From the beloved and bestselling author of the Ransom Canyon and Harmony, Texas series comes a powerful, heartwarming story about generations of family and the ironclad bonds they forge

Jillian James has never had a place she could call home. So when she lands in the sleepy Texas town of Laurel Springs, she’s definitely not planning to stay—except to find a few clues about the father who abandoned her and destroyed her faith in family.

Connor Larady is desperate: he’s a single dad, and his grandmother, Eugenia, has Alzheimer’s. He’s the only one around to care for her, and he has no idea how. And now he has to close the quilt shop Eugenia has owned all her life. When Connor meets down-on-her-luck Jillian, he’s out of options. Can he trust the newcomer to do right by his grandmother’s legacy?

Jillian is done with attachments. But the closer she grows to Connor and Eugenia, the higher the stakes of her leaving get. She has to ask herself what love and family mean to her, and whether she can give up the only life she’s ever known for a future with those who need her.

Also By Jodi Thomas

The Ransom Canyon Series

Ransom Canyon

Rustler’s Moon

Lone Heart Pass

Sunrise Crossing

Wild Horse Springs

Indigo Lake

Winter’s Camp (ebook novella)

A Christmas Affair (ebook novella)

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Mornings on Main

Jodi Thomas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08322-5

MORNINGS ON MAIN

© 2018 Jodi Thomas

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Praise for New York Times bestselling author

Jodi Thomas

“Compelling and beautifully written, it is exactly the kind of heart-wrenching, emotional story one has come to expect from Jodi Thomas.”

—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author on the Ransom Canyon series

“You can count on Jodi Thomas to give you a satisfying and memorable read.”

—Catherine Anderson, New York Times bestselling author

“Ransom Canyon will warm readers with its huge heart and gentle souls.”

—Library Journal

“[Sunrise Crossing] will warm any reader’s heart.”

—Publishers Weekly, A Best Book of 2016

“Thomas is a wonderful storyteller.”

—RT Book Reviews on Rustler’s Moon

“This tale will grab readers, who will fall in love with the main characters and be just as enamored of the others.”

—Library Journal, starred review, on Lone Heart Pass

“A pure joy to read.”

—RT Book Reviews on the Ransom Canyon series

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Reader’s Guide

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Jodi Thomas

About the Publisher

1

Laurel Springs, Texas, had the warm feel of a Southern town long forgotten by progress. A hundred years ago the main street had been built wide enough to turn a wagon around. Today, the only sign of change was marked at every intersection by swinging stoplights. They clanked in the wind like broken clocks beating out time in red and green.

A trickle of day visitors flowed down the uneven sidewalks in front of quaint little shops with catchy names like A Stitch in Time, Hidden Treasures and Mamma Bee’s Pastries. Occasional sides of buildings and entrances to alleyways were painted with murals of cattle drives and oil fields, as if anyone needed reminding what built this state.

Jillian James drove through the heart of town, fighting back tears. This wasn’t where she wanted to be. It was impossible to remain invisible in a small town. Strangers would be noticed. People would ask questions. Welcome her with smiles or glare at her like no one ever did in large cities.

She dropped her chin, letting her dark, straight hair curtain her face as she waited for the light to change.

Look at the bright side, she almost said out loud. Time slowed in a place like this, and she had to catch her breath. She had to plan her next move. A small town. A slower pace would give her time to think.

She’d been a traveler, a wanderer for as long as she could remember, and like it or not, this town offered her a place to rest and regroup.

In a strange way, this dot on the map reminded her of Budapest, Hungary. But a creek ran through the center of this town, not the Danube river. No hauntingly beautiful Chain Bridge joined the split cities as it did in Buda and Pest, but she sensed the beat of two separate towns between the city limit signs.

Two worlds divided by a ribbon of water.

One side of town was dark and industrial, with warehouses and grain elevators that blocked the sunset to the west. The other side was postcard cute, with gingerbread trim on brightly painted cottages and the Texas flag hanging from nineteenth-century streetlamps.

Here she was, stopped at a tolling light in the middle of town. Not belonging to either side. Not belonging anywhere. At first, her traveling had been an adventure she thought she was born for, but lately it felt like drifting. Just wandering with no more direction than the leaves dancing along the gutters.

Sniffing, she managed a smile, remembering what her father used to tell her every time they packed. If you want to see the world, Jillie, you’ve got to rip off the rearview mirror and never look back.

Somehow, she doubted he’d been talking about Laurel Springs, Texas, when he’d said the world. She’d grown up moving with him. Alaska in the summers, the oil rigs off the coast of Texas in winters. Norway when she was eight. Australia at ten. Washington State when she reached her teens, and a dozen other places. Never the same. Never staying long enough to grow roots.

When she was eighteen, he’d left her at a dorm on a small college campus in Oklahoma and disappeared without a trace. She’d made it two semesters before her money ran out. She hadn’t bothered to look for him. Her father had spent her formative years teaching her how to live without leaving a footprint to follow.

Travel light, he’d once said. Pack nothing from the past, not even memories. And, finally, he’d left without packing her along. Deep down she’d known he would leave someday. Whenever he talked of her as grown, he never mentioned being in the picture.

Only now, a dozen years later, she longed for an anchor. One relative. One harbor. One place where she felt she might belong for a while.

The light changed. Jillian scrubbed her face with a napkin from McDonald’s, where she’d had lunch, and followed a sign advertising the town’s only historic bed-and-breakfast.

Papa’s rule: Never stay at a cheap motel. It marks you as a drifter.

A small bed-and-breakfast was cheaper if you considered the one meal a day could stretch into two if you picked up fruit on the way out, and the friendly staff usually offered a wealth of information. Innkeepers almost made Jillian feel like she had a friend in town.

She parked her car in one of the four Special Guest of Inn reserved spots.

When she climbed the steps of what looked like a miniature Tara mansion from Gone With the Wind, a tiny woman, in her late fifties, rushed out with a welcoming smile. Her chocolate-colored apron was neatly embroidered and read JOIN THE DARK SIDE. We have chocolate chips in our cookies.

“You must be Jillian James. I’m Mrs. Kelly, the innkeeper, but the locals call me Mrs. K. I’ve got your room all ready, dear. Did you have a nice drive? The internet didn’t give us a home address on you so I don’t know how long your journey was, but I hope it wasn’t too far. Don’t you just love our town?”

Papa’s rule: Never give out too much information. It’ll trip you up.

“I had a great drive and I love your beautiful home. You’ll have to tell me a bit of the history of this place.” Jillian smiled, thinking of one of her own rules. Never try to outtalk a talker.

“Of course, dear. This house is old enough to have not only a history, but a ghost, as well, though he’s quite shy.” The innkeeper handed her the key, then they climbed all the way up to Jillian’s room on the third floor. “I’ll tell you about Willie Flancher over coffee some cloudy morning. It’s the only time to talk about ghosts, you know. Folks in town talk about the house Flancher’s Folly because he built it for his fifth wife and died on their wedding night.”

Jillian didn’t care about ghost stories. All she wanted was a quiet, clean place to stay for a while. Third floor, back of the house. Usually least expensive and quietest.

Once Jillian circled the tiny room, she gave an admiring smile. This room would be perfect. Just what she needed.

The chubby innkeeper, who was very spry for her fifties, moved to the door and made her official announcement, “Breakfast at eight, if that’s all right. Soft drinks in the small fridge on the landing, and I put cookies out in the parlor after sunset for those who like a late snack.”

“Thank you.” Jillian pulled off her coat. “I think I’ll rest before I explore the town.”

“You do that, dear. There are maps in the foyer but you’re only a half block from Main, so you can park your car around back and walk if you like.” Mrs. Kelly’s head rocked back and forth as if ticking off an invisible list of what she needed to say. “I’ll see you in the morning. You’re the only one booked up here tonight. Both my other guests are on the first floor. No one wants to climb two flights of stairs these days.”

“I don’t mind.” Setting her suitcase and backpack down, Jillian grinned when she spotted the wide window. “It’s worth the climb for the view alone.”

Mrs. Kelly smiled as she backed out of the room. “I agree.”

When the lock clicked, Jillian pulled out her ledger and curled up in a window seat that had three times more pillows than it needed. On a blank page she wrote the date and “Day 1” beside it, along with the cost of the night’s lodging: “Winter rate: sixty-three dollars.”

Papa’s rule: Always keep count or you might lose track of how long you stay and forget to leave.

She had to be very careful. Thanks to car trouble a month ago and two crummy bosses in a row, she was less than a thousand dollars away from having to sleep in her car—or worse, a shelter. In her ten years on the road, she’d ended up broke twice before. Once in California when someone had stolen her purse, and again in New York City when she’d been in a wreck. None of her belongings had made it to the hospital with her. Both times she’d lost not only her money, but also her identification.

Papa’s rule: Always keep copies of vital papers somewhere safe. Birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, social security card.

In New York, without money and looking like she’d been in a street fight, it had taken her three months to collect enough cash to buy a bus ticket to Oklahoma City. There, she’d found her stash, money, ID and the letter, still unopened, that she’d left for her father just in case he ever used the secret hiding place beneath a shelf in the basement of the downtown library. Both times she’d come back to the hiding place, her stash was still there and the letter was unopened.

If he’d dropped by, he’d left no sign, and she doubted when she circled past Oklahoma City again that anything would be different. All her papers and the mailbox she rarely checked showed her as from Oklahoma. When she’d asked her father if that were true, he’d simply said, “Oklahoma City is the center of the country and as good a place as any to be from.”

Jillian took a shower and changed into dress pants and a sweater. She was close enough to her stash now to relax. If she had to, she could make the drive northwest for more cash in a matter of hours, but somehow that would mean she’d failed.

She wasn’t running to or from anything. She wasn’t hiding out. She just wanted to continue drifting. It was all she knew. Maybe in a few more years, she’d come up with another plan. Maybe she’d drift forever. To do that, she had to get better—smarter—at managing.

As she always did, she unpacked her few belongings. Clothes on hangers in the closet. Underwear in the top drawer. Shoes and backpack in the bottom drawer. Her father’s tiny journals on the nightstand beside the bed. Everything in order.

Her billfold and her laptop slid into her shoulder bag. The laptop went everywhere with her. The backup drive always remained with her clothes tucked away in the back of a shelf or tucked into a pocket. Against her father’s advice, she kept details of everywhere she stopped, be it for one night or a few months. He might have jotted only zip codes and number of days stayed, but she liked to log in the history of each place, how it looked, how it might feel to live there.

Walking out of her room, she studied the polished old mahogany of the staircase. The faded wallpaper peeling free in places, reminding her of fragile lace. The house was beautiful and well cared for, like an aging queen, still standing on a street with abandoned and broken-down homes huddled near, as if hoping the memory of great days gone by might still live in reality’s shadow.

Slipping past the foyer, Jillian rushed down the front steps like an explorer hungry to begin digging. This town’s zip code, like dozens of others, had been listed in her father’s first journals. Maybe in his early years, he’d left a trace.

