Chapter 14
Counsel of the Sisters
Beau
Tess caught me in the driveway this morning with a folded scrap of gingham fabric in one hand and that familiar little-sister smirk on her face. “Reenie needs this at the quilt shop ASAP. Apparently, it’s a thread-matching emergency,” she said, as if it was life or death.
“Oh,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “And take these scones I made for them, also. The Stitch Sisters have been working so hard for the town. They truly are angels.”
Ha! I thought to myself. Angels with more mischief inside them than The Little Rascals. The same angels who set me up with Maisie.
I’d barely agreed to deliver the scones and fabric before Peaches snatched the cloth out of my hand and took off down the drive as if she’d been cast as the lead in a diamond heist.
So now here I am, trailing behind a triumphant dog and a piece of quilt I’m apparently dropping off by proxy.
I jog a few steps to catch up, grumbling under my breath.
Through this whole situation, from the very beginning of the festival, I’ve been led by a leash made of quilt squares and everyone else’s plans.
I’m not mad at Tess, not exactly, or even the Stitch Sisters.
Not fed up. I’m just unsettled, and I don’t want to feel out of control.
Something itches under my skin. I tug once at my shirt collar, then adjust my grip on the scone pan—twice.
Even the air feels slanted, as if it’s pressing in sideways.
I shift my stance from foot to foot, trying to shake it. No luck.
People have been acting strange lately. Overly kind.
Overly knowing. As if they’ve already decided how this all ends, and I’m the last one to catch on.
It might be leftover noise from the cabin, or the silence since.
Or the fact that Maisie responded to my kiss, and everything since has felt louder.
So yeah, I’m grumbly. Who wouldn’t be? I’m a grown man being manipulated by women who weaponize baked goods and fabric squares. And something about that irritates me more than I want to admit. Probably because I’m starting to realize they’re not wrong.
I shake my head and slow my steps as we reach the quilt shop, the creak of the rusty hinges on the wooden door the only thing announcing my arrival.
Reenie Larkins is already standing at the front counter, trimming threads off a half-finished quilt square.
This makes me picture her fussing over a child’s hair before school photos.
She doesn’t even look up, simply lifts her chin and waves me in with the flick of her wrist, seemingly careless of the scissors she’s wielding.
There’s something oddly calming about her precision.
Almost relaxing. If Reenie’s got the details handled, maybe the world isn’t as scrambled as it feels.
“About time,” she says, not unkindly, but with the tone of someone who’s been expecting me since yesterday.
I pinch the now dog-drool-covered fabric between my fingers and lift the pan filled with scones. “Got a delivery. From Tess.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “Set those on the table.”
There’s something…out of step. Not in a bad way. But suspicious. I scan the space. Reenie has quickly joined the other five members of the Stitch Sisters, who are all pretending to busy themselves with half-finished quilt squares and cups of lukewarm tea.
Dot gives me a sly smile over the rim of her mug. Millie lifts a brow. Essie’s hands are suspiciously idle. They sit in rocking chairs set in a half circle, as though they are queens presiding over their court.
It’s not just the atmosphere anymore that my radar pinged earlier as odd, not just the pretense of normal: chairs rocking to the same rhythm, busy hands, or the way they all looked up at once when I walked in.
This isn’t casual. This is coordinated. Like an intervention.
My pulse ticks up, sharp and sudden, and the backs of my knees start to sweat. My body clocks the escalation before my brain does.
Then I see it. A package is centered on the table in front of them. Something wrapped in ivory tissue. The package is topped with a small bow that would usually sit on a wedding gift. They all nod toward it, as in sync as the Rockettes, and I realize this is a setup of some sort.
Begrudgingly, I remove the tissue paper to find a quilt. But not just any quilt. This one’s smaller than their usual ones, more personal. When I pull back the final corner of the wrapping, the thread catches the light.
It’s the thread on the quilt that I notice first, soft lavender, like Tess used when we were kids. I follow the stitches inward until I see it.
A name.
No. Two.
Beau & Maisie.
My breath stalls. My fingers go still against the edge of the wrapping.
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 fingers brushing 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 Kilchis footbridge?”
I do. I was six.
It wasn’t a high bridge, but I was small for my age.
When my feet left the edge, I thought that I might fall forever, felt the rush of air snapping past my ears, and absorbed the jolt of cold stealing my breath the second I hit the water.
The river was dark blue and glassy, daring in the way only something wild can be.
Tess’s scream echoed down from the bridge when I surfaced with my wrist bent at a sickening angle.
Dr. Brooks had wrapped the splint without reprimanding me, even as my teeth chattered and the pain made everything buzz at the edges, muttering about boys and their stupid stunts as if it was just another Tuesday.
“I remember Tess crying so hard,” I say. “You told me I owed her ice cream for a year.”
“And I remember calling it the dumbest smart decision I ever patched up,” he replies. “Impulsive as anything, but you weren’t trying to be reckless. You were trying to prove something to yourself.”
He scrunches the bag to pick it up and stands. “Thing is, healing doesn’t always start where the hurt happened. Sometimes it starts when you let someone see the break.”
The words force their way into what I’ve kept sealed for too long. Not a punch, rather a slow, steady pressure against something that needs to be clamped.
I nod, slow and thoughtful.
He doesn’t push. Just gives a parting nod and heads inside the quilt shop, probably looking for the scones.
I take the long way around Sweetpines, quilt cradled against my side.
The wind changes direction as I cross the street, warm sun resting on my left cheek and the scuff of Peaches’ paws matching my steps like the steady rhythm of a snare drum.
A car door slams somewhere behind us. A lawnmower hums in the distance.
The town’s usual rhythm is still ticking.
Mrs. Voss is watering her potted geraniums with military precision across the street, and Walt is playing the same old harmonica tune from the barbershop porch.
Sweetpines looks the same, but it jars with the churning in my chest as if nothing has changed, when I know everything has.
Life around me carries on ordinary and unbothered, while I’m here carrying something that seems simple but fits perfectly in the space I’ve been trying not to notice was hollow. Peaches glances up, eyes too knowing, and I give her a dry smile.
She keeps pace beside me, seeming to know exactly where I’m going. I pass the square, cross over Main, then turn down the quiet lane where Botaniq?e sits tucked between a thrift store and the alley with the crooked lamppost.
The truth is, I didn’t jump off that bridge to impress anyone. I jumped simply to see if I was brave enough. To prove I could fling myself off something terrifying and still come up breathing. That if I was afraid, I was capable of facing the fear, even if it left a mark.
And I wonder if this is another kind of leap. Maisie, the quilt, this whole accidental fairytale of a week. Not from a footbridge this time, but something higher, riskier, because it’s not only bones on the line.
I’ve been standing on the edge again, but this time I’ve been pretending I didn’t already fall.
Because the moment I kissed her and she kissed me back, I gave up controlling the narrative of my story, the same way I did when I revealed my song lyrics. But Maisie didn’t run away with my heart. She stayed.
By the time I reach Botaniq?e, my heart’s pounding. Not from panic. More the startled thud of waking up too fast.
I push open the door. The bells jingle, but otherwise the shop is quiet. The air smells of citrus, eucalyptus, and the rose blend that always reminds me of her. It’s unmistakable. The way warmth seeps into stone that’s been shadowed too long.
Maisie’s not here, though.
The counter is clean. No scattered ribbon or stray petals. No brightly colored apron tossed haphazardly across the stool.
I swallow hard.
She’s not here…but I am.
And with the right amount of bravery, I think I’m ready to give her full access to the vulnerable parts of me I’ve kept locked away.
Brave enough to be known. The way I know my lyrics, and the way they know me.