oh,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “And take these scones I made for them, also. The Stitch Sisters have been working so hard for the town. They truly are angels.”
Ha! I thought to myself. Angels with more mischief inside them thanThe Little Rascals. The same angels who set me up with Maisie.
I’d barely agreed to deliver the scones and fabric before Peaches snatched the cloth out of my hand and took off down the drive as if she’d been cast as the lead in a diamond heist.
So now here I am, trailing behind a triumphant dog and a piece of quilt I’m apparently dropping off byproxy. I jog a few steps to catch up, grumbling under my breath. Through this whole situation, from the very beginning of the festival, I’ve been led by a leash made of quilt squares and everyone else’s plans.
I’m notmadat Tess, not exactly, or even the Stitch Sisters. Not fed up. I’m just unsettled, and I don’t want to feel out of control. Something itches under my skin. I tug once at my shirt collar, then adjust my grip on the scone pan—twice. Even the air feels slanted, as if it’s pressing in sideways. I shift my stance from foot to foot, trying to shake it. No luck.
People have been acting strange lately. Overly kind. Overly knowing. As if they’ve already decided how this all ends, and I’m the last one to catch on. It might be leftover noise from the cabin, or the silence since. Or the fact that Maisie responded to my kiss, and everything since has felt louder.
So yeah, I’m grumbly. Who wouldn’t be? I’m a grown man being manipulated by women who weaponize baked goods and fabric squares. And something about that irritates me more than I want to admit. Probably because I’m starting to realize they’re not wrong.
I shake my head and slow my steps as we reach the quilt shop, the creak of the rusty hinges on the wooden door the only thing announcing my arrival.
Reenie Larkins is already standing at the front counter, trimming threads off a half-finished quilt square. This makes me picture her fussing over a child’s hair before school photos. She doesn’t even look up, simply lifts her chin and waves me in with the flick of her wrist, seemingly careless of the scissors she’s wielding. There’s something oddly calming about her precision. Almost relaxing. IfReenie’s got the details handled, maybe the world isn’t as scrambled as it feels.
“About time,” she says, not unkindly, but with the tone of someone who’s been expecting me since yesterday.
I pinch the now dog-drool-covered fabric between my fingers and lift the pan filled with scones. “Got a delivery. From Tess.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “Set those on the table.”
There’s something…out of step. Not in a bad way. But suspicious. I scan the space. Reenie has quickly joined the other five members of the Stitch Sisters, who are all pretending to busy themselves with half-finished quilt squares and cups of lukewarm tea.
Dot gives me a sly smile over the rim of her mug. Millie lifts a brow. Essie’s hands are suspiciously idle. They sit in rocking chairs set in a half circle, as though they are queens presiding over their court.
It’s not just the atmosphere anymore that my radar pinged earlier as odd, not just the pretense of normal: chairs rocking to the same rhythm, busy hands, or the way they all looked up at once when I walked in.
This isn’t casual. This is coordinated. Like an intervention.
My pulse ticks up, sharp and sudden, and the backs of my knees start to sweat. My body clocks the escalation before my brain does.
Then I see it. A package is centered on the table in front of them. Something wrapped in ivory tissue. The package is topped with a small bow that would usually sit on a wedding gift. They all nod toward it, as in sync as the Rockettes, and I realize this is a setup of some sort.
Begrudgingly, I remove the tissue paper to find a quilt. But not just any quilt. This one’s smaller than their usual ones,more personal. When I pull back the final corner of the wrapping, the thread catches the light.
It’s the thread on the quilt that I notice first, soft lavender, like Tess used when we were kids. I follow the stitches inward until I see it.
A name.
No. Two.
Beau & Maisie.
My breath stalls. My fingers go still against the edge of the wrapping.
