Chapter 8 Wrenley
Wrenley
It’s been ten days since I got drunk, baptized myself in Remi’s bushes, and caught a water bottle to the face like it was a rogue dodgeball.
A day I lovingly now refer to as The Incident.
Since then, I’ve developed what can only be described as a slow-burn friendship with the man I’m supposed to marry.
Ruger made me eggs after finding me a shell of myself with a hangover I well deserved.
It kind of felt like a big deal because he didn’t do it to earn points.
He wasn’t angling for a thank you or watching me take my first bite to see if I’d melt into a puddle of gratitude.
He just set the plate in front of me and sat down like we had been doing this for years.
I’m not used to that kind of treatment. Captain Skinny-Dick never made me breakfast. He would cook for himself all the time, but it didn’t even cross his mind to ask if I wanted any.
Of course, if I ever cooked and didn’t think to make enough for him as well, I was the bad guy.
Looking back, there were so many red flags I ignored.
Then we just went back to life as it was. Ruger goes to work or does whatever Ruger does, always leaving a thermos of coffee for me, and I find myself enjoying knowing that he wakes up and thinks of me.
Most days, I work on my coat, and Remi often joins me. We try to talk about the wedding, but every conversation leaves me feeling vaguely nauseous. Too many people buying into the illusion and getting excited about something that isn’t real.
When Ruger gets home, he makes dinner. I usually join him, attempting to introduce some form of vegetable into the meal.
He reluctantly allows it. Then we eat. Sometimes we don’t talk at all.
Other times we have that weirdly domestic how was your day?
Conversation. The latter is my favourite.
And then somehow—God knows when it started—we ended up watching true crime documentaries at night.
One minute, I was searching through Disney+, and the next, Ruger was making a sarcastic comment about the shoddy police work on a cold case special, and before I knew it, we were three episodes deep into a serial killer docuseries on ID.
I think the night I truly realized I needed to check myself was when I shifted on the couch and accidentally brushed my knee against his. It should have been a harmless little oops moment. Instead, for one second, my brain considered leaving it there just to see what he’d do.
After that night, I did what any emotionally stunted, terrified-of-catching-feelings woman would do: I found a new distraction.
Which is how I end up wandering around town alone for the first time.
Well… partly because Remi has some kind of important meeting, and partly because I can only hide in Ruger’s house avoiding conversations about the wedding for so long.
Some of my sewing supplies are running low, and according to Apple Maps, there’s a fabric store in town called Fabric Delights, which I’ve made a note to give Ruger and Remi shit for not telling me about it sooner.
With Ruger at work, Remi preoccupied, and my brain apparently committed to turning one accidental knee brush into some kind of Hallmark moment, I’m determined to find this store.
Unfortunately, Apple Maps appears to not have my same ambition.
Instead of leading me to a fabric store, it walks me directly into the middle of a back alley.
What the hell?
I stop and turn slowly in a circle.
There’s nothing here except a dumpster, some fish traps, and seagulls fighting over something. But when I look back down at the map, it’s saying I’m literally in the middle of this store.
I sigh and head out the other side of the alley, looking up and down the street.
I walk another block toward the ocean, but there’s no sign of a fabric shop, and my phone continues insisting it’s located in the alley I just left.
I turn onto another road, figuring I might as well head back to the house, when I finally spot it across the street.
Fabric Delights.
The sign hangs crookedly on a building a little past its prime. The paint, once probably white, is now cracked and flaking, curling like parchment paper at the edges. Two small planters sit beneath the windows, filled with flowers that look like they gave up a month ago.
I look back at my phone. Apple Maps stubbornly insists I should turn around.
Stupid app, I mutter, shoving my phone into my pocket before heading toward the store.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside.
In the windows, mannequins are dressed in skirts, jackets, and dresses.
I assume they were designed by the owner.
Some are dated and have a layer of dust on them.
Others look experimental with odd construction, but equally as charming.
The shop smells of mothballs and cedar. Aisles of colourful bolts of fabric run the length of the small store.
The walls are panelled in old, varnished wood, making the shop feel a little smaller and darker.
The orange carpet is worn, flattened in the walkways by years of footsteps.