She told herself she’d feel it if he’d been here. If this was the place where he’d stopped wandering just long enough to care for someone.

But she felt only the cool winter wind whipping between buildings, whirling her around as if pushing her off any direct course.

A few blocks later, she was strolling down Main, her still-damp hair swinging in a ponytail. She blended in with the crowds, window-shopping, as if she had no direction. The smell of cinnamon and ginger drifted in the winter air, blending around pieces of conversations and laughter like icing melts into warm cake.

Jillian swore she could feel her heart slow. The very air in Laurel Springs seemed to welcome her.

Halfway down the block she found what she was looking for. A small help-wanted sign in the corner of a window.

Above hung a faded sign that read LAUREL SPRINGS DAILY.

She let out a breath through her smile. Newspaper work. She could handle that. Selling ads. Writing copy. No problem. Mentally, she made up her resume in her head. Nothing too fancy, nothing too bright. Nothing too easy to check.

As she pushed open the newspaper office door, she selected a new identity as easily as she might change a hat.

2

Connor Larady looked up from the copy machine he’d been trying to murder for an hour. “Morning,” he said as he set down his latest weapon of destruction, a screwdriver. “May I help you, miss?”

The woman clamoring through his office door was tall and slim enough to be a model. With hair in a ponytail and little makeup, she could have still been in her teens, but the wisdom in her big, rainy-day-colored eyes marked her as a good ten years older.

He shoved his tools aside, walked over to the front desk and tried to find a scrap of paper to write on. No one ever came into a newspaper office without either wanting something written, or rewritten.

You’d think a writer would have a pen and pad handy. Only he wasn’t much of a writer, and this wasn’t much of an office. The Laurel Springs Daily had been whittled down to little more than a weekly flyer and a spotty blog of what was happening in town when he got around to it, but he kept up the office his father and grandfather had both run.

Considering himself a good judge of people, Connor had a premonition he’d be filling out a free obit form or a lost dog report, also free.

There were some days he’d thought of combining the two columns in the weekly paper. The header could read LEFT TOWN FOR PARTS UNKNOWN. The byline could be Those Recently Departed or Run Over.

The woman moved one small step closer. Connor had no idea if she was just shy or half-afraid of him. Maybe his grandmother and daughter were right: he was starting to look like the mug shots on the Dallas nightly news. Hair too long, this was the third day he’d worn the same old wrinkled shirt, and he hadn’t bothered to remove the raincoat his gram said only a vampire would wear.

He’d tried to tell them both that he didn’t have time to commit a crime. He was too busy running the town and keeping up with them. His grandmother had taken to wandering off alone, and his daughter was worse. She preferred wandering off with any pimpled-faced, oversexed boy who had a driver’s license. Between the two of them, his curly brown hair would be gray before he turned forty. That is, if it decided to stay around at all.

Connor shoved his worries aside and waited for the attractive stranger to say something. Anything. Or run back out the door. He didn’t much care which. He had more than enough to deal with this morning, and he didn’t want to hear a complaint. Everyone thought if you were the mayor, you loved listening in detail of what was wrong in town.

Maybe this stranger just wanted to talk, or ask directions?

Conversation wasn’t his strong point. Plus, she was just the kind of woman who made him nervous—pretty, and near his age. With his luck, any second she’d decide there was more to him than people could see and would start trying to remake him into marriage material.

Maybe he should wear a sign. TO ALL WOMEN: I AM MADE OF MUD. NO MATTER WHAT YOU MOLD ME INTO, WHEN IT RAINS, I’M BACK TO MUD. Save us both some time and move on to another project.

Raising her head, she studied him a moment, then said, without smiling, “I’m here about the job.”

“What job?” He hadn’t had a secretary for two years. That had been a disaster. He could go slowly bankrupt by himself without a helper continually suggesting they buy supplies or turn up the heater, or paint the place.

The attractive woman before him tilted her head, and he noticed her eyes weren’t quite blue or gray, but they were looking directly at him. “The help-wanted sign posted?”

She’d said the words slowly as if he might need time to absorb them. “I can write copy, proofread fairly fast, and I’m willing to try any type of reporting.”

He lifted an eyebrow, thinking maybe he should recite his resume to her if that was how she wanted to introduce herself. One degree in English, one in history, a master’s in anthropology. None of which had ever earned him a dime. Come to think of it, maybe he was slow? No one had bothered to tell him that he was wasting his time in school.

This stranger in town pointed at the faded note in the window and his brain clicked on. “Oh, that job’s not here at the paper. It’s across the street at the quilt shop.” He pointed out the window to A Stitch in Time, the shop directly across Main.

“It’s been so long since I put it there, I forgot about the sign.”

“Sorry to have bothered you.” She turned, obviously not a woman to waste time.

“Wait.” He hadn’t had a single bite for the job at the quilt shop in weeks. Everyone in town knew what it was and no one wanted it. But this outsider just might be dumb enough to take it. “It’s only a short-term job. Three or four months at the most, but it pays fifteen dollars an hour if you have the right skills.”

“What skills?”

She wasn’t running at the thought of working in a quilt shop. That was a good sign. “My grandmother has owned the town’s quilt shop for over fifty years. She’s closing down, but what we need done has to be accomplished carefully. Every quilt in the place has to be cataloged for the county museum. She holds the history of this town in there.”

Connor had no idea how to say what he needed to say, but he had to be honest. “Gram’s slipping a little. Beginning to forget things. Over the years she’s collected and made quilts that mean a great deal to the people of Laurel Springs. They’ll have to be treated with care. The history of each one logged and photographed.”

“Museum-quality preservation. I understand. I worked at the Southwest Collection on the Texas Tech campus while I was in college. My salary will be twenty an hour for that detailed kind of work.”

She stood her ground and he had no doubt she knew what to do. Which was more than he knew about the process. The county curator had been excited about the collection but offered no time or advice.

Now Connor was sure he was the one afraid of her. “All right. I’ll walk you over and let you meet my grandmother. If you last an hour, you’re on the payroll. She’ll be the boss. Some days you’ll be working at her pace.”

Nodding, she passed through the front door he held open. When they started across the street, she hesitated. “Aren’t you going to lock your office door?”

“What, and hamper anyone trying to steal my copier? No way.”

The woman was giving him that look again. She’d obviously decided he was missing critical brain cells.

“I’m Jillian James.” She held out her hand, palm up as if to say, your turn next.

“Connor Larady.” He grinned. “I’m the town mayor.”

She didn’t look impressed. She’d probably heard he’d run unopposed.

Without another word, they stepped inside the quilt shop. He didn’t miss her slight gasp as she looked up at the size of the place. It widened out from the small storefront windows in a pie-slice shape, with two stories opening to an antique tin ceiling. Massive fans turned slowly, so far above he couldn’t feel the air move.

Every inch of the twenty-foot-high walls was covered in colorful quilts; a collage of fabric rainbows.

Deep shelves lined the wall behind the wide front counter. Folded quilts were stacked five deep for a dozen rows.

“This may take longer than three months,” she whispered.

“I’ll help,” he offered. “But I should tell you, Gram is in charge here. This is her world, so whatever she wants goes. I don’t want the cataloging to cause her any stress.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not sure you do.” He looked at her closely, wondering how much to tell a stranger. “We’re working against a ticking clock and it’s in Gram’s head. The cataloging, the inventory, may not always be her priority. You may have to gently guide her back to the task.”

Her intelligent eyes looked straight at him, and he guessed she was one of those rare people who listened, really listened.

“I can put in overtime and will work Saturdays, but I can’t promise you I’ll stay in town more than three months. If you think I can complete the job by then, I’ll give it my best shot.”

“I understand,” he said, even though he didn’t. Why couldn’t she stay longer? Who moves to a town for three months? Someone just killing time, he reasoned.

A mix of conversation and laughter came from the back of the shop where the ceiling lowered to eight feet, allowing room for a storage room above and a meeting room below.

Connor took the lead. Unlike the stranger, he knew exactly what he was walking into. The twice-a-week quilting bee. An old frame hung from the beams, allowing just enough room for chairs to circle the quilt being hand-stitched together. It might be a lost art in most places, but here, the women seemed to love not only the project, but the company.

The moment the ladies saw him their voices rose in greeting. All eight of them seemed to be talking to him at once. As soon as he greeted each one, he introduced Jillian James to them. “I’ve hired Jillian to help catalog my grandmother’s collection. Gram’s got a great treasure here in her shop.”

The ladies agreed with his plan, but two reminded him that it would be a long time before his gram retired.

His grandmother, Eugenia Ann Freeman Larady, slowly stood and offered her hand to Jillian. Where Connor had been told his eyes were Mississippi River brown, his gram’s had faded to the pale blue of shallow water. Every year she’d aged he’d grown more protective of her, but today he needed to take a step backward and see how she got along with a stranger brought in to work with her.

Gram winked at Jillian as if she already counted her as a friend. “Call me Gram if you like. All Connor’s friends do.”

“Gram,” Jillian said with a genuine smile.

“I’ve decided.” The willowy old dear cleared her throat before continuing. “I’ll probably be working on a quilt when the good Lord calls me home and I’ll have to say, ‘Just give me time to finish the binding, then I’ll come dancing through the Pearly Gates.’”

He’d heard her say those words a thousand times over the years. Now, most of what she said were old sayings like that. New ideas, new thoughts, were rare.

“Gram,” he said gently. “Jillian wants to help you get these quilts all in order so someday they’ll be on display in the county museum.”

His grandmother nodded as she looked around the shop, every inch of its wall space covered in quilts. Gram smiled. “I’d like that. I’ll even get out my pioneer quilts. The ones brought here in covered wagons. Some are worn. They were used, you know, but then, that’s what quilts are made for, too. Plain or fancy, they wrap us in our families’ warmth.”

“She’ll write down the details and take pictures so you can show them all off at once to your friends,” Connor pressed, hoping Gram understood.

Eugenia had lost interest in talking to him. She took Jillian’s hand and tugged her to the only empty chair around the six-foot square of material pulled so tightly on the quilting frame it could almost have served as a table. “Before we start, we have to work on this quilt. Dixie pieced it for her niece, and the wedding is in two weeks. Hand quilting takes time.”

Connor moved away as the ladies folded Jillian into the group. She glanced over at him, looking as if she hoped he’d toss her a life preserver.

He shook his head. “We’ll go over the details later,” he said, low enough for only Jillian to hear. “As of right now, you’re on the clock. I’ll return at a little after five.”

At the door he looked back, wondering if the tall woman would still be there at closing time.

Once on the street, Connor walked left toward the natural park entrance near the bridge. He dodged traffic, three cars and a pickup, then headed down a trail to the creek. A stream meandered through Laurel Springs as wild as it had been when his people settled here. The tall grass, dry now, appeared bunched in thick clumps over the uneven land. Huge old cypress trees huddled by the water, hauntingly gray in their dusty winter coats. February. The one month he’d always thought of as void of color.

Connor could breathe here by the stream. He could think. He could relax.

