Forget Me Knot (Happy in Honey #1)

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EDWARD SHARPE AND THE MAGNETIC ZEROS

DINAH

“You’re wearing the mint ones aren’t you?” Emory’s knowing tone chirps through the phone. A seasoned, clairvoyant mother.

“Underwear?” I smirk, despite the fact that I have no audience. “Nope. I went with the lucky, pink donut print today. Keepin’ things exciting.”

“No, Dinah. Not underwear,” she sighs, and if I had to bet, there’s an eye roll mixed in. “And I sincerely hope you’re not still wearing printed panties. You’re twenty-five years old.”

“Ew! Don’t say panties, Em. It’s a cringe word. Like moist or phlegm.” I hear Molly start chanting “ moist moist moist” somewhere in the background.

“So, I’m on speaker, huh?”

“Yup,” Emory pops the p . “She’ll be chanting moist all day now.”

“Your fault. Better than panties .” I shrug and smile. I love driving my big sister crazy, and I adore my niece possibly even more. “Hi, Molly Dolly!”

“Hi, Aunt Dinah! My panties have unicorns.”

“Jealous! I wish I had a pair,” I faux whine, because I will be buddies with this girl as long as she’ll have me.

My sister chuckles, and I hear when the phone switches from speaker to private. “Ya hear that, Dinah? You and the six-year-old both have printed… panties .” She whispers the last part as if she could hide the conversation we’ve been having in front of her precocious daughter for the past few minutes.

“Sounds like someone wants to be in our super exclusive club. How about I buy you a set of unicorn panties, ”—I whisper, too, because the word really does give me the ick —“for your next birthday. You’re never too old for prints.”

“And I’ll buy you a set of solid white, granny panties.”

“Deal.”

“So, you’re totally wearin’ the mint ones, though, right?” Emory acts as if we haven’t been debating underwear choices over our morning coffee.

“Does it matter what color my shoes are, Em?”

“You are ,” she chimes. I can’t see her, but I can picture her smug smile in my mind all too clearly. She’s probably applying the perfect lip line whilst pruning a flourishing herb garden and baking a cake for the PTA at Molly’s school. My sister is highly capable, always put together, and would never deign to wear patterned underwear under her perfectly shaped mom jeans. “I can always tell when you wear the mint tennies.”

I scoff but don’t rebuke her. She’s right.

I look down at my treasured mint Converse and do a little jig. They look adorable against the vintage pink floor tile of the bakery. They’ve seen better days and could definitely use a wash, but they’re tried and true.

“How can you tell?” I ask her, taking a seat on one of the high back counter stools and spinning in circles.

“You always wear white when you’re feeling fresh. Black when you’re sad. Lavender every time you finish one of your love-y books—”

“They’re called romances, Em,” I interject. “You can say it.”

“Bleh. Romance. Whatever.” A horn blares in the background. So, not pruning herbs then. “You’re a rainbow of feelings and shoes are your mood ring, Dinah Belle. And you wear those mint Converse every time you get excited about something. Am I wrong?”

“No. Of course you aren’t. I am wearin’ the mint ones. They’re lucky.” I sip my coffee and check the time. “I’ve gotta go soon. Dough should be proofed by now and those pretzels aren’t gonna twist themselves.”

“Okay. You sure you don’t need me there until tonight?” she asks for the fourth or fifth time this morning alone. “I can drop Molly off and head straight over. I’ll twist and knead and proof or whatever it is that you need.”

“And who, my dear sister, will feed and milk the llamas—”

“They’re alpacas, Dinah. And for the last time, I do not milk them.”

“Yeah, yeah. Who’s gonna do all that on the farm if you drive to help your baby sister in Honey Hill smack dab in the middle of milkin’ hour?”

“I do have employees, ya know?”

I gulp the last of my latte and hop from the swivel chair, turning on the twinkle lights illuminating the shop and bringing the whole place to life. “I know you do. I promise, I’m fine here. Just bring yourself and my favorite donut-printed-panty wearin’ niece tonight, and get ready to party!”

Suddenly, a face smashes against the glass of the shop, peering in through a pair of purple spectacles. “Oh!” I jump and throw a hand to my chest.

“Dinah?” Emory says my name and sounds concerned, if not a bit distracted herself when she asks Molly—again—to stop singing moist . It’s to the tune of “Old MacDonald” and absolutely hilarious. I love that kid.

Emory turns her attention back to me as I make my way to the front door. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” I answer, waving at the stranger now signaling for me to open the door while balancing a giant gift basket in her arms. “There’s someone here. I gotta go. See ya tonight?”

“Course. We wouldn’t miss it.” Emotion tinges her voice, but I don’t tease her for it, because despite my printed panties, I’m a mature adult woman and will absolutely wait to give her a hard time until she’s proudly sobbing to my face.

“We’re bringing you flowers!” Molly shouts, and Emory immediately shushes her.

“We’re bringing you flowers,” she echoes and sighs. “I’m so proud of you, sis. You have no idea.”

“I think I do, Em. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And Molly shrieks, “I love you, three!” before they hang up.

