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“But Papa didn’t make it any easier.”

“No, he didn’t make it any easier.” She figured there wasn’t any reason to hide that, either. All three of the adults in Ari’s life had to accept their fair share of the blame.

“Why didn’t you tell him to mind his own business?”

Patience had asked herself that so many times. “I wish I had,” she admitted, but she’d been in a difficult situation. Her father had been such a strict parent, always so convinced he knew it all. That made her doubt herself whenever she disagreed with him. And getting pregnant at seventeen had filled her with so much guilt and remorse—and fear of making another mistake—that she simply couldn’t keep him from interfering in her life or from pitting her against her own husband.

Ari surprised her by walking over and giving her a hug. “I love you no matter what.”

Patience buried her nose in Ari’s hair, breathing deeply as she took in the familiar scent of her shampoo. “I feel the same about you.”

Chapter Six

The meeting on Monday morning was at the church. Patience had worked extensively with the business owners in Hard Luck and was looking forward to seeing them. Glenda had never appeared at a meeting—she had no reason to—so Patience wasn’t worried that she’d show up the way she had at church yesterday. Jack never came to the meetings, either. He received the announcements about the festival because everyone who’d come to the crab feed and donated time or money received her email updates. He probably saw all the signs and flyers around town, too. But so far, he’d contributed money and left it at that.

With Ari in school and Carl working in the back office—he was too preoccupied with his ministry to get involved in the business initiatives she took on—she stood at the front, just below the raised pulpit where her father gave his sermons. The church, which smelled faintly of lemon polish and old hymnals, was warmer near the vents and colder by the stained glass, which glittered as a shaft of weak sunlight managed to come through.

Clothes rustled and boots thudded on the aisle runner as everyone filtered in. They could’ve met in the large room off the nave, where they held craft bazaars, church parties and dinners and such, but then Patience would’ve had to set up the tables and chairs.

“Hello,” she said as Demin squeezed into the front row. She guessed he’d dropped his little boy off at day care on the way over and Nick was at the coffee shop. It was hard for them to close in the morning; that was their busiest time.

Judd Pickering, a huge hulk of a man, wandered in. As a contractor, he didn’t show up if he had a job, but winter was slow for construction, so Patience had been seeing more and more of him and his brother, Joss, who worked for him. Eddie and Kathy Lawson of Page Turner Books sat next to the brothers in the second row. Then Robin Nabel, the owner of Salt & Pepper, Patience’s favorite gift shop, took a seat behind them next to Harriet Hatfield of Hatfield’s Treasures & Antiques, which was really more of a junk store—hence the grumbling and complaints Patience heard on the sly from almost everyone.

Sue Bishop stood in the aisle chatting with Nancy Brady, who managed the hardware store across the street from her quilt shop, and Juanita Ramirez from Comida Buena, the Mexican food restaurant on the outskirts of town, joined them as ten or twelve people from the struggling art collective—mostly older women trying to sell knitted hats and scarves and handmade jewelry—sat together on the left side.

When it appeared that most people had arrived, Patience started the meeting by getting an update on everyone’s decorating progress. Most were finished but a few still had projects they were hoping to complete in time—stuff that couldn’t withstand the weather for too long but would be nice to have for the festival.

After that, Patience pitched an idea she’d come up with for marketing purposes. She wanted to create a campaign in which festivalgoers received a card they would use to collect a stamp from each business. Those who filled ten squares could turn in the card at the end of the evening for a treat or prize. She was asking for suggestions on what the prize could be when Kanon walked in.

Patience had been expecting Kelsey to show up at some point, but Kelsey wasn’t with him. One or two others must’ve looked back when the door opened and spotted him, because a murmur went through the group, and more and more heads turned as he strode down the aisle.

Ignoring the stir his presence caused, he sat behind everyone else, slouching comfortably in the pew since he had it all to himself.

Suddenly self-conscious, Patience cleared her throat and tried to remember who’d just spoken and what he or she had said. She didn’t want to embarrass herself by revealing that she’d stopped listening the moment she saw Kanon.

Fortunately, a quick search of her short-term memory conjured up Henry Cavatt, Jr., who ran one of the two gas stations in town, saying he thought the prize should be a big chocolate chip cookie from Dough Re Mi Bakery. “That’s a good idea,” she said, relieved to be able to pick up the conversation so easily. “But the incentive shouldn’t also be for sale, not at the same time.”

“Why not?” Harriet piped up.

Kathy spoke before Patience could explain. “Because it should be exclusive—something they have to earn by doing what we want them to, which is visit every store.”

“Exactly,” Patience said. “And a chocolate chip cookie isn’t Christmasy enough. What if we go with one of Tara’s big frosted sugar cookies instead?”

“Having it for sale wouldn’t hurt anything,” Harriet argued, going immediately back to that. “It might even help. Those sugar cookies are very expensive. If we go with them, we want everyone to know they aren’t cheap.”

Tara, a wife and mother of three, all in their teens, twisted around to address the comment. “Because those sugar cookies are elaborately decorated and take a ton of time! That’s why no one else sells them.”

Hearing the irritation in Tara’s voice, Patience quickly intervened. “I’m sure Harriet didn’t mean that you’re overcharging,” she said. But it sort of seemed that way when Harriet didn’t hurry to reassure her.

“I’m barely making money even at that price,” Tara added, the edge still in her voice. “I only offer them because they bring people in who then buy other things.”

“Like coffee?” Demin muttered under his breath. It was no secret that he wasn’t happy she’d recently started competing against him.

“So? You sell pastries,” Tara shot back. “How’s that any different?”

“I only sell scones and muffins!” Demin argued.

“And I only sell two kinds of coffee!” Tara retorted.