The rambling acres running untamed through town were more swamp than park now, but next spring the city would have the money to clean it up. They’d fight back nature to make running trails and small meadows spotted with picnic tables.

But Connor craved the wildness of this spot in winter. The cold. The loneliness of it. As he strolled near the water, the sounds of the town almost disappeared, and he could believe for a few minutes that he was totally by himself. That he was free. No responsibilities. No worries.

Duty would pull him back soon. It always did. But for a while he could allow his mind to drift, to dream. There were days in his organized, packed routine that all Connor wanted to do was run away.

Only he never would.

Some people are meant to grow where they’re planted.

Jillian’s words echoed in his thoughts. I can’t promise you I’ll be here in three months, she’d said, as if it were a possibility for everyone. Didn’t she know that the people in this town of Laurel Springs were like the residents of the mythical Brigadoon: they lived here forever, and she was simply a visitor for a day?

A story danced in his head as he walked through the dried buffalo grass of winter. The stiff stalks made a swishing sound, like a brush lightly moving over a drum. His imagination was all the escape he needed most days.

He was leaving his world, his reality, his home, if only for an hour. If only in his mind.

3

Jillian closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She loved the smells of the quilt shop. Lavender soap left on the women’s skin as they routinely washed their hands so no perspiration stained the quilt. Lemon wax on the eighty-year-old counter that had been left behind when a mercantile became the quilt shop. The smell of cotton, fresh and new, blended with the hint of dyes pressed into material. She even liked the scent of the oil on the hundred-year-old Singer Featherweight machines lining the back wall. Soldiers waiting to do their duty.

Eugenia served orange blossom tea and gingersnap cookies when the ladies took a break. Her hands were worn, with twisted bones covered over in paper-thin skin so fine not even fingerprints would show.

Jillian was surprised that they’d accepted her into their group without many questions. She’d never spent much time with women more than double her age and found it fascinating that they talked in stories, flowing from one to another. No hurry, no debates, no lectures. Just a gentle current that moved as easily as the sharp needles through the padded layers of material.

Paulina, with her funny tales of living in Dallas in the sixties.

The three Sanderson sisters, who finished each other’s sentences and laughed at their own jokes.

The classy lady, dressed in a silk pantsuit, who didn’t seem to mind a bit that everyone called her Toad.

Dixie didn’t say much; she worked with her head down. Neither did a pixie of a woman named Stella, but she laughed at everyone’s jokes as if she’d never heard them before.

Stories they’d all probably heard a hundred times circled around them like classical music, comforting and welcoming to their ears.

Eugenia Larady sat on Jillian’s left, showing her how to make the stitches. Jillian tried her best but didn’t miss the fact that Paulina, on her right, pulled each of her lines and redid them.

The afternoon passed with Eugenia and Jillian getting up each time a customer came in. The old woman Connor had lovingly called Gram treated each stranger as a special guest. Some only wanted to look, so she followed them about the shop offering them cotton gloves so they could examine the quilts. Some customers wanted to buy squares of fabric called fat quarters, or tools of the quilting trade.

The third time Eugenia stood in front of the cash register, Jillian noticed she seemed to have trouble remembering the order of making a sale.

“Let me, Gram,” Jillian suggested. “I’ll try not to mess up.”

Eugenia moved to the side. “All right, dear, but I’ll be watching you.”

Jillian had worked a dozen jobs that had this standard cash register, but she glanced over to Eugenia for approval with each step. She’d rarely been around anyone in their eighties, but she assumed memory slips might be common.

The woman smiled and nodded each time.

Jillian almost wished she had a grandmother. Her father had told her from the beginning that she had no living relatives except him. Not one. She’d known it so young she hadn’t thought to be sad. No sense missing someone you’ve never had around.

As the day ended, she took Gram’s arm. They walked back to the now-silent quilting corner. No constant stream of voices echoing off the walls. No ting of the cash register drawer after each sale of the day.

Jillian thanked her for teaching her so much, and Gram patted her hand as if pleased she could be of help.

The shop was empty now, but the place still seemed alive in the late-afternoon light. Shadows slow dancing beneath the multicolored sky of quilts above.

“You’re a fast learner. A great help.” Eugenia patted her hand again. “You’d best be going. It will be dark soon.”

Jillian didn’t want to leave her alone. “I thought I’d help clean up. After all, I ate most of your cookies.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t. Paulina always eats a dozen.” Eugenia covered her mouth as if she might hold back the words.

They both giggled as the front door chimed, and Connor walked in.

She found herself thinking more of this man now that she’d met his gram. A man who cared so dearly for his grandmother couldn’t be as clueless as he appeared. She laughed suddenly as she noticed a pencil sticking out of his shaggy head of hair. Or maybe it was a small tree branch. She didn’t plan to get close enough to see.

“Did you have a good day, Gram?” Connor passed Jillian as if he hadn’t noticed her.

“A grand one, as always. I taught your friend many things about the shop today.” Gram grinned. “Now, what did you say her name was again?”

“Jillian,” he said, smiling over Gram’s head at her. “She’s Jillian James.”

Gram nodded. “She’s a keeper.”

Connor looked away. “Good. I’m glad everything went well.”

Jillian saw a shyness in the mayor she hadn’t noticed before. He might be comfortable around the quilting circle ladies and Gram, but he was nervous around her.

Two short beeps sounded from the street.

Connor lifted Gram’s sweater from behind the counter. “Time to go, Gram.”

“But I don’t want to go home. I don’t like it there. Benjamin won’t be there. He’s gone and the boys went off to college and never came back. They grew up, I know. But Benjamin just doesn’t come home anymore.”

Jillian felt anger rise. She didn’t care if Connor was Eugenia’s grandson; he shouldn’t try to make her go home to an empty house.

Connor put his arm around Gram and walked her to the door. “You’re not going home. The girls have supper waiting for you. Don’t you remember? Tonight you’re having dinner with your friends at Autumn Acres. Then all of you are going to watch a movie.” He stuffed a bag of popcorn into her knitting bag. “I got you caramel corn tonight, but you have to share it.”

Gram smiled. “Oh, yes. I remember. It’s my turn to bring a snack. Tell Benjamin I might even sleep over.”

Jillian watched Connor walk his grandmother out to a little bus that had steps that lowered almost to the street. He helped her all the way to her seat, then stood on the curb waving as she waved back.

The side of the bus read Autumn Acres: Senior Living in Style.

When the bus was gone, he turned back to the quilt shop. His face was cold now, sad, tired. “I need to lock up.”

“I’ll get my bag.” They bumped shoulders as they neared the door. She tried not to notice and asked, “What’s Autumn Acres?”

“It’s a new living center being built for the aging. They’ve got the independent apartments finished and one wing of the added care where they check on residents, give them their meds, etcetera, but the final wing, the nursing care, isn’t finished.”

“Gram just visits?”

His gaze met hers. “No,” he said in almost a whisper. “She’s lived there for a while, but she thinks she’s just visiting.”

Connor vanished into the back room to turn off the last of the lights.

When she collected her things and stepped back outside, he was waiting. All the little stores on Main were closing, and the sun’s glow seemed to be pulling any warmth with it. Now the smell of coffee drifted from the bakery as low clouds hugged the horizon and the few people left on the street seemed to be in a hurry.

He fell into step with her as she turned toward the bed-and-breakfast. Her long strides seemed to match his in an easy gait. “How’d it go today?” he asked without looking at her.

“Fine. She thinks you and I are friends.”

“That’s all right. Just log your hours. Give me the report at the end of the week, and I’ll write you a check. She can think you’re just helping out, if it doesn’t bother you and it makes her happy.”

“I will.” They walked in silence for a few minutes before she added, “You don’t have to walk me home.”

“I’m not. This is my way home.” Without any hint of a smile, he added, “I thought you were trying to walk me home. I was starting to get a bit freaked out about it. Thought you might be after the other bag of popcorn.” He patted the stuffed pocket of his raincoat.

Jillian smiled. He was as hard to read as his grandmother. Shy one minute, funny the next. In an odd way she found it cute. She usually had to fend off at least a few advances from men she worked with. Even the married, do-it-by-the-book bosses sometimes took casual flirting too far.

Somehow, this good-looking man who carried a book under one arm didn’t frighten her.

Trying to kid him into smiling, she said, “I don’t like caramel, but if it had been cheesy flavored, you might have needed to worry. I could easily mug you for nacho-cheesy popcorn.”

He didn’t respond. Just nodded as if logging her comment to think about later. No jokes. No flirting. She wasn’t sure Connor Larady even knew how.

Jillian matched his steps and his mood. “Your grandmother doesn’t have a home to go to besides Autumn Acres, does she?”

“No. She moved to the Acres last spring right after it opened the first wing. My grandfather, Benjamin, died when I was a kid. She lived as a widow for years, ran the shop, walked home, and claimed she enjoyed her quiet time. Then one day she just decided Benjamin wasn’t dead—he simply forgot to come home.” Connor grinned suddenly, but there was no humor reflected in his eyes. “She’s been mad at him ever since. I used to think it was just a game she played with herself, but lately I think she forgets that she moved to the Acres and just thinks she’s spending a night out with the girls. Strange thing is, she’s never asked to go back to her house, not once. So, I’m thinking somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she’s where she needs to be.”

“What about your parents?” Maybe because she had no family, Jillian felt a need to know about other families.

“My folks died in a car crash my last year of college. My dad was Gram’s only living son. I came home and finished my studies online while I took over his newspaper business. My brother went the other direction. We hear from him now and then. The conversation is usually about how busy he is, but he hasn’t been home since our folks died.”

“Gram mentioned her boys were grown?” Jillian was trying to make the pieces fit.

“She did have two sons. My uncle died before he started school.”

He offered no more explanation and she didn’t want to ask. She knew the story would be sad.

They walked in silence for a few minutes. The streetlights blinked on, making the shabby old homes on the block with the bed-and-breakfast look quaint, charming. The lights on an old refinery across the creek morphed the ugly pipes into the towers of a castle.

“On the days I can’t come get Gram for lunch, I’ll have something for you and her delivered from Mamma Bee’s Pastries.” He looked straight ahead, not seeming to see the beauty around them. “I just don’t want Gram left alone. She knows not to leave until I come, but I’d feel better if you were with her.”

“I’m not a nurse.” Jillian wondered exactly what she was getting into. There was far more to this job than she thought. She could handle museum-quality logging, but she wasn’t prepared for taking care of anyone.

“I’m not asking you to be. Just sit down and eat with her.” His voice was still low, but frozen now.

“Fair enough.” Jillian stopped at the gate of Flancher’s Folly Bed-and-Breakfast. “I eat a big breakfast. If you order her a meal, just make it soup for me. I’ll eat with her, but if you take her out as she said you do when it’s not a quilting day, I’ll stay and work. I can take care of myself. Feeding me is not your problem, and those days I can log another hour.”

He nodded. “Understood. Just a job, right? Don’t want to get too involved.”

“Right.” She answered without looking up at him. He might read her lie in her eyes. She needed the job, but she was in town hoping to find a tiny piece of her dad’s life. She hadn’t been surprised when he first vanished, but as the years passed she wished for one thing, one thread, to hang on to.

