Knot Their Boo (Knotty Holidays #2)

Sable

Gravewood Harvest and Hollow Antiques looks the same as it has my entire life.

Sure, little things have changed, like the neon open sign in the window, and the paint has been updated every decade or so since Gram’s parents opened it nearly eighty years ago.

However, the Gothic revival styling, with its dark clapboard siding and peaked gable roof, is just how I remember it. My heart warms just looking up at it, still standing tall and proud on one of the busiest street corners in all of Gravewood.

The widow's walk is probably my favorite feature, holding so many memories of cozy nights spent sipping tea with Grams. They flash through my mind as I stare up at the small rooftop balcony.

I grew up here.

I was raised here.

October has always been my favorite time of year. I love it when the leaves start to change color, and the air gets cooler. Grams always said it’s the time for rebirth and growth. Fitting, since I just decided to move back to Gravewood so I can run the shop.

The lace curtains are half drawn, visible through the arched windows. The stained-glass panes with pumpkins and vines are another of my favorite touches. I was nine when she had those put in. If you know where to look, you can even see the small animal, a sable, that Grams had added just for me.

The old wooden sign above the door reads Gravewood Harvest and Hollow in scrawling script, and I have to blink away the tears to see it clearly again.

I sniff, shaking off the sadness and lifting my chin. Today isn’t supposed to be sad. I’m returning to my roots and celebrating the legacy Grams left behind. The one she spent decades building after her parents passed, leaving everything to her. The one she left for me.

“Buck up, Buttercup.” I can hear Grams saying in my mind. I'm not here to throw a pity party. I’m here to start fresh. To make this town my home once more. To reclaim everything I spent years running from. Everything I thought I would never be deserving of, and I'm still not sure if I do.

I can feel eyes on me, and I swear I can even hear the whispers, but when I glance around, taking in the sight of the cozy café and my favorite coffee shop, no one’s even glancing my way.

I roll my eyes, turning back to the shop that's now mine. The shop that has apparently been mine for two years without my knowledge. Grams was a crafty woman, but I’m at a loss to explain how she managed to get me to sign ownership papers without me even noticing.

I was too absorbed in my life in the city, but standing here, that all seems like a different person.

The memories are cloudy, and I just left it all behind.

Grams has been gone for two months, but the wounds are still fresh in my heart.

Maybe they always will be. That’s the funny thing about grief—it ebbs and flows.

Some days it’s so thick it’s hard to breathe, while others it’s easier to be grateful for the good memories.

Today, I’m choosing to be grateful for all the amazing years I had with her and the wonderful life she gave me.

Mrs. Berrywill, or Bee as I’ve always called her, my grandmother's best friend for my entire life and most of theirs, has been caring for the shop since Gram’s passing. And she decorated the outside in preparation for the Halloween season.

There are carved pumpkins lining the walkway that leads to the stairs and corn stalks with multicolored jeweled ears of corn tied to the pillars with fall-colored flowers and vines. The lanterns on each side of the steps are lit from within and decorated with more fall flowers.

It’s beautiful and brings back so many memories of my childhood. My mom died when I was only a year old, and without a father in the picture, that left Grams to raise me all on her own. She never made me feel like less than her whole world, even after her only daughter passed away.

“She lives in my heart, and I see her in you every day, Sweet Sable. One day, your mama and I will be reunited,” she’d say.

And she was right. Grams is buried in the Gravewood Cemetery beside her parents and daughter.

I brought her a bundle of flowers this morning.

For some reason, I’m able to visit her grave, but haven't been able to return to the home she raised me in.

Bee’s been taking care of that for me too. The woman is a blessing, and I don’t think I could have handled the funeral and everything that came after without her and my best friend, Plum.

Today is the first day of October, and one of the many busy days this month.

November has business slowing down, but by the time December arrives, everything will return to chaos, especially business at the shop.

Since we accept donations from many towns, including Gravewood, we often end up with a lot of really old stuff.

Thankfully, Grams and Bee spent many years teaching me how to find the treasures in a pile of things people didn’t want to throw away, but probably should have.

Even though I’ve been gone for quite some time, I've spent twice as long in this shop learning the ropes.