Toward the back, a large wooden counter with a glass display has an old-fashioned-looking till resting on top of it. Behind it is a half-wall partition, where I assume is the space to cut fabric and mend clothes that come in, though I can’t see over it.
The whole place feels like it hasn’t changed in twenty years. Maybe thirty. But it’s warm and inviting. I think I’m in love.
Damn it! a voice calls from behind the partition.
Hello? I walk toward the sound.
A woman with a halo of dark, curly hair and thick black glasses pops up from behind a partition. She beams when she sees me. Hi there!
I can instantly tell this woman recognizes me, even though I’ve never met her.
Here we go.
She walks around the partition with her hand extended. I’m Audrey.
Hi. I take her hand. And while in the city, this would be the weirdest way to enter any store, I’ve come to learn that I’m basically a mini celebrity here.
I’m Wrenley.
Oh, I know who you are, Audrey says with a smile. What brings you here?
Up close, I catch the faint smile lines near her eyes, and something about her feels familiar, though I can’t quite place it. She’s stunning with her golden-tan skin and honey-coloured eyes.
Pins. Ideally, thirty millimetres.
She hums thoughtfully. I’m pretty sure we have some of those. Come take a look.
She leads me to a display stocked with needles, pins, and emergency sewing kits.
I find the right size pretty quickly, then start scanning for needles.
Mine are dulling fast, and sharpening them with an emery board is getting old.
These little tools are the unsung expenses of garment design.
I miss the equipment I had access to in Vancouver.
So, Audrey says, how are you liking Alpine Harbor?
I’ve rehearsed this answer so many times it practically lives in my pocket. I love it. It’s different from Vancouver, but I’m adjusting. The slower pace is kind of nice.
And how did you and Ruger meet?
I came here about a year and a half ago, met Ruger, and we just never stopped talking, I say almost a little too robotically, but Audrey doesn’t seem to notice.
She laughs. You must be sick of people asking the same questions. I’m sorry.
Don’t be, I say, warming to her. I get it. This town seems really close-knit.
We are, she says with a fond sigh. I used to babysit Ruger and Remi.
Being alone, I realize this is a good time to ask her a little more about them.
What were they like? I ask.
She grins. Pretty much the same as now. Remi was loud, bossy, and full of imagination. Ruger was quiet and observant. He always had Remi’s back. Anyone’s, really, if they mattered to him.
My heart tightens because, yeah, that tracks.
Audrey glances at the packets in my hands. That’s everything?
Oh! Yes.
She leads me back to the checkout counter, and I watch as she rings things in, blowing a stray curl from her face.
Six fifty, she says. Need a bag?
I’m good. I tuck the packages of pins and needles into my jacket pocket.
I’d love to keep chatting, but I’ve got to get back to this nightmare of a project. She gestures behind the partition.
What are you working on? I ask, genuinely curious.
Just a coat for the high school’s A Christmas Carol production, she sighs. But my machine hates me.
Mind if I take a look?
Sure.
I follow Audrey behind the partition to where a coat lies half-finished beside her sewing machine.
It keeps skipping stitches, she says. I’ve tried everything.
I gently touch the tip of her machine needle. It’s dull.
Exactly! I must have changed that needle a million times.
I run the scratchy wool between my fingers. This needle looks like a 90/14?
Yes. It’s standard for most fabrics.
I smile. Not for wool. You’d be better using a 100/16. I spot her stash of needles and immediately see the one I want. Mind if I switch it out?
Go for it.
I replace the needle, rethread the machine, and test a few stitches. The needle glides through the wool like butter.
Behind me, Audrey gasps. You’re a genius. How long have you been sewing?
Since I was a kid, I say. I even worked in fashion back in Vancouver.
Her eyebrows lift. No kidding. You want to take this project off my hands?
I smile. You’re doing just fine.
I’m a better quilter than tailor, she confesses. My mom owns the shop, and honestly, she’s the real talent. Well, she was. Chemo and arthritis don’t exactly pair well with precision work. Now she just does small projects when she’s up to it.
I’m sorry, I say softly, flexing my fingers in silent gratitude for what mine can still do.
It’s been tough, Audrey admits. But every time the school needs something, I can’t say no. So I do what I can.
She must be proud of you.
Just then, the door chimes again.
Audrey looks up. Well, you can ask her yourself. She just walked in.