Part of her still looked for him in a crowd. Still thought about what she would have said, or asked, if she’d known he’d be disappearing the last time he’d walked away so casually.

For the first few years she’d thought he’d appear just to check on her. The fact he didn’t told her more than she wanted to admit about the man who raised her.

She knew so little about Jefferson James. Nothing about her mother. It was like she’d found a hole in her mind and had nothing to fill it with. His journal had noted this zip code in one of the margins. Maybe there was something or someone he’d cared about here.

Connor nodded a silent goodbye and she did the same. But she turned when she reached the shadows of the porch and watched him until he disappeared into the night.

An interesting man, this Connor Larady. Cold at times, like he had a heavy load to carry. Formal, almost, at other times. Yet Gram loved him dearly. Jillian suspected he was a man with a great deal on his mind, and she didn’t plan to know him well enough to ever find out what that entailed.

They were polite strangers. Nothing more. Maybe he was too shy to get closer. Maybe she was too afraid of being hurt. It didn’t matter. She’d be on her way in three months.

His wrinkled raincoat had flapped in the wind, almost like wings. Then, as he’d turned the corner, he’d vanished. Or flew away. She grinned, letting her imagination run. For as long as she could remember, she’d longed to see a real hero, or even a villain, but people were just people. Interesting, but not worth getting too close to.

Strange, she thought. She had no one who’d claim her body if she died tonight. Yet she’d just met a man who probably knew the whole town, and she had a feeling he was more alone than she was.

The next morning, when Jillian ventured into the sunroom that doubled as guest dining, Mrs. Kelly had Jillian’s place set. In summer this room, with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, would be an oven, but on this cloudy, winter day, it seemed to draw bits of light without bringing any warmth along.

Dozens of crystals hung in circles like wind chimes. Now and then, one caught a ray that escaped from the clouds and splashed rainbows along the one pale yellow wall.

A dusty old piano stood in the corner of the room, out of place and looking abandoned. Mrs. Kelly must have tried to camouflage the eyesore with a huge arrangement of plastic sunflowers.

Jillian almost giggled aloud. Staying in the bed-and-breakfast was almost like being in a real house. Of course it was just a business, but she could pretend. Even the banging coming from the kitchen added atmosphere.

For her father, old trailers or two-bedroom apartments furnished with the bare bones for living had been enough. But she liked having pictures on the walls, rugs on the floors and curtains on the windows. The two semesters she’d lived in a dorm she’d spent more than she should have at the dollar store buying all kinds of decorations for her room. Then, she realized she couldn’t take any of them.

Only necessities travel.

As she sat down, she winked at the old upright piano in the far corner. If she could take anything extra packed away in the trunk of her car, it would be a piano. Impractical. Far too big. Impossible.

“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Kelly’s words came so fast as she stepped into the room, they almost sounded like a hiccup. “Look at the beams of light coming in. If a crystal beam shines on your face, you’re blessed by the angels today. I just saw two on your cheek, dear.”

Jillian rubbed her face. “I don’t believe in crystals or angels, but it’s a nice thought.”

“Don’t worry, they believe in you.”

Papa’s rule: Stay away from the crazies. Insanity spreads like the plague.

Mrs. Kelly laughed as if she’d only been kidding, and Jillian relaxed as breakfast was delivered on a silver tray.

A Dallas Cowboys football player couldn’t have finished all the meal. Pecan pancakes, sage sausage, fresh fruit, and a cinnamon roll for dessert. Who has dessert for breakfast?

While Jillian ate, the tiny woman circled the room, talking as if even one guest needed a floor show to go along with her meal. “I heard from Stella, one of the quilters at the shop yesterday, that you’re working in Miss Eugenia’s shop. It’s been there forever, and I’ve never known her to hire help.”

“I’m logging and photographing all the quilts for the county museum. Miss Eugenia is telling me the history of each one.”

“That’s a very brave and honorable thing you’re doing,” the little lady said as if Jillian had joined Special Forces. “Are you planning on staying with me while you’re in town?”

“I’d hoped to. The job will only last a few months, then I’ll be moving on.”

Mrs. Kelly rocked her head back and forth as if sloshing an idea around in her mind. Finally, she said, “If you don’t mind cleaning your own room, you can have the two rooms up there for a hundred a week, breakfast included. Those rooms are never rented in the winter anyway, and you could use the small one as a living area or study. It only has a half bed in it, so I’ll toss pillows along the wall side and make it look like a couch. There’s also a desk if you’re one of those ‘work into the night’ people.”

“That’s a very fair price.”

Mrs. K grinned. “Oh, I forget to add that I sometimes have to leave town for a night now and then. You would have to fend for yourself and watch over the house and the ghost while I’m gone.”

“I could manage that.” Jillian hoped Mrs. K’s wink meant that she was only kidding about keeping up with the ghost.

Jillian frowned, fearing this setup might be too good to be true. People usually weren’t so nice. Most folks only trusted family and longtime friends. Strangers they kept at arm’s length. She knew this because she was always the stranger. Even in grade school she was usually still being called the new girl when her father pulled her out to move. After a while she quit even trying to make friends. It hurt too much to leave them.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. K. I’ll try to be quiet. The other guests won’t even know I’m upstairs.”

Mrs. Kelly laughed that fully rounded laugh that shook her whole body. “Oh, don’t be that, dear. I’ll enjoy the company. Being alone in this old place always makes me a little sad.”

Jillian looked up from her breakfast. Mrs. Kelly’s apron read I’m not short. I’m just compacted.

Jillian couldn’t hide her grin. Crazy and kind, she could live with. “You’ve got yourself a deal. A hundred a week. I clean my own rooms and house-sit when you need me. But when I’m the only guest for breakfast, we go light. Toast, one egg and coffee.”

Mrs. Kelly widened her stance as if preparing for a fight. “All right, with one exception. We add a muffin and sausage to the light breakfast. I feed that crow, who thinks he lives on my back fence, more than one egg and toast every morning.”

“Deal.” Jillian glanced out the window and was surprised to see a huge old crow propped on the dog-eared fence that had been painted red. He reminded her of the black ravens around the Tower of London. Rumor was, six ravens had to guard the tower at all times or the monarchy would fall. Maybe one crow was all that was needed to stand guard here.

Mrs. Kelly had disappeared when Jillian turned back to the table. She finished her grand meal, thinking this must be her lucky day. Maybe there was something to that crystal thing.

As she walked the block to the quilt shop, she planned. If she worked eight hours a day, five days a week, she’d bring in over seven hundred a week after taxes. A hundred a week for the room, maybe twenty for the car, fifty or sixty for meals on weekends and essentials. If she watched her money she could pocket five hundred a week easily. Two thousand a month. Even allowing for emergencies during the three months in Laurel Springs, she’d walk away with five thousand dollars.

Enough money to move to a big city, rent a nice apartment, find a real job. Disappear into the crowds.

Her good mood lasted until she opened the shop door and saw trouble perched on the old mahogany counter like a six-foot-tall buzzard.

4

A long slice of light shone into the dark shadows of the quilt shop. For a moment, Jillian thought she was in the wrong place. No soft ribbons of fluorescent bulbs twenty feet above. No laughter from the quilter’s corner. No smell of coffee drifting from the tiny kitchen.

Only a long-legged girl dressed in black, staring at her as if Jillian had just interrupted a demonic ritual.

The backward lettering of A Stitch in Time circled across the front window. Right place. Jillian was in the quilt shop. Squaring her shoulders, she moved forward.

“Hi,” Jillian managed as she widened the opening of the door. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to see the invader better or simply wanted to enlarge her escape route.

The strange girl swung one leg so it bumped against the side of the counter in a heartbeat rhythm. Her hair was so light it appeared white, and hung straight past her shoulders. A dozen bracelets, all appearing to be made out of rusty bolts, clanked on her arms as she turned toward the back of the store.

“Dad!” the intruder yelled. “Someone’s drifted in.”

Rows of lights began to click on, starting from the back and finally reaching the front. All the beautiful colors of the store returned, but the escapee from the Addams Family remained. Her black peacoat, with batwing shoulder pads, was ripped in several places. Black eyeliner extended almost to her ears and charcoal, lace gloves covered her hands.

Jillian studied the girl carefully. On the bright side, the coat and leggings matched. Both black and ragged. She appeared to be wearing three blouses, the last one a lace nightgown. Silk, holey as if moth-eaten, and spotted with what looked like bloodstains. Her skirt, with several chains hanging off it, reminded Jillian of a midnight plaid kilt.

They both turned as footsteps stormed from the back. “Sorry,” Connor Larady shouted. “I usually have the place all opened up by this time.”

He didn’t seem to notice the girl still perched on the counter. “I’ll have a key made for you so you won’t have to wait for me if I’m running late.”

When Jillian turned her gaze to the girl, Connor finally acknowledged the goth in the room. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jillian, this is my daughter. Sunnie, this is the lady who is helping Gram organize the shop.”

Jillian offered her hand, hoping the strange girl wouldn’t try to suck her blood. She was so thin and pale she probably hadn’t eaten in days.

The girl reluctantly took Jillian’s offered hand, but her handshake was limp.

If there was a prize for someone born with the wrong name, Sunnie Larady would win. Stormy might be better. Or Scary.

She slid off the counter. Six feet of pure adolescent rebellion. “I need to get to school, Connor.” She said her father’s name louder than the rest of the sentence.

“Right.” Connor turned to Jillian. “Will you be all right here? Gram should be dropped off any minute.”

“I’m fine. I’ll watch for her.” Jillian smiled at Sunnie. “Nice to meet you.”

The girl shrugged and walked out.

“I’m sorry about that.” Connor sounded as if he’d said the same thing often lately. “She’s just going through a stage. The doctor says it’s normal for kids who lose a parent in their teens. He claims Sunnie is mad her mom died, and I’m the only one left to take it out on. Hating me keeps her mind off death.”

“When did your wife die?”

“Three years ago. Sunnie was thirteen.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy pants and rounded his shoulders forward as if trying to seem smaller, or maybe hold his grief inside. “Sunnie wanted to meet you. I don’t think she’d ever admit it, but she’s protective of Gram. I told her she could maybe help out after school now and then. But don’t look for her until she’s at the door.”

Jillian thought of screaming No!, but she simply smiled and said, “I’d appreciate the help.”

He nodded, then hurried out.

Jillian stood by the front window, watching the town come alive. This street reminded her of a beehive. Everyone seemed to have their job and all were working frantically to get the day started. She almost wanted to tell them all that it didn’t matter how many flags or sandwich boards the shops put out—this one street would never draw much of a crowd.

The old warehouse buildings across the creek hung over the cute main street like death’s shadow. The stillness just across the water was a constant reminder that a few blocks away, half of the town had been abandoned. Jillian wondered if the people who lived here even saw the crumbling buildings anymore.

When the Autumn Acres bus pulled up, she went outside and waited for Gram to come down the steps.

