Epilogue
BECK
Fifteen Months Later
Hattie isn’t a fan of driving on the interstate. Even if it’s the quickest way from the farm to Lafayette.
Two interstates and a clover leaf. Deal-breaker.
And opening up shop here in Carencro wasn’t practical. Not a big enough customer base for what she’s got on offer.
So she’s leasing space in the Autumn Woods Shopping Center on Johnston Street. It’s a thirty-minute commute, but on days when she drives herself, she can take Highway 182, an easy, rural road that’s only two lanes until it passes under I-10.
Of course, she did her homework. After she sold her townhouse in January and moved in with me and Pop full time—after spending three or four nights a week there anyway—she spent three weeks looking at commercial properties.
Between Albertson’s, the bank, and CC’s Coffee House, the shopping center draws customers all day.
And for sewists and crafters from the Evangeline Thruway to Camellia Boulevard, it’s now the closest place to find fabrics and sewing supplies this side of Wal-Mart.
For the last two months, we—Hattie and I, along with a steady rotation of other helpers, including her one shop assistant Lyra, Margaret and Merrick, Hattie’s parents, Grif and Kennedy, Javier and his wife Ela—have put in the hours to get the space ready for today.
Opening Day.
March 14th.
Hattie’s 25th birthday.
The Birthday Girl sits beside me in my new truck, still managing to rock back and forth even with her back ramrod straight. Her hands are white-knuckling the edge of the bench seat.
“Do you think people will come?” she asks, staring straight ahead as we make the turn from University Avenue to West Congress.
“I do.” I reach across the seat and cover her hand with mine.
She whips her gaze to me, doubt and worry widening her eyes. “Really?”
“Love, since you hung up the Coming Soon sign, how many people have stopped to ask you about the place?”
I watch her gulp. “A-a lot… I guess.”
“How many since you started counting?” I already know the answer to this, but I want the reminder for her.
So she feels the confidence and excitement she had last night—when we locked up the shop with every bolt of fabric and stitch marker in place.
Every rolling stool tucked neatly beneath each workstation.
Twelve of her spring designs—dresses, skirts, tops—angled just so in the front window.
The whole store the picture-perfect embodiment of her incredible vision.
“Sixty-one,” she mutters.
I cup my hand behind my ear and lean in closer to her. “How many?”
I keep my eyes on the road, but I don’t miss her exasperated sigh. I know without looking that she’s rolling her eyes at me.
“Sixty-one,” she says again, only this time in her normal Hattie voice. Her strong, no-nonsense Hattie voice.
“That’s more like it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, but she doesn’t stop rocking. “Do you think I’ll make a sale? To someone I don’t know, I mean?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. There’s no doubt in my mind. “Within the first thirty minutes if you want to place a wager on it.”
She snorts. “I’m not betting against myself.”
I crack a laugh. “Good point. I wouldn’t recommend anyone betting against you.”
I take my eyes off the road to catch the curl of her smile in profile.
My Hattie. What a fucking Queen.
I let my voice go low and growly the way she likes. “It’s going to be a goddamn stampede, honeysuckle.”
And it is.
Jesus.
Hattie chose a bell over the door that’s sound is as soft and tinkling as raindrops, but four hours later, and she’s asked me to take it down. Just for now.
The sound was starting to get to her.
It’s a good problem to have, really. But neither one of us is keen on her crashing out.
We knew today would be the most draining.
Nearly everyone we know has stopped by before mid-afternoon.
Hattie’s parents came first, and her mom—who hadn’t seen the shop with any of the stock in place—kept swabbing tears and muttering, “I had no idea… no idea, Hattie. I’m just so proud,” under her breath.
Margaret and Merrick came in from Colorado, helped us last night, and showed up about an hour after opening.
Even people who have no interest in sewing or crafts, like her dad’s golf buddies and workers in neighboring shops, have dropped by.
It’s a lot of peopling, but Hattie is holding up. Lyra and I have been taking turns reminding Hattie to step out back. The property behind the strip of stores has a huge green space shaded with oak and pecan trees.
It’s a good place to take a walk, lie down in the grass, or just breathe.
She’s out there when Griffin, Kennedy, and Pop come in, my brother and his husband sticking close as Pop navigates the store’s entrance with his walker.
Pop doesn’t try to go anywhere without it these days. He still falls, but maybe not as much. And he sure seems to try harder when Hattie’s around.
We’re trying some new meds. Some days are better. Others suck ass.
