Our names are not flashy or overly intricate. Just…there. Permanent. Patterned in thread like a secret they’d been stitching behind my back.
I blink, but the names don’t disappear. Something releases low in my gut similar to the sudden, disorienting slack that comes when a knot I’ve been working loose finally gives way. Relief and surprise, all at once.
Reenie steps forward and rests a firm hand on my arm. “We got tired of waiting.”
My voice sticks in my throat, heavy with everything I’m not ready to ask out loud. “What is this?”
“A nudge,” Dot says, folding her hands, ready to deliver a sermon. “You’re scared. That’s fine. Just don’t pretend she doesn’t mean something to you.”
Millie, silent until now, adds softly, “You’re not the only one with a past. But she’s not your past. She might even be your whole future.”
My stomach gives a sharp, inside-out lurch, like I’ve missed the last step in the dark.
Millie is right. The knowing’s been there. But I didn’t want anyone else to see it before I could admit it to myself and decide which direction to go with it.
I look down at the quilt again, my fingersbrushing the stitching. The thread feels warm even though I know that’s impossible. Something familiar waits under my fingers, the way a hidden image waits to be revealed. And maybe that’s what gets to me the most: how these women, with their thimbles and tea cups and wise eyes, seem to see through me better than I can see myself.
They’re naming feelings I haven’t even caught up to yet, seeming to know the ending before I’ve admitted there’s a story.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Reenie shrugs. “None of us did, honey.” I shift my weight slightly, eyes dropping to the floor as if I can dodge how deeply her words hit. “That’s why we make quilts instead of writing instruction manuals.”
The other sisters nod in agreement. “You think we had it figured out when we fell in love? We were winging it, same as you. Falling in love feels like walking into a thunderstorm in your new shoes—foolish, sloppy, and unpredictable, but more importantly, unforgettable.”
“We didn’t know what we were doing, either. We just kept showing up, figuring it out one day at a time,” Essie finishes for her.
There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just full.
Peaches lets out a contented little chuff from where she sits solemnly, alert and attentive, on a stack of neatly arranged fabric bolts beside the table, as if she’s been supervising this whole scene.
I nod, still staring at the lavender thread.
“Thank you,” I say. They’re not the right words, not enough. But they’re all I’ve got.
Reenie points to the scone pan. The moment the foil lifts, a warm wave of blueberry and lemon drizzle hits me:bright, buttery, impossible to ignore. They’re my favorite. Of course they are. Tess was absolutely in on this.
“You better eat something before you go. Big feelings need carbs.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
I tuck the quilt under one arm and push open the door, stepping out into the shade of the porch, just in time to nearly run smack into Dr. Brooks, climbing the steps holding a brown paper bag.
“Well,” he says, balancing the bag with one hand and eyeing the quilt under mine, “looks like I’m late to the reading of the verdict.”
“Wasn’t one,” I say. “Just a trap.” I glance down at the quilt tucked under my arm and let out a short breath, part exasperation, part relief. “A blueberry lemon drizzle-flavored trap with a sprinkle of fabric on the side.”
“My favorite.” Doc lets out a low chuckle, then studies me with that look of his. “You’re a man trying to outrun something that already caught up to him.”
I exhale. “Maybe I am.”
He nods toward the porch swing. “Sit with me a second?”
We both ease down onto the noisily protesting wood. The paper bag from Lloyd’s Pharmacy next door rests between us. He nods toward it. “Just picked up some fresh bandages for Mrs. Halprin,” he says, voice casual.
I glance at the bag. “Sure that’s the only reason you’re here?”
I’m not entirely convinced he didn’t stop by to check in on me. For a beat, neither of us says anything. Then he pats my shoulder. “You remember that summer you broke your wrist jumping off the Little Kilchisfootbridge?”