The lady, still tall for her age even though her shoulders had rounded, was dressed in a very proper wool suit with lace on her white collar. Her shoes might be rounded and rubber, but she hadn’t forgotten her pearls.

“Hello, dear,” Gram shouted. “How nice of you to come help me again.”

“I had so much fun I just had to return. You don’t mind me hanging around?”

“Oh, no. I love the company and there is always plenty to do.”

They walked in with arms locked. Jillian wasn’t sure Eugenia remembered her name, but the Southern lady seemed to assume she knew everyone, and she treated all, old friends or strangers, the same.

“Let’s make a cup of tea first this morning,” Gram suggested. “That will start the day right. I do love tea in the spring.”

Jillian followed her back to a small kitchen, without mentioning it was still winter. They talked about the tea and the day as if they were old friends.

The morning passed like a peaceful river. Customers came in, mostly to talk. Jillian made note of the ones who had lived their entire lives in this town. A long-retired teacher named Joe Dunaway, most of the quilters she’d met yesterday, the mailman named Tap. As she settled in, she did what she often did in little towns: she’d ask if they knew a Jefferson James who might have lived around here thirty years ago. The answer was always no, a dead end. She’d found a few Jameses over the years, but none knew a Jefferson. Her father never allowed anyone to shorten his name.

Joe Dunaway said he thought the name might be familiar, but after forty years of teaching, all names sounded familiar.

While Joe watched the store, Gram took the time to show her around the tiny office after Jillian explained for the third time that she was there to make a record of all the quilts.

“Someday, your quilts will hang in a gallery at the county museum, and you’ll want all the facts to be right. I’ll compile that record for you, Gram.”

“Oh, of course you will,” Eugenia agreed as she sugared her tea for the second time.

When their cups were half-empty, they began to stroll through the colorful garden of quilts. Jillian kept her questions light. Never too many. Never too fast.

She noticed how Gram stroked each quilt she straightened as if it were precious. The kitchen and the office might be a cluttered mess, but all the quilts had to be in perfect order.

“You touch them as if they’re priceless. Like they’re your treasures, your babies,” Jillian said.

“Oh, they’re not mine. But in a way they are alive. Each one holds memories. I just put them together in the final step of quilting.” She pulled one from the shelf and spread it out on a wide table designed for cutting fabric. “This one belongs to Helen Harmon, who made it as a gift to give the man she loved on their wedding day. They’d known each other since grade school.” Gram pointed to one square. “See, that’s them as kids on the playground. He’s pulling her pigtail. I swear, Helen’s hair was stoplight red when she was little.”

Jillian saw thick red threads braided together and sewn onto the quilt.

Gram’s wrinkled fingers passed over another quilt square. A UT logo stood out in burnt orange. “That’s for their college days, and she made this one when he went into the army. When he came home a few years later and started work, his first job was in construction. Turned out he had a real knack for it.”

Jillian saw the square with tools crossing, almost like a crest.

“And here we have vacations they took camping, hiking, riding across the country on what Helen called hogs.” One square ran like a road map. “When they finally got engaged, both were thirty-four.” One square held nothing but sparkling material in the pattern of a diamond ring.

Jillian touched the square of a house. “When they bought their first house, right?”

Gram shook her head. “When he built what was to be their first house, she made that square. They both agreed neither would move in until after the wedding.”

“What happened?” Jillian realized she was holding her breath.

“I’d worked late into the night the evening before their rehearsal dinner. I wanted to have the quilt ready for her to give to him. She was not a natural seamstress, and was years away from being a skilled quilter. Each piece came hard for her. She’d laugh and say she really made ten quilts because she had to do each square over and over to get it just right.”

“What happened?” Jillian asked again.

“She didn’t come pick up the quilt the day of their rehearsal. When she woke that morning before her wedding, she found a note on his pillow. He’d had an offer for a new job up north and hadn’t known how to tell her. The note said he’d tried a hundred times to break off the engagement, but she was too busy planning the wedding to listen.”

“So he just left her?”

Gram nodded. “And she left this quilt. She told me I could sell it, but who buys another’s memories? She’d even embroidered the wedding date in the middle.”

Jillian looked at the quilt. June 19, 1971.

“You’ve kept this for almost fifty years?”

Gram nodded. “How do you throw away memories? It’s a beautiful quilt made with love. Helen eventually married a man named Green and moved to Houston, but she didn’t make anything for her next groom, and she never dropped by the shop to even look at this.”

Jillian helped her fold it up and gently lay it back on the shelf. This would be the first quilt she logged.

The story had been fascinating, but Gram’s memory of the details surprised Jillian. A woman who couldn’t remember if she’d sugared her tea had told every detail of something that had happened nearly fifty years ago.

As soon as Connor picked up his gram for lunch, Jillian put the be-back-soon sign on the door and spread Helen Harmon’s quilt back out. With care she took pictures and wrote down details. Then, the last thing she did before folding it back into place was to stitch a two-inch blue square of fabric in one corner of the quilt’s back.

No. 1

Helen Harmon Green’s memory quilt. Made as a wedding gift to her future husband. Completed 1971. Never delivered.

* * *

As Jillian ate the apple she’d brought from the bed-and-breakfast, she walked around the shop. She’d have to do two or three handmade treasures a day to get them all logged. And she’d have to hear every story. Some might be short, but she’d bet they’d all be interesting. If only Gram’s memory would hold up just a little longer, she’d get them all down.

When Connor brought Gram back from lunch, Jillian showed him what she’d done and he approved of her system. “You know,” he added as an afterthought. “If you want to write up a few of the stories, they might make nice human interest pieces for the Laurel Springs online paper I put out. It’s mostly just a blog, a bulletin of what’s happening, but something like this might interest people.”

“I’ll give it a try after work. See what you think.”

He handed her a key to the shop. “If you want to work after hours when the shop is closed, that’s fine with me.”

“Thanks. I might do that.”

To her surprise, he smiled. “I’m not trying to run you off early or keep you longer than you want to stay. I get a feeling you have somewhere else to be.”

She thought of denying it. No matter what she said, she’d be giving away too much information, so she simply smiled back.

That evening, they walked home together, each talking about their day. When she turned into the gate at the bed-and-breakfast, he didn’t say goodbye. But this time he did smile as he waved.

She stood on the porch, watching him vanish. A paper man who would disappear from her mind as fast as a match fired. Maybe she’d describe him on her “Laurel Springs” journal page.

Yes, she could mention how normal it had felt to just walk and talk about nothing really. Her father had called it passing time like it was a waste of energy, but he was wrong. Invisible threads were binding people who took the time to talk, helping them to care about each other even in a small way, to know each other. Making them almost friends.

She’d seen it happen with doormen in big cities or clerks in stores she’d frequented in towns. Not friends exactly, but no longer strangers.

This was something rare for Jillian, but she realized Eugenia Larady had been doing it all her life. With Joe Dunaway, with customers, and with the quilters. Talking, caring, relating with everyone she met.

Invisible threads. Invisible bonds. Not strong enough to hold her down, but nice to feel.

5

Connor Larady’s world of routine shifted as the days passed. After a week, Jillian James had become part of his life as easily as if a piece had always been missing and she simply fit into the void.

He liked the easy way she greeted him every morning, not too formal, not too friendly. He looked forward to the few minutes they’d talk before the bus chauffeured his grandmother to the door of the quilt shop. He liked collecting little things he learned about Jillian, the pretty lady who never talked about herself.

Some mornings he’d studied the way Jillian dressed, casual yet professional, as if every detail about her mattered somehow. She might be tall, but she wasn’t too thin. Her eyes often caught his attention, stormy-day gray one moment and calm blue the next. She watched the clock, always aware of time, and she seemed to study people as if looking for something familiar in their faces. And she listened, really listened.

All the women he knew in town seemed shallow water, babbling brooks. But Jillian was deep current and he had a feeling it would take years to really know her. She never started a conversation, but if she disagreed with him she didn’t mind debating.

Who knew, maybe they’d become friends. But no more. The one thing Connor had figured out about himself a long time ago was that he was a watcher, not a participant, where women were concerned. If life were a banquet, he was the beggar outside the window looking in. He’d rather put up with the loneliness than take another chance.

He’d stepped out of his place once. He’d married Sunnie’s mother, Melissa, a few months after they slept together on their first date. He’d been home from school for the summer the year he turned twenty-one and she’d been nineteen. He’d used protection, but she’d told him it hadn’t worked.

Marriage had seemed the only answer. She went back to school with him. He took a part-time job and rented a bigger apartment. He’d known the marriage was a mistake before Christmas that year, but Connor wasn’t a quitter. He carried on.

Funny, he thought, he’d been caught in her net like a blind fish, but he hadn’t minded. It was just the way of life, and Sunnie made it all bearable.

Melissa loved that he was from one of the oldest families in East Texas. Almost royalty, she used to say. He was educated, a path she had no interest in following. His family might be cash poor at times, but they were land rich, she claimed, though none of them seemed inclined to sell even one of their properties.

Sunnie was eight months old when his parents were killed in a wreck. Afterward, Connor, Melissa and Sunnie had moved back to his childhood home, where he finished his degrees online. The house was roomy, but Melissa hated it from the day they moved in. She went back to her high school friends for entertainment, and he spent most of his days learning to handle the family business and his nights in his study with Sunnie’s bassinet by his desk.

He wanted to write children’s stories, blending Greek myths with today’s world. Though he rarely left Laurel Springs, his character, a Roman soldier, traveled through time visiting battlefields that changed the world. In his novels, Connor’s hero collected knowledge in hopes of ending all conflict.

But in reality, Connor simply fought to survive. To keep going when there never seemed enough time for his little dream; reality’s voice was always outshouting creativity’s whisper.

When Sunnie started school, he moved his stories to the newspaper office and set up a writing desk. As the newspaper dwindled to a one-man job, he set up a business desk across from his editor’s desk to handle his rental properties in town and his leasing property outside the city limits. Next came the mayor’s desk, with all the city business stacked high. Of all the desks in his office, the writing desk was the most neglected.

It had been that way from the beginning of his marriage. There was always too much to do. Too little time for dreams of writing.

Even when Melissa had started needing her nights out after Sunnie was born, he never thought to complain. But after they moved back to Laurel Springs, the nights turned into long weekends. She needed to feel alive, she’d say. She needed to get away.

About the time Sunnie started school, the weekends grew into weeks at a time.

When Melissa would return, she’d bring gifts for Sunnie, and her only daughter would forgive her for not calling. They’d go back to being best friends, not mother and daughter, and Connor would prepare for the next time she’d leave with only a note on the counter.

Even before she could read, Sunnie would see the note and cry before he read it.

He learned to cook. Kept track of Sunnie’s schedule. He was there for the everyday of her life. Melissa was there for the party.

Until three years ago, when she didn’t come back at all. A private plane crash outside of Reno. Both passengers died. Connor hadn’t even known the man she’d been with.

That day, he became a full-time widower, not just a weekend one. No great change. But Sunnie’s world had shifted on its axis. That one day, she changed.

