Confessions from the Quilting Circle - Maisey Yates Page 0,37
He winced. “That was a bad choice of words, and I’m sorry. It’s not my place to dig into what’s going on.”
“It’s not about him...” She said the words softly.
It was the first time either of them had ever come close to talking about her husband.
He nodded. “Okay, then.”
“I yelled at my sister earlier. Because she’s the one who told Emma to come get the job. And I said some things to her that I... That I shouldn’t have said.”
He considered that for a moment, and she could tell he wasn’t especially thrilled that he’d gotten himself into the position of being the advice giver. “We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.”
Rachel let that comment settle over her for a minute. “No, I meant them. I shouldn’t have said them. Not the way that I did. Because... I feel things. Some complicated things. But I’m also not interested in cutting her out of my life. So I guess I need to figure out a better way of dealing with my feelings.”
“Yeah, I think they call that life. The thing where you spend a lot of time working out better ways to handle your feelings.”
“Have you managed that yet?”
He nodded. “Yep. I do it pretty well. By not having feelings.”
He said it light and funny, but the words hit her in a way that made her feel unaccountably sad. Adam seemed easygoing, but when she really thought about it...
It didn’t make a whole lot of sense that he had moved here to run the diner. She imagined he made an all-right living with it, but it wouldn’t be anything extravagant. Not really anything worth uprooting a life over. She supposed that he could be married, though she never heard anyone say that he was, and he didn’t wear a ring. Even more possible, he had a girlfriend, because it wasn’t like they talked about those sorts of things.
But if he was what he appeared to be, he was single, alone. And he was...an attractive man. Probably forty, in excellent shape...
All those things didn’t add up. Not without something dark and hollow and sad behind them.
But she wouldn’t ask. They didn’t ask each other those kinds of questions.
“Okay, but what if I have feelings?”
“You’ll probably have to talk to her.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“It’s up to you. You could also just not worry about it right now. Maybe it’ll fix itself.”
“Nothing fixes itself,” Rachel said. “Though, in my experience, not a whole lot seems to get fixed with my effort, either.”
“I don’t know. I think you fixed this pretty well.”
They both looked back at Emma, who was happily seeing to the next table.
Happy.
She looked happy here. Less burdened and pale.
And she’d tried to keep her from this to make herself feel better.
She’d fought with Anna, who’d made life choices without her—her permission. Her guidance.
She wondered then if the thing that scared her most was what her life looked like when she wasn’t needed.
And she was afraid she was perilously close to finding out.
11
Today the chaplain came with a timely reminder: we are troubled on every side, yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair.
—FROM A LETTER WRITTEN BY STAFF SERGEANT RICHARD JOHNSON, AUGUST 25, 1943
ANNA
Anna hadn’t spoken to Rachel in the two days since their fight. But she knew that she wasn’t going to be able to avoid her for much longer.
For one thing, they worked on the same property. For another, they were supposed to bake croissants from scratch for a large party that was coming up just for breakfast in the morning. And that meant not only would they be seeing each other, but they would also be interacting in that tiny kitchen. Trying to work together to make something happen.
It was too bad she was going to have to try to pretend her sister didn’t think the worst of her the entire time.
Rachel’s response hadn’t surprised her, even if it had hurt her. Emma’s reaction had been surprising, but welcome. Anna was afraid to have a conversation with her mother that went too deep, because she knew that in her mother’s eyes she was the worst kind of woman that could ever exist. While Rachel was currently exemplifying what it meant to be the best.
And Anna felt petty unto her soul to even think of it that way. It was like being trapped in the middle of a storm-tossed sea and worrying about your hair being wet. The waves might pull you under, but