Chapter Six
Logan and I exit the diner/antique store combo and are back on the street in the overly warm, sunny morning.
“We’re running a little late,” he says, clearly blaming me for this. When he’s the one who sent me off to the bathroom, knowing I didn’t have to go, so how is it my fault I ended up sucked into an antique
store vortex?
Not to mention he sat idly by and let a hot waiter hate on me, so really, he has only himself to blame.
I glance back at the diner entrance as we walk. The sun is glinting off the windows, so I can’t see anything, but it feels like someone is watching me. Not quite the ominous-clock-tower-looming-at-me feeling, but someone is definitely keeping their
eyes on me all the same.
The face in the window.
I shake this thought away, though in my head, that face is now Jack’s. And I know better than to believe my own psychosis,
really I do, but Midas is making it harder than it should be.
I try to hold on to the warm feeling of welcome that Harrison offered.
I gulp down a few sips of the tolerable coffee, then swallow a few bites of subpar bagel.
Maybe this town is giving me emotional whiplash—for a whole host of reasons—but that doesn’t mean I can’t focus on the positive end of that spectrum.
My therapist insists that gratitude is a practice, and the reward of that practice is joy.
I would personally settle for a little less anxiety and a few less nightmares. Joy seems a little out of reach.
Darling Knits & Notions is right across the narrow street. A cute sign in the shop door has Open printed on it, with little
knitting needles and a font that makes the letters look like they’re made of yarn. On this side of the street, the tall buildings
partially block the sun so the sidewalk is in shadow. I expect creepiness, but it’s a nice reprieve from the relentless sun
in the bright blue of the October sky.
The storefront of the knitting store is unassuming enough.
Darling Knits & Notions is painted delicately across the big front window, and the display is .
. . adorable, actually. Maybe a little kitschy with the fake fall leaves and not-so-creepy scarecrows sitting in small chairs, but then, maybe the small-town thing
demands it. The yarn in the display is all boutique hand dyes. And there’s a fiddly, complicated lace shawl on a mannequin
that I can’t find any fault with—and I look.
I toss half my coffee and bagel into the trash can outside while Logan opens the door.
A bell dings as we step inside, and it’s only a little cooler in here than it is on the street, but the place is shiny and
neat and . . . wonderful. Yarn skeins in bright colors are stacked into wooden shelves that make it all seem to glow.
There are baskets on tables filled with more yarn, notions, and finished objects with their patterns attached.
There is a kit station and a long, wide table where I am certain classes are given and project triage occurs.
It even feels welcoming, which is not true of all yarn stores, and has seating placed carefully throughout in case customers
want to sit a while with their selected skeins to decide which ones they need and which ones they just want to squish on for a moment.
I can’t really believe that this partly belongs to me now. That some grandmother I never knew or met cared this much about yarn and fiber arts in general to create and run this store.
For the first time, I wonder if my interest in textiles and design might have . . . come from somewhere. Some genetic predisposition.
That we were linked all the while, my unknown grandmother and me.
This store might be paradise. Mind you, it’s tucked up inside a few nightmares, but still. I take a deep breath—wool and a
hint of lavender—and feel the tension in me drain away.
But a loud crash interrupts my bliss.
I look over at Logan, the only possible source of the crash. He’s standing next to an upended display of knitting needles
that are now strewn across the delightfully battered floor. Given that I can’t imagine him knocking into anything, I look around, alarmed, for whatever might be careening around this cozy little spot, but there’s nothing. Just
light and fiber.
Logan immediately crouches down and starts trying to collect the knitting needles, but for some reason he only manages to
send them skittering around and make an unholy racket while he’s doing it. I stare at him, convinced he’s doing it deliberately.
But it quickly becomes clear that he’s not. I am deeply unnerved.
I squat down to help him and in about five seconds I have them all collected and easily returned to their display as if nothing happened.
“What is the matter with you?” I hiss at him beneath my breath, my neck prickling again.
“Clumsy,” he replies, when Logan has never been anything but completely in control of his own body. I have heard fluttery
women call him elegant. He has more than once been asked if he is a dancer.
I look closely at him and he seems . . . off. Maybe a little pale. Maybe he didn’t sleep much on that couch. Maybe I should
offer him the bed. It’s not like my sleep is ever going to be great anyway.