Connor lost himself in the order of his repetitive days. He ran the paper his grandfather had started, even if it was little more than a blog, except on holidays. He looked after his daughter and his grandmother. Ruled over the monthly meetings of the city council. Paid the bills. Showed up.

And, now and then, late at night, he wrote his stories. The dream of being a writer slipped further and further away on a tide of daily to-do lists.

He told himself that hiring Jillian hadn’t changed anything. She was simply someone passing through, no more. Gram’s time in the shop would soon be ending, and somehow he had to preserve an ounce of what she’d meant to the town.

The short articles about the quilts Jillian penned were smart and well written, and they were drawing attention. The number of hits was up at the free Laurel Springs Daily, and more people were dropping in to see the quilts she’d described so beautifully.

Which slowed her cataloging work for the museum, leaving him with hope that she’d stay longer. He hadn’t thought about how much it meant, talking to an intelligent woman his age for the first time. Now, he was spending time trying to say something, anything, interesting on their walks home. All at once he didn’t have to just show up in his life; he had to talk, as well.

Tonight he’d ask Jillian all about the tiny houses quilt she had logged. She’d said a lady quilted a two-inch square of a house every day for a year, then put them all together. Every one unique. The discipline would be something to talk about.

“Dad, did you get a haircut?” Sunnie interrupted his thoughts as he pulled into the high school parking lot.

Connor glanced at his daughter sitting in the passenger seat. “I did. What do you think?”

She shrugged. “Not much change. Better, I guess. I’m glad I got Mom’s straight hair and not your wavy curls. After you scratch your head it’s usually going every which way.”

“You have a suggestion?”

“Yeah, wear a hat.” Sunnie glared at him, her substitute for smiling. “Derrick says you should slick it down a little, then you’d look like one of those newscasters. He said his mother thinks you’re handsome in a nutty professor kind of way.”

“Tell Derrick’s mother thanks for the compliment, I think.” Connor tired to remember what Derrick’s mother looked like, but all he remembered were the tats covering her arms like black vines.

He studied his beautiful daughter beneath her mask of makeup. The last thing he ever planned to do was take advice from Derrick or his mother. “You know, women thought I was good-looking when I was in college.”

“Dinosaur days.” She rolled her eyes.

He nodded. Without reaching his fortieth birthday, he’d already become old to someone. Maybe he’d talk to Jillian about that on the walk home. She had to be in her early thirties, so surely she wouldn’t think of him as old.

No, he decided. People who don’t have children don’t want to hear what other people’s children say. Correction, what their children’s pimpled-faced, oversexed boyfriends say.

Sunnie was always texting Derrick, even when he sat a few feet away. If she ever glanced up and really looked at him, she’d drop the reject from The Walking Dead. Ten years from now Derrick would still be wearing his leather jacket while he worked at the bowling alley.

As soon as Connor pulled up to the curb, Sunnie bolted from the old pickup. He remembered a time when she’d lean over and kiss his cheek before she headed to school. Those days were long gone.

A few minutes later he parked behind the quilt shop, walked through the place turning on lights, and unlocked the front door. He was early. It made sense to go across the street to his office and at least go through the mail, but he liked the silence of the shop. He’d known every corner of this place for as long as he could remember. In grade school he’d run, not home, but to Gram’s after school, where she’d have warm cookies from the bakery and little milk bottles in her tiny fridge waiting. He’d do his homework on one of the cutting tables until his mother came over from the paper and picked him up.

He knew his parents were just across the street, working on what was then a daily paper filled with local ads, but they were busy. Gram always had time to talk, even when her fingers were busy sewing. She’d ask about his day, and she’d tell him who came by the shop. Only, she’d never told him the stories about the quilts that Jillian was writing. To him, each one was a treasure and he wished he’d thought to ask about them when he was a kid. It would have been nice to have the stories woven into his childhood.

The door chimed and Jillian rushed in with the winter wind. She stopped the moment she saw him and hesitated, as if unsure how he might react to her.

“Morning,” he said, as he did every morning.

“Morning.” She relaxed. “I know I’m a little early, but I wrote another three articles last night and couldn’t wait to give them to you.”

“I’ll take them with me and let you know if I can use them. Everyone is talking about the last one I put on the blog.”

“Good.” She smiled and he took a moment to study her mouth before looking away.

Not something he should notice. They weren’t even friends. Might never be, but it might be worth a try. He could handle friends with a woman. For a short time anyway.

“You’re welcome to come with Gram and me for lunch.” He always asked. “We’re headed a few miles out of town to a Mexican place she loves, though all she ever eats is quesadillas.”

“Thanks, but I’ll work through lunch.”

He tried not to look disappointed. The Autumn Acres bus pulled up out front and their conversation ended.

After lunch, any chance to talk was quickly forgotten. By the time Connor had Gram back in the shop and helped her strip off a few layers of coats, Joe Dunaway had slipped through the unlocked shop door. He stopped long enough to turn the closed sign over to open, as if he thought of himself as the designated flipper.

Connor greeted the retired teacher. He had the feeling the old guy thought the quilt store was really a Starbucks in disguise. He rarely went a day without Gram’s coffee. He even had his own mug in her tiny kitchen.

“Got any coffee, Jeanie?” he asked Gram as he leaned on the counter like it was a bar.

“Of course, Joe.” She made no move for the cups in the kitchen. “Did you tell my Connor about your new invention?”

Joe lowered his voice. “No. Haven’t had a chance. Have to be careful, Jeanie. Make sure no one is around to steal it. Loose lips sink ships, you know.”

“What invention?” Connor doubted it could be any dumber than the last twenty inventions Joe had come up with since he retired. A few months ago he’d invented a birdfeeder that attached to a telephone pole. Said since everyone was using cell phones they wouldn’t be needing phone lines so he’d thought of a use for them. Only hitch was getting seed that high.

“You’re going to like this one, boy.” Joe had known Eugenia long enough to call her Jeanie. And Connor, no matter how old he was, would always be “boy.”

Gram lost interest in Joe’s great invention and followed Jillian as she disappeared into the tiny kitchen to put coffee on.

Connor waited. If he was going to listen to details of one of Joe’s inventions, he’d need caffeine to stay awake.

The little man was developing a kind of hobbit look. Hair seemed to be growing in every direction from every exposed square of skin. Everything he wore was at least two decades out of style but intelligence, or maybe mischief, still sparkled in his eyes.

Joe cleared his throat and straightened. “I’ve been thinking. You know how hard it is to sleep on your back with your feet sticking up?”

“No. I sleep on my side.” Connor held little hope that his answer would earn him a get-out-of-one-invention-lecture free pass.

“Well, if you did, you’d know how the blankets cramp your toes when you’ve got them pointed straight up. Colder it gets, more blankets and more cramped toes. So I got this idea. Doesn’t take much in materials or time. Just canvas and some eight-inch poles, maybe longer for those with big feet.”

Connor nodded as if following a logic that long ago had gone rogue.

Joe lowered his voice. “I’m calling them Toe Tents. You put them under the covers at the bottom of the bed. Slip your feet in and your toes can wiggle all night without being cramped.”

“Brilliant!” Connor shouted. Joe had finally come up with an invention dumber than Tele-Birdfeeders.

Joe smiled, scratching his beard. “I knew you’d like it. I figured I’d cut you in for a share, son, if you’d let me set up in one of those old barns on the other side of the creek. If I remember right, your family owns them and a few are still solid enough to be of use.”

“No one ever goes over there.” Connor’s family did own the worthless piece of town. From the thirties to the early sixties there had been several small businesses. A barrel shop. A furniture store that made rockers and coffins. A repair shop that could fix anything from toasters to TVs and a small winery that shipped as far as a hundred miles away. One small storage shed had even been used to weave Angora rabbit fur into yarn. But that was long ago, before Connor was born.

His dad had told him the businesses died one by one when the chain stores came in. Folks could buy another radio or toaster cheaper than having one repaired. If Joe wanted to use one of the buildings, he’d be the one man in town who’d know if it was safe. Joe Dunaway knew everything about the building industry. He’d spent his summers in manual labor. Said it kept his mind sharp to work with his hands. He could have been a big-time contractor, but he’d chosen to teach.

On the bright side, Connor had gone from being called boy to son, so he was moving up. Maybe he could listen at least until the coffee arrived.

Joe didn’t seem to notice Connor was only half listening. “People will go over there when the big orders start coming in for my Toe Tents. You might want to tell the city to repair the roads. I’ll put a big sign out so the locals don’t have to pay postage. Once it takes off, I thought I’d reopen one of the factories and hire some of my friends who’ve been sitting around for years.”

Connor patted the old man on the back. “When the orders start, I want in. Tell you what. You pick what place you want, and I’ll lease it to you free for six months.”

“I’m not asking for anything free. I got this niece who’s got a houseful of kids, and she buys everything online. She says she’ll help me get set up with a website next week. I’ll cut you and her in for ten percent right from the start.” Joe thumped his fist on the counter letting Connor know he wouldn’t budge on the deal.

Connor agreed. Ten percent of nothing was still nothing.

Jillian brought out two cups of coffee and seemed interested in Joe’s idea. She’d probably heard every word from the kitchen. She also called the old guy by name, so this must not be Joe’s first time to stop by.

When she started asking if the Toe Tents came in different colors, Connor slipped out the door and carried his coffee and her short articles across the street. If he was lucky, he’d have a few hours to work on a short story explaining history through a time-traveling warrior’s eyes. Kids would probably like that.

Since Sunnie was a baby, he’d been compiling a collection of stories about famous battles that changed history. His main characters were the Roman warrior and his dog. They saw the fighting and how each battle changed the world. They were searching for the secret to end all wars.

Of course, it occurred to Connor that if they found it in the series, it would end his series. Then he’d have to come up with another idea.

His stories were about as likely to get published as Joe’s Toe Tents were to be stocked on the shelf at Walmart, but his writing gave him direction. A mission. A small doorway he could step through and out of his life, if only for a few hours a day.

After lunch he always dropped Gram back at the shop, then drove to his house already thinking about the walk with Jillian that evening. On the days Gram didn’t leave for lunch, he’d walk to work or drive the pickup. She’d finally reached the age that she had trouble climbing into the old Ford. If Connor had his choice, he’d walk everywhere, but the pickup was for hauling and the Audi was for Gram, so he owned two vehicles he didn’t really want.

When he wandered back to Main, he took the creek route. He liked stomping through tall grass. Getting his boots muddy. Enjoying the escape. The World War II battle he’d been writing about danced in his mind as he worked off a few calories from the three-enchilada plate he’d finished off at Lennie’s Tacos and More.

He thought of telling Jillian about how much he loved the wild nature park that ran though town, but he figured she’d just lump him in with Joe—another crazy person in the stop-off town for her. So he went back to his office and tried to concentrate on work.

After four hours of struggling with paperwork on several small farms the family business leased out, he closed the office. If he increased the rent, the farmers would suffer. If he didn’t, taxes would eat him alive. Somehow in the past fifteen years since he took over the Larady family books, he’d managed to keep the balance relatively even, but that wouldn’t be possible in the future.