Today, I’m glad he felt like leaving the house because I get second-hand pride just watching him survey the store.
“Hardly recognize the place.” The way his eyes dance tells me what an understatement this is.
We brought him to see it after the shelving and paint went up, but it’s a riot of color and texture now.
The workstations and sewing machines shine.
The curtained off changing room, the racks of notions, sewing tools and supplies, and the rainbow display of Hattie’s favorite brand of threads fill out the rest of the space.
Somehow, it looks bigger than it did when it was completely empty.
It looks alive.
“So, where is our resident entrepreneur?” Pop asks, craning his neck in an attempt to spot her.
“She’s out back, taking a breather,” I say so only my dad and the guys can hear.
Pop’s forehead wrinkles. “She doin’ okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod, grinning because she’s doing fucking great and because Pop might love Hattie almost as much as I do. “Just pacing herself.”
Pop grunts in approval and then surveys the shop.
A young woman is waiting for the changing room to be free, holding up one of Hattie’s spring dresses.
Two ladies about Hattie’s mom’s age have their heads together over a pattern book at one of the workstations.
Another is running a hand over a bolt of floral knit.
“Looks like a good turnout,” Pop says.
Kennedy points to the design rack where Hattie’s creations hang. “Weren’t there a dozen of those when we finished up last night?”
My chest swells. “Yeah. She’s already sold four.”
“And you’re not proud at all,” Grif teases.
No point in hiding it. “What can I say? My woman is a rock star.”
Griffin snorts. “You don’t need to convince us. She’s well on her way to making us all rich.”
He’s not exaggerating. At least not by much.
But Kennedy just rolls his eyes. “I think Beck is responsible for some of our return-on-investment. I mean, it’s his vodka making us rich.”
Pop humphs. “And if our Hattie hadn’t stepped in when she did, we wouldn’t even have a sweet potato to our names, so, as far as I’m concerned, she’s the reason we’re in such good shape.”
Our Hattie.
I swallow hard when a rush of something—gratitude, love, both—humbles me. For her. For Pop. For Kennedy and Grif. For what we’ve built together—which is far more than a couple of businesses.
Far more.
For today and for the chance to celebrate everything Hattie has achieved in the last year and a half.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for coming today. I’ll go see if Hattie’s ready to say hi. She won’t want to miss you guys.”
“We’re in no rush,” my brother says. “We have patterns to look at.”
I glance between each of them in turn. “Patterns?”
“For Gracie’s layette.” Kennedy’s eyes go soft and a little dreamy and my brother smiles down at his feet.
Gracie isn’t even born yet, and she’s already turning these two into utter saps. She’s due at the end of April, and Griffin and his husband practically melt every time they talk about her.
I can’t say I blame them.
“And Hattie said we could pick out whatever shirt patterns we wanted her to make for us,” Griffin adds.
“Not on-the-house.” My tone has never had less give. “My unborn niece is one thing, but you’re paying for whatever you get.”
Griff rolls his eyes. “Stand down. Of course, we’re paying. We’re not parasites. Now beat it. You’re standing between us and bespoke apparel.”
And with that, my twin grabs his husband by the wrist and heads for the catalog station.
I eyeball my father. “Do you get a shirt too?”
He huffs. “I do. But I told Hattie I’d leave all the decisions up to her as long as she picked something without buttons.” He nods towards the settee near the dressing room. “Those two will take forever. I’m sitting.”
“Want anything while you wait? A soda?”
He’s already shuffling his walker across the floor. “Wouldn’t say no to a Coke,” he grumbles. “And an audience with the proprietor when she’s ready.”
“You got it, Pop.”
After I get him the soft drink, I head out back in search of my girl.
I find her exactly where I expect, stretched out on the blanket from my truck in the shade of one of the live oaks.
I’m quiet as I approach. Her eyes are closed, but I can tell she’s not asleep. I kneel beside her, but she speaks before I can lean in and brush her lips with mine.
“That had better be my boyfriend or my seam-ripper’s destined for your groin.”
“It’s me,” I say through a chuckle.
Her eyes stay closed, but she smiles. “I know. I recognized your walk.”
“My walk?”
She nods. “Your footfalls are heavier when you’re working or moving around the house, but you always approach me with softer steps.”
“I do?”
Hattie opens her eyes, crescent moons smiling up at me. “You do. Every time. Because you know that’s what I need. Without me ever having to say it. You’re good at that.”
“Knowing what you need?”