Chapter 13
The locals used to call my grandmother the sewing lady.
If you needed a pair of britches hemmed, a new zipper added to your dress, or a certain Halloween costume created, you went to Olla Wilder.
But before becoming the sewing lady, Olla had aspirations to create costumes for Broadway.
All it took was a family vacation to Charleston, South Carolina, and meeting a sweet-talking young man for the Connecticut native to change that glitz-and-glam dream into one that found her living on a barrier island, several hundred miles away from home, piddling with folks’ clothes.
Or so she used to say, all the while wearing a big ole grin.
She told me she never regretted her choice to fall in love, but I knew she missed the idea of that dream.
It worked in my favor, because she created the most fun dress-up clothes for me and Cy until my brother decided he was too old for such.
I used to love parading around in the hooped skirt dress, pretending to be a princess, or the pirate getup I swiped after Cy gave up having fun.
Now, dressed in a creamy-white-and-turquoise boho dress and a pair of tan cowboy boots, I wondered if I could pull off pretending to look like a woman with her act together.
“Good luck with that,” I told my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I finished plaiting my hair in a long braid.
I secured it with a leftover strip of leather twine and tried smiling at myself.
“Now that’s definitely pretending.” Sighing, I picked up the Western hat and smoothed my finger over the sunflower seared into the tan fabric.
I straightened the turquoise brooch pinned to the lace around the crown and then settled it on top of my head.
My phone dinged in the bedroom. I finished putting on a pair of leather beaded earrings and left the bathroom to go check it, finding two messages. The first was from Henry. I expected it, considering he hadn’t missed one morning since making that promise to me.
God, please keep the taste of unhealthy out of Junie’s mouth today. Please show her she is strong enough. Please also help her to understand how tasty Fruity Pebbles are.
But the message notification from Lana shocked me.
Bracing myself, I tapped on the icon and my pretending to be a cool and collected woman crumbled.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the photo of my child.
Her hair had grown past her shoulders and was now a little lighter than the dark-blonde shade I’d remembered, but she was still so familiar.
I stared at the picture until tears blurred my vision.
I wished I could find the off switch for my darn tear ducts.
This crying all the time was really starting to get on my last nerve and I sure didn’t have time for it today.
I returned to the bathroom and washed my face but it did little good, so I went into the kitchen for an ice pack to run over my eyes.
A bit frazzled but present, I made it to Stith Park in time to set up the booth at the farmer’s market.
With ten minutes left before opening, I placed Olla’s antique gold makeup mirror on the end of the table I’d dressed in a rust-colored velvet tablecloth with ruffled edge.
I took a step back to admire the retro farmhouse vibe for Fernie’s Fancifuls.
Olla’s collection of antique cake stands served as hat stands, and a few serving trays displayed my handmade earrings and bracelets.
“Love your booth,” a woman said in passing, wearing a denim jumper and a red bandana holding her hair off her friendly face.
“Thanks! Oh, would you mind taking a picture of me in front of my display?”
“Not at all.” She U-turned and accepted my phone. “You match the vibe of your display.”
“That’s what I was going for.” Smiling, I adjusted the leather bracelets on my wrists to make sure they showed off the turquoise stones.
The lady snapped several pictures before handing me the phone back. “I’m at tent number thirteen, selling homemade soaps and essential oils. If that set of braided earrings with the blue stones are still here at the end, I’d like to buy them.”
“I’ll hold them for you.”
She waved off my offer. “No. Sell all you can. That’s the name of this kinda business.” She walked away before I could even ask her name.
A little old lady shuffled up and wanted to try on the green hat so I gave her all my attention. In the end, she passed on the hat but I didn’t let that dampen my spirits.
I took a moment to post the booth pictures to social media, tagging the farmer’s market. It made me feel official, even with only two hundred followers.
Within the first hour, I sold the pink fedora with branded roses and the black hat with lots of leather and lace ribbons around the crown, as well as a few sets of earrings and bracelets.
At least I made back the money I’d used for booth rent and materials.
During the lulls, I worked on a creamy-white hat with a bridal theme in mind, dressing it with lots of lace and dusty hues of pink and mint.
“I’m loving that hat.” A woman spoke, drawing me out of my creative zone.
I looked up and narrowed my eyes. “I know you.”
She gasped. “Junie Wilder!”
I set the hat down and rounded the table to give her a hug. “Bekah Chaney!”
“Soon to be Greene.” She released me to show off a gigantic diamond ring.
“Congratulations,” I said in wonder, looking at my childhood friend. “It seems like forever since I’ve seen you.”
Bekah shook her head. “It’s been, what, seven years?”
