Chapter 7
seven
Mac
The June sun beats down on the church lawn, turning the craft fair into a patchwork of color and shade. I'm standing behind my table and trying not to feel exposed.
"Mac, this is stunning." A woman holds up a baby blanket in soft yellows and greens. "How much?"
"Seventy-five. All proceeds go to veterans' children's charities."
"I'll take it. My granddaughter's having a boy in August." She digs in her purse, beaming. "You know, I always knew there was something special about you. Quiet men usually are."
I take her money, wrap the blanket carefully, and watch her walk away. Three months of this, and I'm still not used to it. To people knowing. To them caring. To them respecting what I do.
"Told you so." Isla appears at my elbow, pressing a cold lemonade into my hand. She's wearing a sundress that makes my mouth go dry, her dark curls pulled up off her neck. "You're a hit."
"You were right." I pull her against my side. "About everything."
And she was.
The first week after we put my work in her shop, I thought my heart might actually explode from anxiety. But then people started coming in. Asking questions. Buying pieces. Spreading the word.
Now, sales are good. But, I still do construction. A guy like me still needs the physical labor to keep me grounded and fit. But now I come home to Isla's apartment above the shop, and I knit until late, and in the morning she helps me photograph new pieces for the website she built.
We're building something together. A life. A business. A future.
"Mac Hawthorne!" Birdie's voice carries across the lawn. She's making her way toward us with her walker—decorated with fresh silk flowers, pinwheels that spin in the breeze, and what looks like a new bumper sticker that says "Old Age is a Work of Art."
She's fully recovered now, but the walker has become her signature. "Better safe than sorry," she'd said when I suggested she didn't need it anymore.
"Darling, you're almost sold out!" She arrives at the table, slightly winded but grinning. "I told you people would love these."
"You were right too."
"Of course I was. I'm always right." She winks at Isla. "How's my favorite shopkeeper?"
"Good. Busy." Isla's hand goes to her stomach in that gesture I've noticed more and more lately. Protective. Certain.
"Well, I'll leave you two lovebirds alone. I have a crochet class to teach in twenty minutes." Birdie squeezes my arm. "So proud of you, Mac."
She shuffles off, and I watch her go, living her life with more energy than people half her age.
"She's amazing," Isla says softly.
"Yeah." I turn back to my table, to the remaining pieces. A cable-knit throw. Two sets of fingerless gloves. One more baby blanket in the bluish grays that I love working with. "I'm almost out. Didn't think I'd sell this much."
"I did." She leans into me. "Are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask?"
She looks up at me, eyes wide. "Tell you what?"
"About the baby."
She freezes, then laughs softly. "How long have you known?"
"Noticed about a week ago. The way you touch your stomach. How you haven't had coffee in three weeks. The way you cried at that commercial with the puppy."
"That commercial was sad!" But she's smiling now, tears starting to form. "I was going to tell you tonight. After the fair. I took the test a few days ago, but I wanted to be sure before I said anything."
I pull her against me, not caring that we're in the middle of the fair, that people are probably watching. "Are you happy?"
"Terrified," she admits. "But yes. So happy. Are you?"
"Yeah." I kiss the top of her head. "Didn't plan it. But I don't regret it. Not for a second."
She looks up at me, her eyes shining. "Really?"
"Really." I cup her face, brush away a tear with my thumb. "We're having a baby."
"We're having a baby," she echoes, and she's laughing and crying at the same time.
"Birdie's going to lose her mind."
"Birdie's going to be insufferable." But I'm smiling. "She'll probably make the kid an entire wardrobe before it's even born."
"She crochets, you knit." Isla grins. "Poor kid won't have any store-bought clothes."
"Good. Store-bought is overrated."
A customer approaches the table, and I help them pick out the cable-knit throw while Isla watches with a soft smile. After they pay and leave, she moves close again.
"I love you," she says quietly. "I don't think I've said it enough."
"I love you too.".
That evening, we're back at the apartment, unpacking the empty bins and counting the cash box.
Isla curls up on the couch while I pull out a throw I've been working on for the shop. But my mind is already planning. Soft colors. Simple patterns. Something small enough for tiny hands to grip.
Something made with love. With hope. With the quiet knowledge that these scarred hands can create. Can build. Can hold a child and keep them safe.
"Want to start on a baby blanket?" Isla asks, reading my mind. "We could design it together."
"Yeah." I set aside my current project. "Let's do that."
She moves closer, her hand resting on her stomach, and I think about the future. About mornings with a baby between us in bed. About teaching them to knit when they're old enough. About Birdie being the world's most doting honorary grandmother.
About how three years ago, I came to this town broken and hollow, and somehow found everything I needed.
A purpose. A community. A family.
Home.
The needles click in the quiet evening, and outside the window, Silver Ridge settles into summer night. Somewhere, Birdie is probably already planning a baby shower. Somewhere, people are talking about the quiet loner who makes beautiful things.
And here, in this small apartment above a craft shop, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.