Or maybe this creepy town with its faces and clock towers and eyes in the night is getting to him, too, and I can’t decide if I’m happy I’m not alone in this like I usually am or . . . not at all happy
that this is maybe not entirely in my head for once.
“Good morning,” a quiet female voice greets us pleasantly, and I’m a little too happy at the interruption.
Quiet and sweet was how her grandfather—adopted, as he’d mentioned, and what a weird thing to mention at all, much less to a total stranger—described her to me. Because
surely this has to be the Nora Bellamy named in the will and featured in the mantel photos. She’s standing behind the checkout
counter, dressed in an intricate Fair Isle sweater in a selection of taupes. Drab colors, it has to be said, though the skill
behind the stitches is impeccable.
Next to her stands a black-haired woman dressed all in black, including the oversize cardigan that I can tell is hand knitted.
It’s the same quality of stitching. She does not look polite. She looks like she’s sizing us up. Like if she doesn’t like how it goes, she might pull out a switchblade. She’s the woman from
the airplane picture.
The quiet one, Nora, steps out from behind the counter. “You must be the Darlings.” Her smile is tentative. When she holds out a hand, as if to have us both shake it at the same time, it trembles.
Logan is still on another planet—not that I can engage with that right now—and kind of stares, which normally I would give him a hard time about. But I don’t want to spook this little fluttery butterfly, so I shake
her hand firmly. “I’m Lexi. This is Logan.”
“The lawyer, right?”
Logan clears his throat. He looks specifically at the woman in black, as if poor Nora doesn’t exist. “Yes, and you must be
Cleo Kirkpatrick.”
She is not shaking. At all. “Got it in one.”
“Welcome to Midas and to Darling Knits and Notions,” Nora says. “We’re so glad to have you, and to meet Amelia’s grandkids.
She talked so much about you.”
Which is weird since we didn’t know she existed, but Logan cautioned me against giving away too much information to these two since we have
to figure out how best to sell our shares of the store. So I don’t say that.
Besides, Nora seems . . . actually nice. And welcoming. Like Harrison, there’s a genuineness to her.
Or maybe I just admire the clarity and evenness of her stitchwork, hard to say.
“A much nicer reaction than I got across the street,” I say to Logan.
“Oh, did you eat at Jack’s?” Nora asks brightly. “You won’t get a better breakfast.”
“Jack’s? You mean the surly waiter . . . owns the place?”
“Surly? Jack?” Nora shakes her head. “That doesn’t sound right.”
“Maybe you’re just not used to Midwest friendliness,” Cleo says. Her smirk does not read friendly, Midwest or otherwise.
“We get lots of visitors this time of year. Fall festivals and the like,” Nora hurries to explain.
“Maybe he confused you with one of them.” She bites her bottom lip, as if wishing she hadn’t said that.
“Anyway, yes, the diner is Jack’s. Our grandfather runs the antique shop.
The whole spread of stores there belongs to the Bellamy family and has forever. ”
I’m trying to work out the our grandfather part. “You’re Jack’s sister?”
“Cousin. Well, adopted. Sort of. Anyway, we’re glad you could make it. I can show you around the store, answer any questions
you might have, get you familiar with the business.” She’s talking a bit like she had a speech prepared. Like talking about
surly or not-surly Jack has taken her off script and she needs to get back on track.
I decide to let her. Maybe it was Harrison telling me I’d like her, maybe it’s this weird town and Jack, who’s only surly
to me, and my maybe-a-little-desperate desire to like something here, but I decide Nora and I are going to get along great.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, with more enthusiasm than I really feel. Logan hasn’t said anything else, so I drag him along
while Nora shows us around. Cleo follows like an ill-tempered bodyguard in the requisite steel-toed Doc Martens.
The yarn inventory is impressive. There are a great variety of patterns offered, and Nora explains that Amelia used to hold
knitting classes—yes, right there at that long, inviting table—and that if she can find a teacher, she’d like to get them
going again.
“Amelia’s death took us all by surprise,” Nora says. Her voice is tight, like she’s holding back great emotion.
Maybe I’d have it, too, if I’d ever met Amelia Darling.
Nora turns to Logan and me, an earnestness in her expression I’m not sure even the greatest actors could put on. “I want to
make sure that you guys get what you want out of this. If that’s an interest in the store, in Midas, that’s great—”
“Nora,” Cleo mutters, clearly irritated that Nora is being kind over smart.