At five, he ignored the chill in the air and darted across the street with a biography of Patton under his arm and an empty coffee cup in hand.

Jillian laughed when he walked in. “It’s too late for a refill; I’ve washed the pot.”

“Too bad. I could use another cup.” He walked past her, set the cup in the kitchen sink and returned. “Is Gram about ready? The Autumn Acres bus will be here soon.”

“Of course I’m ready, Danny, it’s closing time.” Gram stepped from the office.

He met Jillian’s glance and shook his head slightly, silently telling her not to mention that Gram had called him by his father’s name. “She does that sometimes,” he whispered when Gram was busy turning the sign over for the night. “It doesn’t matter.”

Connor didn’t miss the understanding in those blue-gray eyes. There was a wisdom there, as well. A knowledge of living many lives, maybe, or simply the loneliness of living one.

Jillian helped Gram with her coat. “Paulina came in for a few more purple fat quarters for that new quilt. She told us that tonight, after dinner, the high school choir is putting on a ’50s songs concert at the Acres. She wanted to make sure Gram would be there.”

Gram nodded. “And we’ve got good seats. I told Joe that if he wanted a seat in the front row with us, he’d better manage to show up on time.”

“Whose date is he for the night, yours or Paulina’s?”

She huffed. “Mine, I guess. Paulina has been swearing since she was twelve that she’d never date. How she ever managed to marry three times is beyond me. Come to think of it, I’d best sit between them just in case lightning strikes again. Joe’s old heart probably couldn’t take it.”

Connor smiled as he walked Gram to the bus. He loved the way her mind always wandered into a story. Bending, he kissed her check. “I love you, Gram.”

“I love you, too, Connor.”

She’d remembered his name. It was a good day.

When he turned back to the store, he noticed Jillian was locking the door.

“Ready?” she asked as she turned to face him.

“Ready,” he answered, thinking he’d been waiting all day for these few minutes they shared. He offered his arm as if they were in an old black-and-white movie.

Hesitantly, Jillian placed her hand around his elbow and began to tell him all the details of Joe’s dream of being a Toe Tent king. The old guy swore his ideas came to him while he was daydreaming about camping.

Connor listened, but mostly he just enjoyed the walk. He liked the easy way their steps matched and how her words never seemed in a hurry, like some folks talk as if rushing the clock. In a few more days it would be March and almost time for spring. Then, maybe, if she was still around, they’d slow their pace.

The air had stilled and the evening glowed in sunset’s last light. The smells of winter drifted near: wood fireplaces, the last scent of dying sagebrush. This was his favorite time of year. Spring might be for dreaming, but winter was for reflecting.

“I was afraid you’d be staying late tonight,” he said as they walked through leaves rushing nowhere in the wake of each passing car.

“Why? Did you think I needed to? The work still seems overwhelming.”

“No. I’m glad you didn’t put in longer hours tonight. Too great a time to walk. But if you’d like to come in on a Saturday morning or Sunday afternoon, I could offer to help.”

“That would be great. I could move twice as fast with photographing if I had help with the layout.”

“You’ve got a nice camera.”

She nodded. “I bought it a few years back when I was a Realtor’s assistant, and I found I couldn’t leave it behind when I moved on. I never seem to get pictures developed though, just store them on my laptop and keep on taking more.”

He grinned. She’d finally told him something personal.

When they reached the gate of the bed-and-breakfast, she broke the comfortable silence that had drifted between them for a few minutes. “I’ve been talking too much.” She hesitated. “If you want to come in, Mrs. Kelly always leaves cookies out in the parlor.”

Connor was too surprised by the invitation to answer.

Her words quickly filled the silence. “I’ve been waiting all day to hear how you like my latest articles. It might just be for the community blog, but I’m thrilled about writing something others will read.”

“Oh, of course.” He felt like a fool for even thinking she’d invite him in for some other reason. She hadn’t even hinted at flirting with him. “I’d love to talk about them, and cookies are one thing I never say no to. But you’ll have to promise to cut me off after two.”

He followed her to the parlor. He’d been in the old home a dozen times, but it never seemed as inviting as it did tonight. Low flames in the fireplace. The smell of gingerbread drifting from the kitchen. Jillian removing her coat as if settling in for a chat.

She made him a cup of hot cocoa to go with the cookies and they talked about her writing.

“I’d like to submit a few to one of the big papers in the state.” Connor was comfortable talking business. “Who knows, someone might pick them up. If they did, they’d pay far more than the twenty dollars I can afford.”

“You really think someone would want them?”

“Sure. I loved the story of the Orlando quilt I read this afternoon. A girl driving cross-country every year to visit her grandparents and seeing all the sights through a child’s eyes. Then, as an adult, she quilted from her memory. I loved the picture of her Yellowstone block with the bear as tall as Old Faithful.

“And, Jillian, you’ve got the pictures to go with each story. I’d think that would be a real selling point in a human interest piece.”

She laughed with excitement, and the sound made him smile.

When he reached for his fifth cookie, her hand covered his. “I have to cut you off, Connor, I promised. You still have to walk home. Any more cookies and you’ll have to roll.”

He turned his hand over and held her fingers. “Thanks. I have no restraint.”

Standing, he drew her up with him. “Okay if I send the articles? I think you’ve got a chance of making some money. Plus, if one of the big papers does pick it up, the articles might draw people to the county museum to see the quilts.”

“You think I might make as much as Toe Tents?”

He liked that she was so tall. He could look into her eyes. “Probably not,” he teased.

A thump came from just above their heads.

“The ghost?” he whispered.

“Probably. Mrs. K is in the kitchen. I hear old Willie now and then. He likes to move around about the time the clock strikes midnight.”

They both laughed.

Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and walked to the door. “There are always strange sounds in a house this old. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” she answered.

To his surprise, she followed him to the porch, and he didn’t have to turn around to know that she watched him as he walked away. She had been standing in the same spot every night as he glanced back, just before he turned the corner.

He closed his hand tightly as if trying to hold the warmth of her fingers for one more moment.

In his thirty-seven years, he’d never learned to weigh his feelings. The important ones, the unimportant ones. Not for women anyway. He could be polite, even funny sometimes. He could pretend to notice they were flirting, but he was never sure how to react.

But with Jillian, it was different. If she stayed around long enough, he might start to feel something for her, and it was his experience anytime his heart got involved, even slightly, it was bad news.

6

Sunnie Larady glared at the woman who had invaded Gram’s shop for the past few weeks. Jillian James looked nice enough, but she had to be up to something. No one under forty spends all day in a quilt shop. Jillian was almost as old as her father. She was tall, a few inches less than six feet, and she looked intelligent.

So if she wasn’t crazy, she must be up to something.

Sunnie knew her height because she measured everyone by her own height, hoping one day that all the people in the world would all grow half a dozen inches, then she’d be normal. The school counselor said she reached her elevation early, but how did she know? At sixteen, she might still be heading up.

Forget that worry. Right now Sunnie saw her mission clearly. She needed to keep an eye on the stranger.

Why had Dad hired someone to go through the dusty old inventory anyway? Maybe Gram was forgetting things. All old people do. That didn’t mean Gram needed a keeper.

The woman couldn’t be planning to rob the place. No one in their right mind would steal from a quilt shop.

Jillian looked up from her notes and smiled at Sunnie. “Shall we begin?” she asked, as if they were going on a great adventure and not simply counting quilts.

“I want to help, but I don’t want to bother any of Gram’s things.” She was Eugenia Larady’s only great-grandchild. It was her duty to protect Gram’s stuff. “This place is like the cemetery. It’s okay to clean up, but I don’t think we should be moving the quilts around, or Gram might think she’s lost something.” It was ten after nine and Sunnie was already bored.

Jumping up onto the counter, she decided she’d wait until Jillian told her what to do. No sense giving her ideas. After all, she was just the assistant. Her dad had made that clear. If Jillian told her to do something she didn’t like, she’d just call Dad. Until then, she’d follow orders.

Jillian smiled at her again and leaned against the counter, too. She must be working by the hour also. “Your comment reminds me of a graveyard outside of Hamm, Luxembourg. General Patton is buried there. He died in a car crash in 1945 just after the war was over, but he wanted to be buried with his men who died in the Battle of the Bulge. It’s a peaceful place in the countryside now, but once, they say the spot ran red with blood.”

“Any reason you’re giving me this history lesson?” Sunnie picked at the hole in her jeans, making it bigger. “I’ve had enough history. My dad writes books about tribes in Texas who died off before the Pilgrims landed. He writes mysteries too, but none of them get published, and he wrote a time-travel series he doesn’t even try to sell to anyone. To me, all those people are dead and might as well be forgotten. He also writes children’s stories about battles. You two should have a long talk.”

“I have no reason for bringing Patton up, except I just remembered that when Patton’s wife came to visit her husband’s grave, she had him moved in front of the other graves. Like he was still leading his men. Some said maybe he would have been happier being with them.”

“I get it. Moving things in a cemetery.” Sunnie rolled her eyes. She hated people who thought conversation was a connect-the-dots hunt. Doze off for two sentences and you’re lost.

While she was on the hating things subject, she hated Jillian’s straight black hair. It was too shiny and seemed to flow down her back when she moved. Witches, if there really were any, probably had hair like that.

As if Jillian could read her thoughts, she picked up a rubber band and tied her hair into a messy bun. Even that looked good.

Jillian got very professional all at once. “I’m here to log your Gram’s things, not relocate them. I promise I’ll be very careful with the quilts and I’m very happy to have your help.”

Sunnie was glad when Gram came back from the kitchen. This new lady didn’t make much more sense than her dad, always spouting facts of no use in the real world. Between Gram repeating herself and Jillian talking about cemeteries, Saturdays were going to be double boring.

But if Sunnie was being honest, at least Jillian James tried to talk to her, and that was more than most people over twenty bothered to do. Sunnie had thought of claiming to be sick this morning, but then Dad might not let her go out with Derrick and she’d been counting the hours since Wednesday when he’d ask her to hang out with him Saturday night. It didn’t matter what they did tonight; just being with him was all she’d been thinking about for a month. He was so perfect.

Dad didn’t seem to understand how lucky she was. Just turned sixteen and already dating the most talked-about boy in school. She was a sophomore and he was a senior. Even when she told Dad that Derrick had the best baby blue eyes in the world, he wasn’t impressed.

Of course, it was Derrick’s second senior year. He had missed some school because of a few car wrecks, but he was the hottest guy at Laurel Springs High. He’d played football last year, had the letter jacket to prove it. But he didn’t wear it much. Claimed this year was strictly for partying. He’d said his new leather jacket was much cooler.

“I thought we’d start by taking down a few of the wall quilts.” Jillian interrupted Sunnie’s R-rated prediction of what might happen tonight. They’d been together during school several times, lunch, assemblies, but never for a date. But tonight, something was going to happen. They’d have time to talk, to be alone.

“Can’t you just take pictures of them on the wall?” Sunnie hoped to rest at work; after all, she didn’t want to be tired tonight.