I bobbed my head left to right. “About that long. You live on Sullivan’s?”
“Just moved back. I took over my mom’s boutique.” Her attention moved to my table. “Did you create all this?”
“Yes. It’s a new venture, but I’m really loving it.”
Bekah inventoried the collection. “I can tell. I remember you were into drawing when we used to hang out.”
“Yes.” I shifted foot to foot and played with the bracelets on my wrist.
“Are you back on the island too? How’s Olla?”
More feet shifting, I cleared my throat. “She passed away a few years ago . . . I’m here for the summer. Maybe longer.”
Her smile fell from her face. “Oh shoot. I’m so sorry, Junie!”
“It’s okay.” Flushed, I pulled the brim of my hat down a little lower.
“Well, I’m looking to expand what the boutique carries. Why don’t you stop by sometime next week and let’s talk about maybe placing some of your hats and accessories on consignment.”
“Really? That would be great!” I pulled her to me for another hug. “Thank you!”
Bekah giggled at my enthusiasm, having no clue how much I needed this chance. “And I want that hat you’re working on. I think it’ll be fun to wear something like that for my upcoming bridal events.”
I looked over my shoulder at the unfinished work. “Sure. I can customize it any way you want. I have this pyrography pen I use to brand designs.” I’d just gotten it delivered last week and only ruined two hats so far. Besides those, this new art medium had quickly become my favorite.
“I’m not sure what that is, but okay.”
Before Bekah left, we exchanged numbers. Now I had a whopping seven contacts in my phone. Seven that counted. That meant something. Not random. Not frivolous.
With only thirty minutes left, I began to clean up and make note of the best sellers so I’d know what to focus on making for next Thursday. With hardly anything left over, I guess that meant more of it all. Man, did I feel accomplished. And proud. Something I hadn’t felt in quite a while.
As I stacked the tray of earrings into a bin, a guy wandered up and tried on a dark gray fedora with a collection of long pheasant feathers tucked into the metal and leather band.
“What do you think?” he asked, his voice raspy and familiar.
I glanced over and found Deaton grinning at me, adjusting the hat to sit at a slanted angle on his head.
Dapper, I thought, but refused to say it out loud.
He looked even healthier than the last run-in several weeks ago.
Tanned and not so scrawny. Eyes focused and playful.
Arlo. He looked so much like Arlo that it pierced me in the chest and made my stomach flip.
Deaton picked up the antique mirror and admired his reflection. “Did you make this hat, Sassy?”
“Junie. I’m Junie. Not Sassy.” And you. Are. Not. Arlo. I blinked away from his impish smile. “I decorated the hat, yes.”
“Impressive. I’ll take it.” He returned the mirror to the table, withdrew his wallet, and handed over a sleek black credit card.
I swiped his card through the handheld reader and gave it back. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sir?” Chuckling, Deaton returned the card to his wallet. “This thing is closing down. Let’s go grab some dinner. My treat.”
My phone dinged in the pocket of my dress. I took it out and read the message. “Can’t. Sorry. I have a meeting with my probation officer.” Even though I didn’t have to, I turned the screen so he could read it. Be ready in thirty minutes. Test time.
“He warns you about tests?”
“Not always.” I thumbed out a reply. Wrapping up at the farmer’s market. May take a little longer. I attached one of the pictures of me and my booth the nice lady had taken earlier.
OK. See you at the house.
I sent a thumbs-up emoji.
Deaton swiped my phone right out of my hand.
“Hey!” I poked him in the side. “Give that back.”
He dodged away from me while his thumbs flew across the screen. “There. Now we have each other’s contact.”
“Alright, you spoiled brat. You got your way.” I snatched my phone back. “Now leave me alone.”
“Another time then. I need the opportunity to beat you at King’s Corners. I think you used to cheat.” Deaton flicked the end of my braid hanging over my shoulder and winked.
“You know good and well you just stink at that game.” Retreating a step out of his reach, I busied myself with packing up. “Stop distracting me. I have stuff to do.”
“Later, Sassy.” He strolled away with his hands casually in the front pockets of his designer jeans. He’d mentioned one time that he came from an influential family, something in the political world, and you could tell it by the way he carried himself with lots of inherited confidence.
There was no denying his appeal, why people gravitated toward him.
Fun in a wild, careless way. I almost called out to him, to agree to meet up later tonight for that card game, but held my tongue.
It would only lead me to places I had no business going.
Deaton fell firmly in the category of unhealthy friendships, and if I didn’t keep away from him, I knew I’d end right back where all this probation and custody battle began.
Pulling up the contacts on my phone, I deleted Deaton and the temptation to ever reach out to him.