It’s our daily routine. One I’m thankful to keep, even if we’re only thirty minutes apart now. It was easy to leave the bed and breakfast in Vermont where I’d been renting a room for the summer. I loved the small town and the people there, but when Emory started mentioning how she wished we lived closer, how she wanted Molly to grow up near family, how she needed help—something my sister rarely admitted—I made my plans, packed up my pop-up pretzel shop, and took my show on the road, as they say.

She’d been living in Atlanta seven years ago when she married James. They were young and idealistic, jumping into a joint dream of starting a southern lavender and alpaca farm and, simultaneously, starting their family. But only a short time after finding out they were expecting Molly, my brother-in-law unexpectedly passed away, leaving Emory on her own with a hazy, half-fulfilled dream and a baby on the way.

I helped for a time, holding Emory’s hand in the delivery room and helping with late nighttime feedings and diaper changes, until Emory kicked me out, sending me back to finish my culinary apprenticeship and then out into the world to figure out what I wanted to do. But my nomadic way of life and all the exploring in the world couldn’t compare to the adventure of slumber parties with my sister and niece, toddler ballet recitals, and kindergarten productions of Cinderella.

Coming back to Georgia, to Emory and Molly, was the first time I felt like I was truly coming home to something. Honey Hill is only thirty minutes south of the farm, Purple Pastures and Alpaca , and though I have yet to meet many of the townspeople thus far, I knew the charming, southern small-town would be the perfect place to establish my first official store front, Knotty & Nice.

Nestled between a flower shop and a tattoo parlor, I poured all my savings into renovating the space that had once been a soda shop but had been left empty for some time.

I quickly unlock the latch of the front door and hold it open for the miniature, but mighty woman pushing her way into my shop.

“Mornin’,” I greet her, though haphazardly. I don’t feel ready for visitors and really do have so much to accomplish before opening in a few hours. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you just yet.”

The stranger—because she has yet to tell me who she actually is—pushes on by and sets her gift basket, tied with a perfect, pink monogrammed bow any Southern woman would be proud of, on my countertop. She’s wearing purple capri pants that match her glasses, a white tunic shirt, and floral-patterned clogs that give her at least three extra inches. Now those are some mood shoes.

“Don’t you be silly,” she says, brushing her hands off as if she’s just completed hard labor. “I just came on by to introduce myself and welcome ya to the neighborhood.” She holds out her hand to shake mine and grasps it in a tight hand sandwich as she shakes vigorously. “The name’s Charlotte Banner. But folks ‘round here call me Charlie. You can, too.”

“Hi, Charlie. I’m Dinah Knot.”

She releases me and waves a hand, climbing into a seat at the high counter and tapping her hands on the surface. “Oh, I know who you are, Dinah Belle Knot.”

I glance quickly to that impressive monogrammed bow and realize she does, indeed, have my initials correct.

“Um… forgive me.” I clear my throat. “But how?”

Charlie chuckles like I’ve just told the cleverest joke she’s ever heard and then wipes under an eye. “Oh, girlie. It’s a small town, and I know the owner of the building, ya see? Known him since he was toddlin’ round these streets in his superhero tighty-whities. And that was just last week.”

She laughs again at her own joke and slaps my arm before hopping from her chair, doing a small jaunt around the place, sizing it up.

“I’m just kiddin’. He’s great, though. And a looker, too.”

I follow her gaze as she checks out the dangly lights and the graphic art depicting pretzel knotting steps I had commissioned for the walls. She swipes from there to the circular window that leads to the hallway where you can just make out the mysterious door I can’t get open and don’t have a key for. I painted it orange to pop with color behind the counter and to match the orange table tops and funky pine chairs surrounding each table. Maybe I should ask my new friend all about the elusive landlord and if he knows where that door leads.

Finally, her eyes take in the crystal chandeliers I hand-picked to bring a bit of clean glamor to the space, where a few clusters of pink, orange, and mint beads hang inside. I sigh to myself, thinking of how hard they were to get installed, but how accomplished I felt when I finally managed to hang the first one.

Charlie nods as if she’s pleased with what she sees and says, “I own the essential oils and herbal medicine shop on the corner three doors down from you, Happy Healing. I brought you a premium basket from my shop. Ya got all ya need and more in there to get ya through.”

Through what? I have no idea.

“You, my dear,” Charlie says, clapping and whipping around in my direction, “have done a right fine job with this place. It used to be a soda shop, though I’m sure ya already knew that. Lots of pink for my taste, but I suppose it goes into the marketing of it all. I’ve got earth tones over yonder.”

She smiles at me, and then, though we quite literally met three minutes ago, Charlie—my new bff—grabs my shoulders and pulls me into a hug. “You are gonna do just fine! I’ll be here later, of course, to support you and introduce ya to the rest of the gang.” She pulls away but doesn’t release my arms. I am positive I look like a possum staring down headlights, and I have no idea who the gang is exactly, but I wonder if they know all my personal information, too. “You holler if you need anything at all.”

With a twinkle in her eye, she pats my arms and turns on her tiny little heels without warning, calling over her shoulder as she leaves, “It smells divine in here, Dinah! It’ll be a grand opening, indeed.”

She flutters out the door as bubbly and suddenly as she entered, and I look around the space one more time, then at my mint shoes, clicking the toes together.

“Don’t fail me now.”