“I could,” Jillian seemed to be considering the alternate plan, “but the shadows of the fans and the angles from window light would not reflect each block to its best advantage.”

Sunnie gave in. No point in arguing. She had to do something while she was here or her dad wouldn’t pay her eight bucks an hour. He was such a pain. He thought she should earn money. Didn’t he understand most of her friends didn’t have to work; passing grades should be enough work? Besides, everyone knew the Laradys owned land in town and out. She shouldn’t have to work.

Plus, this job wasn’t turning out to be as simple as she’d thought. They had to carefully remove each tack, or brace, or cotton rope strapped to the back of the quilt. Once they got it down, it had to be dusted and spread out exactly right before Jillian took about a dozen shots. Then they did it all in reverse.

Sunnie decided she’d die of boredom before noon.

The only break she got was when Jillian asked Gram questions about the quilt she’d just photographed. Most of what Gram talked about wasn’t worth writing down, but she did mention that one Texas Star pattern had been pieced by Sunnie’s great-great-grandmother.

While Gram talked and Jillian took notes, Sunnie ran her hand slowly over the quilt, realizing that she was touching something that five generations had touched.

When they started on the next quilt hanging high on the wall, Gram said she had to clean the office this morning and couldn’t help them, but she spent most of her time visiting with the customers and Mr. Dunaway. If it hadn’t been impossible, Sunnie would swear the two were flirting with each other. Sunnie couldn’t bear to watch. Even if they were flirting, Mr. Dunaway wouldn’t remember what to do after hand patting and winking. Every time he called her grandmother Jeanie, Gram smiled.

Three hours. Four quilts. A dozen visitors, and every time the door chimed Gram popped out of the office like a jack-in-the-box. This was going to take forever. Sunnie tried to stay awake by trying to calculate how many hours it would take for her to earn enough to buy a car.

When Derrick came in, Sunnie almost ran to him and yelled, “Save me. I’m dying in this place.”

Only, he didn’t like that kind of thing. Derrick said he liked things “real.” The first afternoon they’d hung out he’d told her what he expected from her if they were going to be together. No holding hands. No touching in public. No junior high stuff like boyfriend and girlfriend.

He said she was lucky a nineteen-year-old guy like him ever agreed to be seen with a sixteen-year-old, so she needed to understand how things were before it got out that they were together. He picked the time and place. Then, he’d texted her Wednesday that they’d get together Saturday night.

When she texted back that she had to work, so needed to know the exact time, he just answered, I’ll find you.

That sounded so exciting. And now, here he was.

Sunnie grinned and almost said aloud, “Isn’t he wonderful?”

But she realized Jillian and Gram thought Mr. Dunaway was cute, so she’d be wasting her time.

“How you doing, Shorty?” Derrick winked at her. “I can’t wait for tonight.”

Sunnie nodded, trying to not look too excited.

He’d said he’d teach her a few things when they were alone. She’d bet it wouldn’t be Texas history or where Patton was buried.

When she’d asked for a hint, he laughed. “Don’t worry, we can’t go too far. You’re jailbait, but we can still have fun.”

Sunnie wasn’t sure what all that fun might be, but she planned to be a quick learner. Most girls her age had had several boyfriends, but when you were a head taller than every boy in your class all the way through middle school, there’s not much interest. Only now, Derrick was two inches taller than her. He’d nicknamed her Shorty the first time he’d talked to her.

He was the first boy who ever flirted with her. She’d been leaning over the railing at a football game a few months ago, and he’d walked right up to her and run his hand along her spine as if he couldn’t wait to touch her.

When she straightened, he’d smiled. Most boys backed away. The others didn’t realize that the way she dressed was “in” everywhere but this small town. Hadn’t they ever walked Sixth Street in Austin? She dressed like the kids from the university did on weekends. She’d seen them once. She wasn’t clueless.

Derrick said he liked her light blond hair and her dark makeup. He swore it made her look wickedly sexy.

“You about ready to quit work?” he asked as he moved behind the counter with her.

“No. I have to work until five.” She kept folding squares of material. She loved how he moved closer and didn’t seem to care he was breaking Gram’s rule about no one behind the counter that didn’t work in the shop.

He moved a little closer and glanced around, making sure no one was near. Then he slid his hand over her hip and leaned close to whisper, “You got a nice butt, Shorty. You wear any underwear beneath those holey pants?”

She didn’t move. His hands, still on her, were below the counter. No one could see what he was doing. If she didn’t react, no one would know.

His hand moved again, patting her bottom this time like she was some kind of pet. “I can’t feel any. Maybe you’re one of those girls who wears a thong.”

She didn’t like the way he was talking, but this was Derrick. He must know what he was doing. She was just being skittish, like a girl who’d never had a boyfriend.

When he gripped her hip in his hand so hard she knew he was bruising her, she stepped away, banging her side into the cash register.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s not my fault you’re so damn touchable.”

When she let out a nervous giggle, he leaned close and said, “Tonight we’ll go somewhere really alone. I plan to examine a few more parts of your body. Play along, Shorty, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re not wearing my senior ring by Monday morning.”

It wasn’t exactly romantic, but she didn’t need romantic. She wanted real. Life was hard and cruel. Why should love be any different? Besides, Derrick was just a now guy. She didn’t see them as a couple forever. She never wanted anyone to matter to her as much as her mother had when she died.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she moved a few inches away. She had no doubt her father would ask.

“I thought we’d drive over to Tyler and catch a show. We could warm up a little in the back row.”

“What are we seeing?”

“Who cares? Something rated R.”

Sunnie nodded as if she agreed with the plan.

“Any chance you get a break from this prison? We could sit in my car and look up what’s showing.” Derrick bumped her shoulder with his fist.

“Yeah,” she said as Jillian stepped from the office. “Oh,” Sunnie said louder than necessary, “Derrick, this is Jillian. She works here with Gram.”

Derrick nodded. “Nice camera.”

Sunnie had the feeling he was looking more at Jillian’s breasts than the camera hanging just below them.

Jillian lifted the camera and sat it on the counter, but Derrick’s gaze continued to stare at her chest.

To Sunnie’s surprise, Jillian’s smile seemed to say that she thought of Derrick as a boy, not a man. “Take off for lunch if you like, Sunnie. You did a good job this morning. You need a break.”

The woman had obviously heard Derrick’s question, but she couldn’t have seen him touch her. She’d turned her attention back to her camera, totally dismissing them both.

Derrick didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. “You from around here, Jillian?” He said her name slow and low as he turned away from Sunnie.

“It is Jillian, isn’t it? I know I would have remembered seeing you.”

“No. Just passing through.” She didn’t look up.

“It’s a shame. I like your name, among other things.”

Sunnie watched as Derrick’s gaze rolled over Jillian like thin paint.

She had heard the phrase undressing someone with his eyes but she’d never seen it happen before. Derrick’s look was pure predator, like he’d just tossed aside a rabbit for a deer in the trap. Only Sunnie was the rabbit, and she had a feeling Jillian was the deer in his sights.

Sunnie didn’t hear Jillian’s answer. She was too furious to breathe as she grabbed Derrick’s arm and almost dragged him out of the store.

“What?” he yelled. The door chime sounded more like a clank.

7

Jillian had been accused of looking younger than her age, but nineteen? The guy must be brain-dead. Or more likely his eyes never made it to her chin. She’d seen his type in every town she’d ever been in. They never change. They simply zip their brains up in their jeans every morning and go hunting.

A few had thought to take advantage of a woman alone. She’d learned to correct that thought swiftly. Trying to go easy on a guy like that only led to more trouble. Only this time, she’d hesitated because of Sunnie. This boy was obviously her friend.

Boys like Derrick were dying off though, or disguising themselves at first. Women no longer put up with them.

Obviously, Derrick wasn’t even good at playing grown-up. Maybe that was why he was dating sixteen-year-olds. A few weeks from now Sunnie would be smarter, and he’d be looking for his next puppet to manipulate. Jillian was glad Gram was a wall away in the office and hadn’t witnessed the scene.

Moving to the side of the front window, Jillian watched them arguing in the street. Sunnie was mad, jealous, or maybe just embarrassed, and Derrick was an idiot. An interesting pair to square off.

He reached to touch her and she slapped his hand away.

Jillian’s glance caught Connor’s outline in the newspaper office window directly across Main. He was staring at them, arms folded, feet wide apart. She could see the anger in his stance, but if he stepped outside, his daughter would turn on him and Connor was smart enough to know it. If he broke up the fight, Sunnie would hate him for treating her like a child. If he didn’t, she wouldn’t speak to him for allowing her to make a fool of herself to the whole town. Sometimes, no matter what a dad does, he can’t win.

But Jillian saw something else going on. Sunnie was growing up in the middle of the argument, in the middle of the street. She was winning. Derrick was backing down, feeling cornered—and, like a wild animal, he might attack.

A memory of the first guy she’d dated flashed in Jillian’s mind. He’d knocked her to the floor the first time they’d argued. When she’d cried to her pop, he’d told her one black eye was a cheap lesson. Step away. Don’t get involved.

Jillian didn’t want Sunnie to have to learn that lesson.

Neither of the kids seemed to notice people stopping to watch. If this fight escalated, Sunnie would be the one talked about. The one hurt.

A sound came from the kitchen as Jillian reached the door.

Gram must have dropped something.

For a second, Jillian froze, not sure which way to run. “Gram?”

“I’m fine, dear. Just dropped this old teapot and splashed hot water everywhere.”

Jillian chose her crisis. She rushed outside and did something she never did. She stepped in and got involved.

“Glad I caught you, Sunnie,” she yelled as if she hadn’t noticed Derrick was spitting out swear words.

“What?” Sunnie’s question was sharp, but she didn’t turn back to Derrick.

“I need help. Gram is in trouble. I think she’s hurt.” It was only a small lie. Gram hadn’t sounded hurt, just flustered, but it was all Jillian could think of in one second.

“Come on, Derrick,” Sunnie ordered and took off running for the shop.

“Yes, come,” Jillian encouraged in a lower voice. “Someone’s got to clean up the vomit while we rush her to the clinic.”

Derrick held up one hand and backed away. “I’m not good with old people. Or sick people. Or helping. I got to go.” He wasn’t smart enough to think of an excuse, so he just ran.

Jillian grinned and caught a glimpse of Connor’s smile in the newspaper office window. He might not have heard the words exchanged, but he was aware that she’d broken up the argument.

She ran back into the store and found Sunnie kneeling at Gram’s chair near the office door. “Now, Gram, you have to tell me where you hurt.” Tears wiped away some of the girl’s black makeup. “Maybe I can help.”

Gram brushed her wrinkled hand over her great-granddaughter’s light blond hair. “I’m just getting old, sweetie. We all do. Sometimes my grip isn’t as good as it used to be.” When she saw she had all Sunnie’s attention, she added, “I feel a little faint. I scalded my hand with the boiling water I’d warmed for tea. It’s nothing. It’ll stop burning soon.”

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