The worry that I might tank the shop and disappoint my Gram’s memory is suffocating sometimes. I try to steady myself by breathing deep, allowing my eyes to fall shut as I take in the familiar scents of this cozy town. I hate to admit I’ve missed it here, but I have.

Despite all the reasons I had to leave, nowhere else has ever felt like home the way Gravewood does.

Hints of pumpkin and nutmeg from the bakery across the street fill the air, mixing with the scent of rain and cedar.

It smells like home. Like family, and happy memories. Like joy.

What if the reason I’ve never felt like I belong isn’t the where, but the who? What if I just don’t belong anywhere? Gravewood feels like home, but…what if I don’t have a home here anymore?

With one last deep breath, I shove the heartbreaking thoughts away and open my eyes. I lift my chin once more and prepare myself for what awaits me inside. More memories that will somehow fill me with joy and sadness all at once.

The wooden steps creak as I climb them, and that sound alone is enough to have me tearing up again.

I really need to get my shit together. While Grams would tell me to buck up, Plum would tell me it’s healthy to cry as much as I like, but it’s a slippery slope.

One tear can lead to full-on sobbing, and I have things to do.

I don’t have time for a mental breakdown.

Since Bee is meeting me here, the door isn’t locked, and the large metal bell above the door jingles as I pull it open and step in.

The first things I notice are the scents.

It’s my chosen job after all, noticing scents and recreating them.

I savor the spicy-sweet smell of pumpkin, clove, wood polish, and a faint hint of dust. Like old books and untouched shelves. It smells like love and history.

The chandelier lights the room with a dim glow, adding to the vibe my Grams spent so long perfecting.

I love it here. I always have. This is my happy place.

It looks like I have some dusting to do, particularly on the higher shelves that Bee clearly couldn’t reach. The thought brings a smile to my face.

All around me are memories that make me smile as I walk through the shop.

Black velvet and white lace are draped over tables filled with little trinkets, narrow aisles of tall wooden shelves, and glass display cases that require keys to unlock fill the room.

The floors are lined with faded multicolored rugs, and the walls are covered in old antiques and framed mirrors. The wood creaks and groans with every step I take.

In the front, close to the door, is a counter with the same old rusty-bronze register that I can’t believe still functions, considering it’s the original. And there’s a grandfather clock that’s always a little slow, no matter how many times it’s been serviced.

I can’t resist the urge to run my fingers over the different surfaces as I make my way further into the store and head to the backroom, searching for Bee.

I’m expecting boxes filled with items for the sales floor or the nightly cleaning supplies, but what I find instead has me crying again in an instant as I realize what I’m seeing.

The wood-hewn workbench holds a neat stack of cardboard boxes featuring a logo of a beeswax vendor I know well.

“Oh, Grams,” I murmur, swiping at the tears.

“Surprise!”

“Ah!” I yelp, startled right out of my emotional state, and spin around to find Bee standing behind me, grinning brightly.

Her curly white hair hasn’t changed once in all my life, and I swear she hasn’t aged in the last ten years.

Although I do think she’s shrinking… Is she shorter than she was the last time I saw her, just two months ago?

“Your Grandmother and I spent weeks setting this room up for your candle making. Of course, we had Plum’s help. And we even set up a wonderful display for the front!” She scurries over, pulling me down for a hug, because even though I am only five foot four, Bee is shorter than I am.

She’s an omega in her eighties, and is still as spry as I’ve always known her to be.

She and my Grams were best friends for seventy-five years–since the first day of kindergarten, they’d say–and I’ve known her my entire life.

Hugging her almost feels as comforting as a hug with Grams always was.

She smells like berries and sugar, and I breathe in her soothing scent, letting my emotions get the best of me yet again.

“It’s wonderful, Bee. Thank you,” I sniff, swiping the tears away as she releases me. The second she sees my face, she pats my arm, giving me a stern but encouraging look.

“None of that, dear. Your Grams was very proud of this and swore me to secrecy until you returned.” She chuckles, padding past me toward the candle pouring station. It’s not brand new. Instead, it looks worn and well-used. It looks loved and cared for. It’s perfect.